When the bold barons met in my father’s old hall, Was not Edith the flower of the banquet and ball? In the festival hour, on the lips of your bride, Was there ever a smile save with THEE at my side? Alone in my turret I loved to sit best, To blazon your BANNER and ’broider your crest. The knights were assembled, the tourney was gay! Sir Ulric rode first in the warrior-mélée. In the dire battle hour, when the tourney was done, And you gave to another the wreath you had won! Though I never reproached thee, cold, cold was my breast, As I thought of that BATTLE-AXE, ah! and that crest! But away with remembrance, no more will I pine, That others usurped for a time what was mine! There’s a FESTIVAL HOUR for my Ulric and me: Once more, as of old, shall he bend at my knee; Once more by the side of the knight I love best, Shall I blazon his BANNER and ’broider his crest. W. M. THACKERAY. ―――― OCEAN MELODIES. (_Refined from the original_ SEA SONGS, _for the use of the Yacht Clubs_.) (The Wife wishes to go upon the Continent.) Adelina has flirted――not once, she declares, Since you placed on her finger the ring that she wears; Since at gloomy St. George’s your bride she became, And you gave her an Opera-box marked with her name. When I sailed in that yacht a whole fortnight with you, Did I say I was bored (if I did it was true), With my Alfred for hours at _ecarté_ I played, And his meerschaum I lit, and his coffee I made. When, the night we’d a box at St. Jullien’s last _bal_, And――goodness knows why――you deserted the _salle_, I gave you a smile when you chose to appear, Nor asked whom you knew on that horrid top tier. Why won’t you, dear Al, by mamma be advised? A wife who don’t pout, Al, deserves to be prized―― So to Constance and Rome Adelina you’ll take, Or a nice piece of work that young person will make. _Punch._ September 17, 1853. ―――― THE ALMACK’S ADIEU. Your Fanny was never false-hearted And this she protests and she vows, From the _triste moment_ when we parted On the staircase of Devonshire House! I blushed when you asked me to marry, I vowed I would never forget; And at parting I gave my dear Harry A beautiful vinegarette! We spent _en province_ all December, And I ne’er condescended to look At Sir Charles, or the rich county member, Or even at that darling old Duke. You were busy with dogs and with horses, Alone in my chamber I sat, And made you the nicest of purses, And the smartest black satin cravat!