2 November - All Souls' Day; Epitaphs

“Waking, sleeping, eating, drinking, chatt’ring, lying, life went by;

While of dying little thinking, down I dropp’d, and here I lie”

One of the Widow’s favorite pastimes is to wander through cemeteries and read the inscriptions on tombstones (although not at night.  Strange things can be found in cemeteries at night, like idiot kids who think desecrating tombstones is the height of cool).  Nowadays, of course, people don’t have the kind of stones on which one can write much (or knock over); most of the headstones have to be a certain (small) size and laid flat and a little below ground-level to make grounds-keeping easier.  Sigh.

(If this seems to be an odd pastime…. I suppose it is.  Genealogists do this sort of thing, you know.  In fact, should I ever deface my car with bumper-stickers, “I brake for cemeteries” will be first.)

Anyway, funeral art is a fascinating study in itself.  It is interesting to see how the ‘spirit images’ (or angels, or whatever current scholarship calls them now) developed over the years, even turning into portraits of the deceased, then moving away from death’s heads to urns and other classical motifs, then again to religious subjects like sculptures of weeping angels.  If you are interested in such things, check out The Association for Gravestone Studies.

I also enjoy epitaphs.  They are little windows into humanity, some of them quite funny, and I’ve considered what I would like the passerby to read on my own stone.

“Here lies the body of Mrs. Rudd

As bombshells go, she was a dud.”

I suppose, though, that if I am allowed a stone (and not just tossed into Potter’s Field), I should have something more useful like, “Of your charity, please pray for the soul of Mrs. Rudd”. 

Mrs. Rudd’s soul can use the prayers.

On those occasions when Mr. Rudd annoyingly channeled his inner three-year-old, I threatened to put this on his tombstone:

“Here lies my man, and for the best,

Because it gives us both a rest.”

Or

“Here lies the body of Mr. Rudd

Deeply regretted by those who never knew him.”

Or

“Here lies my husband.

Tears cannot bring him back,

Therefore I weep.”

He always countered with:

“Here lies my wife,

Cold as in life.”

(Of your charity, please pray for the soul of Mr. Rudd.)

Besides finding gems in the local cemeteries, I have a little collection of epitaph books. Here are some of my favorites.  Quite often the same epitaph with the same doggerel is found in several books, with only the names and/or locations different, so I’ve left the names and locations out.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Very common are the ‘memento mori’ messages, those reminding the reader that they too will face death:

“Remember, friend, as you pass by

As you are now, so once was I

As I am now, so you must be

So be prepared to follow me.”

To which one replies:

“To follow you is my intent

But first must know which way you went…”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“If Heaven be pleased when sinners cease to sin

If Hell be pleased when sinners enter in,

If Earth be pleased when ridded of a knave,

Then all are pleased for __________ ‘s in his grave.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Here lies _____________

Who died fighting for a lady’s honor

(She wanted to keep it.)”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I painted this on one of the ‘tombstones’ used for decorating our yard at Hallowe’en:

“He called Mr. Rudd a liar!”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

For a talkative person:

“Stranger, tread lightly over this wonder

If he opens his mouth, we’ll all go under.”

And an argumentative person:

“Tread lightly over her mouldering form

Or else you’ll raise another storm.”

And a drinker:

“Here lies _________________

Died sober.

Lord, Thy wonders never cease.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Here lies _________________

Who shot it out with four horse-thieves

And killed three of them.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Here lies the body of ____________, who departed this life suddenly by a cow kicking him.  Well done, thou good and faithful servant.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Epitaph for a beloved Army mule, when the Army still had four-legged mules:

“In memory of Maggie, who in her time kicked two colonels, four majors, ten captains, twenty-four lieutenants, forty-two sergeants, 432 other ranks, and one Mills Bomb.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Here endeth the first batch of favorite epitaphs.

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Artwork

Master of Mary of Burgundy, 15^th century.  Illuminated page from the “Office of the Dead”, in the Hours of Engelbert of Nassau.

19 December - Ember Day

Weather – Ember Day – the weather today indicates the weather of January.

Today is the first of the Winter Ember Days, the other two being this coming Friday and Saturday.  These are days set aside in every quarter of the year during which we fast and pray, thanking God for his many blessings, and asking for the grace to use them well and in the service of others.

I wrote more about them here.

For the fun of it, I took again the Medieval Personality test, and this year – or at least right now – I am Phlegmatic.

The Phlegmatic:

   Is deliberative; slow in making decisions; perhaps overcautious in minor matters.

   Is indifferent to external affairs.

   Is reserved and distant. [painfully shy…]

   Is slow in movement. [Yeah, well, creaking old bones and a tendency to embonpoint can account for that…]

   Has a marked tendency to persevere.

   Exhibits a constancy of mood. [Yep, even-keel, that’s I]

(And enjoys hibernating before the fire)

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Meanwhile, I have been checking the weather to see how close the prognostications for the month have come.  These were the ones for December:

Weather for December:

Based on the 12 Days of Christmas: Sunny and less cold.

Based on the first 12 days of January: Rain, wind, cold, raw.  Brrrr…

Based on the Ember Days: Dark clouds in the morning, bright sunshine in the afternoon.

The last Sunday of the month indicates the weather for next month: The last Sunday of November had clear skies and high winds, very chilly high winds.

Well, here we are in the last half of the month, and so far, at least in this corner of the Smallest State, most of the days have been plenty darksome, with overcast, rain, threatened rain, fog – no appreciable snow yet, God be thanket.  But while we haven’t had many sunny days, it has been less cold than could be expected

Speaking of snow, another weather superstition is that the date on which the first snow falls indicates the number of snows we will have that winter.  Our first snow (a mere dusting) was on the 27^th of November, which means we can look forward to twenty-seven snows.  Oh, joy…  Couldn’t have waited a few more days and fallen on the 1^st of December, could it?

(The Widow is not overly fond of snow, except for the picture-postcard kind which falls on the fields and leave the roads and sidewalks clear.  When she was growing up (in California), she went to the snow, it did not come to her.  Those were days when people put chains on their tires after hieing themselves to the mountains for some Winter Recreation.)

One final superstition:  The general character of the weather during the last twenty days of December will rule the weather for winter. Starting from the 12^th, the weather has been nearly half and half, so far.  Three continuous days of bright sunshine, followed by five days of overcast and rain.  I wonder which will prevail?

St. Piran and the Visitation

This story comes from The Delectable Duchy: Stories, Studies, and Sketches, by ‘Q’ (Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch), 1893.

ST. PIRAN AND THE VISITATION.

A full fifty years had St. Piran dwelt among the sandhills between Perranzabuloe and the sea before any big rush of saints began to pour into Cornwall: for 'twas not till the old man had discovered tin for us that they sprang up thick as blackberries all over the county; so that in a way St. Piran had only himself to blame when his idle ways grew to be a scandal by comparison with the push and bustle of the newcomers.

Never a notion had he that, from Rome to Land's End, all his holy brethren were holding up their hands over his case.  He sat in his cottage above the sands at Perranzabuloe and dozed to the hum of the breakers, in charity with all his parishioners, to whom his money was large as the salt wind; for his sleeping partnership in the tin-streaming business brought him a tidy income.  And the folk knew that if ever they wanted religion, they had only to knock and ask for it.

But one fine morning, an hour before noon, the whole parish sprang to its feet at the sound of a horn.  The blast was twice repeated, and came from the little cottage across the sands.  "Tis the blessed saint's cow-horn!" they told each other. "Sure the dear man must be in the article of death!"  And they hurried off to the cottage, man, woman, and child: for 'twas thirty years at least since the horn had last been sounded.

They pushed open the door, and there sat St. Piran in his arm-chair, looking good for another twenty years, but considerably flustered.  His cheeks were red, and his fingers clutched the cowhorn nervously.

"Andrew Penhaligon," said he to the first man that entered, "go you out and ring the church bell."  Off ran Andrew Penhaligon.  

"But, blessed father of us," said one or two, "we're all here!  There's no call to ring the church bell, seein' you're neither dead nor afire, blessamercy!"

"Oh, if you're all here, that alters the case, for 'tis only a proclamation I have to give out at present.  Tomorrow mornin' – Glory be to God! – I give warnin' that Divine service will take place in the parish church."

"You're sartin you hain't feelin' poorly, St. Piran dear?" asked one of the women.

"Thank you, Tidy Mennear, I'm enjoyin' health.  But, as I was sayin', the parish church'll be needed tomorrow, an' so you'd best set to and clean out the edifice: for I'm thinkin'," he added, "it'll be needin' that."

"To be sure, St. Piran dear, we'll humour ye."

"'Tisn' that at all," the saint answered; "but I've had a vision."

"Don't you often?"

"H'm! but this was a peculiar vision; or maybe a bit of a birdeen whispered it into my ear.  Anyway, 'twas revealed to me just now in a dream that I stood on the lawn at Bodmin Priory, and peeped in at the Priory window.  An' there in the long hall sat all the saints together at a big table covered with red baize, and plotted against us.  There was St. Petroc in the chair, with St. Guron by his side, an' St. Neot, St. Udy, St. Teath, St. Keverne, St. Wen, St. Probus, St. Enodar, St. Just, St. Fimbarrus, St. Clether, St. Germoe, St. Veryan, St. Winnock, St. Minver, St. Anthony, with the virgins Grace, and Sinara, and Iva – the whole passel of 'em.  An' they were agreein' there was no holiness left in this parish of mine; an' speakin' shame of me, my childer – of me, that have banked your consciences these fifty years, and always been able to pay on demand: the more by token that I kept a big reserve, an' you knew it.  Answer me: when was there ever a panic in Perranzabuloe?'  'Twas all very well,' said St. Neot, when his turn came to speak, 'but this state o' things ought to be exposed.'  He's as big as bull's beef, is St. Neot, ever since he worked that miracle over the fishes, an' reckons he can disparage an old man who was makin' millstones to float when he was suckin' a coral.  But the upshot is, they're goin' to pay us a Visitation tomorrow, by surprise.  And, if only for the parish credit, we'll be even wid um, by dad!"

(St. Piran still lapsed into his native brogue when strongly excited.)

But he had hardly done when Andrew Penhaligon came running in – "St. Piran, honey, I've searched everywhere; an' be hanged to me if I can find the church at all!"

"Fwhat's become av ut?" cried the saint, sitting up sharply.

"How should I know?  But devil a trace can I see!"

"Now, look here," St. Piran said; "the church was there, right enough."

"That's a true word," spoke up an old man, "for I mind it well. An elegant tower it had, an' a shingle roof."

"Spake up, now," said the saint, glaring around; "fwich av ye's gone an' misbestowed me parush church?  For I won't believe," he said, "that it's any worse than carelussness— at laste, not yet-a-bit."

Some remembered the church, and some did not: but the faces of all were clear of guilt.  They trooped out on the sands to search.

Now, the sands by Perranzabuloe are forever shifting and driving before the northerly and nor'-westerly gales; and in time had heaped themselves up and covered the building out of sight.  To guess this took the saint less time than you can wink your eye in; but the bother was that no one remembered exactly where the church had stood, and as there were two score at least of tall mounds along the shore, and all of pretty equal height, there was no knowing where to dig.  To uncover them all was a job to last till doomsday.

"Blur-an'-agurs, but it's ruined I am!" cried St. Piran. "An' the Visitashun no further away than to-morra at tin a.m.!"  He wrung his hands, then caught up a spade, and began digging like a madman.

They searched all day, and with lanterns all the night through: they searched from Ligger Point to Porth Towan: but came on never a sign of the missing church.

"If it only had a spire," one said, "there'd be some chance."  But as far as could be recollected, the building had a dumpy tower.

"Once caught, twice shy," said another; "let us find it this once, an' next time we'll have landmarks to dig it out by."

It was at sunrise that St. Piran, worn-out and heart-sick, let fall his spade and spoke from one of the tall mounds, where he had been digging for an hour.  "My children," he began, and the men uncovered their heads, "my children, we are going to be disgraced this day, and the best we can do is to pray that we may take it like men.  Let us pray."

He knelt down on the great sand-hill, and the men and women around dropped on their knees also.  And then St. Piran put up the prayer that has made his name famous all the world over.

Hear us, 0 Lord, and be debonair: for ours is a particular case.  We are not like the men of St. Neot or the men of St. Udy, who are for ever importuning Thee upon the least occasion, praying at all hours and every day of the week.  Thou knowest it is only with extreme cause that we bring ourselves to trouble Thee.  Therefore regard our moderation in time past, and be forward to help us now. Amen.

There was silence for a full minute as he ceased; and then the kneeling parishioners lifted their eyes towards the top of the mound.

St. Piran was nowhere to be seen!

They stared into each other's faces. For a while not a sound was uttered. Then a woman began to sob – "We've lost 'en! We've lost 'en!"

"Like Enoch, he's been taken!"

"Taken up in a chariot an' horses o' fire.  Did any see 'en go?"

"An' what'll we do without 'en?  Holy St. Piran, come back to us!"

"Hullo! hush a bit an' hearken!" cried Andrew Penhaligon, lifting a hand.  They were silent, and listening as he commanded, heard a muffled voice and a faint calling as it were from the bowels of the earth.

"Fetch a ladder !" it said: "fetch a ladder!  It's meself that's found ut, glory be to God!  Holy queen av Heaven! but me mouth is full av sand, an' it's burstin' I'll be if ye don't fetch a ladder quick!"

They brought a ladder and set it against the mound. Three of the men climbed up.  At the top they found a big round hole, from the lip of which they scraped the sand away, discovering a patch of shingle roof, through which St. Piran – whose weight had increased of late – had broken and tumbled heels over head into his own church.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three hours later there appeared on the eastern sky-line, against the yellow blaze of the morning, a large cavalcade that slowly pricked its way over the edge and descended the slopes of Newlyn Downs.  It was the Visitation.  In the midst rode St. Petroc, his crozier tucked under his arm, astride a white mule with scarlet ear-tassels and bells and a saddle of scarlet leather.  He gazed across the sands to the sea, and turned to St. Neot, who towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey.

"The parish seems to be deserted," said he: "not a man nor woman can I see, nor a trace of smoke above the chimneys."

St. Neot tightened his thin lips. In his secret heart he was mightily pleased. "Eight in the morning," he answered, with a glance back at the sun. "They'll be all abed, I'll warrant you."

St. Petroc muttered a threat.

They entered the village street.  Not a soul turned out at their coming.  Every cottage door was fast closed, nor could any amount of knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to a window.  In gathering wrath the visiting saints rode along the sea-shore to St. Piran's small hut.  Here the door stood open: but the hut was empty.  A meagre breakfast of herbs was set out on the table, and a brand new scourge lay somewhat ostentatiously beside the platter.  The visitors stood nonplussed; looked at each other; then eyed the landscape.  Between barren sea and barren downs the beach stretched away, with not a human shape in sight.  St. Petroc, choking with impotent wrath, appeared to study the hollow green breakers from between the long ears of his mule, but with quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to jump down the throat of the first saint that dared to smile.

After a minute or so St. Enodar suddenly turned his face inland, and held up a finger.  "Hark!" he shouted above the roar of the sea.

"What is it?"

"It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after listening for some moments with his head on one side, " it sounds to me like a hymn."

"To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, "and the tune is ' Mullyon,' for a crown." And he pursed up his lips and followed the chant, beating time with his forefinger

“When, like a thief, the Midianite
Shall steal upon the camp,
O, let him find our armour bright,
And oil within our lamp!”

"But where in the world does it come from ?" asked St. Neot.

This could not be answered for the moment, but the saints turned their horses' heads from the sea, and moved slowly on the track of the sound, which at every step grew louder and more distinct.

“It is at no appointed hours,
It is not by the clock,
That Satan, grisly wolf, devours
The unprotected flock.”

The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill, from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater.  They set their ears to the sandy wall.  They walked round it, and listened again.

“But ever prowls th’ insidious foe,
And listens round the fold.”

This was too much.  St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his crozier, and shouted—"Hi, there!"

The chant ceased.  For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened; and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the summit.

"Holy St. Petroc!  Was it only you, after all?  And St. Neot – and St. Udy!  O, glory be!"

"Why, who did you imagine we were?"  St. Petroc asked, still in amazement.

"Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by the way you were comin' over the hills when we spied you, three hours back.  An' the trouble we've had to cover up our blessed church out o' sight of thim marautherin' thieves!  An' the intire parish gathered inside here an' singin' holy songs in expectation of imminent death!  An' to think 'twas you holy men, all the while!  But why didn't ye send word ye was comin', St. Petroc, darlint?  For it's little but sand ye'll find in your mouths for breakfast, I'm thinkin'."

Leap Year Valentine, 1891

LEAP YEAR VALENTINE

A Young Lady to a Young Gentleman

Dear Bashful, it's leap-year you know,

And a girl has a right to propose

To the man whom she likes as a Beau,

And could love as a mate. - So here goes.

Will you love me till death do us part?

Will you take me for better or worse?

Will you give me your hand and your heart?

 - Not to speak of your house and your purse.

I should make you an excellent wife,

I have very few failings or faults;

In Charades I can act to the life,

And am great at a Galop or Waltz.

I have solid accomplishments too,

(I could tell you them better in prose)

But I'm good at a pudding or stew,

And could care for the children and clothes.

I shall be at (that) party tonight;

If you tip me a nod or a wink

Or whisper me softly "all's right!"

I shall know what to do and to think.

Don't be modest and silly or coy,

Don't be blushing and that sort of thing;

But say "yes" like a jolly good boy,

And go for the license and ring.

Then I'm yours my dear B. till I die;

I may not trust my name to my pen,

But its first letter sounds like a sigh,

And its finishing letter's an N.

(Or as the case may be)

Gustavus William Wicksteed, "Waifs in Verse" (1891), p. 139.

A Solemn Warning to Single Men (1864)

VALENTINE'S DAY IN LEAP YEAR

A Solemn Warning to Single Men

Bachelors all, of St. Valentine’s Day beware!

This year is Leap Year: the ladies may choose!

How then you get in the fair sex’s way beware,

Or both your hearts and your freedom you’ll lose.

Princesses – waitresses,

Curly, or straight tresses,

Fond hearts, or traitresses,

Short ones or tall;

Elderly – youthful,

Deceitful or truthful,

Unfeeling or ruthful,

Beware of them all!

Theirs is the question this year; and for popping it,

No opportunity with they omit.

They may propose; and you’ve no chance of stopping it;

‘Please ask mamma’ does not answer a bit.

They’ll grant no truces,

Delays, or excuses;

Resistance no use is

To Leap Year’s mad freak,

That one chance of Hymen

For nervous and shy men,

(The girls can’t think why men

Are frightened to speak).

As for myself; I am terrified awfully –

‘No' to a woman ne’er yet have I said,

So run a great risk of behaving unlawfully –

Marrying all who may ask me to wed.

In fear, dash my wig, am I

Standing of bigamy;

Not to say trigamy

Twenty times o’er.

There is no hope escape of;

I’m in for the scrape of

My fate, in the shape of

The year sixty-four.

Then bachelors all, be advised and take warning,

There’s a great deal more danger than many suppose

Who are treating my sad admonition with scorning,

And make bosom friends of their poor bosoms’ foes.

Of their dreams they will wake out

And find the mistake out,

When the fair ones they break out

On Valentine’s Day.

And kneeling before us

Declare they adore us

And sing in a chorus –

‘Be mine, love, I pray!’

This petticoat government’s acts will be terrible,

Over our hearts most tyrannic in sway;

Rings for all fingers and rings for each merry bell,

Their laws insist on for Valentine’s Day.

For there’s no need for angling –

To set the bells jangling –

For white favours dangling,

For bridesmaids a score;

For white orange flowers,

And weddings and dowers,

Since they hold full powers,

Leap Year, sixty-four.

Anonymous, London Society, Volume 5 (1864), p. 176.

30 December - Pirates of Penzance; 6th Day of Christmas

Weather: If the sun shines on the 6^th day of Christmas, there will be much milk.

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Today in 1879, the first performance took place of William S. Gilbert’s and Arthur Sullivan’s opera, “Pirates of Penzance, or, The Slave of Duty”.

While the actual premiere was on New Year’s Eve 1879 in New York, for copyright reasons a ‘performance’ of sorts was held in England the day before.

So, in its honour, I am pouring the Pirate Sherry and enjoying a marathon today of Gilbert & Sullivan comic operas.  For your enjoyment, here is the Major-General’s song from “Pirates of Penzance” (sing along if you are so inclined):

MAJOR-GENERAL STANLEY:

I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,
About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

ALL:
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

MAJOR-GENERAL STANLEY:
I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern Major-General.

MAJOR-GENERAL STANLEY:
I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's;
I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;

I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.

ALL:
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.

MAJOR-GENERAL STANLEY:
Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

ALL:
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern Major-General.

MAJOR-GENERAL STANLEY:
In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",
When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",

When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery--
In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy,
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.

ALL:
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.
You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.

MAJOR-GENERAL STANLEY:
For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

ALL:
But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
He is the very model of a modern Major-General.

12 Days of Christmas, part II

If for some reason, your mentally gifted wonder-of-the-world (at least in his/her own valuation) is bored, why not challenge the 8th wonder to find out just how much it would cost in today's currency to fulfill the terms of the carol "Twelve Days of Christmas".

So on Day 1, find the cost of one partridge and one pear tree.  Don't forget shipping costs and feed. If the partridge is alive, you might need to factor in the cost of a cage.  If you live in a cold climate, factor in a place to keep the pear tree.

Day 2: the cost of two turtle doves (with their cage - they only need one), and one partridge (with its cage), and one pear tree, plus shipping and feed.

Day 3: the cost of three French hens (Cajun hens from Louisiana might do in a pinch), with shipping and feed.  They won't need a cage, but if you don't have suitable accommodations for them, add the cost of renting part of a farm-yard. And everything from Day 2.

Day 4: the cost of four blackbirds (colley birds), plus a cage for them, shipping and feed.  Shipping might be moot if you have a well-attended bird feeder in your yard and are capable of capturing the free-loaders.  Add everything from Day 3.

Day 5: the cost of five ring-necked pheasants (five gold rings), although since most people think the verse refers to jewelry, you can substitute rings instead.  Make sure they are gold.  And of course, everything from Day 4, again.

Day 6: up to now, I don't know that it matters much if the birds are alive or merely look it (if they merely look it, then cages are moot), but here the rules change.  The cost of six geese a-laying (remember your biology, they're females, and if they are a-laying, they are probably short-tempered), plus nesting boxes for them to be a-laying in, plus everything from Day 5.  Need to rent more farm-yard?

Day 7: more fowl.  The cost of seven swans a-swimming, and since they are a-swimming, factor in the cost of something they can a-swim in (possibly the farm-yard has a pond).  Plus everything from Day 6.

Day 8: the cost of eight maids a-milking.  Plus eight cows to milk.  Up until now, the feed has been for the birds.  Factor in the cost of hay for the cows along with shipping, and travel expenses, accommodations and meals for the maids for 5 days.  And everything again from Day 7.

Day 9: the cost of nine ladies dancing.  Depending on how you view your female acquaintance (do they merit the title 'lady'?), you might be able to fill this one at little cost.  Otherwise, travel expenses, accommodations, and meals for 4 days.  Also, the cost of renting a hall or ballroom where they can dance.  And everything from Day 8 (this set of milkmaids will only need 4 days worth of expenses.)

Day 10: the cost of ten lords capable of leaping.  This will be a bit harder, unless you number the younger members of the aristocracy among your friends.  Otherwise, travel, accommodations, and meals for 3 days.  And everything from Day 9 (the ladies and milkmaids will need only 3 days worth of expenses).  The lords can leap in the ballroom, which will be a savings.

Day 11: the cost of eleven pipers piping.  These can be fife pipes, or pan-pipes, or bag-pipes.  Make friends with the Black Watch and the local Philharmonic.  Travel, accommodations, and meals for 2 days.  Factor in a large field or concert hall where they can play, their hourly rate, and rental of instruments if needed.  And everything from Day 10 (the milkmaids, ladies, and lords will need only 2 days worth of expenses)

Day 12: the cost of twelve drummers drumming.  Marching bands are your friends here.  Check with the local high schools.  You may only need to feed them, if they are local enough, plus transportation to and from their schools. Send them out on the field with the pipers.  Add in everything from Day 11. Adjust expenses for the other people accordingly.

By the time you are finished, you will have:
12 drummers
22 pipers
30 lords
36 ladies
40 milkmaids
42 swans
42 geese
either 40 pheasants or 40 rings
36 blackbirds
30 French hens
22 turtle doves
12 partridges, and
12 pear trees.

Good luck.

31 October - "The Bells" Poem and Parody

For Hallowe'en, we present the poem "The Bells" by Edgar Allen Poe -

and a parody by the editors of the Warren Gazette.

(My mother used to read this to me at bedtime - sometimes, bedtime stories were bedtime poems instead - and read it with all the emphasis and feeling that the words demanded, especially Part IV:

"They are neither man nor woman,

They are neither brute nor human,

They are GHOULS!"

I wonder if she was a frustrated actress.)

THE BELLS

I

Hear the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now- now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows:
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-
Of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells,bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron Bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people- ah, the people-
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All Alone
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone-
They are neither man nor woman-
They are neither brute nor human-
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells-
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells-
Of the bells, bells, bells:
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells-
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

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This parody was published in the Warren Gazette, February 16, 1872:

Hear that noisy lot of swells –

            Silly swells!

What a deal of trashy talk their company foretells

How they chatter, chatter, chatter

            In the ballroom of a night!

Making such a fearful clatter

As if something was the matter

            And had put them in a fright,

            Killing time, time, time

            (Never thinking it a crime),

with the foolish conversation to the little laughing belles;

Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells,

While a walking and a talking with the belles.

See those dissipated swells –

Drunken swells!

What a tale of temperance that tipsy tumble tells!

In the startled air of night

            Ringing bells with great delight,

And singing songs with all their might

Although the words they do not quite

            Distinctly utter.

Reeling, reeling, reeling

Standing, sitting, kneeling,

Rolling, rolling, rolling

On their homeward journey strolling

With a resolute endeavor,

Now, now to sit or never,

Side by side with their companions in the gutter.

See those horrid dandy swells –

            Scented swells!

What a world of vapid talk their company compels!

            How disgusting their flirtation

            And affected adoration

            Of every exclamation of the belles.

Oh, maidens, young and single

Lest your ears with pain should tingle

Never listen to the jingle

            Of the swells –

Of the swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells,

To the jingling and the dingling of the swells.