"Under the Indiaman's side;
When--a baby-face from her bulwarks, looked down on us open-eyed:
I can see him now--with his fluttering curls, and his cheeks so
chubby and round,
Which a cherub might have been proud of, in snowiest linen bound!
Then--he hailed us, in infant accents, so innocent, fresh, and
blithe--
That our nest of human snakes was stirred to a conscience-stricken
writhe!
(_In soft falsetto, as Child_). Dear Pirates, I _am_ so
sorry--I _did_ want to see you so.
I'm afraid you'll be disappointed--but you mustn't come _near_,
you know!
I wish I could ask you on board to tea, for I feel so down in the
dumps,
But I _can't_ invite you--for, if you came, you'd be certain to
catch my Mumps!
I've given it all of the passengers, and the Captain, and Mate,
and Crew,
And it would be a _dreadful_ pity if _you_ were to catch it too!"
[_Pause. The Chirpy Man hides his face._
We looked at each other; our utterance choked by irrepressible
lumps,
Though we feared neither man nor devil--we all had a _horror_ of
Mumps!
And, but for this Cherub's candour, ere many mere days had sped--
[_Here the_ Pirate _is stopped by uncontrollable emotion, and
his audience, from the Captain downwards, express sympathy._
_The Reciter_ (_huskily, after wiping his eyes_). I'm very sorry--it's
foolish, I know, but I always _do_ break down just here. I--I think I
can go on now.
[Illustration: "WITH THE HONOURS OF WAR!"]
"Had sped,
Each buccaneer would have kept his bunk, with a bandage about his
head!"
[_Here a fresh diversion is effected by_ The Chirpy Man, _who
suddenly achieves unpopularity by becoming aggressively ill,
and causing a general stampede from his neighbourhood._
_The Reciter_--
"We wouldn't have boarded her, after _that_, for all the treasure
on earth,
So we sailed away--to the sweet salute of a peal of childish mirth!"
_The Chirpy Man_ (_resuming his seat, much relieved, and almost as
chirpy as ever, to his neighbours, confidentially_). I'm all right
agen now. It was takin' a glass o' stout on top of black currant
pudden _done_ it, yer know!
[_This piece of information is coldly received, which
evidently both surprises and pains him; the Pirate brings his
experiences to an end by relating how he realised his effects,
and retired from business on a modest competence, and the
"Daisy" regains the Pier._
* * * * *
"WITH THE HONOURS OF WAR."
After long fight and strenuous defence,
Tenacity tremendous, toil immense,
The garrison surrenders!
'Tis the doom
Of desperate war; and though a sombre gloom
Sits on each brow, each brow is lifted high,
No petulant pusillanimity
Makes poor this last parade of stout defenders,
Or shames this most unwilling of surrenders.
Six lingering years, and more, of hot attack,
By confident cool valour beaten back!
Six baffling years of sortie, and of sally,
Sudden alarum, stubborn stand, stout rally!
How the besiegers in their bannered host
Banded at first around this bastion'd post,
In sanguine, fierce assault, and shook their spears,
Strong hopes derided, mocked at fancied fears.
The Citadel's defence was all in vain,
They vowed; a year should end the brief campaign;
Yet year to year succeeded slow, and still
The garrison held out. Strategic skill
And not impetuous onset nought availed;
The battering-ram and scaling-ladder failed.
Brief breaches scarcely made were swift repaired,
United still all deadly arms they dared,
Those linked defenders who, aforetime foes,
Their lately-banded ranks could firmly close
Against old friends, now common enemies.
Black CECIL was Commander, BALFOUR brave
The Union Standard in his wake would wave,
The _Reiter_ JOACHIM, of German breed,
And the Scot swordster RITCHIE, good at need,
With him, the fox-eyed Freelance, JOE DE BRUM,
Brave with the trumpet, valiant with the drum,
Proud to be capped and curled with Cavaliers,
The Gentlemen of England, now his peers,--
These, and a many more good men and true,
The ramparts manned, the warning clarion blew;
Stood in the breach, and to the bastion swarmed,
Whene'er loud blares that citadel alarmed.
But now slow sap and steady siege have wrought
The conquest long delayed. The Chiefs that fought
So long together, feel the touch of fate,
Bow to its bidding. Calm though not elate,
Swart CECIL yields him at discretion. So
The garrison marches forth! But e'en the foe
Gives chivalrous salute to beaten men
Unshamed by forced surrender. Hail them, then,
With sympathetic cheers! The white-haired Chief,
Lifts hat in greeting. He, all brawn and beef,
WILLIAM of Malwood, bears the banner high,
But scarce looks fired, with conquest's ecstasy.
JOHN of Newcastle, reins a restive horse;
_He's_ none too eager for another course.
The one-armed Irish Chief looks pale and grim;
E'en cheery LARRY, of the cynic whim,
Hath a less careless chuckle than his wont.
"Beshrew me! but they bear a gallant front!"
Mutter the pikemen ranged in order round.
Sore-battered RITCHIE,--may he soon be sound!--
Bates not a jot of courage; that stark fighter
And shifty swordsman, JOACHIM: the _Reiter_,
Snuffs the air proudly; with his nose a-cock
Steps JOE DE BRUM, and, steady as a rock,
Strides forth Chief CECIL!
Hail the beaten band,
You Grand, and grey-haired, Old Campaigning Hand;
For you have seen good fighting, and you know
Game foemen when you see them. Conquest's glow
Mantles that pallid cheek. After long strain,
Victory at last is yours, nor all in vain,
Perchance, although its fruits precarious be.
What you will do with it, we wait to see.
Meanwhile _you_'ll own the foes you've put to rout.
With all war's honours unashamed march out.
* * * * *
[Illustration: SO MATTER-OF-FACT.
_Jones_ (_who prides himself on his French_). "DÉSOLÉ, MON CHER, NOT
TO BE ABLE TO ACCEPT YOUR HOSPITALITY, BUT TO-NIGHT I AM DINING _EN
VILLE_."
_Brown_ (_who is so matter-of-fact, and never will understand
Jones's French_). "DINING 'ON VEAL,' ARE YOU? WELL, THERE'S NOT MUCH
DIFFERENCE; IF YOU COME TO ME, YOU'LL HAVE A LEG O' MUTTON!"]
* * * * *
MAKE IT HOT.--Dean KITCHIN says that one of his reasons for voting
for the Gladstonians is that he is "a warm Liberal." Quite so. A cold
KITCHIN would be a contradiction in terms.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MEMBERS WE SHALL MISS.
F.A. Hankey. Sir H. Tyler. M.W. Mattinson. J. Bazley White.
J. Stack. The Bruce. T.L. Bristowe. Hermon-Hodge. Alfred Giles.
J. Woodhead. Baron Dimsdale. T. Milvain.]
* * * * *