And the words, " bloody work!" in his ears rang like thunder, And rose not again ;—and thus died George Hobbs, Who slaughter God's creatures for holyday fun, Now, some hours after, John Meek going round, Alas, the poor Robin had no "crowner's 'quest!" The jury were puzzled ;-" The lad's dead, no doubt," "Now, gentlemen jurymen, this cannot be Against that supposition you'll find there's this hitch, "For no man has an arm, or so long, or of strength, "Suspicion then falls on the witness, John Meek ;He found-and perhaps he had not far to seekAnd the gun on his premises clearly was found; And I don't think there's much in there being no wound; "For a gun-shot's a wound, not like one from a pole, That oft closes again without leaving a hole; And a bullet may fatally enter one ear, And escape through the other and never appear." Now the mother of Hobbs, who in search of her son, She there knew her son, and with sighs and with sobs If this did not satisfy juries, what would? But here the bold Magpie, who hearing the din, The man stood amazed-'twas so like an appeal A new inquest, thought he, and 'tis held by the De'il. And the coroner jump'd from his chair as he heard, Bloody work, bloody work!" and "you rogue!" from the bird. So now, while the constable's taking off John, The parson is putting his surplice on ; For Hobbs must be buried-and from the church door, Whereat Hobbs's mother had scream'd, as beseems, But oft curiosity overcomes screams: So she stared at the bird, and thought, Heaven forsake her! And in sooth he was like, with his white scarf around him, With, "Oh, here's bloody work come again for John Meek!" Now this was enough to provoke any saint, Thought the mother of Hobbs, and determined to faint; When Maggie cries out, " Cut her weasand, boy, steady!" These butcher's directions for killing a sheep, Pick'd up by the bird, made her take such a leap, That she knock'd down the surgeon, and terrified flew, And never again set her foot inside Chew. We haven't quite done, for we cannot leave Meek What, none! is there none a kind countenance lends? Yes one-the good butcher has taken a journey, Alas, the poor boy! we must leave him in jail, And there must we leave him rehearsing his part, 'Tis now the Assize-but we spare the digression, Feels the legal delight of protruding his claw. The jailer of Shepton-Mallet says, that since the silent system has been adopted, no Magpies have been admitted into his prison. This may throw some doubt on the chronology of this poem.-DEVIL. The judge takes his seat, knits his brows, and looks grim, Reads the calendar-lifts up his eyebrows-" Odds bobs! But here we must pause-so the charge we omit- He looks very pale-with one hand in the breast Poor Meek is amazed at the crimes put with skill in, Then Counsellor Quirk crush'd his brief in his fury, At these words the poor boy, where all trembling he stands, And the Magpie, now feeling how loosen'd his cord, Then towards the jury, with hop and a jump, And utter'd, "Now that's what I call bloody work!" Then taking new flight, pluck'd the judge by the sleeve, Just then rush'd the butcher in court with Tom Pitts, 'Twas "Hurrah for John Meek!" with uproarious accord, And the good-humour'd judge said, with whimsical stress, And a shilling fine to the Queen must be found So he'd make him a present of twenty pound.* *This has been doubted-a barrister, who was in court at the time, was questioned upon the point, and replied—" What! L.20 from a lawyer!-incredulos odi." Then the sheriffs and all the fine folks of the county Thus the boy that was dragg'd to the town in a cart, He return'd in a coach, and the people ran after- The Queen, when she heard what the Magpie had done, And, moreover, the Queen would have Maggie at court; That the good folks at Chew also made an averment, That the butcher was piqued, for Mag's language, he knew, Thus simple John Meek by his bird was protected So the parson of Chew, and the squire, and attorney, THE VENTA OF ARMENTIA. A SKETCH OF THE LATE CARLIST WAR IN SPAIN. At the foot of a ridge of mountains which intersects the south-eastern corner of the province of Alava, is situated the dirty little town of Peñacerrada. Placed on the top of a small hill or knoll of earth, and tolerably well fortified, it nevertheless changed hands several times during the late civil war, being on the verge of the Christino territory, and bordering on the debatable ground, subject to the incursions and alternate temporary occupation of both parties. This, added to the circumstance of the town being commanded by a rising ground at a short distance, and to the negligence of the Queen's generals in frequently leaving insufficient garrisons or untrustworthy governors, was the cause of its being twice taken by the Carlists, although on both occasions they were allowed to retain their conquest but a brief space, before it was wrested from them by their opponents. The traveller, who, in happier and less dangerous times than Spain has of late years enjoyed, may have rambled through the Basque provinces, will perchance remember the picturesque road that runs due south from Vittoria to Peñacerrada. If he has passed along it on a thirsty summer's day, he can hardly have forgotten that about midway between the two towns stands a large country inn of somewhat barn-like appearance, but which few travellers pass without draining a cup of the excellent Rioja wine that is found within. The Venta of Armentia,* for such is the name of this roadside hostelry, if it cannot boast of very refined accommodations, has at least the advantage of a situation of perfect beauty. The ground slopes down from the door to the banks of the little. river Aya, which murmurs over its bed of bright yellow sand and divers-coloured pebbles, as it hastens through a grove of mingled sycamore and elm to throw itself into the Zadorra, one of the tributaries of the mighty Ebro. On the right the eye glances through lofty trees over wide and verdant pastures, interspersed and varied with clumps of wood; the front commands a view of the chain of blue mountains that bounds the horizon. On the left of the house, the road to Peñacerrada passes over a rustic wooden bridge, the ground, for about a mile before and after reaching the venta, rising on the eastern side of the road to the height of twenty or thirty feet, fringed at the top with heath and yellow broom, whilst the brier rose, the honeysuckle, and wild vine, clothe with their tangled festoons the entire side of the acclivity. These advantages of position had, however, little value in the eyes of Pablo Quintanar, the landlord of the venta, who would gladly have exchanged them for the more substantial benefit of a thriving business, or for immunity from the exactions to which he was daily subjected by Carlists and Christinos. For, being in the neighbourhood of various fortified posts of both parties, the venta was rarely a week without receiving the visit of some detachment of troops or party of guerillas; and the politics of mine host were sufficiently doubtful to furnish both liberals and royalists with a pretext for drinking his wine, ransacking his hen-roost, and emptying his larder, without making that return in lawful coin of the realm to which innkeepers are accustomed to lay claim. Many persons thought it strange that Pablo had never seen fit to make the declaration of his political opinions which would have secured to him protection from one of the two contending parties. He had neither wife nor child, and was moreover somewhat of a philosopher in his way; and although sometimes roused to anger for a moment by the brutality and extortions of an undisciplined soldiery, he soon resumed the sort of sullen apathy and indifference which usually characterized him, and under which he concealed his real feelings. That these feelings were keen, and that his attachment was warm to the * Venta is the Spanish term for a country inn. |