Marcadee was a stout Brabançon, With conscience weak and muscles strong, Who roamed about from clime to clime, The side of virtue or yet of crime Ready to take in a regular way For any leader and regular pay; Who trusted steel, and thought it odd To fear the Devil or honor God. His _forte_ was not in the field alone, He was no common fighter, For in all accomplishments he shone,-- At least, in all the lighter. To lance or lute alike _au fait_, With grasp now firm, now light, He flourished this to knightly lay, And that to lay a knight. Ready in fashion to lead the _ton_, In the battle-field his men, He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on, Could walk his mile in ten. And Nature gave him such a frame, His tailor such a fit, That, whether a head or a heart his aim, He always made a hit. Wherever he went, the ladies dear Would very soon adore him, And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,-- But never sneer before him! Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse Than it fared with their gallants; For he broke a vow with as slight remorse As he ever broke a lance. Thus, tilting here and jilting there, He fought a foe or he fooled a fair, But little recking how; So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain, He might have made a capital Cain, Or a splendid dandy now. In short, if you looked o'er land and sea, From London to the Niger, You certainly must have said with me,-- If Richard was lion, Marcadee Might well have been the tiger. A month went by. They lay there still, And chafed with nothing but time to kill,-- A tough old foe. Observe the way They laid him out, as thus:--One day,-- 'Twas after dinner and afternoon, When the noise was over of knife and fork, And only was heard an occasional cork And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,-- King Richard pushed the wine along, And rapped the table, and cried, "A song! Dulness I hold a shame, a sin Against good wine. Come, Blondel, begin!" Blondel coughed,--was "half afraid,"-- Was "out last night on a serenade, And caught a cold,"--his "voice was gone,-- And really, just now, his head"--"Go on!" He bowed, and swept the chords--"Brrrrang"-- With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:-- BLONDEL. Life is fleeting,--make it pleasant; Care for nothing but the present; For the past we leave behind us, And the future may not find us. Though we cannot shun its troubles, Care and sorrow we may banish; Though its pleasures are but bubbles, Catch the bubbles ere they vanish. There is joy we cannot measure,-- Joy we may not win with treasure. When the glance of Beauty thrills us', When her love with rapture fills us, Let us seize it ere it passes; Be our motto, "Love is mighty." Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses! Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!