"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my treasured fame, Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light: While I wear a belted brand, together still we stand, Heart to heart, hand in hand!"

Said the knight.

"All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host Shall discover to their cost rather hard!

Ho, Provan! take this key--hoist up the Malvoisie, And heap it, d'ye see, In the yard.

"Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, I reckon, some, Besides the beer and mum, extra stout; Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks, As also range the flasks, Just without.

"If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears In the very inmost tiers of the drink.

Let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport, Since their time is rather short, I should think!"

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids; Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, Till they stumbled on the floor, O'er the fluids.

Down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew From his belt an iron screw, in his fist; George of Gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain, And indeed was rather fain To a.s.sist.

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, And silence did command, all below-- "Ho! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, In the centre of thy hold, Pledge me now!

"Art surly, brother mine? In this cup of rosy wine, I drink to the decline of thy race!

Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, Never more shall setting sun Gild thy face!

"The pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up; And perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high!

What, brother! art thou dry?

Fill my cup!"

Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heard him not, But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore; And Sir Roderick Dalgleish remarked aside to Neish, "Never sure did thirsty fish Swallow more!

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun; It were knightly sport and fun to strike in!"

"Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the rum-- They are working at the mum, And the gin!"

Then straight there did appear to each gallant Gorbalier Twenty castles dancing near, all around; The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, And sinuous as a snake Moved the ground.

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, But all agreed the rum was divine.

And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born, Who preferred to fill his horn Up with wine!

Then said Launcelot the tall, "Bring the chargers from their stall; Lead them straight unto the hall, down below: Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, And together we shall ride On the foe!"

Then Provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, That few would 'scape to tell how they fared; And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, Looked terrible as bears, All prepared.

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed Neish, And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright-- "Now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; Smite them down unto the last!"

Cried the knight.

In the c.u.mbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail.

On the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, As the deer treads down the fern, In the vale!

Saint Mungo be my guide! It was goodly in that tide To see the Bogle ride in his haste; He accompanied each blow with a cry of "Ha!" or "Ho!"

And always cleft the foe To the waist.

"George of Gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!"

But he met with no reply, and never could descry The glitter of his eye Anywhere.

Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were down, Like a field of barley mown in the ear: It had done a soldier good to see how Provan stood, With Neish all bathed in blood, Panting near.

"Now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks, And place the empty flasks on the floor; George of Gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, To taste our beer and rum Any more!"

So they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks, And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; But pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek, For he swore he heard a shriek Through the door.

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent its flame To the face of squire and dame in the hall, The cellarer went down to tap October brown, Which was rather of renown 'Mongst them all.

He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, But his liquor would not flow through the pin.

"Sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, But a sound, as if of buckles, Clashed within.

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: What a spectacle of fear met their sight!

There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, In the arms he bore the day Of the fight!

I have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, Though the moral ye may fail to perceive; Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, And now, I think, I must Take my leave!

ILl.u.s.tRATIONS OF THE PUFF POETICAL

[The following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called "Puffs and Poetry," from which the following pa.s.sage is taken:--

"Some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with their Lancelots and Gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' There needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an Excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. The beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with Friar Bacon and the invention of gunpowder. Praised be Apollo! this is not our case.

There is a s.n.a.t.c.h of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything.

We have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the 'London Gazette.'

"'The deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent.

Like Signor Bened.i.c.k, it 'will still be talking.' We can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an object--nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick--but it seems to be trans.m.u.ted as by the touch of Midas into gold. Our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape.

We are not nice to a shade. A trifle here or there never stands in our way. We regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine Briton, and exclaim with Pistol, 'A fico for all yea and nay rogues.'

"We have often thought of entering the lists against Robins [famous for his imaginative advertis.e.m.e.nts of properties for sale]. It may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. Robins amplifies well, but we think we could trump him. There is an obvious effort in his best works.

The result is a want of unity of effect. Hesiod and Tennyson, the Caverns of Ellora, and the magic caves of the Regent's Park Colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon another. He never achieves the triumph of art--repose. Besides, he wants variety. A country box, consisting of twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaph.o.r.ed as an island of the Hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, Celts, ptarmigan, and other wild animals upon it. Now, this is out of all rule. An elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other.

Robins--with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken--does not attend to this. He has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the finished artist." Thereupon Bon Gaultier proceeds to ill.u.s.trate his views by the following, and many other rhyming advertis.e.m.e.nts.]

The Death of Ishmael.

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.

On the pavement cold he lay, Around him closed the living tide; The butcher's cad set down his tray; The pot-boy from the Dragon Green No longer for his pewter calls; The Nereid rushes in between, Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died.

They raised him gently from the stone, They flung his coat and neckcloth wide-- But linen had that Hebrew none.

They raised the pile of hats that pressed His n.o.ble head, his locks of snow; But, ah, that head, upon his breast, Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died, Struck with overwhelming qualms From the flavour spreading wide Of some fine Virginia hams.

Would you know the fatal spot, Fatal to that child of sin?