I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing Let the blossoms and buds be borne: He woos them amain with his treacherous rain, And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself Nor his own changing mind an hour, He"ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace, He"ll wither your youngest flower.
Let the Summer sun to his bright home run, He shall never be sought by me; When he"s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud, And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild That sports in fierce fever"s train; And when love is too strong, it don"t last long, As many have found to their pain.
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light Of the modest and gentle moon, Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween, Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief, As it lieth beneath the tree; So let Autumn air be never so fair, It by no means agrees with me.
But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout, The hearty, the true, and the bold; A b.u.mper I drain, and with might and main Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We"ll usher him in with a merry din That shall gladden his joyous heart, And we"ll keep him up, while there"s bite or sup, And in fellowship good, we"ll part.
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide One jot of his hard-weather scars; They"re no disgrace, for there"s much the same trace On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing "till the roof doth ring, And it echoes from wall to wall-- To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night, As the King of the Seasons all!
III.--GABRIEL GRUB"S SONG
GABRIEL GRUB"S SONG
The s.e.xton"s melancholy dirge, in the twenty-ninth chapter of _Pickwick_, seems a little incongruous in a humorous work. The sentiment, however, thoroughly accords with the philosophic gravedigger"s gruesome occupation.
"The Story of the Goblins who Stole a s.e.xton" is one of several short tales (chiefly of a dismal character) introduced into _Pickwick_; they were doubtless written prior to the conception of _Pickwick_, each being probably intended for independent publication, and in a manner similar to the "Boz" Sketches. For some reason these stories were not so published, and d.i.c.kens evidently saw a favourable opportunity of utilising his unused ma.n.u.scripts by inserting them in _The Pickwick Papers_.
GABRIEL GRUB"S SONG
Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one, A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat; Rank gra.s.s over head, and damp clay around, Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!
IV.--ROMANCE
ROMANCE
It will be remembered that while Sam Weller and his coaching-friends refreshed themselves at the little public-house opposite the Insolvent Court in Portugal Street, Lincoln"s Inn Fields, prior to Sam joining Mr.
Pickwick in the Fleet, that faithful body-servant was persuaded to "oblige the company" with a song. "Raly, gentlemen," said Sam, "I"m not wery much in the habit o" singin" vithout the instrument; but anythin" for a quiet life, as the man said ven he took the sitivation at the light-house."
"With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly a.s.sists the metre."-_The Pickwick Papers_, chapter xliii.
At the conclusion of the performance the mottled-faced gentleman contended that the song was "personal to the cloth," and demanded the name of the bishop"s coachman, whose cowardice he regarded as a reflection upon coachmen in general. Sam replied that his name was not known, as "he hadn"t got his card in his pocket"; whereupon the mottled-faced gentleman declared the statement to be untrue, stoutly maintaining that the said coachman did _not_ run away, but "died game--game as pheasants," and he would "hear nothin" said to the contrairey."
Even in the vernacular (observes Mr. Percy Fitzgerald), "this master of words [Charles d.i.c.kens] could be artistic; and it may fairly be a.s.serted that Mr. Weller"s song to the coachmen is superior to anything of the kind that has appeared since." The two stanzas have been set to music, as a humorous part-song, by Sir Frederick Bridge, Mus. Doc., M.V.O., the organist of Westminster Abbey, who informs me that it was written some years since, to celebrate a festive gathering in honour of Dr. Turpin (!), Secretary of the College of Organists. "It has had a very great success,"
says Sir Frederick, "and is sung much in the North of England at compet.i.tions of choirs. It is for men"s voices. The humour of the words never fails to make a great hit, and I hope the music does no harm. "The Bishop"s Coach" is set to a bit of old Plain-Chant, and I introduce a Fugue at the words "Sure as eggs is eggs.""
ROMANCE
I
Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode--er; Ven there he see"d the Bishop"s coach A-comin" along the road--er.
So he gallops close to the "orse"s legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs, This here"s the bold Turpin!"
_Chorus_--And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs, This here"s the bold Turpin!"
II
Says Turpin, "You shall eat your words, With a sa.r.s.e of leaden bul-let"; So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul-let.
The coachman, he not likin" the job, Set off at a full gal-lop, But d.i.c.k put a couple of b.a.l.l.s in his n.o.b, And perwailed on him to stop.
_Chorus_ (_sarcastically_)--But d.i.c.k put a couple of b.a.l.l.s in his n.o.b, And perwailed on him to stop.
POLITICAL SQUIBS FROM "THE EXAMINER" 1841
I.--THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
POLITICAL SQUIBS FROM "THE EXAMINER," 1841
In August 1841 d.i.c.kens contributed anonymously to _The Examiner_ (then edited by Forster) three political squibs, which were signed W., and were intended to help the Liberals in fighting their opponents. These squibs were ent.i.tled respectively "The Fine Old English Gentleman (to be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners)"; "The Quack Doctor"s Proclamation"; and "Subjects for Painters (after Peter Pindar)." Concerning those productions, Forster says: "I doubt if he ever enjoyed anything more than the power of thus taking part occasionally, unknown to outsiders, in the sharp conflict the press was waging at the time." In all probability he contributed other political rhymes to the pages of _The Examiner_ as events prompted: if so, they are buried beyond easy reach of identification.
Writing to Forster at this time, d.i.c.kens said: "By Jove, how Radical I am getting! I wax stronger and stronger in the true principles every day."...
He would (observes Forster) sometimes even talk, in moments of sudden indignation at the political outlook, "of carrying off himself and his household G.o.ds, like Coriola.n.u.s, to a world elsewhere." This was the period of the Tory interregnum, with Sir Robert Peel at the head of affairs.
THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
NEW VERSION
(_To be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners_)
I"ll sing you a new ballad, and I"ll warrant it first-rate, Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate On ev"ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev"ry n.o.ble gate, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!
The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains, With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins; For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains Of the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!
This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes, And ev"ry English peasant had his good old English spies, To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!
The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need, The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers" creed, The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed, Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed....
Oh the fine old English Tory times; When will they come again!
In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark, But sweetly sang of men in pow"r, like any tuneful lark; Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark.
Oh the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!
Those were the days for taxes, and for war"s infernal din; For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win; For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin, Because they didn"t think the Prince was altogether thin, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again!
But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing"d in the main; That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain; The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain; A nation"s grip was on it, and it died in choking pain, With the fine old English Tory days, All of the olden time.