II.

In peace, malt liquor’s cheap and good; In war, ’tis poor and badly brewed; In kitchens, now they drink small beer; Malt, hops and water, grow so dear. Good liquor rules both church and state, It brightens many a stupid pate; And men and saints, to my own thinking, Are often prone unto hard drinking. Heaven, we are told, through a glass is seen; A glass of grog is what they mean. * * * * *

The poem closes with a description of Tommy’s fate:――

Hushed is the fiddle――Tommy’s gone; But did he roam, unhoused, unknown, Again thro’ wilds and deserts drear? No succour nigh, or alehouse near? Oh no:――close by this stately hall, So snug, with newly white-washed wall, Appears Tom’s cot; with lattice clean, And window-shutters painted green, A garden, hen-pen, and a stye, Well stock’d with sundries, stand close by; And every want is well supplied, And every blessing is enjoyed. * * * * *

――――

BREATHES THERE A MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, Confound that horrid Little-Go Whose heart within him ne’er has burned, As from the papers he has turned, When them he found he did’nt know.

If such there be――go! mark him well For him no Poll will do as well As honours high, or wrangler’s name A fellowship’s his only aim. Not _his_ to lie upon the shelf; Poor wretch sustainer of himself A living comes thro’ his renown. Nor unrewarded goes he down To the small hamlet whence he sprung, A hero great as bards have sung.

From _The Lays of the Mocking Sprite_. (Metcalfe and Sons, Cambridge.)

――――

THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTREL. _By Sir Walter Scott-free, Bart._

It was an Oxford Scholar bright, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And he would get him thoroughly tight, For Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

Blithely he saw the coming dun, As bright as sun on Charsley’s Hall, Alas! his race was well nigh run And Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

The dun drinks wine, and tastes it well, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) Then came Cremation and he fell, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

He fell not by the “Old Red Heart,” (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) He fell by Gilbey’s fiery art, To prove that Gilbey’s lord of all.

The scholar spurned the knife and fork, (The sun shone fair on Charsley’s Hall,) And cut his throat with Gilbey’s cork, So Gilbey’ll still be lord of all.

From _The Shotover Papers_ (Oxford), October 17, 1874.

――――:o:――――

The following extract is taken from a very amusing volume, entitled “_Lays of the Saintly_,” by Mr. Walter Parke, published by Vizetelly and Co., London. The ballad introduced is a Parody of the style of ballads contained in Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.

ST. FILLAN’S ARM. (_A Lay of Scott-land._)

Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang, “On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring” (_Which_ elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang, And keep thy wires in order while I sing In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring; And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring; Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint.