Mother beside the fire Sat, her nightcap in; Father, in easy chair, Gloomily napping, When at the window-sill Came a light tapping!

And a pale countenance Looked through the cas.e.m.e.nt, Loud beat the mother's heart, Sick with amazement, And at the vision which Came to surprise her, Shrieked in an agony-- "Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth-- Yes, 'twas their girl; Pale was her cheek, and her Hair out of curl.

"Mother," the loving one, Blushing exclaimed, "Let not your innocent Lizzy be blamed.

"Yesterday, going to Aunt Jones's to tea, Mother, dear mother, I Forgot the door-key!

And as the night was cold And the way steep, Mrs. Jones kept me to Breakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and Ma Fully believed her, That we shall never know, Stern they received her; And for the work of that Cruel, though short, night Sent her to bed without Tea for a fortnight.

MORAL

Hey diddle diddlety, Cat and the fiddlety, Maidens of England, take caution by she!

Let love and suicide Never tempt you aside, And always remember to take the door-key.

_W. M. Thackeray._

A BALLADE OF BALLADE-MONGERS

AFTER THE MANNER OF MASTER FRANcOIS VILLON OF PARIS

In Ballades things always contrive to get lost, And Echo is constantly asking where Are last year's roses and last year's frost?

And where are the fashions we used to wear?

And what is a "gentleman," and what is a "player"?

Irrelevant questions I like to ask: Can you reap the tret as well as the tare?

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

What has become of the ring I tossed In the lap of my mistress false and fair?

Her grave is green and her tombstone mossed; But who is to be the next Lord Mayor?

And where is King William, of Leicester Square?

And who has emptied my hunting flask?

And who is possessed of Stella's hair?

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

And what became of the knee I crossed, And the rod and the child they would not spare?

And what will a dozen herring cost When herring are sold at three halfpence a pair?

And what in the world is the Golden Stair?

Did Diogenes die in a tub or cask, Like Clarence, for love of liquor there?

And who was the Man in the Iron Mask?

ENVOY

Poets, your readers have much to bear, For Ballade-making is no great task, If you do not remember, I don't much care Who was the man in the Iron Mask.

_Augustus M. Moore._

VIII

BATHOS

THE CONFESSION

There's somewhat on my breast, father, There's somewhat on my breast!

The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest.

I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; A weary weight oppresseth me-- This weary weight of woe!

'Tis not the lack of gold, father, Nor want of worldly gear; My lands are broad, and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear.

My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief; But, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief!

'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind.

'Tis not _her_ coldness, father, That chills my laboring breast; It's that confounded cuc.u.mber I ate, and can't digest.

_Richard Harris Barham._

IF YOU HAVE SEEN

Good reader! if you e'er have seen, When Ph[oe]bus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green, Dancing upon the western billow: If you have seen, at twilight dim, When the lone spirit's vesper hymn Floats wild along the winding sh.o.r.e: If you have seen, through mist of eve, The fairy train their ringlets weave, Glancing along the spangled green;-- If you have seen all this and more, G.o.d bless me! what a deal you've seen!

_Thomas Moore._

CIRc.u.mSTANCE

THE ORANGE

It ripen'd by the river banks, Where, mask and moonlight aiding, Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks, Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, Beneath the golden day there; By swain 'twas then in London suck'd-- Who flung the peel away there.