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There's the station ; your tickets, step out, look alive!
SIR RUPERT THE RED.
EDMUND H. YATES.
[Edmund Hodgson Yates, born about the year 1828, is the son of the late Mr. Yates, the eminent actor, and some time partner with the late Charles Mathews in the lesseeship of the Adelphi Theatre. His mother was the gifted actress so well known to the last generation of play-goers.
Mr. Yates, who holds a situation in the General Post-office, is the present editor of the “Temple Bar Magazine,”' and one of the literary staff of the Star newspaper. After the decease of Mr. Albert Smith, he occupied the Egyptian Hall, in which he gave an entertainment for a few months somewhat after the style of his predecessor; but "entertaining” was evidently not his forte. As a novelist he lias succeeded better; but a propensity to indulge in personalities, interesting only to a literary clique, and which can be of no permanent value, detracts from the general interest of his writings.
His last two works, “ Broken to Harness” and “Running the Gauntlet,” have been read with avidity by the subscribers to circulating libraries, and hold their own among the novels of the day.]
Sir RUPERT THE RED was as gallant a knight
Or broke an antagonist's head.
His name of Sir Rupert the Red.
Sir Rupert he lived in a castle old,
Thick were its walls, and dark and cold
The swift Rhine ran below them.
Why-into its waters he'd throw them!
But stories will spread, howe'er you may try
While his former bad temper began to grow worse,
curse ; But his feelings I'll try to describe in the verse Most used by our Alfred—not Bunn, though, but
Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of
bed, Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it
till it bled ; Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him
curses deepCurse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in
his sleepSaying " Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no
more, Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of
Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall-street, quittedst it with
many a qualmEre thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its inodel
farm ? Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'cr my
beard, And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy
harvest cleared ; Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of
wretched Jews, When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for
safety in their shoes. But, like mine, thy day is over-thou art blunt and
I'm disgraced! Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his magic
paste. Thus he grumbled all day, from morning till nightNo
person could please him, no conduct was right Till his very retainers grew furious quite,
And determined to quit his service. For much afflicted was Seneschal Hans; While the groom from York told the cook from France “He warn't going to be led such a precious dance
In a house turned topsy-turvies."
Oh, "the castled crag of Drachenfels,"
Who leave the squares of Belgravia,
hough the last « don't like the flavour."
But Drachenfels was a different sight,
And above it the storm-fiend strode :
On such a night, from his own red room,
Or be coming up the road.
He strained his weary eyeballs, but well was he repaid To see a troop of travellers advancing up the glade. Flanked round with equerries and guards, a wealthy
host they seemed, And Sir Rupert's heart grew lighter, and his eye more
brightly beamed; For many a day had passed away since he a prize had
Won, And no hand had touched his bell save that of
poursuivant or dun.
“Now haste ye,” he cried, “throw
Ran off to the warden tall.
The drawbridge falls, and the company cross,
By the way, this last rhyme
Appertains to a time
Are emptied for rockets,
ketsWhen you're begged (and the tyrants take care you do
not) Ne'er to cease to remember the Gunpowder-plot.
The herald stept forth, and he made a low bow
If you've seen Mr. Payne
At Old Drury Lane, In the opening part of a grand Christmas Pantomime, Do tricks, to describe which my Muse fails for want o'
rhymePlease to fancy my herald does just the same now; And his trumpet he blows, and his throat well he
“Sir Rupert the Red,
To you I have sped From a dame with whose brother you've conquered and
bled, Who, benighted by chance in this dismal locality, Has ventured to ask for a night's hospitality.
No refusal I fear
When her name you once hear; Therefore learn that the dame for whom shelter I
crave, Is Margaret, the sister of Blutworst the Brave !"
Thus spake the gay herald. Sir Rupert replied,
Whom I loved as a son, For whose tragical end I have ne'er ceased to grieve." Thus much to the herald. Then, turning, he said, “Off, Wilhelm, at once, let the banquet be spread; Bring up some Moselles and some red Assmanshau
sers, Fritz, lay out my doublet and new Paris trousers,