Chapter II: Part 2

Rides and is not far behind: His long hair floats on the wind,

And ever the tramp of chivalry Comes like the sound of the sea.

This is Michael rides abroad, Prince of the army of God,

And this like a lily arrayed Is Joan, the blesséd Maid.

Rheims is down in fire and smoke And the hour of God's at the stroke.

THE WHITE COMRADE: ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

Under our curtain of fire, Over the clotted clods, We charged, to be withered, to reel And despairingly wheel When the signal bade us retire From the terrible odds. As we ebbed with the battle-tide, Fingers of red-hot steel Suddenly closed on my side. I fell, and began to pray. I crawled on my hands and lay Where a shallow crater yawned wide; Then,--I swooned....

When I woke, it was yet day. Fierce was the pain of my wound, But I saw it was death to stir, For fifty paces away Their trenches were. In torture I prayed for the dark And the stealthy step of my friend Who, stanch to the very end, Would creep to the danger zone And offer his life as a mark To save my own.

Night fell. I heard his tread, Not stealthy, but firm and serene, As if my comrade's head Were lifted far from that scene Of passion and pain and dread; As if my comrade's heart In carnage took no part; As if my comrade's feet Were set on some radiant street Such as no darkness might haunt; As if my comrade's eyes No deluge of flame could surprise, No death and destruction daunt, No red-beaked bird dismay, Nor sight of decay.

Then in the bursting shells' dim light I saw he was clad in white. For a moment I thought that I saw the smock Of a shepherd in search of his flock. Alert were the enemy, too, And their bullets flew Straight at a mark no bullet could fail; For the seeker was tall and his robe was bright; But he did not flee nor quail. Instead, with unhurrying stride He came, And gathering my tall frame, Like a child, in his arms....

Again I slept, And awoke From a blissful dream In a cave by a stream. My silent comrade had bound my side. No pain now was mine, but a wish that I spoke,-- A mastering wish to serve this man Who had ventured through hell my doom to revoke, As only the truest of comrades can. I begged him to tell me how best I might aid him, And urgently prayed him Never to leave me, whatever betide;-- When I saw he was hurt-- Shot through the hands that were clasped in prayer! Then as the dark drops gathered there And fell in the dirt, The wounds of my friend Seemed to me such as no man might bear. Those bullet-holes in the patient hands Seemed to transcend All horrors that ever these war-drenched lands Had known or would know till the mad world's end. Then suddenly I was aware That his feet had been wounded too; And, dimming the white of his side, A dull stain grew. "You are hurt, White Comrade!" I cried. His words I already foreknew: "_These are old wounds_," said he, "_But of late they have troubled me._"

GHOSTS OF THE ARGONNE: GRANTLAND RICE

You can hear them at night when the moon is hidden;
They sound like the rustle of winter leaves,
Or lone lost winds that arise, unbidden,
Or rain that drips from the forest eaves,
As they glide again from their silent crosses
To meet and talk of their final fight,
Where over the group some stark tree tosses
Its eerie shadow across the night.

If you'll take some night with its moonless weather,
I know you will reason beyond a doubt
That the rain and the wind and the leaves together
Are making the sounds you will hear about:
The wintry rustle of dead leaves falling,
The whispering wind through the matted glen;
But I can swear it's a sergeant calling
The ghostly roll of his squad again.

They talk of war and its crimson glory,
And laugh at the trick which Fate has played;
And over and over they tell the story
Of their final charge through the Argonne glade;
But gathering in by hill and hollow
With their ghostly tramp on the rain-soaked loam,
There is one set rule which the clan must follow:
They never speak of returning home.

They whisper still of the rifles' clatter,
The riveting racket machine guns gave,
Until dawn comes and the clan must scatter
As each one glides to his waiting grave;
But here at the end of their last endeavor
However their stark dreams leap the foam
There is one set rule they will keep forever:
"Death to the Phantom who speaks of home!"

NOVEMBER ELEVENTH: RUTH COMFORT MITCHELL

It was three slim young wraiths that met in the heart of
a great play-ground,
And two of them watched the shining sports in the fields
that ringed them round,
But one of them bent an earthward ear to follow a far-off
sound.

"Listen," he cried, "they _know_, down there! Oh! don't you hear the bells?" "Not I," said one, with a wise young smile, "I used to hear the shells. Not now; oh, not for ages now! I came from the Dardanelles."

"I from the Marne," the third one sighed, "but these are only names. Eh bien, mon vieux, one must forget those little strifes and fames! Here is a host of Golden Lads, that play at golden games."

But the new boy ran to the turf's green rim and bent
with an anxious frown,--
"It's the curfew bell! I hear them cheer! It's my little
own home town!
I hear my dad! I can almost _see_--" and his eager gaze
plunged down.

"Soon, mon ami," soothed the dark-eyed wraith, "these
teasing dreams will cease!
One plays all day, one leaps the stars, one seeks the
Golden Fleece!"
Still the new boy turned his white young face from the
Land of the Great Release.--
"_But I was killed two hours ago, while they signed the
terms of peace._"

SEA GHOSTS

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN: CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

We met the _Flying Dutchman_,
By midnight he came,
His hull was all of hell fire,
His sails were all aflame;
Fire on the main-top,
Fire on the bow,
Fire on the gun-deck,
Fire down below.

Four-and-twenty dead men,
Those were the crew,
The devil on the bowsprit,
Fiddled as she flew,
We gave her the broadside,
Right in the dip,
Just like a candle,
Went out the ship.

THE PHANTOM SHIP: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

In Mather's Magnalia Christi,
Of the old colonial time,
May be found in prose the legend
That is here set down in rhyme.

A ship sailed from New Haven,
And the keen and the frosty airs,
That filled her sails at parting,
Were heavy with good men's prayers.

"O Lord, if it be thy pleasure"--
Thus prayed the old divine--
"To bury our friends in the ocean,
Take them, for they are thine."

But Master Lamberton muttered,
And under his breath said he,
"This ship is so crank and walty,
I fear our grave she will be!"

And the ships that came from England,
When the winter months were gone,
Brought no tidings of this vessel
Nor of Master Lamberton.

This put the people to praying
That the Lord would let them hear
What in his greater wisdom
He had done with their friends so dear.

And at last their prayers were answered:
It was in the month of June,
An hour before the sunset
Of a windy afternoon.

When steadily steering landward,
A ship was seen below,
And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,
Who sailed so long ago.

On she came with a cloud of canvas,
Right against the wind that blew,
Until the eye could distinguish
The faces of the crew.

Then fell her straining topmasts,
Hanging tangled in the shrouds.
And her sails were loosened and lifted,
And blown away like clouds.

And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one by one,
And the hulk dilated and vanished,
As a sea-mist in the sun!

And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend,
That this was the mould of the vessel,
And thus her tragic end.

And the pastor of the village
Gave thanks to God in prayer,
That, to quiet their troubled spirits,
He had sent this ship of air.

THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS: ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON

'Tis the laughter of pines that swing and sway Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay, 'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide In ripples that reach to the forest side; 'Tis the fisherman's boat, in the track of sheen, Plying through tangled seaweed green, O'er the Baie des Chaleurs.

Who has not heard of the phantom light That over the moaning waves at night Dances and drifts in endless play, Close to the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter light that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs.

They tell us that many a year ago, From lands where the palm and olive grow, Where vines with their purple clusters creep Over the hillsides gray and steep, A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, Famed in that chivalrous time of old, For valorous deeds and courage rare, Sailed with a princess wondrous fair To the Baie des Chaleurs.

That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, A murderous band as e'er could be, With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, Swept in the wake of the lovers there, And sank the ship and its freight so fair In the Baie des Chaleurs.

Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell,-- They say that a ball of fire fell Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, Lighting the bay from shore to shore; That the ship with a shudder and a groan, Sank through the waves to the caverns lone Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

That was the last of the pirate crew, But many a night a black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed, For the wreck they had wrought on the sea and the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand, Of the Baie des Chaleurs.

This is the tale of the phantom light, That fills the mariner's heart at night, With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, Now by the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter moon that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs.

THE SANDS OF DEE: CHARLES KINGSLEY

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Dee!"
The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land--
And never home came she.

"Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drownéd maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes of Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea,
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Dee!

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP: THOMAS MOORE

"They made her a grave too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe.

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of death is near!"

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,-- His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, And man never trod before!

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, "Oh, when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played,-- "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" And the dim shore echoed for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid!

He hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore; Far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more.

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true, Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the lake by a firefly lamp, And paddle their white canoe!

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN OF THE TAPPAN ZEE: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

On Tappan Zee a shroud of gray
Is heavy, dank, and low.
And dimly gleams the beacon-ray
Of white Pocantico.

No skipper braves old Hudson now
Where Nyack's Headlands frown,
And safely moored is every prow
Of drowsy Tarrytown;

Yet, clear as word of human lip,
The river sends its shores
The rhythmic rullock-clank and drip
Of even-rolling oars.

What rower plies a reckless oar
With mist on flood and strand?
That Oarsman toils forevermore
And ne'er shall reach the land.

* * * * *

Roystering, rollicking Ram van Dam, Fond of a frolic and fond of a dram, Fonder--yea, fonder, proclaims renown,-- Of Tryntje Bogardus of Tarrytown, Leaves Spuyten Duyvil to roar his song! Pull! For the current is sly and strong; Nestles the robin and flies the bat. Ho! for the frolic at Kakiat!

Merry, the sport at the quilting bee Held at the farm on the Tappan Zee! Jovial labor with quips and flings, Dances with wonderful pigeon wings, Twitter of maidens and clack of dames, Honest flirtations and rousing games; Platters of savory beef and brawn, Buckets of treacle and good suppawn, Oceans of cider, and beer in lakes, Mountains of crullers and honey-cakes-- Such entertainment could never pall! Rambout Van Dam took his fill of all; Laughed with the wittiest, worked with a zest, Danced with the prettiest, drank with the best.

Oh! that enjoyment should breed annoy! Tryntje grew fickle or cold or coy; Rambout, possessed of a jealous sprite, Scowled like the sky on a stormy night, Snarled a good-bye from his sullen throat, Blustered away to his tugging boat. After him hastened Jacobus Horn: "Stay with us, Rambout, till Monday morn. Soon in the east will the dawn be gray, Rest from thy oars on the Sabbath Day."

Angrily Rambout van Dam ripped back: "Dunder en Blitzen! du Schobbejak! Preach to thy children! and let them know Spite of the duyvil and thee, I'll row Thousands of Sundays, if need there be, Home o'er this ewig-vervlekte zee!" Muttering curses, he headed south. Jacob, astounded, with open mouth Watched him receding, when--crash on crash Volleyed the thunder! A hissing flash Smote on the river! He looked again. Rambout was gone from the sight of men!

* * * * *

Old Dunderberg with grumbling roar
Hath warned the fog to flee,
But still that never-wearied oar
Is heard on Tappan Zee.

A moon is closed on Hudson's breast
And lanterns gem the town;
The phantom craft that may not rest
Plies ever, up and down,

'Neath skies of blue and skies of gray,
In spite of wind or tide,
Until the trump of Judgment Day--
A sound--and naught beside.

THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED: JOYCE KILMER

With drooping sail and pennant
That never a wind may reach,
They float in sunless waters
Beside a sunless beach.
Their misty masts and funnels
Are white as driven snow,
And with a pallid radiance
Their ghostly bulwarks glow.

Here is a Spanish galleon
That once with gold was gay,
Here is a Roman trireme
Whose hues outshone the day.
But Tyrian dyes have faded,
And prows that once were bright
With rainbow stains wear only
Death's livid, dreadful white.

White as the ice that clove her
That unforgotten day,
Among her pallid sisters
The grim _Titanic_ lay.
And through the leagues above her
She looked aghast and said:
"What is this living ship that comes
Where every ship is dead?"

The ghostly vessels trembled
From ruined stern to prow;
What was this thing of terror
That broke their vigil now?
Down through the startled ocean
A mighty vessel came,
Not white, as all dead ships must be,
But red, like living flame!

The pale green waves above her
Were swiftly, strangely dyed,
By the great scarlet stream that flowed
From out her wounded side.
And all her decks were scarlet
And all her shattered crew.
She sank among the white ghost ships
And stained them through and through.

The grim _Titanic_ greeted her.
"And who art thou?" she said;
"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet
Arrayed in living red?
We are the ships of sorrow
Who spend the weary night,
Until the dawn of Judgment Day,
Obscure and still and white."

"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,
"Though I sink through the sea,
A ruined thing that was a ship,
I sink not as did ye.
For ye met with your destiny
By storm or rock or fight,
So through the lagging centuries
Ye wear your robes of white.

"But never crashing iceberg
Nor honest shot of foe,
Nor hidden reef has sent me
The way that I must go.
My wounds that stain the waters,
My blood that is like flame,
Bear witness to a loathly deed,
A deed without a name.

"I went not forth to battle,
I carried friendly men,
The children played about my decks,
The women sang--and then--
And then--the sun blushed scarlet
And Heaven hid its face,
The world that God created
Became a shameful place!

"My wrongs cry out for vengeance,
The blow that sent me here
Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream
Has reached Jehovah's ear.
Not all the seven oceans
Shall wash away that stain;
Upon the brow that wears a crown
I am the brand of Cain."

When God's great voice assembles
The fleet on Judgment Day,
The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
In sea and strait and bay.
Though they have lain for ages
Beneath the changeless flood,
They shall be white as silver,
But one--shall be like blood.

FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

Twist thou and twine! in light and gloom
A spell is on thy hand;
The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
Thy web the twisting sand.

Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,
On Blackrock's sullen shore:
Till cordage of the sand shall coil
Where crested surges roar.

'Tis for that hour, when from the wave
Near voices wildly cried;
When thy stern hand no succour gave,
The cable at thy side.

Twist thou and twine! In light and gloom
The spell is on thine hand;
The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
Thy web the shifting sand.

SEA-GHOSTS: MAY BYRON

O' stormy nights, be they summer or winter,
Hurricane nights like these,
When spar and topsail are rag and splinter
Hurled o'er the sluicing seas,

To the jagged edge where the cliffs lean over,
Climb as you best may climb;
Lie there and listen where mysteries hover,
Haunting the tides of Time.

* * * * *

The crumbling surf on the shingle rattles,
The great waves topple and pour,
Full of the fury of ancient battles,
Clamant with cries of war.

The gale has summoned, the night has beckoned--
Lo, from the east and west,
Stately shadows arise unreckoned
Out of their deeps of rest!

Wild on the wind are voices ringing,
Echoes that throng the air,
Valiant voices, of victory singing,
Or dark with sublime despair.

To the distant drums with their rumbling hollow,
The answering trumpets blow:
War-horn and fife and cymbals follow,
From galleys of long ago.

The crested breaker on reef and boulder
That swirls in cavernous black,
Carries a challenge from decks that moulder
To ships that never came back.

The gale that swoops and the sea that wrestles
Are one in their wrath and might
With the crash and clashing of arméd vessels,
Grinding across the night.

Out of the dark the broadsides thunder,
Clattering to and fro:
The old sea-fighters, the old world's wonder,
Are manning their wrecks below.

You shall smell the smoke, you shall hear the crackle,
Shall mark on the surly blast
Rush and tear of the rending tackle,
Thud of the falling mast.

With the foam that flies and the spray that spatters,
Scourging the strand again,
A terrible outcry leaps and shatters--
Tumult of drowning men.

The steep gray cliff is alive and trembles--
Was never such fear as this!
A fleet, a fleet at its foot assembles
Out of the sea's abyss.

It quails and quivers, its grassy verges
Vibrant with uttermost dread:
It knows the groan of the laden surges,
The shout of the deathless Dead.

In a rolling march of reverberations,
Marching with wind and tide,
Heroes of unremembered nations
Vaunt their immortal pride.

Briton, Spaniard, Phoenician, Roman,
Gallant implacable hosts--
Locked in fight with phantom foeman,
Gather the grim sea-ghosts.

FOG WRAITHS: MILDRED HOWELLS

In from the ocean the white fog creeps,
Blotting out ship, and rock, and tree,
While wrapped in its shroud, from the soundless deeps,
Back to the land come the lost at sea.

Over the weeping grass they drift
By well-known paths to their homes again,
To finger the latch they may not lift
And peer through the glistering window-pane.

Then in the churchyard each seeks the stone
To its memory raised among the rest,
And they watch by their empty graves alone
Till the fog rolls back to the ocean's breast.

CHEERFUL SPIRITS

CAPE HORN GOSPEL: JOHN MASEFIELD

"I was in a hooker once," said Karlssen,
"And Bill, as was a seaman, died,
So we lashed him in an old tarpaulin
And tumbled him across the side;
And the fun of it was that all his gear was
Divided up among the crew
Before that blushing human error
Our crawling little captain, knew.

"On the passage home one morning
(As certain as I prays for grace)
There was old Bill's shadder a-hauling
At the mizzen weather topsail brace.
He was all grown green with seaweed
He was all lashed up and shored;
So I says to him, I says, 'Why, Billy!
What's a-bringin' of you back aboard?'

"'I'm a-weary of them there mermaids,'
Says old Bill's ghost to me;
'It ain't no place for a Christian
Below there--under sea.
For it's all blown sand and shipwrecks
And old bones eaten bare,
And them cold fishy females
With long green weeds for hair.

"'And there ain't no dances shuffled,
And no old yarns is spun,
And there ain't no stars but starfish,
And never any moon or sun.
I heard your keel a-passing
And the running rattle of the brace,
And I says, "Stand by,"' says William,
'"For a shift towards a better place."'

"Well, he sogered about decks till sunrise,
When a rooster in the hen-coop crowed,
And as so much smoke he faded,
And as so much smoke he goed;
And I've often wondered since, Jan,
How his old ghost stands to fare
Long o' them cold fishy females
With long green weeds for hair."

LEGEND OF HAMILTON TIGHE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

The Captain is walking his quarter-deck, With a troubled brow and a bended neck; One eye is down through the hatchway cast, The other turns up to the truck on the mast; Yet none of the crew may venture to hint "Our skipper hath gotten a sinister squint!"

The Captain again the letter hath read Which the bum-boat woman brought out to Spithead-- Still, since the good ship sail'd away, He reads that letter three times a-day; Yet the writing is broad and fair to see As a Skipper may read in his degree, And the seal is as black, and as broad, and as flat, As his own cockade in his own cock'd hat: He reads, and he says, as he walks to and fro, "Curse the old woman--she bothers me so!"

He pauses now, for the topmen hail-- "On the larboard quarter a sail! a sail!" That grim old Captain he turns him quick, And bawls through his trumpet for Hairy-faced Dick. "The breeze is blowing--huzza! huzza! The breeze is blowing--away! away! The breeze is blowing--a race! a race! The breeze is blowing--we near the chase! Blood will flow, and bullets will fly,-- Oh, where will be then young Hamilton Tighe?"

--"On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, With his sword in his hand, and his foe at his knee. Cockswain, or boatswain, or reefer may try, But the first man on board will be Hamilton Tighe!"

* * * * *

Hairy-faced Dick hath a swarthy hue, Between a gingerbread-nut and a Jew, And his pigtail is long, and bushy, and thick, Like a pump-handle stuck on the end of a stick. Hairy-faced Dick understands his trade; He stand by the breech of a long carronade, The linstock glows in his bony hand, Waiting that grim old Skipper's command.

"The bullets are flying--huzza! huzza! The bullets are flying--away! away!"-- The brawny boarders mount by the chains, And are over their buckles in blood and in brains. On the foeman's deck, where a man should be, Young Hamilton Tighe waves his cutlass high, And Capitaine Crapaud bends low at his knee.

Hairy-faced Dick, linstock in hand, Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:-- A wink comes sly from that sinister eye-- Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly, And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!

There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, Her pages and handmaidens come at her call: "Now look ye, my handmaidens, haste now and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee! The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy; And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother, dear, Now Hamilton's dead, I've ten thousand a-year!"

The lady has donned her mantle and hood, She is bound for shrift at St. Mary's Rood:-- "Oh! the taper shall burn, and the bell shall toll, And the mass shall be said for my step-son's soul, And the tablet fair shall be hung on high, Orate pro anima Hamilton Tighe!"

Her coach and four Draws up to the door With her groom, and her footman, and a half score more The lady steps into her coach alone, And they hear her sigh, and they hear her groan; They close the door, and they turn the pin, But there's One rides with her that never stept in!

All the way there, and all the way back, The harness strains, and the coach-springs crack, The horses snort, and plunge, and kick, Till the coachman thinks he is driving Old Nick; And the grooms and the footmen wonder, and say, "What makes the old coach so heavy to-day?" But the mealy-faced boy peeps in, and sees A man sitting there with his head on his knees!

'Tis ever the same--in hall or in bower, Wherever the place, whatever the hour, That Lady mutters, and talks to the air, And her eye is fix'd on an empty chair; But the mealy-faced boy still whispers with dread, "She talks to a man with never a head!"

* * * * *

There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath, As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath; And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, They seem to be trying to peep at his ears; That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms, And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes, For all his knaves stand upside down, And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown; And the Kings and the Aces, and all the best trumps Get into the hands of the other old frumps; While, close to his partner, a man he sees Counting the tricks with his head on his knees.

In Ratcliffe Highway there's an old marine store, And a great black doll hangs out of the door; There are rusty locks, and dusty bags, And musty phials, and fusty rags, And a lusty old woman, call'd Thirsty Nan, And her crusty old husband's a Hairy-faced man!

That Hairy-faced man is sallow and wan, And his great thick pigtail is wither'd and gone; And he cries, "Take away that lubberly chap That sits there and grins with his head in his lap!" And the neighbors say, as they see him look sick, "What a rum old covey is Hairy-faced Dick!"

That Admiral, Lady, and Hairy-faced man May say what they please, and may do what they can; But one things seems remarkably clear,-- They may die to-morrow, or live till next year,-- But wherever they live, or whenever they die, They'll never get quit of young Hamilton Tighe!

THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION: THOMAS HOOD

_A Pathetic Ballad_

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!"--_Mercutio._

'Twas twelve o'clock by the Chelsea chimes,
When all in a hungry trim,
Good Mr. Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate and Jim.

Said he, "Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup"--
When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A ghost came rising up!

"O father dear, O mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim--
You know when some one went to sea--
Don't cry--but I am him!

"You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your lonesome Jack,
But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back!

"From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs,
But steering 'too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs!

"The ship we pumped till we could see
Old England from the tops;
When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel's Chops.

"Just give a look in Norey's Chart,
The very place it tells:
I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells.

"Well, there we are till 'hands aloft,'
We have at last a call,
The pug I had for brother Jim,
Kate's parrot, too, and all."

"But oh, my spirit cannot rest
In Davy Jones's sod,
Till I've appeared to you and said,
'Don't sup on that there Cod!

"You live on land, and little think
What passes in the sea;
Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M.,
That Cod was picking me!

"Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done,
They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one.

"Oh, do not eat those oysters, then,
And do not touch the shrimps;
When I was in my briny grave
They sucked my blood like imps!

"Don't eat what brutes would never eat,
The brutes I used to pat,
They'll know the smell they used to smell,
Just try the dog and cat!"

The spirit fled, they wept his fate,
And cried Alas, Alack!
At last up started brother Jim--
"Let's try if Jack, was Jack!"

They called the Dog, they called the Cat,
The little Kitten, too,
And down they put the Cod and sauce
To see what brutes would do.

Old Tray licked all the oysters up,
Puss never stood at crimps,
But munched the Cod--and little Kit
Quite feasted on the Shrimps!

The thing was odd, and minus Cod
And sauce, they stood like posts;
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax,
Put no belief in Ghosts!

THE INGOLDSBY PENANCE: RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM

_A Legend of Palestine and West Kent_

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, A stalwart knight, I ween, was he, "Come east, come west, Come lance in rest, Come falchion in hand, I'll tickle the best Of the Soldan's Chivalrie!"

Oh, they came west, and they came east, Twenty-four Emirs and Sheiks at the least, And they hammer'd away At Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Fall back, fall edge, cut, thrust, and point,-- But he topp'd off head, and he lopp'd off joint; Twenty and three, Of high degree, Lay stark and stiff on the crimson'd lea, All--all save one--and he ran up a tree! "Now count them, my Squire, now count them and see!" "Twenty and three! Twenty and three!-- All of them nobles of high degree: There they be lying on Ascalon lea!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "What news? What news? Come tell to me! What news? what news, thou little Foot-page?-- I've been whacking the foe till it seems an age Since I was in Ingoldsby Hall so free! What news? what news from Ingoldsby Hall? Come tell me now, thou page so small!"

"O, Hawk and Hound Are safe and sound,
Beast in byre and Steed in stall;
And the Watch-dog's bark, As soon as it's dark
Bays wakeful guard around Ingoldsby Hall!"

--"I care not a pound For Hawk or for Hound
For Steed in stall or for Watch-dog's bay.
Fain would I hear Of my dainty dear;
How fares Dame Alice, my Lady gay?"--
Sir Ingoldsby Bray, he said in his rage,
"What news? what news? thou naughty Foot-page."

The little Foot-page full low crouch'd he, And he doff'd his cap, and he bended his knee, "Now lithe and listen, Sir Bray, to me: Lady Alice sits lonely in bower and hall, Her sighs they rise, and her tears they fall. She sits alone, And she makes her moan; Dance and song, She considers quite wrong; Feast and revel Mere snares of the devil; She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"

"Thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty Foot-page, Full loud doth thou lie, false Page, to me! There in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest, What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near, That little Foot-page, he blanch'd with fear;

"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie? King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he, And tidings rare To him do I bear, And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"

"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page! No learned clerk I trow am I, But well I ween May there be seen Dame Alice's hand with half an eye; Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page, From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news; Although no clerk, Well may I mark The particular turn of her P's and Q's!"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage, By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page; The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes, And buffets--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;-- Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads Which they used in those days 'stead of little Queen's heads.

When the contents of the scroll met his view, Sir Ingoldsby Bray in a passion grew, Backward he drew His mailéd shoe, And he kicked that naughty Foot-page, that he flew Like a cloth-yard shaft from a bended yew, I may not say whither--I never knew. "Now count the slain Upon Ascalon plain-- Go count them, my Squire, go count them again!"

"Twenty and three! There they be, Stiff and stark on that crimson'd lea!-- Twenty and three?--Stay--let me see! Stretched in his gore There lieth one more! By the Pope's triple crown there are twenty and _four_! Twenty-four trunks I ween are there But their heads and their limbs are no-body knows where! Ay, twenty-four corpses, I rede there be, Though one got away, and ran up a tree!"

"Look nigher, look nigher, My trusty Squire!"
"One is the corse of a bare-footed Friar!"

Out and spake Sir Ingoldsby Bray, "A boon, a boon, King Richard," quoth he, "Now Heav'n thee save, A boon I crave, A boon, Sir King, on my bended knee; A year and a day Have I been away, King Richard, from Ingoldsby Hall so free; Dame Alice she sits there in lonely guise, And she makes her moan, and she sobs and she sighs, And tears like rain-drops fall from her eyes, And she darneth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack! Oh, when will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?' A boon, a boon, my liege," quoth he, "Fair Ingoldsby Hall I fain would see!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray," King Richard said right graciously, "Of all in my host That I love the most, I love none better, Sir Bray, than thee! Rise up, rise up, thou hast my boon; But mind you make haste, and come back again soon!"

FYTTE II

Pope Gregory sits in St. Peter's chair, Pontiff proud, I ween, is he, And a belted Knight, In armour dight, Is begging a boon on his bended knee, With sighs of grief and sounds of woe, Featly he kisseth his Holiness' toe. "Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave, O Holy Father, pardon and grace! In my fury and rage A little Foot-page I have left, I fear me, in evil case: A scroll of shame From a faithless dame Did that naughty Foot-page to a paramour bear: I gave him a 'lick' With a stick, And a kick, That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where! Had he as many necks as hairs, He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Rise up, rise up, I say to thee; A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou; Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee! Ill it seems that soldier true Of Holy Church should vainly sue:-- --Foot-pages they are by no means rare, A thriftless crew, I ween, be they; Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair, For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray, But stout and true Soldiers like you, Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!-- Be prayers for the dead Duly read, Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said: So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave. O Holy Father, pardon and grace! Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life, I have left, I fear me, in evil case! A scroll of shame in my rage I tore, Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore; 'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore; Alack! and alack! too surely I knew The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q, And away to Ingoldsby Hall I flew! Dame Alice I found,--She sank on the ground,-- I twisted her neck till I twisted it round! With jibe and jeer and mock and scoff, I twisted it on--till I twisted it off!-- All the King's Doctors and all the King's Men Can't put fair Alice's head on agen!"

"Well-a-day! well-a-day! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Why really--I hardly know what to say:-- Foul sin, I trow, a fair Ladye to slay, Because she's perhaps been a little too gay.-- --Monk must chaunt and Nun must pray; For each mass they sing, and each pray'r they say, For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby Bray A fair rose-noble must duly pay! So may his qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of Dame Alice may rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave,
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
No power could save That paramour knave;
I left him, I wot, in evil case!
There midst the slain Upon Ascalon plain,
Unburied, I trow, doth his body remain
His legs lie here and his arms lie there,
And his head lies--I can't tell your Holiness where!"

"Now out and alas! Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Foul sin it were, thou doughty Knight, To hack and to hew A champion true Of holy Church in such pitiful plight! Foul sin her warriors so to slay, When they're scarcer and scarcer every day!-- A chauntry fair, And of Monks a pair, To pray for his soul for ever and aye, Thou must duly endow, Sir Ingoldsby Bray, And fourteen marks by the year thou must pay For plenty of lights To burn there o' nights-- None of your rascally '_dips_'--but sound, Round, ten-penny moulds of four to the pound;-- And a shirt of the roughest and coarsest hair For a year and a day, Sir Ingoldsby, wear!-- So may your qualms of conscience cease, And the soul of the Soldier shall rest in peace!"

"Now, nay, Holy Father; now nay, now nay! Less penance may serve!" quoth Sir Ingoldsby Bray. "No champion free of the Cross was he; No belted Baron of high degree; No Knight nor Squire Did there expire; He was, I trow, a bare-footed Friar! And the Abbot of Abingdon long may wait, With his monks around him, and early and late, May look from loop-hole, and turret, and gate, He hath lost his Prior--his Prior his pate!"

"Now Thunder and turf!" Pope Gregory said, And his hair raised his triple crown right off his head-- "Now Thunder and turf! and out and alas! A horrible thing has come to pass! What! cut off the head of the Reverend Prior, And say he was '_only_ (!!!) a bare-footed Friar!'-- 'What Baron or Squire, Or Knight of the shire Is half so good as a holy Friar?' _O, turpissime! Vir nequissime!_ _Sceleratissime!--quissime!--issime!_ Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_ Had before 'em Such a breach of decorum, Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_, And won't have again _sæcula sæculorum_!-- Come hither to me, My Cardinals three, My Bishops in _partibus_, Masters in _Artibus_, Hither to me, A.B. and D.D., Doctors and Proctors of every degree! Go fetch me a book, go fetch me a bell As big as a dustman's!--and a candle as well-- I'll send him where--good manners won't let me tell!"

--"Pardon and grace!--now pardon and grace!" --Sir Ingoldsby Bray fell flat on his face-- "_Mea culpa!_--in sooth I'm in pitiful case. Peccavi! peccavi!--I've done every wrong! But my heart it is stout and my arm it is strong, And I'll fight for Holy Church all the day long; And the Ingoldsby lands are broad and fair, And they're here and they're there and I can't tell you where, And the Holy Church shall come in for her share!" Pope Gregory paused and he sat himself down, And he somewhat relaxed his terrible frown, And his Cardinals three they picked up his crown.

"Now if it be so that you own you've been wrong, And your heart is so stout and your arm is so strong, And you really will fight like a trump all day long;-- If the Ingoldsby lands do lie here and there, And Holy Church shall come in for her share,-- Why, my Cardinals three, You'll agree With me, That it gives a new turn to the whole affair, And I think that the Penitent need not despair! --If it be so, as you seem to say, Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray! An Abbey so fair Sir Bray shall found, Whose innermost wall's encircling bound Shall take in a couple of acres of ground; And there in that Abbey, all the year round, A full choir of monks and a full choir of nuns, And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, Without delay, Shall hie him again To Ascalon plain, And gather the bones of the foully slain; And shall place said bones, with all possible care, In an elegant shrine in his abbey so fair; And plenty of lights shall be there o' nights-- None of your rascally 'dips,' but sound, Best superfine wax-wicks, four to the pound; And Monk and Nun Shall pray, each one, For the soul of the Prior of Abingdon!

And Sir Ingoldsby Bray, so bold and so brave, Never shall wash himself, comb or shave, Nor adorn his body, Nor drink gin-toddy, Nor indulge in a pipe-- But shall dine upon tripe And blackberries gathered before they are ripe, And forever abhor, renounce and abjure Rum, hollands, and brandy, wine, punch and _liqueur_!"

(Sir Ingoldsby Bray Here gave way To a feeling which prompted a word profane, But he swallowed it down, by an effort, again, And His Holiness luckily fancied his gulp a Mere repetition of _O meâ culpâ_!)

"Thrice three times on Candlemas-day,
Between Vespers and Compline, Sir Ingoldsby Bray
Shall run round the Abbey, as best he may,
Subjecting his back To thump and to thwack,
Well and truly laid on by a bare-footed Friar,
With a stout cat o' ninetails of whip-cord and wire,
And not he nor his heir Shall take, use or bear,
Any more from this day, The surname of Bray,
As being dishonour'd, but all issue male he has
Shall, with himself, go henceforth by an _alias_!
So his qualms of conscience at length shall cease,
And Page, Dame and Prior shall rest in peace!"

Sir Ingoldsby (now no longer Bray) Is off like a shot away and away, Over the brine To far Palestine, To rummage and hunt over Ascalon plain For the unburied bones of his victim slain. "Look out, my Squire, Look nigher and nigher, Look out for the corpse of a bare-footed Friar! And pick up the arms and the legs of the dead, And pick up his body and pick up his head!"

FYTTE III

Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, It hath manors a dozen, and royalties three, With right of free-warren (whatever that be); Rich pastures in front, and green woods in the rear, All in full leaf at the right time of year; About Christmas or so, they fall into the sear, And the prospect, of course, becomes rather more drear; But it's really delightful in spring-time,--and near The great gate Father Thames rolls sun-bright and clear. Cobham woods to the right,--on the opposite shore Landon Hill in the distance, ten miles off or more; Then you've Milton and Gravesend behind--and before You can see almost all the way down to the Nore.-- So charming a spot, It's rarely one's lot To see, and when seen it's as rarely forgot.

Yes, Ingoldsby Abbey is fair to see, And its Monks and its Nuns are fifty and three, And there they all stand each in their degree, Drawn up in the front of their sacred abode, Two by two in their regular mode, While a funeral comes down the Rochester road, Palmers twelve, from a foreign strand, Cockle in hat and staff in hand, Come marching in pairs, a holy band! Little boys twelve, dressed all in white, Each with his brazen censer bright, And singing away with all his might, Follow the Palmers--a goodly sight; Next high in air Twelve Yeomen bear On their sturdy backs, with a good deal of care, A patent sarcophagus firmly rear'd Of Spanish mahogany (not veneer'd), And behind walks a Knight with a very long beard. Close by his side Is a Friar, supplied With a stout cat o' ninetails of tough cow-hide, While all sorts of queer men Bring up the rear--Men-at-arms, Nigger captives, and Bow-men and Spear-men.

It boots not to tell What you'll guess very well, How some sang the _requiem_, some toll'd the bell; Suffice it to say, 'Twas on Candlemas-day The procession I speak of reached the _Sacellum_: And in lieu of a supper The Knight on his crupper Received the first taste of the Father's _flagellum_;-- That, as chronicles tell, He continued to dwell All the rest of his days in the Abbey he'd founded, By the pious of both sexes ever surrounded, And, partaking the fare of the Monks and the Nuns, Ate the cabbage alone without touching the buns; --That year after year, having run round the _Quad_ With his back, as enjoin'd him, exposed to the rod, Having not only kissed it, but bless'd it and thank'd it, he Died, as all thought in the odour of sanctity, When,--strange to relate! and you'll hardly believe What I'm going to tell you,--next Candlemas Eve The Monks and the Nuns in the dead of the night Tumble, all of them, out of their bed in affright, Alarm'd by the bawls, And the calls and the squalls Of some one who seemed running all round the walls!

Looking out, soon By the light of the moon There appears most distinctly to ev'ry one's view, And making, as seems to them, all this ado, The form of a Knight with a beard like a Jew, As black as if steep'd in that "Matchless" of Hunt's, And so bushy, it would not disgrace Mr. Muntz; A bare-footed Friar stands behind him, and shakes A _flagellum_, whose lashes appear to be snakes; While, more terrible still, the astounded beholders Perceive the Friar has NO HEAD ON HIS SHOULDERS, But is holding his pate, In his left hand, out straight As if by a closer inspection to find Where to get the best cut at his victim behind, With the aid of a small "bull-eye lantern,"--as placed By our own new police,--in a belt round his waist. All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,-- In vain,--for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him," so said the Abbot,--"like Bricks!" Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,-- Then a whoop and a halloo,--and all was still!

Ingoldsby Abbey has passed away, And at this time of day One can hardly survey Any traces or track, save a few ruins, grey With age, and fast mouldering into decay, Of the structure once built by Sir Ingoldsby Bray; But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas Eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,--and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighboring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy; And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet and hail They frighten'd the horses and upset the mail.

What 'tis breaks the rest Of those souls unblest Would now be a thing rather hard to be guessed, Though some say the Squire, on his death-bed, confess'd That on Ascalon plain, When the bones of the slain Were collected that day, and packed up in a chest, Caulk'd and made water-tight, By command of the Knight, Though the legs and the arms they'd got all pretty right, And the body itself in a decentish plight, Yet the Friar's _Pericranium_ was nowhere in sight; So, to save themselves trouble, they pick'd up instead, And popp'd on the shoulders a Saracen's Head! Thus the Knight in the terms of his penance had fail'd, And the Pope's absolution, of course, naught avail'd.

Now, though this might be, It don't seem to agree With one thing which, I own, is a poser to me,-- I mean, as the miracle, wrought at the shrine Containing the bones brought from far Palestine Were so great and notorious, 'tis hard to combine This _fact_ with the reason these people assign, Or suppose that the head of the murder'd Divine Could be aught but what Yankees would call "genu-_ine_." 'Tis a very nice question--but be't as it may, The Ghost of Sir Ingoldsby (_ci-devant_ Bray), It is boldly affirm'd by the folks great and small About Milton and Chaulk, and round Cobham Hall, Still on Candlemas-day haunts the old ruin'd wall And that many have seen him, and more heard him squall. So I think, when the facts of the case you recall, My inference, reader, you'll fairly forestall, Viz: that, spite of the hope Held out by the Pope, Sir Ingoldsby Bray was d----d after all!

MORAL

Foot-pages, and Servants of ev'ry degree, In livery or out of it, listen to me! See what comes of lying!--don't join in the league To humbug your master or aid an intrigue!

Ladies! married and single, from this understand How foolish it is to send letters by hand! Don't stand for the sake of a penny,--but when you 've a billet to send To a lover or friend, Put it into the post, and don't cheat the revenue!

Reverend gentlemen! you who are given to roam, Don't keep up a soft correspondence at home! But while you're abroad lead respectable lives; Love your neighbours, and welcome,--but don't love their wives! And, as bricklayers cry from the tiles and the leads When they're shovelling the snow off, "TAKE CARE OF YOUR HEADS"!