| Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! |
| This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth |
| The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, |
| And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: |
| The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, |
| And,—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely |
| His greatness is a-ripening,—nips his root, |
| And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, |
| Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, |
| This many summers in a sea of glory, |
| But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride |
| At length broke under me, and now has left me |
| Weary, and old with service, to the mercy |
| Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. |
| Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: |
| I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched |
| Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! |
| There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, |
| That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, |
| More pangs and fears than wars or women have; |
| And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, |
| Never to hope again. |
| |
| William Shakespeare. |
| Want any papers, Mister? |
| Wish you'd buy 'em of me— |
| Ten year old, an' a fam'ly, |
| An' bizness dull, you see. |
| Fact, Boss! There's Tom, an' Tibby, |
| An' Dad, an' Mam, an' Mam's cat, |
| None on 'em earning money— |
| What do you think of that? |
| |
| Couldn't Dad work? Why yes, Boss, |
| He's workin' for Gov'ment now— |
| They give him his board for nothin', |
| All along of a drunken row, |
| An' Mam? well, she's in the poor-house, |
| Been there a year or so, |
| So I'm taking care of the others, |
| Doing as well as I know. |
| |
| Tibby my sister? Not much, Boss, |
| She's a kitten, a real Maltee; |
| I picked her up last summer— |
| Some boys was a drownin' of she; |
| Throw'd her inter a hogshead; |
| But a p'liceman came along, |
| So I jest grabbed up the kitten |
| And put for home, right strong. |
| |
| And Tom's my dog; he an' Tibby |
| Hain't never quarreled yet— |
| They sleep in my bed in winter |
| An' keeps me warm—you bet! |
| Mam's cat sleeps in the corner, |
| With a piller made of her paw— |
| Can't she growl like a tiger |
| If anyone comes to our straw! |
| |
| Oughtn't to live so? Why, Mister, |
| What's a feller to do? |
| Some nights, when I'm tired an' hungry, |
| Seems as if each on 'em knew— |
| They'll all three cuddle around me, |
| Till I get cheery, and say: |
| Well, p'raps I'll have sisters an' brothers, |
| An' money an' clothes, too, some day. |
| |
| But if I do git rich, Boss, |
| (An' a lecturin' chap one night |
| Said newsboys could be Presidents |
| If only they acted right); |
| So, if I was President, Mister, |
| The very first thing I'd do, |
| I'd buy poor Tom an' Tibby |
| A dinner—an' Mam's cat, too! |
| |
| None o' your scraps an' leavin's, |
| But a good square meal for all three; |
| If you think I'd skimp my friends, Boss, |
| That shows you don't know me. |
| So 'ere's your papers—come take one, |
| Gimme a lift if you can— |
| For now you've heard my story, |
| You see I'm a fam'ly man! |
| |
| E.T. Corbett. |
| Not far advanced was morning day, |
| When Marmion did his troop array |
| To Surrey's camp to ride; |
| He had safe conduct for his band, |
| Beneath the royal seal and hand, |
| And Douglas gave a guide: |
| The ancient Earl, with stately grace, |
| Would Clara on her palfrey place, |
| And whispered in an undertone, |
| "Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." |
| The train from out the castle drew, |
| But Marmion stopped to bid adieu.— |
| "Though something I might plain," he said, |
| "Of cold respect to stranger guest, |
| Sent hither by your king's behest, |
| While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, |
| Part we in friendship from your land, |
| And, noble Earl, receive my hand."— |
| But Douglas round him drew his cloak, |
| Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:— |
| "My manors, halls, and bowers shall still |
| Be open, at my sovereign's will, |
| To each one whom he lists, howe'er |
| Unmeet to be the owner's peer. |
| My castles are my king's alone, |
| From turret to foundation-stone,— |
| The hand of Douglas is his own; |
| And never shall in friendly grasp |
| The hand of such as Marmion clasp." |
| |
| Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, |
| And shook his very frame for ire, |
| And—"This to me!" he said,— |
| "An't were not for thy hoary beard, |
| Such hand as Marmion's had not spared |
| To cleave the Douglas' head! |
| And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, |
| He who does England's message here, |
| Even in thy pitch of pride, |
| Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, |
| (Nay, never look upon your lord, |
| And lay your hands upon your sword,) |
| I tell thee thou'rt defied! |
| And if thou said'st I am not peer |
| To any lord in Scotland here, |
| Lowland or Highland, far or near, |
| Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"— |
| On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage |
| O'ercame the ashen hue of age: |
| Fierce he broke forth,—"And dar'st thou then |
| To beard the lion in his den, |
| The Douglas in his hall? |
| And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go? |
| No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no! |
| Up drawbridge, grooms,—what, warder, ho! |
| Let the portcullis fall."— |
| Lord Marmion turned,—well was his need!— |
| And dashed the rowels in his steed; |
| Like arrow through the archway sprung; |
| The ponderous grate behind him rung; |
| To pass there was such scanty room, |
| The bars, descending, razed his plume. |
| |
| The steed along the drawbridge flies. |
| Just as it trembled on the rise; |
| Not lighter does the swallow skim |
| Along the smooth lake's level brim; |
| And when Lord Marmion reached his band, |
| He halts, and turns with clenched hand, |
| And shout of loud defiance pours, |
| And shook his gauntlet at the towers, |
| "Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!" |
| But soon he reined his fury's pace: |
| "A royal messenger he came, |
| Though most unworthy of the name. |
|
| St. Mary, mend my fiery mood! |
| Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, |
| I thought to slay him where he stood. |
| 'Tis pity of him too," he cried; |
| "Bold can he speak, and fairly ride: |
| I warrant him a warrior tried." |
| With this his mandate he recalls, |
| And slowly seeks his castle halls. |
| |
| Sir Walter Scott. |