Thou mayest have read, my little boy Ned, Though thy mother thine idlesse blames, In Doctor Goldsmith's history book, Of a gentleman called King James, In quilted doublet, and great trunk breeches, Who held in abhorrence Tobacco and Witches. Well,--in King James's golden days,-- For the days were golden then,-- They could not be less, for good Queen Bess Had died, aged threescore and ten, And her days we know, Were all of them so; While the Court poets sung, and the Court gallants swore That the days were as golden still as before. Some people, 'tis true, a troublesome few, Who historical points would unsettle, Have lately thrown out a sort of a doubt Of the genuine ring of the metal; But who can believe to a monarch so wise People would dare tell a parcel of lies! --Well, then, in good King James's days,-- Golden or not does not matter a jot,-- Yon Ruin a sort of a roof had got; For though, repairs lacking, its walls had been cracking Since Harry the Eighth sent its people a-packing, Though joists, and floors, And windows, and doors Had all disappear'd, yet pillars by scores Remain'd, and still propp'd up a ceiling or two, While the belfry was almost as good as new; You are not to suppose matters look'd just so In the Ruin some two hundred years ago. Just in that farthermost angle, where There are still the remains of a winding-stair, One turret especially high in air Uprear'd its tall gaunt form; As it defying the power of Fate, or The hand of "Time the Innovator;" And though to the pitiless storm Its weaker brethren all around Bowing, in ruin had strew'd the ground, Alone it stood, while its fellows lay strew'd, Like a four-bottle man in a company "screw'd," Not firm on his legs, but by no means subdued. One night--'twas in Sixteen hundred and six,-- I like when I can, Ned, the date to fix,-- The month was May, Though I can't well say At this distance of time the particular day-- But oh! that night, that horrible night! --Folks ever afterwards said with affright That they never had seen such a terrible sight. The Sun had gone down fiery red; And if, that evening, he laid his head In Thetis's lap beneath the seas, He must have scalded the goddess's knees. He left behind him a lurid track Of blood-red light upon clouds so black, That Warren and Hunt, with the whole of their crew, Could scarcely have given them a darker hue.