Maturin, Guillaume, Jacques d’Allmain, Culdou, lacking a coat to bless One lean moiety of his nakedness, That plundered St. Hubert back o’ the fane: Aie! the lean bare tree is widowed again For Michault le Borgne that would confess In “faith and troth” to a traitoress, “Which of his brothers had he slain?” But drink we skoal to the gallows tree! François and Margot and thee and me: These that we loved shall God love less And smite alway at their feebleness? Skoal!! to the Gallows! and then pray we: God damn his hell out speedily And bring their souls to his High City. [5] Certain gibbeted corpses used to be coated with tar as a preservative; thus one scarecrow served as warning for considerable time. See Hugo, “L’Homme qui Rit.” MESMERISM “_And a cat’s in the water-butt._”—ROBERT BROWNING. Aye, you’re a man that! ye old mesmerizer! Tyin’ your meanin’ in seventy swadelin’s, One must of needs be a hang’d early riser To catch you at worm turning. Holy Odd’s bodykins! “Cat’s i’ the water-butt!” Thought’s in your verse-barrel, Tell us this thing rather, then we’ll believe you, You, Master Bob Browning, spite your apparel Jump to your sense and give praise as we’d lief do. You wheeze as a head-cold long-tonsilled Calliope, But, God! what a sight you ha’ got o’ our in’ards, Mad as a hatter but surely no Myope, Broad as all ocean and leanin’ mankin’ards. Heart that was big as the bowels of Vesuvius, Words that were wing’d as her sparks in eruption, Eagled and thundered as Jupiter Pluvius, Sound in your wind past all signs o’ corruption. Here’s to you, Old Hippety-hop o’ the accents, True to the Truth’s sake and crafty dissector, You grabbed at the gold sure; had no need to pack cents Into your versicles. Clear sight’s elector! FAMAM LIBROSQUE CANO Your songs? Oh! The little mothers Will sing them in the twilight, And when the night Shrinketh the kiss of the dawn That loves and kills, What time the swallow fills Her note, the little rabbit folk That some call children, Such as are up and wide Will laugh your verses to each other, Pulling on their shoes for the day’s business, Serious child business that the world Laughs at, and grows stale; Such is the tale —Part of it—of thy song-life. Mine? A book is known by them that read That same. Thy public in my screed Is listed. Well! Some score years hence Behold mine audience, As we had seen him yesterday.