Now as to the wines!—"Ay, the Wine?" cries the Squire, Letting fall both his coat-tails,—which nearly take fire,— Rubbing his hands, He calls out, as he stands, To the serving-men waiting "his Honour's" commands, "The wine!—to be sure—here you, Harry—Bob—Dick— The wine, don't you hear?—bring us lights—come, be quick!— And a crow-bar to knock down the mortar and brick— Say what they may, 'Fore George, we'll make way Into old Roger Ingoldsby's cellar to-day; And let loose his captives, imprison'd so long, His flasks, and his casks, that he bricked up so strong!"— —"Oh dear! oh dear! Squire Ingoldsby, bethink you what you do!" Exclaims old Mrs. Botherby,[68]—she is in such a stew!— "Oh dear! oh dear! what do I hear?—full oft you've heard me tell Of the curse 'Wild Roger' left upon whoe'er should break his cell!
"Full five-and-twenty years are gone since Roger went away, As I bethink me, too, it was upon this very day! And I was then a comely dame, and you, a springald gay, Were up and down to London town, at opera, ball, and play; Your locks were nut-brown then, Squire—you grow a little grey!—
'Wild Roger,' so we call'd him then, your Grandsire's youngest son, He was in truth A wayward youth, We fear'd him, every one. In ev'ry thing he had his will, he would be stayed by none, And when he did a naughty thing, he laugh'd and call'd it fun! —One day his father chid him sore—I know not what he'd done, But he scorn'd reproof; And from this roof Away that night he run!
"Seven years were gone and over—'Wild Roger' came again, He spoke of forays and of frays upon the Spanish Main; And he had store of gold galore, and silks, and satins fine, And flasks and casks of Malvoisie, and precious Gascon wine! Rich booties he had brought, he said, across the western wave, And came, in penitence and shame, now of his Sire to crave Forgiveness and a welcome home—his Sire was in his grave!
"Your Father was a kindly man—he played a brother's part, He press'd his brother to his breast—he had a kindly heart, Fain would he have him tarry here, their common hearth to share, But Roger was the same man still,—he scorn'd his brother's pray'r! He call'd his crew,—away he flew, and on those foreign shores Got kill'd in some outlandish place—they call it the Eyesores;[69] But ere he went, And quitted Kent, —I well recall the day,— His flasks and casks of Gascon wine he safely 'stow'd away;' Within the cellar's deepest nook, he safely stow'd them all, And Mason Jones brought bricks and stones, and they built up the wall.
"Oh! then it was a fearful thing to hear 'Wild Roger's' ban! Good gracious me! I never heard the like from mortal man; 'Here's that,' quoth he, 'shall serve me well when I return at last, A batter'd hulk, to quaff and laugh at toils and dangers past; Accurst be he, whoe'er he be, lays hand on gear of mine, Till I come back again from sea, to broach my Gascon wine!' And more he said, which filled with dread all those who listen'd there; In sooth my very blood ran cold, it lifted up my hair With very fear, to stand and hear 'Wild Roger' curse and swear!! He saw my fright, as well he might, but still he made his game, He called me 'Mother Bounce-about,' my Gracious, what a name! Nay more, 'an old'—some 'boat-woman,'—I may not say for shame!— Then, gentle Master, pause awhile, give heed to what I tell, Nor break, on such a day as this, 'Wild Roger's' secret cell!"
"Pooh! pooh!" quoth the Squire, As he mov'd from the fire, And bade the old Housekeeper quickly retire, "Pooh!—never tell me! Nonsense—fiddle-de-dee! What?—wait Uncle Roger's return back from sea?— Why he may, as you say, Have been somewhat too gay, And, no doubt, was a broth of a boy in his way; But what's that to us, now, at this time of day? What if some quarrel With Dering or Darrell— —I hardly know which, but I think it was Dering,—
