Ban and Arriere Ban [10]
mother wild,
Men said, had strangled there,
Full many a sire, in heedless ire,
Had slain his daughter fair!
'Twas rarely let: I can't forget
A recent tenant's dread,
This widow lone had heard a moan
Proceeding from her bed.
The tenants next were chiefly vexed
By spectres grim and grey.
A Headless Ghost annoyed them most,
And so they did not stay.
The next in turn saw corpse lights burn,
And also a Banshie,
A spectral Hand they could not stand,
And left the House to me.
Then came my friends for divers ends,
Some curious, some afraid;
No direr pest disturbed their rest
Than a neat chambermaid.
The grisly halls were gay with balls,
One melancholy nook
Where ghosts GALORE were seen before
Now yielded ne'er a spook.
When man and maid, all unafraid,
'Sat out' upon the stairs,
No spectre dread, with feet of lead,
Came past them unawares.
I know not why, but alway I
Have found that it is so,
That when the glum Researchers come
The brutes of bogeys--go!
TO THE GENTLE READER
'A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of
companions,--men, women, and books.'--Sir John Davys.
Three kinds of companions, men, women, and books,
Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends.
And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,
And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:
'Man delights me not,' often, 'nor woman,' but books
Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.
For man will be wrangling--for woman will fret
About anything infinitesimal small:
Like the Sage in our Plato, I'm 'anxious to get
On the side'--on the sunnier side--'of a wall.'
Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,
If only you'll leave me at peace with my Books.
And which are my books? why, 'tis much as you please,
For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,
And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,
Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song;
And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks,
'Tom Brown,' and Plotinus, they're all of them Books.
There's Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth;
There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;
Or good Maitre Francoys to bring one to earth,
If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:
There's Muller on Speech, there is Gurney on Spooks,
There is Tylor on Totems, there's all sorts of Books.
There's roaming in regions where every one's been,
Encounters where no one was ever before,
There's 'Leaves' from the Highlands we owe to the Queen,
There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kor:
There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,
You can cover a great deal of country in Books.
There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads,
There is Geusius' dearly delectable tome
Of the Cannibal--he on his neighbour who feeds -
And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome;
There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on Flukes),
There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' Books.
There's Bunyan, there's Walton, in early editions,
There's many a quarto uncommonly rare;
There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions,
There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;
There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the 'Crooks
In the Lots' of us mortals, who bargain for Books.
There's Ruskin to keep one exclaiming 'What next?'
There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,
And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,
And good MARCUS TVAINUS to lend you a laugh;
There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,
And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books.
THE SONNET
Poet, beware! The sonnet's primrose path
Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread.
Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread,
Because the sated reader roars in wrath:
'Little indeed to say the singer hath,
And little sense in all that he hath said;
Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read,
And naught but stubble is his aftermath!'
Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine
Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes,
There shall thy futile fancies
Men said, had strangled there,
Full many a sire, in heedless ire,
Had slain his daughter fair!
'Twas rarely let: I can't forget
A recent tenant's dread,
This widow lone had heard a moan
Proceeding from her bed.
The tenants next were chiefly vexed
By spectres grim and grey.
A Headless Ghost annoyed them most,
And so they did not stay.
The next in turn saw corpse lights burn,
And also a Banshie,
A spectral Hand they could not stand,
And left the House to me.
Then came my friends for divers ends,
Some curious, some afraid;
No direr pest disturbed their rest
Than a neat chambermaid.
The grisly halls were gay with balls,
One melancholy nook
Where ghosts GALORE were seen before
Now yielded ne'er a spook.
When man and maid, all unafraid,
'Sat out' upon the stairs,
No spectre dread, with feet of lead,
Came past them unawares.
I know not why, but alway I
Have found that it is so,
That when the glum Researchers come
The brutes of bogeys--go!
TO THE GENTLE READER
'A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of
companions,--men, women, and books.'--Sir John Davys.
Three kinds of companions, men, women, and books,
Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends.
And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,
And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:
'Man delights me not,' often, 'nor woman,' but books
Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.
For man will be wrangling--for woman will fret
About anything infinitesimal small:
Like the Sage in our Plato, I'm 'anxious to get
On the side'--on the sunnier side--'of a wall.'
Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,
If only you'll leave me at peace with my Books.
And which are my books? why, 'tis much as you please,
For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,
And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,
Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song;
And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks,
'Tom Brown,' and Plotinus, they're all of them Books.
There's Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth;
There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;
Or good Maitre Francoys to bring one to earth,
If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:
There's Muller on Speech, there is Gurney on Spooks,
There is Tylor on Totems, there's all sorts of Books.
There's roaming in regions where every one's been,
Encounters where no one was ever before,
There's 'Leaves' from the Highlands we owe to the Queen,
There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kor:
There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,
You can cover a great deal of country in Books.
There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads,
There is Geusius' dearly delectable tome
Of the Cannibal--he on his neighbour who feeds -
And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome;
There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on Flukes),
There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' Books.
There's Bunyan, there's Walton, in early editions,
There's many a quarto uncommonly rare;
There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions,
There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;
There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the 'Crooks
In the Lots' of us mortals, who bargain for Books.
There's Ruskin to keep one exclaiming 'What next?'
There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,
And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,
And good MARCUS TVAINUS to lend you a laugh;
There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,
And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books.
THE SONNET
Poet, beware! The sonnet's primrose path
Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread.
Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread,
Because the sated reader roars in wrath:
'Little indeed to say the singer hath,
And little sense in all that he hath said;
Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read,
And naught but stubble is his aftermath!'
Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine
Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes,
There shall thy futile fancies