Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (112 page)

YE FATTALE CHEYSE

Ytte wes a mirke an dreiry cave,

Weet scroggis owr ytte creepe.

Gurgles withyn ye flowan wave

Throw channel braid an deep

Never withyn that dreir recesse

Wes sene ye lyghte of daye,

Quhat bode azont yts mirkinesse

Nane kend an nane mote saye.

Ye monarche rade owr brake an brae

An drave ye yellynge packe,

Hiz meany au' richte cadgily

Are wendynge yn hiz tracke.

Wi' eager iye, wi' yalpe an crye

Ye hondes yode down ye rocks,

Ahead of au' their companye

Renneth ye panky foxe.

Ye foxe hes soughte that cave of awe

Forewearied wi' hiz rin.

Quha nou ys he sae bauld an braw

To dare to enter yn?

Wi' eager bounde hes ilka honde

Gane till that caverne dreir,

Fou many a yowl ys hearde arounde,

Fou many a screech of feir.

Like ane wi' thirstie appetite

Quha swalloweth orange pulp,

Wes hearde a huggle an a bite,

A swallow an a gulp.

Ye kynge hes lap frae aff hiz steid,

Outbrayde hiz trenchant brande;

“Quha on my packe of hondes doth feed,

Maun deye benead thilke hande.”

Sae sed, sae dune: ye stonderes hearde

Fou many a mickle stroke,

Sowns lyke ye flappynge of a birde,

A struggle an a choke.

Owte of ye cave scarce fette they ytte,

Wi pow an push and hau' —

Whereof Y've drawne a littel bytte,

Bot durst not draw ytte au.

bushes.

beyond.

darkness.

company.

merrily.

going journeying.

went.

cunning.

much wearied.

brave.

full.

howl.

is.

full.

drawn.

bystanders.

heavy.

sounds.

fetched.

pull.

haul.

all.

LAYS OF SORROW No.
1

The day was wet, the rain fell souse

Like jars of strawberry jam, a

Sound was heard in the old henhouse,

A beating of a hammer.

Of stalwart form, and visage warm,

Two youths were seen within it,

Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry

At a hundred strokes a minute.

The work is done, the hen has taken

Possession of her nest and eggs,

Without a thought of eggs and bacon,

(Or I am very much mistaken:)

She turns over each shell,

To be sure that all's well,

Looks into the straw

To see there's no flaw,

Goes once round the house,

Half afraid of a mouse,

Then sinks calmly to rest

On the top of her nest,

First doubling up each of her legs.

Time rolled away, and so did every shell,

“Small by degrees and beautifully less,”

As the sage mother with a powerful spell

Forced each in turn its contents to express,

But ah!
“imperfect is expression,”

Some poet said, I don't care who,

If you want to know you must go elsewhere,

One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,

He never attended a Parliament Session,

For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,

Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,

With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.

And as to his name it is pretty clear

That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!

And so it fell upon a day,

(That is, it never rose again)

A chick was found upon the hay,

Its little life had ebbed away.

No longer frolicsome and gay,

No longer could it run or play.

“And must we, chicken, must we part?”

Its master cried with bursting heart,

And voice of agony and pain.

So one, whose ticket's marked “Return,”

When to the lonely roadside station

He flies in fear and perturbation,

Thinks of his home—the hissing urn—

Then runs with flying hat and hair,

And, entering, finds to his despair

He's missed the very latest train.

Too long it were to tell of each conjecture

Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,

The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,

The timid guess, “perhaps some needle pricked him!”

The din of voice, the words both loud and many,

The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,

Till all agreed “a shilling to a penny

It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!”

Scarce was the verdict spoken,

When that still calm was broken,

A childish form hath burst into the throng;

With tears and looks of sadness,

That bring no news of gladness,

But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!

“The sight that I have come upon

The stoutest heart would sicken,

That nasty hen has been and gone

And killed another chicken!”

I.e.
the jam without the jars.
Observe the beauty of this rhyme.

At the rate of a stroke and two-thirds in a second.

Unless the hen was a poacher, which is unlikely.

The henhouse.

Beak and claw.

Press out.

Probably one of the two stalwart youths.

The system of return tickets is an excellent one.
People are conveyed, on particular days, there and back again for one fare.

An additional vexation would be that his “Return” ticket would be no use the next day.

Perhaps even the “bursting” heart of its master.

LAYS OF SORROW No.
2

Fair stands the ancient Rectory,

The Rectory of Croft,

The sun shines bright upon it,

The breezes whisper soft.

From all the house and garden,

Its inhabitants come forth,

And muster in the road without,

And pace in twos and threes about,

The children of the North.

Some are waiting in the garden,

Some are waiting at the door,

And some are following behind,

And some have gone before.

But wherefore all this mustering?

Wherefore this vast array?

A gallant feat of horsemanship

Will be performed to-day.

To eastward and to westward,

The crowd divides amain,

Two youths are leading on the steed,

Both tugging at the rein;

And sorely do they labour,

For the steed is very strong,

And backward moves its stubborn feet,

And backward ever doth retreat,

And drags its guides along.

And now the knight hath mounted,

Before the admiring band,

Hath got the stirrups on his feet,

The bridle in his hand.

Yet, oh!
beware, sir horseman!

And tempt thy fate no more,

For such a steed as thou hast got

Was never rid before!

The rabbits bow before thee,

And cower in the straw;

The chickens are submissive,

And own thy will for law;

Bullfinches and canary

Thy bidding do obey;

And e'en the tortoise in its shell

Doth never say thee nay.

But thy steed will hear no master,

Thy steed will bear no stick,

And woe to those that beat her,

And woe to those that kick!

For though her rider smite her,

As hard as he can hit,

And strive to turn her from the yard,

She stands in silence, pulling hard

Against the pulling bit.

And now the road to Dalton

Hath felt their coming tread,

The crowd are speeding on before,

And all have gone ahead.

Yet often look they backward,

And cheer him on, and bawl,

For slower still, and still more slow,

That horseman and that charger go,

And scarce advance at all.

And now two roads to choose from

Are in that rider's sight:

In front the road to Dalton,

And New Croft upon the right.

“I can't get by!”
he bellows,

“I really am not able!

Though I pull my shoulder out of joint,

I cannot get him past this point,

For it leads unto his stable!”

Then out spake Ulfrid Longbow,

A valiant youth was he,

“Lo!
I will stand on thy right hand

And guard the pass for thee!”

And out spake fair Flureeza,

His sister eke was she,

“I will abide on thy other side,

And turn thy steed for thee!”

And now commenced a struggle

Between that steed and rider,

For all the strength that he hath left

Doth not suffice to guide her.

Though Ulfrid and his sister

Have kindly stopped the way,

And all the crowd have cried aloud,

“We can't wait here all day!”

Round turned he as not deigning

Their words to understand,

But he slipped the stirrups from his feet

The bridle from his hand,

And grasped the mane full lightly,

And vaulted from his seat,

And gained the road in triumph,

And stood upon his feet.

All firmly till that moment

Had Ulfrid Longbow stood,

And faced the foe right valiantly,

As every warrior should.

But when safe on terra firma

His brother he did spy,

“What
did
you do that for?”
he cried,

Then unconcerned he stepped aside

And let it canter by.

They gave him bread and butter,

That was of public right,

As much as four strong rabbits

Could munch from morn to night,

For he'd done a deed of daring,

And faced that savage steed,

And therefore cups of coffee sweet,

And everything that was a treat,

Were but his right and meed.

And often in the evenings,

When the fire is blazing bright,

When books bestrew the table

And moths obscure the light,

When crying children go to bed,

A struggling, kicking load;

We'll talk of Ulfrid Longbow's deed,

How, in his brother's utmost need,

Back to his aid he flew with speed,

And how he faced the fiery steed,

And kept the New Croft Road.

This Rectory has been supposed to have been built in the time of Edward VI, but recent discoveries clearly assign its origin to a much earlier period.
A stone has been found in an island formed by the river Tees on which is inscribed the letter “A,” which is justly conjectured to stand for the name of the great King Alfred, in whose reign this house was probably built.

The poet entreats pardon for having represented a donkey under this dignified name.

A full account of the history and misfortunes of these interesting creatures may be found in the first “Lay of Sorrow.”

It is a singular fact that a donkey makes a point of returning any kicks offered to it.

This valiant knight, besides having a heart of steel and nerves of iron, has been lately in the habit of carrying a brick in his eye.

She was sister to both.

The reader will probably be at a loss to discover the nature of this triumph, as no object was gained, and the donkey was obviously the victor; on this point, however, we are sorry to say we can offer no good explanation.

Much more acceptable to a true knight than “corn-land” which the Roman people were so foolish as to give to their daring champion, Horatius.