The Jackdaw of Rheims

589

The day was gone,

The night came on,

The monks and the friars they searched till dawn;

When the Sacristan saw,

On crumpled claw,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw;

No longer gay,

As on yesterday;

His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;

His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,

His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,

So wasted each limb,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried "THAT'S HIM! That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!"

The poor little Jackdaw,

. When the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw,

And turned his bald head, as much as to say, "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" Slower and slower

He limped on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,

Midst the sticks and the straw,

Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression

Served in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!

When these words were heard,

That poor little bird

Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd;
He grew sleek and fat;

In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!

His tail waggled more

Even than before;

But no longer it wagged with an impudent air,
No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair,
He hopped now about

With a gait devout;

At matins, at vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,

He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads.

If any one lied, or if any one swore,

Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore,
That good Jackdaw

Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remarked, as his manners they saw,
That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
He long lived the pride

Of that country side,

And at last in the odour of sanctity died;

When, as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow!
Richard Harris Barham.

THE KNIGHT AND THE LADY

THE Lady Jane was tall and slim,

The Lady Jane was fair

And Sir Thomas, her lord, was stout of limb,
And his cough was short, and his eyes were dim,
And he wore green specs" with a tortoise shell rim,
And his hat was remarkably broad in the brim,
And she was uncommonly fond of him-

And they were a loving pair!

And wherever they went, or wherever they came,
Every one hailed them with loudest acclaim;

The Knight and the Lady

Far and wide,

The people cried,

All sorts of pleasure, and no sort of pain,

To Sir Thomas the good, and the fair Lady Jane!

Now Sir Thomas the good, be it well understood,
Was a man of very contemplative mood-

He would pour by the hour, o'er a weed or a flower,
Or the slugs, that came crawling out after a shower;
Black beetles, bumble-bees, blue-bottle flies,

591

And moths, were of no small account in his eyes;
An "industrious flea," he'd by no means despise,
While an "old daddy long-legs," whose long legs and thighs
Passed the common in shape, or in color, or size,
He was wont to consider an absolute prize.
Giving up, in short, both business and sport, he
Abandoned himself, tout entier, to philosophy.

Now as Lady Jane was tall and slim,

And Lady Jane was fair.

And a good many years the junior of him,

There are some might be found entertaining a notion,
That such an entire, and exclusive devotion,
To that part of science, folks style entomology,
Was a positive shame,

And, to such a fair dame,

Really demanded some sort of apology;

Ever poking his nose into this, and to that

At a gnat, or a bat, or a cat, or a rat,

At great ugly things, all legs and wings,

With nasty long tails, armed with nasty long stings.
And eternally thinking, and blinking, and winking,
At grubs-when he ought of her to be thinking.
But no! ah no! 'twas by no means so

With the fair Lady Jane,

Tout au contraire, no lady so fair,
Was e'er known to wear more contented an air;
And let who would call-every day she was there
Propounding receipts for some delicate fare,
Some toothsome conserve, of quince, apple or pear
Or distilling strong waters-or potting a hare-

Or counting her spoons, and her crockery ware;
Enough to make less gifted visitors stare.

Nay more; don't suppose

With such doings as those

This account of her merits must come to a close;
No! examine her conduct more closely, you'll find
She by no means neglected improving her mind;
For there all the while, with an air quite bewitching
She sat herring-boning, tambouring, or stitching,
Or having an eye to affairs of the kitchen.
Close by her side,

Sat her kinsman, MacBride

Captain Dugald MacBride, Royal Scots Fusiliers;-
And I doubt if you'd find, in the whole of his clan,
A more highly intelligent, worthy young man;

And there he'd be sitting,

While she was a-knitting,

Reading aloud, with a very grave look,

Some very

wise saw," from some very good book— No matter who came,

It was always the same,

The Captain was reading aloud to the dame,

Till, from having gone through half the books on the shelf, They were almost as wise as Sir Thomas himself.

Well it happened one day

I really can't say

The particular month;-but I think 'twas in May, 'Twas I know in the spring-time, when "nature looks gay," As the poet observes-and on tree-top and spray,

The dear little dickey birds carol away,

That the whole of the house was thrown into affright,
For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight.

It seems he had taken

A light breakfast-bacon,

An egg, a little broiled haddock-at most

A round and a half of some hot buttered toast,
With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast.

The Knight and the Lady

593

And then, let me see,

He had two, perhaps three

Cups, with sugar and cream, of strong gunpowder tea,But no matter for that

He had called for his hat,

With the brim that I've said was so broad and so flat,
And his "specs " with the tortoise-shell rim, and his cane.
With the crutch-handled top, which he used to sustain
Ilis steps in his walk, or to poke in the shrubs

Or the grass, when unearthing his worms or his grubs;
Thus armed he set out on a ramble-a-lack!

He set out, poor dear soul!-but he never came back!
"First dinner bell" rang

Out its euphonous clang

At five-folks kept early hours then-and the "last"
Ding-donged, as it ever was wont, at half-past.
Still the master was absent-the cook came and said, he
Feared dinner would spoil, having been so long ready,
That the puddings her ladyship thought such a treat
He was morally sure, would be scarce fit to eat!

Said the lady, "Dish up! Let the meal be served straight,
And let two or three slices be put on a plate,

And kept hot for Sir Thomas."-Captain Dugald said grace, Then set himself down in Sir Thomas' place.

Wearily, wearily, all that night,

That live-long night did the hours go by;

And the Lady Jane,

In grief and pain,

She sat herself down to cry!

And Captain MacBride,

Who sat by her side,

Though I really can't say that he actually cried,

At least had a tear in his eye!

As much as can well be expected, perhaps,

very young fellows," for very "old chaps."
And if he had said

What he'd got in his head,

"Twould have been, "Poor old Duffer, he's certainly dead!"