Jacques
" Yes, on thy slumber I must break; a stout old bailiff, Jacques,
Is prowling through the village now — his bully at his back:
'Tis for our tax that he has come — alack, poor soul, alack!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Look up, look up, the daylight dawns; I never knew thee fail
To wake before the dawn of day; remember how for sale
They seized upon old Remi's goods, whilst morning yet was pale,
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Not one sou left! good Heavens, 'tis he; I hear him at the gate:
Hark, how the dogs are barking, too! To pay him all our rate,
Ask but a month's delay — oh, if His Majesty could wait!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Poor, wretched creatures, 'tis this tax that strips us bare indeed,
Six young ones have we, and thy sire, and our ownselves to feed —
Thy spade, my distaff, all we have, to help us in our need!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Besides, our rent is raised so high, that one small rood of land,
With this poor hovel, tumbling down, is all we can command:
Manured by Want, its little crop is reaped by Usury's hand
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Hard work, small gains, are ours alone; and as for pork — such cheer
When shall we hope that we can taste, for every thing seems dear
That's good and nourishing? Salt, too, our only sugar here!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Wine — ah, it would revive at times thy strength and spirits well;
But wine to such a fearful price our heavy taxes swell:
Still thou shalt have one draught, dear love — my wedding-ring I'll sell
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" What! can'st thou, Jacques, be dreaming there, by thy good angel's aid,
Revelling in riches and repose? Ah, what are taxes laid
On Wealth? 'tis but some rats the more his granaries invade
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" He's coming in — how's this? O Heavens, I would my fears were vain —
Thou dost not speak — and ah, how pale! last night thou didst complain,
Thou who art wont to bear so much, yet murmur not at pain!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way! "
She calls him; but in vain she calls: 'tis o'er, that care-worn life —
Death's a soft pillow unto those, whom constant toil and strife
Have worn away — O pitying souls, pray for his widowed wife!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
Is prowling through the village now — his bully at his back:
'Tis for our tax that he has come — alack, poor soul, alack!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Look up, look up, the daylight dawns; I never knew thee fail
To wake before the dawn of day; remember how for sale
They seized upon old Remi's goods, whilst morning yet was pale,
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Not one sou left! good Heavens, 'tis he; I hear him at the gate:
Hark, how the dogs are barking, too! To pay him all our rate,
Ask but a month's delay — oh, if His Majesty could wait!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Poor, wretched creatures, 'tis this tax that strips us bare indeed,
Six young ones have we, and thy sire, and our ownselves to feed —
Thy spade, my distaff, all we have, to help us in our need!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Besides, our rent is raised so high, that one small rood of land,
With this poor hovel, tumbling down, is all we can command:
Manured by Want, its little crop is reaped by Usury's hand
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Hard work, small gains, are ours alone; and as for pork — such cheer
When shall we hope that we can taste, for every thing seems dear
That's good and nourishing? Salt, too, our only sugar here!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" Wine — ah, it would revive at times thy strength and spirits well;
But wine to such a fearful price our heavy taxes swell:
Still thou shalt have one draught, dear love — my wedding-ring I'll sell
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" What! can'st thou, Jacques, be dreaming there, by thy good angel's aid,
Revelling in riches and repose? Ah, what are taxes laid
On Wealth? 'tis but some rats the more his granaries invade
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
" He's coming in — how's this? O Heavens, I would my fears were vain —
Thou dost not speak — and ah, how pale! last night thou didst complain,
Thou who art wont to bear so much, yet murmur not at pain!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way! "
She calls him; but in vain she calls: 'tis o'er, that care-worn life —
Death's a soft pillow unto those, whom constant toil and strife
Have worn away — O pitying souls, pray for his widowed wife!
Rouse thee, Jacques, rouse up, I say;
The King's Collector comes this way!
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