THE

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL,

TRAVESTY.

CANTO FIFTH.

I.

Ir is not false:-they talk not wide,

Who say, that, when a Fiddler dies,

The village mourns at Christmas tide,

Who

As great folks would for Christmas pies;
tall
say,

men,

and small ones too,

The unauspicious day will rue;

That village maids the hour will weep,

And little children fall asleep;

Thro' the sad cause of having not

A bow, to make the time forgot,

And Fiddler blind, to teach them how

To foot it,--at the Barley-Mow.

II.

Not that, in sooth, another one.

The state of apathy might turn;

But that the man, of whom I tell,
Who caught the attentive ears so well,
Of those who listened to his bow,

On mountain wild, or Barley-Mow,

Who, when he saw that die he must,

Reposed in me the sacred trust,

The sweet Lucilla Swig-the-most:

(a) The Maid's red nose and dirty smock,

In love, true love, is all forgot:

(a)

"The maid's pale shade, who wails her lot,
That love, true love, should be forgot."

Lay of the Last Minstrel,

I took the maiden, as my dear,

From off my master's silent bier.

A little time she mourned the dead;
But, when I led her to my bed,

No more the tears of mem'ry shed:
Meanwhile, my love it mounts apace ;

I lov'd her, for her jolly face;
Her eye was like a pigeon-hole,

And always moist-upon my

soul!

No tooth she had;-a hiccup breath ;—
Yet lovely was, in spite of teeth.

One day she took it in her head to go.

Oh, my Lucilla! my Lucilla, oh!

Her ashes undistinguished lie.

I cut these lines above her grave:

Which are there now, and now you'll have :

"Here I lye,

"Till by and bye."

She died quite drunk, it may be said,

And never thought of being dead :