Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 5

Married if she were Blest would be the daddy Of the children fair Of Peg of Limavaddy.

Beauty is not rare In the land of Paddy, Fair beyond compare Is Peg of Limavaddy.

Citizen or Squire, Tory, Whig, or Radi- cal would all desire Peg of Limavaddy.

Had I Homer's fire, Or that of Serjeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire Peg of Limavaddy.

And till I expire, Or till I grow mad I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy!

MAY-DAY ODE.

But yesterday a naked sod The dandies sneered from Rotten Row, And cantered o'er it to and fro: And see 'tis done!

As though 'twere by a wizard's rod A blazing arch of lucid gla.s.s Leaps like a fountain from the gra.s.s To meet the sun!

A quiet green but few days since, With cattle browsing in the shade: And here are lines of bright arcade In order raised!

A palace as for fairy Prince, A rare pavilion, such as man Saw never since mankind began, And built and glazed!

A peaceful place it was but now, And lo! within its s.h.i.+ning streets A mult.i.tude of nations meets; A countless throng I see beneath the crystal bow, And Gaul and German, Russ and Turk, Each with his native handiwork And busy tongue.

I felt a thrill of love and awe To mark the different garb of each, The changing tongue, the various speech Together blent: A thrill, methinks, like His who saw "All people dwelling upon earth Praising our G.o.d with solemn mirth And one consent."

High Sovereign, in your Royal state, Captains, and chiefs, and councillors, Before the lofty palace doors Are open set,-- Hush ere you pa.s.s the s.h.i.+ning gate: Hus.h.!.+ ere the heaving curtain draws, And let the Royal pageant pause A moment yet.

People and prince a silence keep!

Bow coronet and kingly crown.

Helmet and plume, bow lowly down, The while the priest, Before the splendid portal step, (While still the wondrous banquet stays,) From Heaven supreme a blessing prays Upon the feast.

Then onwards let the triumph march; Then let the loud artillery roll, And trumpets ring, and joy-bells toll, And pa.s.s the gate.

Pa.s.s underneath the s.h.i.+ning arch, 'Neath which the leafy elms are green; Ascend unto your throne, O Queen!

And take your state.

Behold her in her Royal place; A gentle lady; and the hand That sways the sceptre of this land, How frail and weak!

Soft is the voice, and fair the face: She breathes amen to prayer and hymn; No wonder that her eyes are dim, And pale her cheek.

This moment round her empire's sh.o.r.es The winds of Austral winter sweep, And thousands lie in midnight sleep At rest to-day.

Oh! awful is that crown of yours, Queen of innumerable realms Sitting beneath the budding elms Of English May!

A wondrous scepter 'tis to bear: Strange mystery of G.o.d which set Upon her brow yon coronet,-- The foremost crown Of all the world, on one so fair!

That chose her to it from her birth, And bade the sons of all the earth To her bow down.

The representatives of man Here from the far Antipodes, And from the subject Indian seas, In Congress meet; From Afric and from Hindustan, From Western continent and isle, The envoys of her empire pile Gifts at her feet;

Our brethren cross the Atlantic tides, Loading the gallant decks which once Roared a defiance to our guns, With peaceful store; Symbol of peace, their vessel rides!*

O'er English waves float Star and Stripe, And firm their friendly anchors gripe The father sh.o.r.e!

From Rhine and Danube, Rhone and Seine, As rivers from their sources gush, The swelling floods of nations rush, And seaward pour: From coast to coast in friendly chain, With countless s.h.i.+ps we bridge the straits, And angry ocean separates Europe no more.

From Mississippi and from Nile-- From Baltic, Ganges, Bosphorous, In England's ark a.s.sembled thus Are friend and guest.

Look down the mighty sunlit aisle, And see the sumptuous banquet set, The brotherhood of nations met.

Around the feast!

Along the dazzling colonnade, Far as the straining eye can gaze, Gleam cross and fountain, bell and vase, In vistas bright; And statues fair of nymph and maid, And steeds and pards and Amazons, Writhing and grappling in the bronze, In endless fight.

To deck the glorious roof and dome, To make the Queen a canopy, The peaceful hosts of industry Their standards bear.

Yon are the works of Brahmin loom; On such a web of Persian thread The desert Arab bows his head And cries his prayer.

Look yonder where the engines toil: These England's arms of conquest are, The trophies of her bloodless war: Brave weapons these.

Victorians over wave and soil, With these she sails, she weaves, she tills, Pierces the everlasting hills And spans the seas.

The engine roars upon its race, The shuttle whirs the woof, The people hum from floor to roof, With Babel tongue.

The fountain in the basin plays, The chanting organ echoes clear, An awful chorus 'tis to hear, A wondrous song!

Swell, organ, swell your trumpet blast, March, Queen and Royal pageant, march By splendid aisle and springing arch Of this fair Hall: And see! above the fabric vast, G.o.d's boundless Heaven is bending blue, G.o.d's peaceful sunlight's beaming through, And s.h.i.+nes o'er all.

May, 1851.

* The U. S. frigate "St. Lawrence."

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE.

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Pet.i.ts Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields.

And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a n.o.ble dish is-- A sort of soup or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at TERRe'S tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-checked ecaillere is Still opening oysters at the door.

Is TERRe still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter--nothing's changed or older.

"How's Monsieur TERRe, waiter, pray?"

The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder-- "Monsieur is dead this many a day."

"It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest TERRe'S run his race."

"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"

"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?"

"Tell me a good one."--"That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal."

"So TERRe'S gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place, "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."