Dame Fredegonde

Whenfolks, with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice.

But as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act.

Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe, and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, N e'er hostess offered juice of grape,

Couldfor her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavour to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips.

A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame.

But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too.

Now, Guillot there's a likely man, None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't."

With thoughts like these her mind is crossed: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice Of Father Raulin's good advice."

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'mworried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square.

I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well. What do you think?" When thus he met her: "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!"

"But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men."

"Well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" "But help I must have; there's the curse. I may go farther and fare worse."

"Why, take him, then!"

"But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?"

"Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can.

The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rang out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, Asthus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"

Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal.

But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, And backed his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling.

To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss: If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.

Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt What could my ears have been about?" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

THE DEATH OF ISHMAEL.

[This andthe six following poems are examples of that new achievement of modern song--which, blending the utile with the dulce, symbolises at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of the age,--and is called familiarly "the puff poetical."]

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. On the pavement cold he lay, Around him closed the living tide; The butcher's cad set down his tray; The pot-boy from the Dragon Green No longer for his pewter calls; The Nereid rushes in between, Nor more her 'Fine live mackerel!' bawls."

Died the Jew? "The Hebrew died. They raised him gently from the stone, They flung his coat and neckcloth wide-- But linen had that Hebrew none. They raised the pile of hats that pressed His noble head, his locks of snow; But, ah, that head, upon his breast, Sank down with an expiring 'Clo!'"

Diedthe Jew? "The Hebrew died, Struck with overwhelming qualms From the flavour spreading wide Of some fine Virginia hams. Would you know the fatal spot, Fatal to that child of sin? These fine-flavoured hams are bought At 50 Bishopsgate Within!"