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NOTES AND QUERIES. [io s. x. DEC. 5, IMS.
Three Doctors.' These songs I propose to give, and I think it will be seen that they are worthy of being printed, and in many instances distinctly better than a great deal of Peacock's verse which has been neither neglected nor forgotten.
'THE DILETTANTI.'
I. Song: O'Prompt
When I first began to talk big
I chose the theatrical path, sir,
I put on a tragedy wig,
And flourished my dagger of lath, sir;
Love raised such a flame in my heart
That I fancy 'tis not quite cool yet,
When in Romeo I strutted my part.
And Shelah Granore was my Juliet.
Her lip was so prettily curl'd,
Her heart than a turtle's was kinder;
But one day she walked out of the world,
And left her poor Romeo behind her.
In despair at the cruel controul
Of Fortune so fierce and so frisky,
I seiz'd on our tragedy bowl—
And fill'd up a brimmer of whisky.
Says I, "This shall finish all strife"
(And my tears they fell faster and thicker),
"I'll soon put an end to my life;
But I'll first put an end to my liquor."
The curtain drew up for 'Macbeth';
I paus'd between glory and sorrow:
Says I, "I'm resolved upon death:
But I'll just put it off till to-morrow."
II. Song: Emma.
How blest is the lot of the poor village maiden,
Who breathes not a sigh for the pageants of wealth,
For whom ev'ry flow'ret with sweetness is laden,
Whom the fields crown with pleasure, the breezes with health!
Though the Indies may boast of their far-spreading treasures,
Her heart for their sake would not tempt her to roam;
She thinks not of more than the innocent pleasures,
The simple delights and endearments of home.
Oh! had I been placed in some hamlet surrounded
By green-waving meadows and soft-flowing rills,
How lightly my steps through the vallies had bounded,
And counted the zephyrs that breathe on the hills!
Be mine the sweet pleasures that charm in reflection;
I prize not the joys of the proud-swelling dome;
May my dwelling be cheered with the voice of affection,
And the simple delights and endearments of home!
III. A Trio sung by a party of Troubadours.
With knights, and maids, and loves, and arms,
And countless deeds, and war's alarms,
Our mystic song the hearer charms,
While the evening bells ring merrily.
Of magic groves and vales we sing;
Of Merlin, and the Elfin-king;
Of sprites that o'er the witch-grass spring,
While the evening bells ring merrily.
Of deep enchantments strange and strong;
Of sweetest notes of fairy song,
That float the haunted air along,
While the evening bells ring merrily.
IV. Song: Miss Cadence.
By the river's lonely shore,
In the forest's deepest shade,
Where the winds of midnight roar.
Let my leafy bed be made.
None o'er me shall shed a tear,
None o'er me shall breathe a sigh,
Save the waters murmuring near,
Save the breezes rustling by.
V. Song: O'Prompt.
"Oh Mr. O'Tagrag! great tragedy king!
I am speechless with woe when your sorrow I sing;
While I think of those moments as light as a feather
When we acted Othello and Falstaff together."
Says Mr. O'Tagrag: "Observe what I say:
This is quite labor lost: there's the devil to pay;
My profits are short, and my bills growing long:
So I'll tell you what: we are all in the wrong."
Says I: "Mighty hero! despise Fortune's pow'r;
For time and the day will soon run through the hour."
Says he: "'Tis in vain 'gainst the torrent to pull;
My purse is quite empty; my heart is quite full."
Says I: "Mr. O'Tagrag! I pretty well guess
That when all is but nothing a share must be less":
I began a fine speech, and was going on gaily;
But he march'd off the stage—in the care of a bailey!
The most striking of these songs is, perhaps, the second. Devoid of overstrained sentiment, it appeals through its grace and simplicity, recalling to mind other poems, by Peacock written in the same vein.
The songs included in 'The Circle of Loda' differ somewhat from those contained in 'The Dilettanti' and 'The Three Doctors' in that they do not show Peacock's humour and sarcasm to the same advantage.
'THE CIRCLE OF LODA.'
I. Chorus of Sards.
Hark! the northern blasts arise!
Night o'erhangs these stormy climes!
Dimly-seen, from darken'd skies,
Bend the forms of other times.
Mighty shades of days of old,
Shades of chiefs renown'd in story,
From their clouds with joy behold
How their children rush to glory.
"Haste, haste away!" they seem to say,
"Guilt soon shall meet its destiny!
In glorious death resign your breath,
Or crown your arms with victory!"
