The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,
There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door,
Singing, "Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,
As hard and unforgiving and as wicked as you was!"
The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:—
"Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been,
Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!"
And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was)
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!
DRAKE'S DRUM: HENRY NEWBOLT
Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore light flashin' an' the night-tide dashin'
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went with wi' heart of ease
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the channel as we drummed them long ago."
Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin' all the time of Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'
They shall find him ware and wakin', as they found him long ago!
THE GREY GHOST: FRANCIS CARLIN
From year to year there walks a Ghost in grey,
Through misty Connemara in the West;
And those who seek the cause of his unrest,
Need go but to the Death-dumb in the clay,
To those that fell defiant in the fray,
Among the boggy wilds of Ireland, blest
By Cromwell, when his Puritanic jest
Left Hell and Connaught open on their way.
As I have heard so may the stranger hear!
That he who drove the natives from the lawn,
Must wander o'er the marsh and foggy fen
Until the Irish gather with a cheer
In Dublin of the Parliaments at dawn.
God rest the ghost of Cromwell's dust, Amen!
BALLAD OF DOUGLAS BRIDGE: FRANCIS CARLIN
On Douglas Bridge I met a man
Who lived adjacent to Straban,
Before the English hung him high
For riding with O'Hanlon.