THE BUCCANEER'S CURSE.
Sent him back in a huff to his old privateering, Or what his unfriends chose to call Buccaneering, It's twenty years since, as we very well know, He was knock'd on the head in a skirmish, and so Why rake up 'auld warld' tales of deeds long ago?— —Foul befall him who would touch the deposit Of living man, whether in cellar or closet! But since, as I've said, Knock'd on the head, Uncle Roger has now been some twenty years dead. As for his wine, I'm his heir, and it's mine! And I'd long ago work'd it well, but that I tarried For this very day— And I'm sure you'll all say I was right—when my own darling Maud should get married! So lights and a crow-bar!—the only thing lies On my conscience, at all, with respect to this prize, Is some little compunction anent the Excise— Come—you, Master Jack, Be the first, and bring back Whate'er comes to hand—Claret, Burgundy, Sack— Head the party, and mind that you're back in a crack!"
Away go the clan, With cup and with can, Little Jack Ingoldsby leading the van; Little reck they of the Buccaneer's ban: Hope whispers, "Perchance we'll fall in with strong beer too here!" Blest thought! which sets them all grinning from ear to ear!
Through cellar one, through cellars two, Through cellars three they past! And their way they took To the farthest nook Of cellar four—the last!— Blithe and gay, they batter away, On this wedding-day of Maud's, With all their might, to bring to light "Wild Roger's" "Custom-house frauds!" And though stone and brick Be never so thick, When stoutly assailed, they are no bar To the powerful charm Of a Yeoman's arm When wielding a decentish crow-bar! Down comes brick, and down comes stone, One by one— The job's half done!— "Where is he?—now come—where's Master John?"— —There's a breach in the wall three feet by two, And little Jack Ingoldsby soon pops through! Hark!—what sound's that?—a sob?—a sigh?— The choking gasp of a stifled cry?— "—What can it be?— Let's see!—let's see!— It can't be little Jack Ingoldsby? The candle—quick!"— Through stone and through brick They poke in the light on a long split stick; But ere he who holds it can wave it about, He gasps, and he sneezes—the light goes out!
Yet were there those, in after days, Who said that pale light's flickering blaze, For a moment, gleam'd on a dark Form there, Seem'd as bodied of foul black air!— —In Mariner's dress,—with cutlass braced By buckle and broad black belt, to its waist,— —On a cock'd-hat, laced With gold, and placed With a degagée, devil-may-care, kind of taste, O'er a balafré brow by a scar defaced!— That Form, they said, so foul and so black, Grinn'd as it pointed at poor little Jack.— —I know not, I, how the truth may be, But the pent-up vapour, at length set free, Set them all sneezing, And coughing, and wheezing, As, working its way To the regions of day, It, at last, let a purer and healthier breeze in!
Of their senses bereft, To the right and the left, Those varlets so lately courageous and stout, There they lay kicking and sprawling about, Like Billingsgate fresh fish, unconscious of ice, Or those which, the newspapers give us advice, Mr. Taylor, of Lombard-street, sells at half-price; —Nearer the door, some half dozen, or more! Scramble away To the rez de chaussee, (As our Frenchified friend always calls his ground-floor,) And they call, and they bawl, and they bellow and roar For lights, vinegar, brandy, and fifty things more. At length, after no little clamour and din, The foul air let out, and the fresh air let in, They drag one and all Up into the hall, Where a medical Quaker, the great Dr. Lettsom, Who's one of the party, "bleeds, physicks, and sweats 'em." All?—all—save One— —"But He!—my Son?— Merciful Heaven!—where—where is John?"
Within that cell, so dark and deep, Lies One, as in a tranquil sleep, A sight to make the sternest weep!— —That little heart is pulseless now, And cold that fair and open brow, And closed that eye that beam'd with joy And hope—"Oh, God!—my Boy!—my Boy!"
Enough!—I may not,—dare not,—show The wretched Father's frantic woe, The Mother's tearless, speechless—No! I may not such a theme essay— Too bitter thoughts crowd in and stay My pen—sad memory will have way! Enough!—at once I close the lay, Of fair Maud's fatal Wedding-day!
It has a mournful sound, That single, solemn Bell! As to the hills and woods around It flings its deep-toned knell; That measured toll!—alone—apart, It strikes upon the human heart! —It has a mournful sound!—