There were three sailors of Bristol city,
Who took a boat and went to sea.
But first with beef and captain's biscuits
And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy,
And the youngest he was little Billee.
Now when they got as far as the Equator
They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"I am extremely hungaree."
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,
"We've nothing left, us must eat we."
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,
"With one another we shouldn't agree!
There's little Bill, he's young and tender,
We're old and tough, so let's eat he.
"Oh, Billy, we're going to kill and eat you,
So undo the button of your chimie."
When Bill received this information,
He used his pocket-handkerchie.
"First let me say my catechism
Which my poor mammy taught to me."
"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy,
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee.
So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast,
And down he fell on his bended knee.
He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment
When up he jumps, "There's land I see.
"Jerusalem and Madagascar,
And North and South Amerikee:
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,
With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee;
But as for little Bill, he made him
The Captain of a Seventy-Three.
THE SOUTH COUNTRY
[Sidenote: _Hilaire Belloc_]
When I am living in the Midlands
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.
The great hills of the South Country,
They stand along the sea:
And it's there walking in the high woods,
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy,
Walking along with me.
The men that live in North England,
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away.
The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the rocks,
And the oldest kind of song.
But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring,
When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise.
I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.
A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing mend:
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me,
Or who will be my friend?
I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald,
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.
If ever I become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.
I will hold my house in the high wood
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.
ARAB LOVE-SONG
[Sidenote: _Francis Thompson_]
The hunchèd camels of the night[11]
Trouble the bright
And silver waters of the moon.
The Maiden of the Morn will soon
Through Heaven stray and sing,
Star gathering.
Now while the dark about our loves is strewn,
Light of my dark, blood of my heart, O come!
And night will catch her breath up, and be dumb.
Leave thy father, leave thy mother
And thy brother;
Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart!
Am I not thy father and thy brother,
And thy mother?
And thou--what needest with thy tribe's black tents
Who hast the red pavilion of my heart?
OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES
[Sidenote: _Wilfrid Maynell_]
As high up in a house as a nest
In a tree,
They have gone for the night to their rest,
The Babes three.
One will say, when they wake, with arms crossed,
"Jesus blest!"
One will cry "Mother mine"--and be lost
In that breast.
"Ta-ra-ra," then the littlest maid saith,
Two and gay;
And loud laughs with the last of her breath,
"Boom-de-ay!"
What they say, in their nests, these dear birds,
Is all even:
For their speech, be whatever their words,
Is of Heaven.
THEIR BEST
[Sidenote: _Wilfrid Maynell_]
She is a very simple maid--
Nicknamed a "tweeny";
The cook's and housemaid's riven aid,
Christ-named Irene.
And when, in lower regions, she
Hears hurled request,
She laughs or cries: "Oh, right you be,
I'll do my best."
Her very best, be very sure!
She holds it fast--
Religion undefiled and pure.
And, at the last,
When Life, from this sad house of her,
Flits like a guest,
She'll curtsy to the Judge: "O Sir,
I did my best."
The Judge, for sure, will bow His head;
And, round the throne,
Angels will know to God they've led
His very own.
This sentence then shall gently fall:
"Irene, you
Have done your best: and that is all
Even God can do."
MAGNIFICENT ENDS
[Sidenote: _Disraeli in "Vivian Grey"_]
In the plenitude of his ambition he stopped one day to enquire in what
manner he could obtain his magnificent ends: "The Bar--pooh! law and bad
jokes till we are forty; and then with the most brilliant success, the
prospect of gout and a coronet. Besides, to succeed as an advocate, I
must be a great lawyer, and to be a great lawyer, I must give up my
chance of being a great man. The Services in war time are only fit for
desperadoes (and that truly am I); but, in peace, are fit only for
fools. The Church is more rational. Let me see: I should certainly like
to act Wolsey, but the thousand and one chances against me! and truly I
feel _my_ destiny should not be on a chance. Were I the son of a
millionaire, or a noble, I might have _all_. Curse on my lot! that the
want of a few rascal counters, and the possession of a little rascal
blood should mar my fortunes!"
GENIUS, WHEN YOUNG
[Sidenote: _Disraeli in "Coningsby"_]
"Nay," said the stranger; "for life in general there is but one decree.
Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret. Do not
suppose," he added smiling, "that I hold that youth is genius; all that
I say is that genius, when young, is divine. Why, the greatest captains
of ancient and modern times both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty!
Youth, extreme youth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria
won Lepanto at twenty-five, the greatest battle of modern time; had it
not been for the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been
Emperor of Mauretania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when he stood
a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers Condé and Rocroy
at the same age. Gustavus Adolphus--look at his captains; that wonderful
Duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after all
his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more than thirty
when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony
died, at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of the greatest
captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there is Nelson,
Clive; but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there are
greater things than war. I do not: I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take
the most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III., the
greatest of the Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven.
John de Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and, according to
Guicciardini, baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Aragon himself.
He was Pope as Leo X. at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his
richest province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley;
they worked with young brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he made his
pilgrimage and wrote the "Spiritual Exercises." Pascal wrote a great
work at sixteen, and died at thirty-seven, the greatest of Frenchmen.
"Ah, that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, greater even as
a man than a writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael
when he painted the palaces of Rome? He, too, died at thirty-seven.
Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Well then, there were
Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other men left off cricket.
Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at
twenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruled
every Cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was
thirty-seven. What a career!" exclaimed the stranger; rising from his
chair and walking up and down the room; "the secret sway of Europe! That
was indeed a position! But it is needless to multiply instances! The
history of Heroes is the history of Youth."
GUARDIAN ANGELS
[Sidenote: _Disraeli in "Tancred"_]
"What should I be without my debts?" he would sometimes exclaim; "dear
companions of my life that never desert me! All my knowledge of human
nature is owing to them: it is in managing my affairs that I have
sounded the depths of the human heart, recognised all the combinations
of human character, developed my own powers and mastered the resources
of others. What expedient in negotiation is unknown to me? What degree
of endurance have I not calculated? What play of the countenance have I
not observed? Yes, among my creditors I have disciplined that diplomatic
ability that shall some day confound and control Cabinets. Oh, my debts,
I feel your presence like that of guardian angels! If I be lazy, you
prick me to action; if elate, you subdue me to reflection; and thus it
is that you alone can secure that continuous yet controlled energy which
conquers mankind."
AN EVENING IN SPAIN
[Sidenote: _Disraeli to his Mother (1830)_]
After dinner you take your siesta. I generally sleep for two hours. I
think this practice conducive to health. Old people, however, are apt to
carry it to excess. By the time I have risen and arranged my toilette it
is time to steal out, and call upon any agreeable family whose Tertullia
you may choose to honour, which you do, after the first time, uninvited,
and with them you take your tea or chocolate. This is often _al fresco_,
under the piazza or colonnade of the _patio_. Here you while away the
time until it is cool enough for the _alameda_ or public walk. At Cadiz,
and even at Seville, up the Guadalquivir, you are sure of a delightful
breeze from the water. The sea-breeze comes like a spirit. The effect is
quite magical. As you are lolling in listless languor in the hot and
perfumed air, an invisible guest comes dancing into the party and
touches them all with an enchanted wand. All start, all smile. It has
come; it is the sea-breeze. There is much discussion whether it is as
strong, or whether weaker, than the night before. The ladies furl their
fans and seize their mantillas, the cavaliers stretch their legs and
give signs of life. All rise. I offer my arm to Dolores or Florentina
(is not this familiarity strange?), and in ten minutes you are in the
_alameda_. What a change? All is now life and liveliness. Such bowing,
such kissing, such fluttering of fans, such gentle criticism of gentle
friends! But the fan is the most wonderful part of the whole scene. A
Spanish lady with her fan might shame the tactics of a troop of horse.
Now she unfurls it with the slow pomp and conscious elegance of a
peacock. Now she flutters it with all the languor of a listless beauty,
now with all the liveliness of a vivacious one. Now in the midst of a
very tornado, she closes it with a whir which makes you start, pop! In
the midst of your confusion Dolores taps you on the elbow; you turn
round to listen, and Florentina pokes you in your side. Magical
instrument! You know that it speaks a particular language, and gallantry
requires no other mode to express its most subtle conceits or its most
unreasonable demands than this slight, delicate organ. But remember,
while you read, that here, as in England, it is not confined to your
delightful sex. I also have my fan, which makes my cane extremely
jealous. If you think I have grown extraordinarily effeminate, learn
that in this scorching clime the soldier will not mount guard without
one. Night wears on, we sit, we take a _panal_, which is as quick work
as snapdragon, and far more elegant; again we stroll. Midnight clears
the public walks, but few Spanish families retire till two. A solitary
bachelor like myself still wanders, or still lounges on a bench in the
_warm_ moonlight. The last guitar dies away, the cathedral clock wakes
up your reverie, you too seek your couch, and amid a gentle, sweet flow
of loveliness, and light, and music, and fresh air, thus dies a day in
Spain. Adieu, my dearest mother. A thousand loves to all.
A MALTESE SENSATION
[Sidenote: _Disraeli to his Father (1830)_]
I had no need of letters of introduction here, and have already "troops
of friends." The fact is, in our original steam-packet there were some
agreeable fellows, officers, whom I believe I never mentioned to you.
They have been long expecting your worship's offspring, and have gained
great fame in repeating his third-rate stories at second hand; so in
consequence of these messengers I am received with branches of palm.
Here the younkers do nothing but play rackets, billiards, and cards,
race and smoke. To govern men, you must either excel them in their
accomplishments, or despise them. Clay does one, I do the other, and we
are both equally popular. Affectation tells here even better than wit.
Yesterday, at the racket court, sitting in the gallery among strangers,
the ball entered, and lightly struck me and fell at my feet. I picked it
up, and observing a young rifleman excessively stiff, I humbly requested
him to forward its passage into the court, as I really had never thrown
a ball in my life. This incident has been the general subject of
conversation at all the messes to-day!
HIS FUTURE WIFE
[Sidenote: _Disraeli to his Sister (1832)_]
The soirée last night at Bulwer's was really brilliant, much more so
than the first. There were a great many dames of distinction, and no
blues. I should, perhaps, except Sappho, who was quite changed; she had
thrown off Greco-Bromptonian costume and was perfectly _à la Française_
and really looked pretty. At the end of the evening I addressed a few
words to her, of the value of which she seemed sensible. I was
introduced, "by particular desire," to Mrs. Wyndham Lewis, a pretty
little woman, a flirt and a rattle; indeed, gifted with a volubility I
should think unequalled, and of which I can convey no idea. She told me
that she liked "silent, melancholy men." I answered that "I had no doubt
of it."
KNOWSLEY OR THE PARTHENON
[Sidenote: _Disraeli to Mrs. Brydges Willyams (1862)_]
They say the Greeks, resolved to have an English King, in consequence of
the refusal of Prince Alfred to be their monarch, intend to elect Lord
Stanley. If he accepts the charge, I shall lose a powerful friend and
colleague. It is a dazzling adventure for the House of Stanley, but they
are not an imaginative race, and I fancy they will prefer Knowsley to
the Parthenon, and Lancashire to the Attic plains. It is a privilege to
live in this age of rapid and brilliant events. What an error to
consider it a utilitarian age! It is one of infinite romance. Thrones
tumble down, and crowns are offered like a fairy tale; and the most
powerful people in the world, male and female, a few years ago were
adventurers, exiles, and demireps.
JENNY KISSED ME
[Sidenote: _Leigh Hunt_]
Jenny kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have missed me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.