A well there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne,
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;
And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard by
At the well to fill his pail;
On the well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.
"Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he,
"For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.
"Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?
For an if she have, I'll venture my life
She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."
"I have left a good woman who never was here,"
The stranger he made reply;
"But that my draught should be the better for that
I pray you answer me why?"
"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, "many a time
Drank of this crystal well,
And before the angels summon'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.
"If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.
"But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then!"
The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?"
He to the Cornishman said:
But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.
"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch;
But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."
Robert Southey.

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop, and Abbot, and Prior were there;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree—
In sooth, a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee,
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there,
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all!
With saucy air,
He perched on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;

And he peered in the face
Of his Lordship's grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, "The devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"
The feast was over, the board was cleared,
The flawns and the custards had all disappeared,
And six little singing-boys—dear little souls!
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Embossed and filled with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink,
And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dressed all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise,
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!

There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out;
The friars are kneeling,
And hunting and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-coloured shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps and he feels,
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs—
But no! no such thing;
They can't find the ring!
And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it,
Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it."
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He called for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying;
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!—
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But, what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

The day was gone,
The night came on,
The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw;
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;
His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried "That's him!
That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw,
And turned his bald head, as much as to say,
"Pray be so good as to walk this way!"
Slower and slower
He limped on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
When these words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd;
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair,
He hopped now about
With a gait devout;
At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great "Caw!"
As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
He long lived the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!
Richard Harris Barham.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY

The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair
And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb,
And his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,
And he wore green "specs" with a tortoise shell rim,
And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,
And she was uncommonly fond of him—
And they were a loving pair!
And wherever they went, or wherever they came,
Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim;
Far and wide,
The people cried,
All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain,
To Sir Thomas the good, and the fair Lady Janel
Now Sir Thomas the good, be it well understood,
Was a man of very contemplative mood—
He would pour by the hour, o'er a weed or a flower,
Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower;
Black beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle flies,
And moths, were of no small account in his eyes;
An "industrious flea," he'd by no means despise,
While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and thighs
Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size,
He was wont to consider an absolute prize.
Giving up, in short, both business and sport, he
Abandoned himself, tout entier, to philosophy.
Now as Lady Jane was tall and slim,
And Lady Jane was fair.
And a good many years the junior of him,
There are some might be found entertaining a notion,
That such an entire, and exclusive devotion,
To that part of science, folks style entomology,
Was a positive shame,
And, to such a fair dame,
Really demanded some sort of apology;
Ever poking his nose into this, and to that—
At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat,
At great ugly things, all legs and wings,
With nasty long tails, armed with nasty long stings
And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking,
At grubs—when he ought of her to be thinking.
But no! ah no! 'twas by no means so
With the fair Lady Jane,
Tout au contraire, no lady so fair,
Was e'er known to wear more contented an air;
And—let who would call—every day she was there
Propounding receipts for some delicate fare,
Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple or pear
Or distilling strong waters—or potting a hare—
Or counting her spoons, and her crockery ware;
Enough to make less gifted visitors stare.
Nay more; don't suppose
With such doings as those
This account of her merits must come to a close;
No!—examine her conduct more closely, you'll find
She by no means neglected improving her mind;
For there all the while with an air quite bewitching
She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching,
Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen.
Close by her side,
Sat her kinsman, MacBride—
Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusiliers;—
And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan,
A more highly intelligent, worthy young man;
And there he'd be sitting,
While she was a-knitting,
Reading aloud, with a very grave look,
Some very "wise saw," from some very good book—
No matter who came,
It was always the same,
The Captain was reading aloud to the dame,
Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf,
They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.
Well it happened one day—
I really can't say
The particular month;—but I think 'twas in May,
'Twas I know in the spring-time, when "nature looks gay,"
As the poet observes—and on tree-top and spray,
The dear little dickey birds carol away,
That the whole of the house was thrown into affright,
For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight.
It seems he had taken
A light breakfast—bacon,
An egg, a little broiled haddock—at most
A round and a half of some hot buttered toast,
With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast.
And then, let me see,—
He had two,—perhaps three
Cups, with sugar and cream, of strong gunpowder tea,—
But no matter for that—
He had called for his hat,
With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat,
And his "specs" with the tortoise-shell rim, and his cane.
With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain
His steps in his walk, or to poke in the shrubs
Or the grass, when unearthing his worms or his grubs;
Thus armed he set out on a ramble—a-lack!
He set out, poor dear soul!—but he never came back!
"First dinner bell" rang
Out its euphonous clang
At five—folks kept early hours then—and the "last"
Ding-donged, as it ever was wont, at half-past.
Still the master was absent—the cook came and said, he
Feared dinner would spoil, having been so long ready,
That the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat
He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat!
Said the lady, "Dish up! Let the meal be served straight,
And let two or three slices be put on a plate,
And kept hot for Sir Thomas."—Captain Dugald said grace,
Then set himself down in Sir Thomas' place.
Wearily, wearily, all that night,
That live-long night did the hours go by;
And the Lady Jane,
In grief and pain,
She sat herself down to cry!
And Captain MacBride,
Who sat by her side,
Though I really can't say that he actually cried,
At least had a tear in his eye!
As much as can well be expected, perhaps,
From "very young fellows," for very "old chaps."
And if he had said
What he'd got in his head,
'Twould have been, "Poor old Duffer, he's certainly dead!"
The morning dawned—and the next—and the next
And all in the mansion were still perplexed;
No knocker fell,
His approach to tell;
Not so much as a runaway ring at the bell.
Yet the sun shone bright upon tower and tree,
And the meads smiled green as green may be,
And the dear little dickey birds caroled with glee,
And the lambs in the park skipped merry and free.—
Without, all was joy and harmony!
And thus 'twill be—nor long the day—
Ere we, like him, shall pass away!
Yon sun that now our bosoms warms,
Shall shine—but shine on other forms;
Yon grove, whose choir so sweetly cheers
Us now, shall sound on other ears;
The joyous lambs, as now, shall play,
But other eyes its sports survey;
The stream we loved shall roll as fair,
The flowery sweets, the trim parterre,
Shall scent, as now, the ambient air;
The tree whose bending branches bear
The one loved name—shall yet be there—
But where the hand that carved it? Where?
These were hinted to me as the very ideas
Which passed through the mind of the fair Lady Jane,
As she walked on the esplanade to and again,
With Captain MacBride,
Of course at her side,
Who could not look quite so forlorn—though he tried,
An "idea" in fact, had got into his head,
That if "poor dear Sir Thomas" should really be dead,
It might be no bad "spec" to be there in his stead,
And by simply contriving, in due time, to wed
A lady who was young and fair,
A lady slim and tall,
To set himself down in comfort there,
The lord of Tapton Hall.

Thinks he, "We have sent
Half over Kent,
And nobody knows how much money's been spent,
Yet no one's been found to say which way he went!
Here's a fortnight and more has gone by, and we've tried
Every plan we could hit on—and had him well cried
'Missing!! Stolen or Strayed,
Lost or Mislaid,
A Gentleman;—middle-aged, sober and staid;
Stoops slightly;—and when he left home was arrayed
In a sad-colored suit, somewhat dingy and frayed;
Had spectacles on with a tortoise-shell rim,
And a hat rather low crowned, and broad in the brim.
Whoe'er shall bear,
Or send him with care,
(Right side uppermost) home; or shall give notice where
Said middle-aged Gentleman is; or shall state
Any fact, that may tend to throw light on his fate,
To the man at the turnpike, called Tappington Gate,
Shall receive a reward of Five Pounds for his trouble.
N.B. If defunct, the Reward will be double!!'
"Had he been above ground,
He must have been found.
No; doubtless he's shot—or he's hanged—or he's drowned!
Then his widow—ay! ay!
But what will folks say?—
To address her at once, at so early a day.
Well—what then—who cares!—let 'em say what they may."
When a man has decided
As Captain MacBride did,
And once fully made up his mind on the matter, he
Can't be too prompt in unmasking his battery.
He began on the instant, and vowed that her eyes
Far exceeded in brilliance the stars in the skies;
That her lips were like roses, her cheeks were like lilies;
Her breath had the odor of daffadowndillies!—
With a thousand more compliments, equally true,
Expressed in similitudes equally new!
Then his left arm he placed
Round her jimp, taper waist—

Ere she fixed to repulse or return his embrace,
Up came running a man at a deuce of a pace,
With that very peculiar expression of face
Which always betokens dismay or disaster,
Crying out—'twas the gard'ner—"Oh, ma'am! we've found master!!"
"Where! where?" screamed the lady; and echo screamed,
"Where?"
The man couldn't say "there!"
He had no breath to spare,
But gasping for breath he could only respond
By pointing—be pointed, alas! TO THE POND.
'Twas e'en so; poor dear Knight, with his "specs" and his hat,
He'd gone poking his nose into this and to that;
When close to the side of the bank, he espied
An uncommon fine tadpole, remarkably fat!
He stooped;—and he thought her
His own;—he had caught her!
Got hold of her tail—and to land almost brought her,
When—he plumped head and heels into fifteen feet water!
The Lady Jane was tall and slim,
The Lady Jane was fair,
Alas! for Sir Thomas!—she grieved for him,
As she saw two serving men sturdy of limb,
His body between them bear;
She sobbed and she sighed, she lamented and cried,
For of sorrow brimful was her cup;
She swooned, and I think she'd have fallen down and died,
If Captain MacBride
Hadn't been by her side
With the gardener;—they both their assistance supplied,
And managed to hold her up.
But when she "comes to,"
Oh! 'tis shocking to view
The sight which the corpse reveals!
Sir Thomas' body,
It looked so odd—he
Was half eaten up by the eels!

His waistcoat and hose,
And the rest of his clothes,
Were all gnawed through and through;
And out of each shoe,
An eel they drew;
And from each of his pockets they pulled out two!
And the gardener himself had secreted a few,
As well might be supposed he'd do,
For, when he came running to give the alarm,
He had six in the basket that hung on his arm.
Good Father John was summoned anon;
Holy water was sprinkled and little bells tinkled,
And tapers were lighted,
And incense ignited,
And masses were sung, and masses were said,
All day, for the quiet repose of the dead,
And all night no one thought about going to bed.
But Lady Jane was tall and slim,
And Lady Jane was fair,
And ere morning came, that winsome dame
Had made up her mind, or—what's much the same—
Had thought about, once more "changing her name,"
And she said with a pensive air,
To Thompson the valet, while taking away,
When supper was over, the cloth and the tray,
"Eels a many I've ate; but any
So good ne'er tasted before!—
They're a fish too, of which I'm remarkably fond—
Go—pop Sir Thomas again in the pond—
Poor dear!—he'll catch us some more."
MORAL All middle-aged gentlemen let me advise,
If you're married, and hav'n't got very good eyes,
Don't go poking about after blue-bottle flies.
If you've spectacles, don't have a tortoise-shell rim,
And don't go near the water—unless you can swim.
Married ladies, especially such as are fair,
Tall and slim, I would next recommend to beware,
How, on losing one spouse, they give way to despair,
But let them reflect, there are fish, and no doubt on't,
As good in the river, as ever came out on't.
Richard Harris Barham.

AN EASTERN QUESTION

My William was a soldier, and he says to me, says he,
"My Susan, I must sail across the South Pacific sea;
For we've got to go to Egypt for to fight the old Khedive;
But when he's dead I'll marry you, as sure as I'm alive!"
'Twere hard for me to part with him; he couldn't read nor write,
So I never had love letters for to keep my memory bright;
But Jim, who is our footman, took the Daily Telegraph,
And told me William's reg-i-ment mowed down the foe like chaff.
So every day Jim come to me to read the Eastern news,
And used to bring me bouquets, which I scarcely could refuse;
Till one fine day it happened—how it happened, goodness knows,—
He put his arm around me and he started to propose.
I put his hand from off me, and I said in thrilling tones,
"I like you, Jim, but never will I give up William Jones;
It ain't no good your talking, for my heart is firm and fixed,
For William is engaged to me, and naught shall come betwixt."
So Jim he turned a ghastly pale to find there was no hope;
And made remarks about a pond, and razors, and a rope;
The other servants pitied him, and Rosie said as much;
But Rosie was too flighty, and he didn't care for such.

The weeks and months passed slowly, till I heard the Eastern war
Was over, and my William would soon be home once more;
And I was proud and happy for I knew that I could say
I'd been true to my sweet William all the years he'd been away.
Says Jim to me, "I love you, Sue, you know full well I do,
And evermore whilst I draw breath I vow I will be true;
But my feelings are too sensitive, I really couldn't stand
A-seeing of that soldier taking hold your little hand.
"So I've made my mind up finally to throw myself away;
There's Rosie loves me truly, and no more I'll say her nay;
I've bought a hat on purpose, and I'm going to hire a ring,
And I've borrowed father's wedding suit that looks the very thing."
So Jim he married Rosie, just the very day before
My William's reg-i-ment was due to reach their native shore;
I was there to see him landed and to give him welcome home,
And take him to my arms from which he never more should roam.
But I couldn't see my William, for the men were all alike,
With their red coats and their rifles, and their helmets with a spike;
So I curtseys to a sergeant who was smiling very kind,
"Where's William Jones?" I asks him, "if so be you wouldn't mind?"
Then he calls a gawky, red-haired chap, that stood good six-feet two:
"Here, Jones," he cries, "this lady here's enquiring after you."
"Not me!" I says, "I want a man who 'listed from our Square;
With a small moustache, but growing fast, and bright brown curly hair."

The sergeant wiped his eye, and took his helmet from his head,
"I'm very sorry, ma'am," he said, "that William Jones is dead;
He died from getting sunstroke, and we envied him his lot,
For we were melted to our bones, the climate was that hot!"
So that's how 'tis that I'm condemned to lead a single life,
For the sergeant, who was struck with me, already had a wife;
And Jim is tied to Rosie, and can't get himself untied,
Whilst the man that I was faithful to has been and gone and died!
H. M. Paull.