Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned, Though thy mother thine idlesse blames, In Doctor Goldsmith's history book, Of a gentleman called King James, In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches, Who held in abhorrence Tobacco and Witches.
Well,—in King James's golden days,— For the days were golden then,— They could not be less, for good Queen Bess Had died, aged threescore and ten, And her days we know, Were all of them so; While the Court poets sung, and the Court gallants swore That the days were as golden still as before.
Some people, 'tis true, a troublesome few, Who historical points would unsettle, Have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt Of the genuine ring of the metal; But who can believe to a monarch so wise People would dare tell a parcel of lies!
—Well, then, in good King James's days,— Golden or not does not matter a jot,— Yon Ruin a sort of a roof had got; For though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking Since Harry the Eighth sent its people a-packing, Though joists, and floors, And windows, and doors Had all disappear'd, yet pillars by scores Remain'd, and still propp'd up a ceiling or two, While the belfry was almost as good as new; You are not to suppose matters look'd just so In the Ruin some two hundred years ago.
Just in that farthermost angle, where There are still the remains of a winding-stair, One turret especially high in air Uprear'd its tall gaunt form; As it defying the power of Fate, or The hand of "Time the Innovator;" And though to the pitiless storm Its weaker brethren all around Bowing, in ruin had strew'd the ground, Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strew'd, Like a four-bottle man in a company "screw'd," Not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued.
One night—'twas in Sixteen hundred and six,— I like when I can, Ned, the date to fix,— The month was May, Though I can't well say At this distance of time the particular day— But oh! that night, that horrible night! —Folks ever afterwards said with affright That they never had seen such a terrible sight.
The Sun had gone down fiery red; And if, that evening, he laid his head In Thetis's lap beneath the seas, He must have scalded the goddess's knees. He left behind him a lurid track Of blood-red light upon clouds so black, That Warren and Hunt, with the whole of their crew, Could scarcely have given them a darker hue.
There came a shrill and a whistling sound, Above, beneath, beside, and around, Yet leaf ne'er moved on tree! So that some people thought old Beelzebub must Have been lock'd out of doors, and was blowing the dust From the pipe of his street-door key. And then a hollow moaning blast Came, sounding more dismally still than the last, And the lightning flash'd, and the thunder growl'd, And louder and louder the tempest howl'd, And the rain came down in such sheets as would stagger a Bard for a simile short of Niagara.
Rob Gilpin "was a citizen;" But, though of some "renown," Of no great "credit" in his own, Or any other town.
He was a wild and roving lad, For ever in the alehouse boozing; Or romping,—which is quite as bad,— With female friends of his own choosing.