Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 18

FRIAR'S SONG.

Some love the matin-chimes, which tell The hour of prayer to sinner: But better far's the mid-day bell, Which speaks the hour of dinner; For when I see a smoking fish, Or capon drown'd in gravy, Or n.o.ble haunch on silver dish, Full glad I sing my ave.

My pulpit is an alehouse bench, Whereon I sit so jolly; A smiling rosy country wench My saint and patron holy.

I kiss her cheek so red and sleek, I press her ringlets wavy, And in her willing ear I speak A most religious ave.

And if I'm blind, yet heaven is kind, And holy saints forgiving; For sure he leads a right good life Who thus admires good living.

Above, they say, our flesh is air, Our blood celestial ichor: Oh, grant! mid all the changes there, They may not change our liquor!

ATRA CURA.

Before I lost my five poor wits, I mind me of a Romish clerk, Who sang how Care, the phantom dark, Beside the belted horseman sits.

Methought I saw the grisly sprite Jump up but now behind my Knight.

And though he gallop as he may, I mark that cursed monster black Still sits behind his honor's back, Tight squeezing of his heart alway.

Like two black Templars sit they there, Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.

No knight am I with pennoned spear, To prance upon a bold destrere: I will not have black Care prevail Upon my long-eared charger's tail, For lo, I am a witless fool, And laugh at Grief and ride a mule.

REQUIESCAT.

Under the stone you behold, Buried, and coffined, and cold, Lieth Sir Wilfrid the Bold.

Always he marched in advance, Warring in Flanders and France, Doughty with sword and with lance.

Famous in Saracen fight, Rode in his youth the good knight, Scattering Paynims in flight.

Brian the Templar untrue, Fairly in tourney he slew, Saw Hierusalem too.

Now he is buried and gone, Lying beneath the gray stone: Where shall you find such a one?

Long time his widow deplored, Weeping the fate of her lord, Sadly cut off by the sword.

When she was eased of her pain, Came the good Lord Athelstane, When her ladys.h.i.+p married again.

LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT.

BY THE LORD SOUTHDOWN.

The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea, Where the cliffs of bonny Diddles.e.x rise up from out the sea: I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er, I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more.

I stood upon the donjon keep--it is a sacred place,-- Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race; Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field: There ne'er was n.o.bler cognizance on knightly warrior's s.h.i.+eld.

The first time England saw the s.h.i.+eld 'twas round a Norman neck, On board a s.h.i.+p from Valery, King William was on deck.

A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings' fatal fray-- St. Willibald for Bareacres! 'twas double gules that day!

O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince!

At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers, The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!

'Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing: Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing!

Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us, And thirty score of British bows kept tw.a.n.ging to the chorus!

O knights, my n.o.ble ancestors! and shall I never hear St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear?

I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride, And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!

Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine!

Those blus.h.i.+ng lips may never sing the glories of our line: Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls, The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls.

Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile, 'Twere sinful to be happy, 'twere sacrilege to smile.

I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob I'll muse on other days, and wish--and wish I were--A Sn.o.b.

THE LEGEND OF ST. SOPHIA OF KIOFF.

AN EPIC POEM, IN TWENTY BOOKS.

I.

[The Poet describes the city and spelling of Kiow, Kioff, or Kiova.]

A thousand years ago, or more, A city filled with burghers stout, And girt with ramparts round about, Stood on the rocky Dnieper sh.o.r.e.

In armor bright, by day and night, The sentries they paced to and fro.

Well guarded and walled was this town, and called By different names, I'd have you to know; For if you looks in the g'ography books, In those dictionaries the name it varies, And they write it off Kieff or Kioff, Kiova or Kiow.

II.

[Its buildings, public works, and ordinances, religious and civil.]

Thus guarded without by wall and redoubt, Kiova within was a place of renown, With more advantages than in those dark ages Were commonly known to belong to a town.

There were places and squares, and each year four fairs, And regular aldermen and regular lord-mayors; And streets, and alleys, and a bishop's palace; And a church with clocks for the orthodox-- With clocks and with spires, as religion desires; And beadles to whip the bad little boys Over their poor little corduroys, In service-time, when they DIDN'T make a noise; And a chapter and dean, and a cathedral-green With ancient trees, underneath whose shades Wandered nice young nursery-maids.

[The poet shows how a certain priest dwelt at Kioff, a G.o.dly clergyman, and one that preached rare good sermons.]