viii.
It was such baleful weird-craft then as Ariosto told—
Up gat the cloven wretch, Sir Ball; from the ground whereon he had rolled;
And half was himself, a jelly of fear, in his harness all bizarre,
And half was a lubber of muck and mush y-clepen Little Star.
And the double quadrille of toadies now had grown sixteen in all,
And were dancing the Dance Macaber for the dying hopes of Ball.
And while Sir Ball upscreaked in song like a thousand files on saws,
His lubber upraised a club of mud and jargoned out of his jaws—
"Thy hour is come. Sir Knight," he squeaked, " thou nameless knight of rhymes.
With Doubleyou'd crest who ambushest behind Sir Raymond's Times,
I saw thee shoot thy venomed lance from a Dahlgren gun I know—
And 'tis proven thou canst not shoot like me from Ananias his bow.
In Dictionary thou art not versed"—and withouten knowing the leaves,
He spake all Luther's lexicon of the speech of beggars and thieves.[1]
Sir Doubleyou gave him never a pash, for he broke and tumbled null,
A boneless litter of muck and mush that smelt like Yorick's skull.
But on Sir Ball Sir Doubleyou turned his flaming eyes of blue:
Sir Ball was singing uproariously, and the welkin grisly grew;
And his "Mother, O mother, my mother," was ever the dominant bellow of all;
"Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep, mother," merrily roared Sir Ball.
ix.
It was his mother was reading aloud to the spirits in spirit-land;
And the Great Harmonia was the book, and they none could understand;
And they vowed the noise made dark the sense that never was light before;
And she slammed the book on the ghost of a shelf that held the spirit lore.
The spirits smiled their glacial smile to see her rampaging go—
For she suddenly flounced from out their midst, and down she scuttled below:
Sir Ball he saw her scurrying fast and kicking her skirts with speed—
He knew that the prayers of the wicked were heard, and felt him shaky-kneed.
He twitched his mouth and meekly whined—"I feel inclined to weep,
For the spirit of my mother comes to rock my soul to sleep."[2]
" I'll rock ye," gasped the good old dame, and grabbed him by the hair;
Her face was ashy-white with rage, and O her eyes did glare!
She banged him twice, she cuffed him thrice, then for a rock looked she.
And down she plumped and haled him prone across her good old knee;
She settled him square, she fixed him fair, she parted his coat-tails true,
And clappety-clippety-clap she spanked till his trowsers flittering flew.
x.
It was the Very Devil Himself, while Ball did yowl and twitch—
While grisly black the welkin grew and like to stinking pitch—
While all in a dark and brassy flare the land lay ghast and seared—
It was the Very Devil Himself with hoofs and horns appeared.
He gnashed his fangs, he waggled his tail, and "Gah! I've got ye now!"—
Yelled the hideous, terrible, subterrene, infernal snarleyyow.
With a cry the dame up sprang and away to the land of spirits she flew.
And went into fits till the spirits of hartshorn came and brought her to.
The fiend he snickered and smirked and leered at the lump that she'd let fall,
- ↑ "A nameless knight, with 'W' on his crest, who ambushed behind the columns of the Times, shoots thence his venomed lance;" and further on is accused of not being "versed in dictionaries!" Thus, with delicious rhetoric, Little Star, in over six columns of fine type in the Tribune, thick and slab with the most ludicrous blunders.
- ↑ Sir Ball's own language! Vide one of his "Christmas Carols."
