Published among Thackeray's "Ballads" under the sub-heading "Lines written to an Album Print".
As on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook, As though it were a novel-book, Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My lord the County's page is.
A pleasant place for such a pair! The fields lie basking in the glare; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens. Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens.
It is too hot to pace the keep; To climb the turret is too steep; My lord the Earl is dozing deep, His noonday dinner over: The postern warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): And so from out the gate they creep; And cross the fields of clover.
Their lines into the brook they launch; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion: He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless, doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection!
O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture. What care has _she_ for line and hook? She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture.
O loving pair! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always, The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet, your beholder.
To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo: It were a pleasant calling. And had I such a partner sweet; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-- I'd let the world flow at my feet, And never heed its brawling.
This is one of the most popular of the famous Roundabout Papers written by Thackeray for the _Cornhill Magazine_, of which he was the first editor.
Where have I just read of a game played at a country house? The party assembles round a table with pens, ink, and paper. Some one narrates a tale containing more or less incidents and personages. Each person of the company then writes down, to the best of his memory and ability, the anecdote just narrated, and finally the papers are to be read out. I do not say I should like to play often at this game, which might possibly be a tedious and lengthy pastime, not by any means so amusing as smoking a cigar in the conservatory; or even listening to the young ladies playing their piano-pieces; or to Hobbs and Nobbs lingering round the bottle and talking over the morning's run with the hounds; but surely it is a moral and ingenious sport. They say the variety of narratives is often very odd and amusing. The original story becomes so changed and distorted that at the end of all the statements you are puzzled to know where the truth is at all. As time is of small importance to the cheerful persons engaged in this sport, perhaps a good way of playing it would be to spread it over a couple of years. Let the people who played the game in '60 all meet and play it once more in '61, and each write his story over again. Then bring out your original and compare notes. Not only will the stories differ from each other, but the writers will probably differ from themselves. In the course of the year the incidents will grow or will dwindle strangely. The least authentic of the statements will be so lively or so malicious, or so neatly put, that it will appear most like the truth. I like these tales and sportive exercises. I had begun a little print collection once. I had Addison in his nightgown in bed at Holland House, requesting young Lord Warwick to remark how a Christian should die. I had Cambronne clutching his cocked hat, and uttering the immortal _La Garde meurt et ne se rend pas_. I had the _Vengeur_ going down, and all the crew hurraying like madmen. I had Alfred toasting the muffin: Curtius (Haydon) jumping into the gulf; with extracts from Napoleon's bulletins, and a fine authentic portrait of Baron Munchausen.