The Black Mousquetaire: A Legend Of France Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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Francois Xavier Auguste was a gay MousquetaireA
The Pride of the Camp the delight of the FairA
He'd a mien so distingu and so dbonnaireA
And shrugg'd with a grace so recherch and rareA
And he twirl'd his moustache with so charming an airA
His moustaches I should say because he'd a pairA
And in short show'd so much of the true savoir faireA
All the ladies in Paris were wont to declareA
That could any one drawA
Them from Dian's strict lawA
Into what Mrs Ramsbottom calls a 'Fox Paw 'B
It would be Francois Xavier Auguste de St FoixC
-
Now I'm sorry to sayC
At that time of dayC
The Court of Versailles was a little too gayC
The Courtiers were all much addicted to PlayC
To Bourdeaux Chambertin Frontignac St PerayA
Lafitte Chateau MargauxC
And Sillery a cargoC
On which John Bull sensibly lays an embargoC
While Louis QuatorzeC
Kept about him in scoresC
What the Noblesse in courtesy term'd his 'Jane Shores '-
They were call'd by a much coarser name out of doorsC
This we all must admit inD
A King's not befittingE
For such courses when followed by persons of qualityF
Are apt to detract on the score of moralityF
-
Francois Xavier Auguste acted much like the rest of themG
Dress'd drank and fought and chasse'd with the best of themG
Took his oeil de perdrixC
Till he scarcely could seeC
He would then sally out in the streets for a 'spree '-
His rapier he'd drawA
Pink a BourgeoisC
A word which the English translate 'Johnny Raw '-
For your thorough French Courtier whenever the fit he's inD
Thinks it prime fun to astonish a citizenH
And perhaps it's no wonder that this kind of scrapesC
In a nation which Voltaire in one of his japesC
Defines 'an amalgam of Tigers and Apes '-
Should be merely considered as 'Little Escapes '-
But I am sorry to addI
Things are almost as badI
A great deal nearer home and that similar pranksC
Amongst young men who move in the very first ranksC
Are by no means confined to the land of the FranksC
-
Be this as it willJ
In the general stillJ
Though blame him we mustK
It is really but justK
To our lively young friend Francois Xavier AugusteK
To say that howe'erA
Well known his faults wereA
At his Bacchanal parties he always drank fairA
And when gambling his worst always play'd on the squareA
So that being much more of pigeon than rook heC
Lost large sums at faro a game like 'Blind Hookey'E
And continued to lose And to give I O U 'sC
Till he lost e'en the credit he had with the JewsC
And a parallel if I may venture to drawA
Between Francois Xavier Auguste de St FoixC
And his namesake a still more distinguished FrancoisC
Who wrote to his 'soeur'A
From Pavia 'Mon CoeurA
I have lost all I had in the world fors l'honneur '-
So St Foix might have wroteL
No dissimilar noteL
'Vive la bagatelle toujours gai idem semperA
I've lost all I had in the world but my temper '-
From the very beginning Indeed of his sinningE
His air was so cheerful his manners so winningE
That once he prevailed or his friends coin the tale for himM
On the bailiff who 'nabbed' him himself to 'go bail' for himM
-
Well we know in these casesC
Your 'Crabs' and 'Deuce Aces'C
Are wont to promote frequent changes of placesC
Town doctors indeed are most apt to declareA
That there's nothing so good as the pure 'country air '-
Whenever exhaustion of person or purse inD
An invalid cramps him and sets him a cursingE
A habit I'm very much grieved at divulgingE
Francois Xavier Auguste was too prone to indulge inD
But what could be doneH
It's clear as the sunH
That though nothing's more easy than say 'Cut and run '-
Yet a Guardsman can't live without some sort of funH
E'en I or youN
If we'd nothing to doN
Should soon find ourselves looking remarkably blueN
And since no one deniesC
What's so plain to all eyesC
It won't I am sure create any surpriseC
That reflections like these half reduced to despairA
Francois Xavier Auguste the gay Black MousquetaireA
-
Patience par force He considered of courseC
But in vain he could hit on no sort of resourceC
Love Liquor Law LooN
They would each of them doN
There's excitement enough in all four but in none heC
Could hope to get on sans l'argent i e moneyC
Love no ladies like little cadeaux from a suitorA
Liquor no that won't do when reduced to 'the Pewter '-
Then Law ' tis the sameO
It's a very fine gameO
But the fees and delays of 'the Courts' are a shameO
As Lord Brougham says himself who's a very great nameO
Though the Times made it clear he was perfectly lost in hisC
Classic attempt at translating DemosthenesC
And don't know his 'particles '-
Who wrote the articlesC
Showing his Greek up so is not known very wellP
Many thought Barnes others Mitchell some MerivaleP
But it's scarce worth debateQ
Because from the dateQ
Of my tale one conclusion we safely may drawA
Viz 'twas not Francois Xavier Auguste de St FoixC
-
Loo No that he had tried 'Twas in fact his weak sideR
But required more than any a purse well suppliedR
'Love Liquor Law Loo No 'tis all the same storyC
Stay I have it Ma foi that's 'Odds Bobs ' there is GLORYC
Away with dull careA
Vive le Roi Vive la GuerreA
Peste I'd almost forgot I'm a Black MousquetaireA
When a man is like meC
Sans six sous sans souciC
A bankrupt in purseC
And in character worseC
With a shocking bad hat and his credit at zeroA
What on earth can he hope to become but a HeroA
What a famous thought this isC
I'll go as UlyssesC
Of old did like him I'll see manners and know countriesC
Cut Paris and gaming and throats in the Low Countries '-
-
So said and so done he arranged his affairsC
And was off like a shot to his Black MousquetairesC
-
Now it happen'd just thenS
That Field Marshal TurenneD
Was a good deal in want of 'some active young men '-
To fill up the gapsC
Which through sundry mishapsC
Had been made in his ranks by a certain 'Great Cond '-
A General unrivall'd at least in his own dayC
Whose valour was suchT
That he did not care muchT
If he fought with the French or the Spaniards or DutchT
A fact which has stamped him a rather 'Cool hand '-
Being nearly related to Louis le GrandU
It had been all the same had that King been his brotherA
He fought sometimes with one and sometimes with anotherA
For war so exciting He took such delight inD
He did not care whom he fought so he was fightingE
And as I've just said had amused himself thenS
By tickling the tail of Field Marshal TurenneD
Since which the Field Marshal's most pressing concernV
Was to tickle some other Chief's tail in his turnV
-
What a fine thing a battle is not one of thoseC
Which one saw at the late Mr Andrew Ducrow'sC
Where a dozen of scene shifters drawn up in rowsC
Would a dozen more scene shifters boldly opposeC
Taking great care their blows Did not injure their foesC
And alike save in colour and cut of their clothesC
Which were varied to give more effect to 'Tableaux '-
While Stickney the GreatQ
Flung the gauntlet to FateQ
And made us all tremble so gallantly did he comeW
On to encounter bold General WiddicombeW
But a real good fight like Pultowa or LtzenV
Which Gustavus the Great ended all his disputes inV
Or that which Suwarrow engaged without boots inV
Or Dettingen Fontenoy Blenheim or MindenV
Or the one Mr Campbell describes HohenlindenV
Where 'the sun was low '-
The ground all over snowV
And dark as mid winter the swift Iser's flowV
Till its colour was altered by General MoreauV
While the big drum was heard in the dead of the nightX
Which rattled the Bard out of bed in a frightX
And he ran up the steeple to look at the fightX
'Twas in just such another oneV
Names only bother oneV
Dutch ones indeed are sufficient to smother oneV
In the Netherlands somewhere I cannot say whereA
Suffice it that thereA
La Fortune de guerreA
Gave a cast of her calling to our MousquetaireA
One fine morning in short Francois Xavier AugusteK
After making some scores of his foes 'bite the dust '-
Got a mouthful himself of the very same crustK
And though as the Bard says 'No law is more justK
Than for Necis artifices ' so they call'd fieryA
Soldados at Rome ' arte sua perire '-
Yet Fate did not drawA
This poetical lawA
To its fullest extent in the case of St FoixC
His Good Genius most probably found out some flawA
And diverted the shotY
From some deadlier spotY
To a bone which I think to the best of my memory 'sC
Call'd by Professional men the 'os femoris '-
And the ball being one of those named from its shapeZ
And some fancied resemblance it bears to the grapeZ
St Foix went down With a groan and a frownV
And a hole in his small clothes the size of a crownV
Stagger'd a bitA2
By this 'palpable hit '-
He turn'd on his face and went off in a fitA2
-
Yes a Battle's a very fine thing while you're fightingE
These same Ups and Downs are so very excitingE
But a sombre sight is a Battle fieldB2
To the sad survivor's sorrowing eyeC2
Where those who scorn'd to fly or yieldB2
In one promiscuous carnage lieC2
When the cannon's roarA
Is heard no moreA
And the thick dun smoke has roll'd awayC
And the victor comes for a last surveyC
Of the well fought field of yesterdayC
-
No triumphs flush that haughty browA
No proud exulting look is thereA
His eagle glance is humbled nowA
As earthward bent in anxious careA
It seeks the form whose stalwart prideR
But yester morn was by his sideR
-
And there it lies on yonder bankE
Of corses which themselves had breathD2
But yester morn now cold and dankE
With other dews than those of deathD2
Powerless as it had ne'er been bornV
The hand that clasp'd his yester mornV
-
And there are widows wand'ring thereA
That roam the blood besprinkled plainV
And listen in their dumb despairA
For sounds they ne'er may hear againV
One word however faint and lowV
Ay e'en a groan were music nowA
-
And this is Glory FameW
But pshawT
Miss Muse you're growing sentimentalP
Besides such things we never sawA
In fact they're merely ContinentalP
And then your Ladyship forgetsC
Some widows came for epaulettesC
-
So go back to your canter for one I declareA
Is now fumbling about our capsized MousquetaireA
A beetle browed hagE
With a knife and a bagE
And an old tatter'd bonnet which thrown back disclosesC
The ginger complexion and one of those nosesC
Peculiar to females named Levy and MosesC
Such as nervous folks still when they come in their way shunV
Old vixen faced tramps of the Hebrew persuasionV
-
You remember I trust Francois Xavier AugusteK
Had uncommon fine limbs and a very fine bustK
Now there's something I cannot tell what it may beA
About good looking gentlemen turn'd twenty threeA
Above all when laid up with a wound in the kneeA
Which affects female hearts in no common degreeA
With emotions in which many feelings combineV
Very easy to fancy though hard to defineV
Ugly or prettyA
Stupid or wittyA
Young or old they experience in country or cityA
What's clearly not Love yet it's warmer than PityA
And some such a feeling no doubt 'tis that staysC
The hand you may see that old Jezebel raiseC
Arm'd with the bladeE2
So oft used in her tradeE2
The horrible calling e'en now she is plyingE
Despoiling the dead and dispatching the dyingE
For these 'nimble Conveyancers ' after such battlesC
Regarding as treasure trove all goods and chattelsC
Think nought in 'perusing and settling' the titlesC
So safe as six inches of steel in the vitalsC
-
Now don't make a joke ofF2
That feeling I spoke ofF2
For as sure as you're born that same feeling whate'erA
It may be saves the life of the young MousquetaireA
The knife that was levell'd erewhile at his throatL
Is employ'd now in ripping the lace from his coatL
And from what I suppose I must call his culotteL
And his pockets no doubtL
Being turned inside outL
That his mouchoir and gloves may be put 'up the spoutL
For of coin you may well conceive all she can doL
Fails to ferret out even a single cuE
As a muscular Giant would handle an elfG2
The virago at last lifts the soldier himselfG2
And like a She Samson at length lays him downV
In a hospital form'd in the neighbouring townV
I am not very sureA
But I think 'twas NamurA
And there she now leaves him expecting a cureA
-
-
Canto IIH2
-
I abominate physic I care not who knowsC
That there's nothing on earth I detest like 'a dose'C
That yellowish green looking fluid whose hueL
I consider extremely unpleasant to viewL
With its sickly appearance that trenches so nearA
On what Homer defines the complexion of FearA
Chloron deos I meanV
A nasty pale greenV
Though for want of some word that may better availP
I presume our translators have rendered it 'pale '-
For consider the cheeksC
Of those 'well booted Greeks '-
Their Egyptian descent was a question of weeksC
Their complexion of course like a half decayed leek'sC
And you'll see in an instant the thing that I mean in itL
A Greek face in a funk had a good deal of green in itL
-
I repeat I abominate physic but thenV
If folks will go campaigning about with such menV
As the Great Prince de Cond and Marshal TurenneV
They may fairly expectL
To be now and then check'dL
By a bullet or sabre cut Then their best solace isC
Found I admit in green potions and bolusesC
So of course I don't blameW
St Foix wounded and lameW
If he swallowed a decent quant suff of the sameW
Though I'm told in such cases it's not the French planV
To pour in their drastics as fast as they canV
The practice of many an English SavanV
But to let off a man With a little ptisanneV
And gently to chafe the patella knee panV
-
'Oh woman ' Sir Walter observes 'when the browA
's wrung with pain what a minist'ring Angel art thou '-
Thou'rt a 'minist'ring Angel' in no less degreeA
I can boldly assert when the pain's in the kneeA
And medical frictionV
Is past contradictionV
Much better performed by a She than a HeA
A fact which indeed comes within my own knowledgeI2
For I well recollect when a youngster at CollegeJ2
And therefore can quoteL
A surgeon of noteL
Mr Grosvenor of Oxford who not only wroteL
On the subject a very fine treatise but still as hisC
Patients came in certain soft handed PhyllisesC
Were at once set to work on their legs arms and backsC
And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracksC
Now they sayC
To this dayC
When sick people can't payC
On the Continent many of this kind of nursesC
Attend without any demand on their pursesC
And these females some old others still in their teensC
Some call 'Sisters of Charity ' others 'Beguines '-
They don't take the vows but half Nun and half LayC
Attend you and when you've got better they sayC
'You're exceedingly welcome There's nothing to payC
Our task is now doneV
You are able to runV
We never take money we cure you for fun '-
Then they drop you a court'sy and wish you good dayC
And go off to cure somebody else the same wayC
A great many of these at the date of my taleP
In Namur walk'd the hospitals workhouse and jailP
-
Among them was oneV
A most sweet Demi nunV
Her cheek pensive and pale tresses bright as the SunV
Not carrotty no though you'd fancy you saw burnV
Such locks as the Greeks lov'd which moderns call auburnV
These were partially seen through the veil which they wore allP
Her teeth were of pearl and her lips were of coralP
Her eye lashes silken her eyes fine large blue onesC
Were sapphires I don't call these similes new onesC
But in metaphors freely confess I've a leaningE
To such new or old as convey best one's meaningE
Then for figure In faith it was downright barbarityA
To muffle a formW
Might an anchorite warmW
In the fusty stuff gown of a Soeur de la CharitA
And no poet could fancy no painter could drawA
One more perfect in all points more free from a flawA
Than her's who now sits by the couch of St FoixC
Chafing thereA
With such careA
And so dove like an airA
His leg till her delicate fingers are charr'dA
With the Steer's opodeldoc joint oil and goulardA
Their Dutch appellations are really too hardA
To be brought into verse by a transmarine BardA
-
Now you'll seeC
And agreeC
I am certain with meC
When a young man's laid up with a wound in his kneeC
And a lady sits thereA
On a rush bottom'd chairA
To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepareA
And a bit of lump sugar to make matters squareA
Above all when the Lady's remarkably fairA
And the wounded young man is a gay MousquetaireA
It's a ticklish affair you may swear for the pairA
And may lead on to mischief before they're awareA
-
I really don't think spite of what friends would call hisC
'Penchant for liaisons ' and graver men 'follies '-
For my own part I think planting thorns on their pillowsC
And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willowsC
Is not to be classed among mere peccadillosC
His 'faults ' I should say I don't think Francois XavierA
Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviourA
Tow'rds his nurse or that once to induce her to sin he meantA
While superintending his draughts and his linimentA
But as he grew stoutA
And was getting aboutA
Thoughts came into his head that had better been outA
While Cupid's an urchinV
We know deserves birchingE
He's so prone to delude folks and leave them the lurch inV
'Twas doubtless his doingE
That absolute ruinV
Was the end of all poor dear Therese's shampooingE
'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on but suchT
Things will happen ay e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic DutchT
-
'When Woman ' as Goldsmith declares 'stoops to follyC
And finds out too late that false man can betray '-
She is apt to look dismal and grow 'melan choly '-
And in short to be anything rather than gayE
-
He goes on to remark that 'to punish her loverA
Wring his bosom and draw the tear into his eyeC2
There is but one method' which he can discoverA
That's likely to answer that one is 'to die '-
-
He's wrong the wan and withering cheekE
The thin lips pale and drawn apartA
The dim yet tearless eyes that speakE
The misery of the breaking heartA
-
The wasted form th' enfeebled toneV
That whispering mocks the pitying earA
Th' imploring glances heaven ward thrownV
As heedless helpless hopeless hereA
-
These wring the false one's heart enoughK2
'If made of penetrable stuff '-
And poor ThereseC
Thus pines and decaysC
Till stung with remorse St Foix takes a post chaiseC
With for 'wheelers ' two baysC
And for 'leaders ' two greysC
And soon reaches France by the help of relaysC
Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victimW
And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd himW
-
She poor sinnerA
Grows thinner and thinnerA
Leaves off eating breakfast and luncheon and dinnerA
Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in herA
One evening 'twas just as the clock struck elevenV
They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since sevenV
She breath'd one deep sigh threw one look up to HeavenV
And all was o'er Poor Therese was no moreA
She was gone the last breath that she managed to drawA
Escaped in one half uttered word 'twas 'St Foix '-
-
-
Who can fly from himself Bitter cares when you feel 'emW
Are not cured by travel as Horace says 'ClumW
Non animum mutant qui currunt trans mare '-
It's climate not mind that by roaming men varyC
Remorse for temptation to which you have yielded isC
A shadow you can't sell as Peter Schlemil did hisC
It haunts you for ever in bed and at boardA
Ay e'en in your dreamsC
And you can't find it seemsC
Any proof that a guilty man ever yet snoredA
It is much if he slumbers at all which but fewL
Francois Xavier Auguste was an instance can doL
Indeed from the timeW
He committed the crimeW
Which cut off poor sister Therese in her primeW
He was not the same man that he had been his planV
Was quite changed in wild freaks he no more led the vanV
He'd scarce sleep a wink inV
A week but sit thinkingE
From company shrinkingE
He quite gave up drinkingE
At the mess table too where now seldom he cameW
Fish fricassee fricandeau potage or gameW
Dindon aux truffes or turbotla crmeW
No he still shook his head it was always the sameW
Still he never complained that the cook was to blameW
'Twas his appetite fail'd him no matter how rareA
And recherch the dish how delicious the fareA
What he used to like best he no longer could bearA
But he'd sit there and stareA
With an air of despairA
Took no care but would wearA
Boots that wanted repairA
Such a shirt too you'd think he'd no linen to spareA
He omitted to shave he neglected his hairA
And look'd more like a Guy than a gay MousquetaireA
One thing above all most excited remarkE
In the evening he seldom sat long after darkE
Not that then as of yore he'd go out for 'a lark'E
With his friends but when theyE
After taking cafL
Would have broiled bones and kidneys brought in on a trayE
Which I own I consider a very good wayE
If a man's not dyspeptic to wind up the dayE
No persuasion on earth could induce him to stayE
But he'd take up his candlestick just nod his headA
By way of 'Good evening ' and walk off to bedA
Yet even when there he seem'd no better offL
For he'd wheeze and he'd sneeze and he'd hem and he'd coughL
And they'd hear him all nightA
Sometimes sobbing outrightA
While his valet who often endeavour'd to peepL2
Declared that 'his master was never asleepL2
But would sigh and would groan slap his forehead and weepL2
That about ten o'clockE
His door he would lockE
And then never would open it let who would knockE
He had heard him ' he saidA
'Sometimes jump out of bedA
And talk as if speaking to one who was deadA
He'd groan and he'd moanV
In so piteous a toneV
Begging some one or other to let him aloneV
That it really would soften the heart of a stoneV
To hear him exclaim so and call upon HeavenV
Then The bother began always just at eleven '-
-
Francois Xavier Auguste as I've told you beforeA
I believe was a popular man in his corpsA
And his comrades not oneV
Of whom knew of the NunV
Now began to consult what was best to be doneV
Count Cordon BleuL
And the Sieur de la RoueA
Confess'd they did not know at all what to doL
But the Chevalier Hippolyte Hector AchilleC
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de GrandvilleC
Made a fervent appealC
To the zeal they must feelC
For their friend so distinguished an officer 's wealC
'The first thing ' he said 'was to find out the matterA
That bored their poor friend so and caused all this clatterA
Mort de ma vie '-
Here he took some rappeeL2
'Be the cause what it may he shall tell it to me '-
He was right sure enough in a couple of daysC
He worms out the whole story of Sister ThereseC
Now entomb'd poor dear soul in some Dutch Pre la ChaiseC
'But the worst thing of all ' Francois Xavier declaresC
'Is whenever I've taken my candle up stairsC
There's Therese sitting there upon one of those chairsC
Such a frown too she wearsC
And so frightfully glaresC
That I'm really prevented from saying my pray'rsC
While an odour the very reverse of perfumeW
More like rhubarb or senna pervades the whole room '-
-
Hector Achille Stanislaus EmileC
When he heard him talk so felt an odd sort of feelC
Not that he cared for Ghosts he was far too genteelC
Still a queerish sensation came on when he sawC
Him whom for funV
They'd by way of a punV
On his person and principles nick named Sans FoiL
A man whom they had you seeC
Mark'd as a SadduceeC
In his horns all at once so completely to drawC
And to talk of a Ghost with such manifest aweC
It excited the Chevalier Grandville's surpriseC
He shrugg'd up his shoulders he turned up his eyesC
And he thought with himself that he could not do lessC
Than lay the whole matter before the whole messC
-
Repetition's detestable So as you're best ableC
Paint to yourself the effect at the Mess tableC
How the bold BrigadiersC
Prick'd up their earsC
And received the account some with fears some with sneersC
How the Sieur de la RoueC
Said to Count Cordon BleuC
'Ma foi c'est bien drle Monseigneur what say you '-
How Count Cordon BleuC
Declared he 'thought so too '-
How the Colonel affirm'd that 'the case was quite new '-
How the Captains and MajorsC
Began to lay wagersC
How far the Ghost part of the story was trueC
How at last when asked 'What was the best thing to do '-
Everybody was silent for nobody knewC
And how in the end they said 'No one could dealC
With the matter so well from his prudence and zealC
As the Gentleman who was the first to revealC
This strange story viz Hippolyte Hector AchilleC
Alphonse Stanislaus Emile de Grandville '-
-
I need scarcely relateA
The plans little and greatA
Which came into the Chevalier Hippolyte's pateA
To rescue his friend from his terrible foesC
Those mischievous Imps whom the world I supposeC
From extravagant notions respecting their hueC
Has strangely agreed to denominate 'Blue '-
Inasmuch as his schemes were of no more availC
Than those he had early in life found to failC
When he strove to lay salt on some little bird's tailC
In vain did he tryC
With strong waters to plyC
His friend on the ground that he never could spyC
Such a thing as a Ghost with a drop in his eyeC
St Foix never would drink now unless he was dryC
Besides what the vulgar call 'sucking the monkey'E
Has much less effect on a man when he's funkyE
In vain did he strive to detain him at tableC
Till his 'dark hour' was over he never was ableC
Save once when at MessC
With that sort of addressC
Which the British call 'Humbug ' and Frenchmen 'Finesse'C
It's 'Blarney' in Irish I don't know the ScotchT
He fell to admiring his friend's English watchT
He examined the faceC
And the back of the caseC
And the young Lady's portrait there done on enamel heE
'Saw by the likeness was one of the family '-
Cried 'Superbe Magnifique ' With his tongue in his cheekE
Then he open'd the case just to take a peep in it andA
Seized the occasion to pop back the minute handA
With a demi cong and a shrug and a grin heE
Returns the bijou and c'est une affaire finieC
'I've done him ' thinks he 'now I'll wager a guinea '-
It happen'd that dayE
They were all very gayE
'Twas the Grand Monarque's birthday that is 'twas St Louis'sC
Which in Catholic countries of course they would view as hisC
So when Hippolyte sawC
Him about to withdrawC
He cried 'Come that won't do my fine fellow St FoixC
Give us five minutes longer and drink Vive le Roi '-
-
Francois Xavier AugusteA
Without any mistrustA
Of the trick that was play'd drew his watch from his fobM2
Just glanced at the hour then agreed to 'hob nob '-
Fill'd a bumper and roseC
With 'Messieurs I proposeC
He paused his blanch'd lips fail'd to utter the toastA
'Twas eleven he thought it half past ten at mostA
Ev'ry limb nerve and muscle grew stiff as a postA
His jaw dropp'd his eyesC
Swell'd to twice their own sizeC
And he stood as a pointer would stand at a GhostA
Then shriek'd as he fell on the floor like a stoneC
'Ah Sister Therese now do let me alone '-
-
-
It's amazing by sheer perseverance what men doC
As water wears stone by the 'Spe cadendo '-
If they stick to Lord Somebody's motto 'Agendo '-
Was it not Robert Bruce I declare I've forgotA
But I think it was Robert you'll find it in ScottA
Who when cursing Dame Fortune was taught by a SpiderC
'She's sure to come round if you will but abide her '-
Then another great RobN2
Called 'White headed Bob '-
Whom I once saw receive such a thump on the 'nob'N2
From a fist which might almost an elephant brainC
That I really believed at the first he was slainC
For he lay like a log on his back on the plainC
Till a gentleman present accustomed to trainC
Drew out a small lancet and open'd a veinC
Just below his left eye which relieving the painC
He stood up like a trump with an air of disdainC
While his 'backer' was fain For he could not refrainC
He was dress'd in pea green with a pin and gold chainC
And I think I heard somebody call him 'Squire Hayne '-
To whisper ten words one should always retainC
'TAKE A SUCK AT THE LEMON AND AT HIM AGAIN '-
A hint ne'er surpass'd though thus spoken at randomW
Since Teucer's apostrophe Nil desperandumW
Grandville acted on it and order'd his TandemW
He had heard St Foix sayC
That no very great wayC
From Namur was a snug little town called GrandprC
Near which a few miles from the banks of the MaeseC
Dwelt a pretty twin sister of poor dear ThereseC
Of the same age of course the same father same motherC
And as like to Therese as one pea to anotherC
She liv'd with her Mamma Having lost her PapaL2
Late of contraband schnaps an unlicensed distillerC
And her name was Des Moulins in English Miss MillerC
-
Now though Hippolyte HectorC
Could hardly expect herC
To feel much regard for her sister's 'protector '-
When she'd seen him so shamefully leave and neglect herC
Still he very well knew In this world there are fewC
But are ready much Christian forgiveness to showT
For other folk's wrongs if well paid so to doC
And he'd seen to what acts 'Res angust' compel beauxT
And belles whose affairs have once got out at elbowsC
With the magic effect of a handful of crownsC
Upon people whose pockets boast nothing but 'browns '-
A few francs well appliedA
He'd no doubt would decideA
Miss Agnes Des Moulins to jump up and rideA
As far as head quarters next day by his sideA
For the distance was nothing to speak by comparisonC
To the town where the Mousquetaires now lay in garrisonC
Then he thought by the aidA
Of a veil and gown madeA
Like those worn by the lady his friend had betray'dA
They might dress up Miss Agnes so like to the ShadeA
Which he fancied he saw of that poor injured maidA
Come each night with her pale face his guilt to upbraidA
That if once introduced to his room thus array'dA
And then unmask'd as soon as she'd long enough stay'dA
'Twould be no very difficult task to persuadeA
Him the whole was a scurvy trick cleverly play'dA
Out of spite and revenge by a mischievous jadeA
-
With respect to the scheme though I do not call that a gemW
Still I've known soldiers adopt a worse stratagemW
And that too among the decided approversC
Of General Sir David Dundas's 'Manoeuvres '-
There's a proverb howeverC
I've always thought cleverC
Which my Grandmother never was tired of repeatingE
'The proof of the pudding is found in the eating '-
We shall see in the sequel how Hector AchilleE
-
Had mix'd up the suet and plums for his mealC
The night had set in ' twas a dark and a gloomy oneC
Off went St Foix to his chamber a roomy oneC
Five stories highC
The first floor from the skyC
And lofty enough to afford great facilityE
For playing a game with the youthful nobilityE
Of 'crack corps ' a deal in Request when they're feelingE
In dull country quarters ennui on them stealingE
A wet wafer's appliedA
To a sixpence's sideA
Then it's spun with the thumb up to stick on the ceilingE
Intellectual amusement which custom allows old troopsC
I've seen it here practiced at home by our Household troopsC
He'd a table and bedA
And three chairs and all's saidA
A bachelor's barrack where'er you discern it you'reC
Sure not to find overburthen'd with furnitureC
-
Francois Xavier Auguste lock'd and bolted his doorC
With just the same caution he'd practiced beforeC
Little he knewC
That the Count Cordon BleuC
With Hector Achille and the Sieur de la RoueC
Had been up there before him and drawn ev'ry screwC
-
And now comes the moment the watches and clocksC
All point to eleven the bolts and the locksC
Give way and the party turn out their bag foxC
With step noiseless and lightA
Though half in a frightA
A cup in her left hand a draught in her rightA
In her robe long and black and her veil long and whiteA
Ma'amselle Agnes des Moulins walks in as a SpriteA
She approaches the bedA
With the same silent treadA
Just as though she had been at least half a year deadA
Then seating herself on the 'rush bottom'd chair '-
Throws a cold stony glance on the Black MousquetaireC
-
If you're one of the 'play going public ' kind readerC
And not a Moravian or rigid SecederC
You've seen Mr KeanC
I mean in that sceneC
Of Macbeth by some thought the crack one of the pieceC
Which has been so well painted by Mr M'CliseC
When he wants after having stood up to say graceC
To sit down to his haggis and can't find a placeC
You remember his stareC
At the high back'd arm chairC
Where the Ghost sits that nobody else knows is thereC
And how after saying 'What man dares I dare '-
He proceeds to declareC
He should not so much careC
If it came in the shape of a 'tiger' or 'bear '-
But he don't like it shaking its long gory hairC
While the obstinate Ghost as determined to brave himW
With a horrible grinC
Sits and cocks up his chinC
Just as though he was asking the tyrant to shave himW
And Lennox and RosseC
Seem quite at a lossC
If they ought to go on with their sheep's head and sauceC
And Lady Macbeth looks uncommonly crossC
And says in a huffL
It's all 'Proper stuff '-
All this you'll have seen Reader often enoughL
So perhaps 'twill assist you in forming some notionC
Of what must have been Francois Xavier's emotionC
If you fancy what troubledA
Macbeth to be doubledA
And instead of one Banquo to stare in his faceC
Without 'speculation ' suppose he'd a braceC
-
I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil who ne'er I belC
ieve was exceeded in painting the terribleC
Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds who was so aL2
droit in depicting it vide his pieceC
Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's deceaseC
Where that prelate is lyingE
Decidedly dyingE
With the King and his suiteA
Standing just at his feetA
And his hands as Dame Quickly says fumbling the sheetA
While close at his ear with the air of a scornerC
'Busy meddling ' Old Nick's grinning up in the cornerC
But painting's an art I confess I am raw inC
The fact is I never took lessons in drawingE
Had I done so insteadA
Of the lines you have readA
I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dreadA
Francois Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bedA
His hands widely spreadA
His complexion like leadA
Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his headA
As when Agnes des Moulins first catching his viewC
Now right and now left rapid glances he threwC
Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly hallooC
'Mon Dieu v'la deuxC
By the Pope there are twoC
-
He fell back one long aspiration he drewC
In flew De la Roue And Count Cordon BleuC
Pommade Pomme de terre and the rest of their crewC
He stirr'd not he spoke not he none of them knewC
And Achille cried 'Odzooks I fear by his looksC
Our friend Francois Xavier has popp'd off the hooks '-
-
'Twas too trueC
MalheureuxC
It was done he had ended his earthly careerC
He had gone off at once with a flea in his earC
The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small beerC
-
-
L'EnvoyeC
-
A moral more in point I scarce could hopeL2
Than this from Mr Alexander PopeL2
-
If ever chance should bring some Cornet gayC
And pious Maid as possibly it mayC
From Knightsbridge Barracks and the shades sereneC
Of Clapham Rise as far as Kensal GreenC
O'er some pale marble when they join their headsC
To kiss the falling tears each other shedsC
Oh may they pause and think in silent aweC
He that he reads the words 'Ci git St Foix '-
She that the tombstone which her eye surveysC
Bears this sad line 'Hic jacet Soeur Therese '-
Then shall they sigh and weep and murmuring sayC
'Oh may we never play such tricks as they '-
And if at such a time some Bard there beE
Some sober Bard addicted much to teaE
And sentimental song like IngoldsbyE
If such there be who sings and sips so wellC
Let him this sad this tender story tellC
Warn'd by the tale the gentle pair shall boastA
'I've 'scaped the Broken Heart ' 'and I the GhostA

Richard Harris Barham



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