Thomas Ingoldsby

“ Joe's countenance brightened amazingly.
"Joe, I'll give you—my old wig!"
The countenance of Joseph fell, his grey eye had glistened as a blest vision of double X flitted athwart his fancy; its glance faded again into the old, filmy, gooseberry-coloured hue, as he growled in a minor key, "A wig, sir!"
"Yes, Joe, a wig! The man who does not study the comfort of his dependents is an unfeeling scoundrel. You shall have my old, worn-out wig."
"I hope, sir, you'll give me a drop o' beer to drink your honour's health in,—it is very hot, and—"
"Come in, Joe, and Mrs. Witherspoon shall give it you." ”

“ But still there are many folks living who say That on every Candlemas eve, the Knight, Accoutred, and dight In his armour bright, With his thick black beard,—and the clerical Sprite, With his head in his hand, and his lantern alight, Run round the spot where the old Abbey stood, And are seen in the neighbouring glebe-land and wood; More especially still, if it's stormy and windy, You may hear them for miles kicking up their wild shindy And that once in a gale Of wind, sleet, and hail, They frighten'd the horses, and upset the mail. ”

“ You may hear old folks talk Of that quarry of chalk; Or go over—it's rather too far for a walk, But a three shilling drive will give you a peep At that fearful chalk-pit—so awfully deep, Which is call'd to this moment "The Smuggler's Leap!" Nay more, I am told, on a moonshiny night, If you're "plucky," and not over-subject to fright, And go and look over that chalk-pit white, You may see, if you will, The Ghost of Old Gill Grappling the Ghost of Smuggler Bill, And the Ghost of the dapple-grey lying between 'em.— I'm told so—I can't say I know one who's seen 'em! ”

“ Has travelled, but comes home abruptly, the rather That some unknown rascal has murder'd his father; And scarce has he picked out, and stuck in his quiver, The arrow that pierced the old gentleman's liver, When he finds, as misfortunes come rarely alone, That his sweetheart has bolted,—with whom is not known. But, as murder will out, he at last finds the lady At court with her character grown rather shady: This gives him the "blues," and impairs the delight He'd have otherwise felt when they dub him a Knight, For giving a runaway stallion a check, And preventing his breaking King Rufus's neck. ”

“ But very few heard, although every one might, The short, half-stifled shriek from the chair on the right, Where the Lady of Bonnington sat by her Knight; And very few saw—some—the number was small, In the large ogive window that lighted the hall, A small stony Saint in a small stony pall, With a small stony mitre, and small stony crosier, And small stony toes that owed nought to the hosier, Beckon stonily downward to some one below, As Merryman says, "for to come for to go!" While every one smelt a delicious perfume That seem'd to pervade every part of the room! ”

“ Mary-Anne, she is come to the Tower; But it makes her heart quail, For it looks like a jail, A deal more than a fair Lady's bower, So sour Its ugly grey walls seem to lour.
For the Barbican's massy and high, Bloudie Jacke! And the oak-door is heavy and brown, And with iron it's plated And machecollated, To pour boiling oil and lead down; How you'd frown Should a ladle-full fall on your crown!
The rock that it stands on is steep, Bloudie Jacke! To gain it one's forced for to creep; The Portcullis is strong, And the Drawbridge is long, And the water runs all round the Keep ”

“ I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"
Down! down they come—a fearful fall— Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown— Mouldering walls remain alone! Shaven crown, Bombazeen gown, Mitre, and Crozier, and all are flown!
And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that grey and mouldering wall, The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!— They "come like shadows, so depart"— I see thee as thou wert—and art—
Sublime in ruin!—grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat ”

“ There's an old Yellow Admiral living at Bath, As grey as a badger, as thin as a lath; And his very queer eyes have such very queer leers, They seem to be trying to peep at his ears; That old Yellow Admiral goes to the Rooms, And he plays long whist, but he frets and he fumes, For all his Knaves stand upside down, And the Jack of Clubs does nothing but frown; And the Kings, and the Aces, and all the best trumps Get into the hands of the other old frumps; While, close to his partner, a man he sees Counting the tricks with his head on his knees. ”

“ The single word "Another!" fell from his lips like a distant echo;—it is not often that the viewless nymph repeats more than is necessary.
"Bim! bome!" went the bell.—Bandy-legged Hubert had been tolling for half an hour;—he began to grow tired, and St. Peter fidgety.
"Beatrice Grey!" said Sir Guy de Montgomeri, "what's to be done? What's to become of Montgomeri Hall?—and the buttery,—and the servants? And what—what's to become of me, Beatrice Grey?"—There was pathos in his tones, and a solemn pause succeeded. "I'll turn monk myself!" said Sir Guy. ”

“ He can't be deceased—pooh! it's merely a faint, Or some foolish mistake which may serve for our laughter, 'He should have died,' like the old Scotch Queen, 'hereafter.'
"His time is not out; Some blunder, no doubt, It shall go hard but what I'll know what it's about— I sha'n't be surprised if that scurvy Old Nick's Had a hand in't; it savours of one of his tricks."
When a crafty old hound Claps his nose to the ground, Then throws it up boldly, and bays out, "I've found!" And the Pack catch the note, I'd as soon think to check it, As dream of bamboozling St. Thomas à Becket. ”

“ While whispering low, with bated voice, Close by her side, her heart's dear choice, Walks Fredville's hope, young Valentine Boys. —But where, oh where,— Is Ingoldsby's heir? Little Jack Ingoldsby?—where, oh where? Why, he's here,—and he's there, And he's every where— He's there, and he's here; In the front—in the rear,— Now this side, now that side,—now far, and now near— The Puck of the party, the darling "pet" boy, Full of mischief, and fun, and good humour and joy; With his laughing blue eye, and his cheek like a rose, And his long curly locks, and his little snub nose ”

“ Yet thine eye is still brilliant and bright, Bloudie Jacke! It gleams with a fiendish delight— "'Tis done— She is won! Nothing under the sun Can loose the charm'd ring, though it's slight! Ho! ho! It fits so remarkably tight!"—
The wire is as thin as a thread, Bloudie Jacke! The wire is as thin as a thread!— "Though slight be the chain, Again might and main Cannot rend it in twain—She is wed! She is wed! She is mine, be she living or dead! Haw! haw!!"—
Nay, laugh not, I pray thee, so loud, Bloudie Jacke! Oh! laugh not so loud and so clear! ”

“ Oh, never might man unscath'd espy One single glance from that coal-black eye. —Away she flew!— Without more ado Rob seizes and mounts on a broomstick too, "Hey! up the chimney, lass! Hey after you!"
It's a very fine thing, on a fine day in June, To ride through the air in a Nassau Balloon; But you'll find very soon, if you aim at the Moon In a carriage like that, you're a bit of a "Spoon," For the largest can't fly Above twenty miles high, And you're not half way then on your journey, nor nigh; While no man alive Could ever contrive, Mr. Green has declared, to get higher than five. ”

“ In his secret lair, where none may spy, Sits one whose brow is wrinkled with care, And the thin grey locks of his failing hair Have left his little bald pate all bare; For his full-bottom'd wig Hangs, bushy and big, On the top of his old-fashion'd, high-back'd chair. Unbraced are his clothes, Ungarter'd his hose, His gown is bedizened with tulip and rose, Flowers of remarkable size and hue, Flowers such as Eden never knew; —And there, by many a sparkling heap Of the good red gold, The tale is told What powerful spell avails to keep That care-worn man from his needful sleep! ”

“ Hairy-face Dick, linstock in hand, Is waiting that grim-looking Skipper's command:— A wink comes sly From that sinister eye— Hairy-faced Dick at once lets fly, And knocks off the head of young Hamilton Tighe!
There's a lady sits lonely in bower and hall, Her pages and handmaidens come at her call: "Now, haste ye, my handmaidens, haste and see How he sits there and glow'rs with his head on his knee!" The maidens smile, and, her thought to destroy, They bring her a little, pale, mealy-faced boy; And the mealy-faced boy says, "Mother dear, Now Hamilton's dead, I've a thousand a-year!" ”

“ There's a black gibbet frowns upon Tappington Moor, Where a former black gibbet has frown'd before: It is as black as black may be, And murderers there Are dangling in air, By one!—by two!—by three!
There's a horrid old hag in a steeple-crown'd hat, Round her neck they have tied to a hempen cravat A Dead Man's hand, and a dead Tom Cat! They have tied up her thumbs, they have tied up her toes, They have tied up her eyes, they have tied up her limbs! ”

“ And there is M'Fuze, And Lieutenant Tregooze, And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues, All come to see a man "die in his shoes!"
The clock strikes One! Supper is done, And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, Singing "Jolly companions every one!" My Lord Tomnoddy Is drinking gin-toddy, And laughing at ev'ry thing, and ev'ry body.— The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three! —"Who so merry, so merry as we?" Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze, While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork. ”

“ Now the festive board with viands is stored, Savoury dishes be there, I ween, Rich puddings and big, and a barbecued pig, And oxtail soup in a China tureen.
There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail— When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand, While on nought they are thinking save eating and drinking, Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!
"You must be pretty deep to catch weazels asleep," Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares;" A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep, Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs." ”

“ RAISING THE DEVIL. A LEGEND OF CORNELIUS AGRIPPA.
And hast thou nerve enough?" he said, That grey Old Man, above whose head Unnumber'd years had roll'd,— "And hast thou nerve to view," he cried, "The incarnate Fiend that Heaven defied?— —Art thou indeed so bold?
"Say, canst thou, with unshrinking gaze, Sustain, rash youth, the withering blaze Of that unearthly eye, That blasts where'er it lights,—the breath That, like the Simoom, scatters death On all that yet can die! ”

“ All gaze with surprise, Scarce believing their eyes, When the Knight makes a start like a race-horse, and flies From his headless tormentor, repeating his cries,— In vain,—for the Friar to his skirts closely sticks, "Running after him,"—so said the Abbot,—"like Bricks!"
Thrice three times did the Phantom Knight Course round the Abbey as best he might, Be-thwack'd and be-smack'd by the headless Sprite, While his shrieks so piercing made all hearts thrill,— Then a whoop and a halloo,—and all was still! ”

“ Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear, That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear; Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly, And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles, Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain, A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign, With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride, (For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied;) No couple so happy on earth should be seen As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline; Not that money's my object—No, hang it! ”

“ Sepulchre's tower strikes—Eight!— List to that low funereal bell: It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!— And see!—from forth that opening door They come—He steps that threshold o'er Who never shall tread upon threshold more! —God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see That pale wan man's mute agony,— The glare of that wild, despairing eye, Now bent on the crowd, now turn'd to the sky, As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear, The path of the Spirit's unknown career; Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er Shall be lifted again,—not even in prayer; That heaving chest!—Enough—'tis done! ”

“ Yet the dapple-grey mare bounds on in vain, For nearer now—and he hears it plain— Sounds the tramp of a horse—"'Tis the Gauger again!" Smuggler Bill Dashes round by the mill That stands near the road upon Monkton Hill,— "Now speed,—now speed, My dapple-grey steed, Thou ever, my dapple, wert good at need! O'er Monkton Mead, and through Minster Level, We'll baffle him yet, be he gauger or devil! For Manston Cave, away! away! Now speed thee, now speed thee, my good dapple-grey! It shall never be said that Smuggler Bill Was run down like a hare by Exciseman Gill!" ”

“ Looking solemn and wise, Without turning his eyes, Or betraying the slightest degree of surprise, In the midst sits the Doctor—his hair is white, And his cheek is wan—but his glance is bright, And his long black roquelaure, not over-tight, Is marked with strange characters much, if not quite, Like those on the bottles of green and blue light Which you see in a chymist's shop-window at night. His figure is tall and erect—rather spare about Ribs,—and no wonder—such folks never care about Eating or drinking, While reading and thinking, Don't fatten—his age might be sixty or thereabout. ”

“ As the Poet observes,—and on tree-top and spray The dear little dickey-birds carol away; When the grass is so green, and the sun is so bright, And all things are teeming with life and with light,— That the whole of the house was thrown into affright, For no soul could conceive what was gone with the Knight!
It seems he had taken A light breakfast—bacon, An egg—with a little broiled haddock—at most A round and a half of some hot butter'd toast, With a slice of cold sirloin from yesterday's roast. ”

“ That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out, Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,—ay, a dozen of wives,—for a shilling! ”

“ The dapple-grey mare made a desperate bound When that queer Dun horse on her flank she found, Alack! and alas! on what dangerous ground! It's enough to make one's flesh to creep To stand on that fearful verge, and peep Down the rugged sides so dreadfully steep, Where the chalk-hole yawns full sixty feet deep, O'er which that steed took that desperate leap! It was so dark then under the trees, No horse in the world could tell chalk from cheese— Down they went—o'er that terrible fall,— Horses, Exciseman, Smuggler, and all!! ”

“ Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles, Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog, His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy, Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.
Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair; He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head, And, between them, this most reprehensible pair Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.
Then the bolster they place athwart his face, And his night-cap into his mouth they cram; And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes, Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb. ”

“ The Scroope sits lonely in Bolton Hall, And he watches the dial that hangs by the wall, He watches the large hand, he watches the small, And he fidgets, and looks As cross as the cooks, And he utters—a word which we'll soften to "Zooks!" As he cries, "What on earth has become of them all?— What can delay De Vaux and De Saye? What makes Sir Gilbert de Umfraville stay? What's gone with Poyntz, and Sir Reginald Braye? Why are Ralph Ufford and Marny away? And De Nokes, and De Stiles, and Lord Marmaduke Grey? ”

“ Haply, he deems no eye can see As he gloats on his treasure greedily,— The shining store Of glittering ore, The fair Rose-Noble, the bright Moidore, And the broad Double-Joe from ayont the sea,— But there's one that watches as well as he; For, wakeful and sly, In a closet hard by, On his truckle-bed lieth a little Foot-page, A boy who's uncommonly sharp of his age, Like young Master Horner, Who erst in a corner Sat eating a Christmas pie: And, while that Old Gentleman's counting his hoards, Little Hugh peeps through a crack in the boards! ”