Ballads | Page 8

need of thee to gaze on, they have need of thee to grace The triumph of the Prince, to gild the pinchbeck of their race. Words are but wind, conditions must be construed by GUIZOT; Dash out thy heart, thou desert hawk, ere thou art made a show!
THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.
The noble King of Brentford?Was old and very sick,?He summon'd his physicians?To wait upon him quick;?They stepp'd into their coaches?And brought their best physick.
They cramm'd their gracious master?With potion and with pill;?They drench'd him and they bled him;?They could not cure his ill.?"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer,?I'd better make my will."
The monarch's royal mandate?The lawyer did obey;?The thought of six-and-eightpence?Did make his heart full gay.?"What is't," says he, "your Majesty?Would wish of me to-day?"
"The doctors have belabor'd me?With potion and with pill:?My hours of life are counted,?O man of tape and quill!?Sit down and mend a pen or two,?I want to make my will.
"O'er all the land of Brentford?I'm lord, and eke of Kew:?I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents;?My debts are but a few;?And to inherit after me?I have but children two.
Prince Thomas is my eldest son,?A sober Prince is he,?And from the day we breech'd him?Till now, he's twenty-three,?He never caused disquiet?To his poor Mamma or me.
"At school they never flogg'd him,?At college, though not fast,?Yet his little-go and great-go?He creditably pass'd,?And made his year's allowance?For eighteen months to last.
"He never owed a shilling.?Went never drunk to bed,?He has not two ideas?Within his honest head--?In all respects he differs?From my second son, Prince Ned.
"When Tom has half his income?Laid by at the year's end,?Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver?That rightly he may spend,?But sponges on a tradesman,?Or borrows from a friend.
"While Tom his legal studies?Most soberly pursues,?Poor Ned most pass his mornings?A-dawdling with the Muse:?While Tom frequents his banker,?Young Ned frequents the Jews.
"Ned drives about in buggies,?Tom sometimes takes a 'bus;?Ah, cruel fate, why made you?My children differ thus??Why make of Tom a DULLARD,?And Ned a GENIUS?"
"You'll cut him with a shilling,"?Exclaimed the man of wits:?"I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford,?"Sir Lawyer, as befits;?And portion both their fortunes?Unto their several wits."
"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said?"On your commands I wait."?"Be silent, Sir," says Brentford,?"A plague upon your prate!?Come take your pen and paper,?And write as I dictate."
The will as Brentford spoke it?Was writ and signed and closed;?He bade the lawyer leave him,?And turn'd him round and dozed;?And next week in the churchyard?The good old King reposed.
Tom, dressed in crape and hatband,?Of mourners was the chief;?In bitter self-upbraidings?Poor Edward showed his grief:?Tom hid his fat white countenance?In his pocket-handkerchief.
Ned's eyes were full of weeping,?He falter'd in his walk;?Tom never shed a tear,?But onwards he did stalk,?As pompous, black, and solemn,?As any catafalque.
And when the bones of Brentford--?That gentle king and just--?With bell and book and candle?Were duly laid in dust,?"Now, gentleman," says Thomas,?"Let business be discussed.
"When late our sire beloved?Was taken deadly ill,?Sir Lawyer, you attended him?(I mean to tax your bill);?And, as you signed and wrote it,?I prithee read the will."
The lawyer wiped his spectacles,?And drew the parchment out;?And all the Brentford family?Sat eager round about:?Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,?But Tom had ne'er a doubt.
"My son, as I make ready?To seek my last long home,?Some cares I had for Neddy,?But none for thee, my Tom:?Sobriety and order?You ne'er departed from.
"Ned hath a brilliant genius,?And thou a plodding brain;?On thee I think with pleasure,?On him with doubt and pain."?("You see, good Ned," says Thomas,?"What he thought about us twain."
"Though small was your allowance,?You saved a little store;?And those who save a little?Shall get a plenty more."?As the lawyer read this compliment,?Tom's eyes were running o'er.
"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,?Set out, at each his pace;?The hare it was the fleeter,?The tortoise won the race;?And since the world's beginning?This ever was the case.
"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,?Steps gayly o'er the ground;?As steadily you trudge it?He clears it with a bound;?But dulness has stout legs, Tom,?And wind that's wondrous sound.
"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,?You pass with plodding feet;?You heed not one nor t'other?But onwards go your beat,?While genius stops to loiter?With all that he may meet;
"And ever as he wanders,?Will have a pretext fine?For sleeping in the morning,?Or loitering to dine,?Or dozing in the shade,?Or basking in the shine.
"Your little steady eyes, Tom,?Though not so bright as those?That restless round about him?His flashing genius throws,?Are excellently suited?To look before your nose.
"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers?It placed before your eyes;?The stupidest are weakest,?The witty are not wise;?Oh, bless your good stupidity,?It is your dearest prize!
"And though my lands are wide,?And plenty is my gold,?Still better gifts from Nature,?My Thomas, do you hold--?A brain that's thick and heavy,?A heart that's dull and cold.
"Too dull to feel depression,?Too hard to heed distress,?Too cold to yield to passion?Or silly tenderness.?March on--your road is