THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravell'd pathway
The light and shadow play'd.
I saw the nursery windows
Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland house-dog
Was standing by the door;
He look'd for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walk'd not under the lindens,
They play'd not in the hall;
But shadow, and silence, and sadness,
Were hanging over all.
CARABINE slung, stirrup well hung,
Flagon at saddle-bow merrily swung;
Toss up the ale, for our flag, like a sail,
Struggles and swells in the hot July gale.
Colours fling out, and then give them a shout-
We are the gallants to put them to rout.
Flash all your swords, like Tartarian hordes,
And scare the prim ladies of Puritan lords;
Our steel caps shall blaze through the long summer days,
As we, galloping, sing our mad Cavalier lays.
Then banners advance! By the lilies of France,
We are the gallants to lead them a dance!
Ring the bells back, though the sexton look black,
Defiance to knaves who are hot on our track.
"Murder and fire!" shout louder and higher;
Remember Edge-hill and the red-dabbled mire,
When our steeds we shall stall in the Parliament hall,
And shake the old nest till the roof-tree shall fall.
Froth it up, girl, till it splash every curl,
October's the liquor for trooper and earl;
Bubble it up, merry gold in the cup,
We never may taste of to-morrow night's sup.
(Those red ribbons glow on thy bosom below
Like apple-tree bloom on a hillock of snow.)
No, by my word, there never shook sword
Better than this in the clutch of a lord ;
The blue streaks that run are as bright in the sun
As the veins on the brow of that loveliest one;
No deep light of the sky, when the twilight is nigh,
Glitters more bright than this blade to the eye.
Well, whatever may hap, this rusty steel-cap
Will keep out full many a pestilent rap;
This buff, though it's old and not larded with gold,
Will guard me from rapier as well as from cold;
This scarf, rent and torn, though its colour is worn,
Shone gay as a page's but yesterday morn.
Here is a dint from the jagg of a flint,
Thrown by a Puritan, just as a hint ;
But this stab through the buff was a warning more rough,
When Coventry city arose in a huff;
And I met with this gash, as we rode with a crash
Into Noll's pikes on the banks of the Ash.
No jockey or groom wears so draggled a plume
As this that's just drench'd in the swift-flowing Froom.
Red grew the tide ere we reach'd the steep side,
And steaming the hair of old Barbary's hide;
But for branch of that oak that saved me a stroke,
I had sunk there like herring in pickle to soak.
Pistolet crack flash'd bright on our track,
And even the foam of the water turn'd black.
They were twenty to one, our poor rapier to gun,
But we charged up the bank, and we lost only one;
So I saved the old flag, though it was but a rag,
And the sword in my hand was snapp'd off to a jagg.
The water was churn'd as we wheel'd and we turn'd, And the dry brake to scare out the vermin we burn'd. We gave our halloo, and our trumpet we blew ;
Of all their stout fifty we left them but two;
With a mock and a laugh, won their banner and staff, And trod down the cornets as thrashers do chaff.
Saddle my roan, his back is a throne,
Better than velvet or gold, you will own,
Look to your match, or some harm you may catch,
For treason has always some mischief to hatch;
And Oliver's out with all Haslerigg's rout,
So I'm told by this shivering, white-liver'd scout.
We came over the downs, through village and towns,
In spite of the sneers, and the curses and frowns ;
Drowning their psalms, and stilling their qualms,
With a clatter and rattle of scabbards and arms.
Down the long street, with a trample of feet,
For the echo of hoofs to a Cavalier's sweet.
See black on each roof, at the sound of our hoof,
The Puritans gather, but keep them aloof;
Their muskets are long, and they aim at a throng,
But woe to the weak when they challenge the strong! Butt-end to the door, one hammer more,
Our pike-men rush in, and the struggle is o'er.
Storm through the gate, batter the plate,
Cram the red crucible into the grate ;
Saddle-bags fill, Bob, Jenkin, and Will,
And spice the staved wine that runs out like a rill.
That maiden shall ride all to-day by my side,
Those ribbons are fitting a Cavalier's bride.
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