THE BARD OF BICESTER.
Most of us have in our youth been delighted with the brief but pleasantly flowing narrative of the fate of the lady commemorated in the beautiful lines:-
“There was an Old Tailor of Bicester,
He went out to walk with his sister,
When a bird called a Jay,
Took the old girl away,
Before the old gentleman missed her.”
Many, of course, have been our speculations as to the real characters of this event. When very young, we accepted it in its literality, and as thoroughly believed that the lady had been borne away by the bird, as we believed that Ganymede was carried to Olympus by one eagle, or Teddy O’Rourke to the moon by another. Later in life, we began to reflect that the age of miracles was past, and that for a bird called a jay- which we had seen among our noble father’s ancestral woods, and also at the Zoological Gardens for sixpence (on Mondays)- to carry away a nubile maiden, would be a marvel for which even an anti-Mosaic geologist would hardly have swallow enough. We therefore surmised that the bird was an ardent admirer of the lady’s, and that his name was Jay- not an uncommon name (there was a Reverend Mr. Jay, of Bath, much respected)- and that it was he who had snatched the damsel, playfully called an Old Girl, from the protection of her careless brother. Later still, we decided- as one does in the case of most miraculous stories- that nobody knew whether the tale were true or false, and that it did not much matter which it was. And in that negative atmosphere we reposed.
But a revival of our old sensations has taken place, and a gush of child-like faith has returned upon us, swamping at once our rationalism and our apathy. We have had news from Bicester. Some ignorant persons may want to know where Bicester is. To such- for we must be rude to none- we reply, that Bicester, Bisetter, or Burchester, is in Oxfordshire. It was founded under Birinus (bishop of Caer Dor, which of course is Dorchester), and is noted for its ale. A lively and not over-grown print called the Bicester Herald is an organ of the place, and a highly respectable organ; and Mr. Punch is happy to acknowledge that in the journal in question he has made the discovery that not only is the Sister of the Old Tailor of Bicester still alive, but that she is still blooming in beauty. A young and ardent Bard of Bicester, perhaps the Coming Man of the Age, has just addressed to her some verses which Mr. Punch insists on transplanting from their modest Oxfordshire parterre to his own garden- Paxtonia and Versailles in one. Here they are, in all their grace and beauty:-
To M.
Dear M., I have read with delight in extreme,
The lines dedicated to me,
Which tell of the dreams of happiness,
Thou art wont to indulge in, of me.
“I was not aware, there was ought in the squeeze
Of thy hand, when I parted from thee:
I cannot say that a sign, stray word, or a tear-
Ever fell yet unbidden from me.
“Why should’st thou bear for me this secret love,
Unchanging, deep, and true?
If I were not engaged, perhaps then it might be,
That I would fall on my knees before you.
“Oh! say not woman’s lot is silence-
She has many means to try:-
And oft in muteness gains her point-
To wit- the language of the eye-
“But could’st thou love me then as well-
(Know’st thou? ‘True love changeth not’-
Where I to basely spurn a heart,
And deem it then forgot.
“I trust at Love’s Tribunal when arrainged,
‘Not Guilty’ I shall prove,
Thus convince the world I have not raised.
This charge of unrequited love.”
“Bicester.” ******
At last, then, the veil rises once more on the history of the lovely lady of the song. The jay did her no harm. He restored her to the roof of her sires, and she has resided there in peace. But that peace is now broken. Some one whose name is spelt with six letters- can it be T*pp*r?- has crossed her path, and she has loved him. But, alas! he is “engaged,” and, like a true but gentle knight, he discourages her attentions, and tenderly chides her advances. He “was not aware” that he had given her any encouragement, and he hopes to be able to show that he has not, as, with slight obscurity, he puts it, “raised the charge of unrequited love.” His words may be meaningless, judged by grammar, but they are full of meaning in a legal point of view- it is useless for “M.” to bring an action for breach of promise. Well, well; surely it is better that she should know this at once than be left to feed herself with false hopes, and at length waken from the sweet dream of years to the chill morning of desolation. He of the six stars has gone well not to “fall on his knees”- firstly, because doing so would have spoiled his Sunday trousers, and, secondly, because it would have imperilled the happiness of a life. Sister of the aged Sartor, bear as best thou mayest what the Parcae have sent thee. There may be (to speak as thy brother might) a silver lining to the black cloud. Some other youth may come, with as elegant Sunday trousers and more elegant grammar, and thou mayest “squeeze” his hand, and hot receive a lawyer’s letter in return. Meantime, Punch blesseth thee, for having called up, for him, the memories of his youth, and for having called up, for the Bicester Herald, the most extraordinarily abominable rubbish with which a respectable compositor’s eyes were ever insulter. We now know the very worst a Poet can do.
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