The Cinder King
Who is it that sits in the kitchen and weeps,
While tick goes the clock, and the tabby-cat sleeps,—
That watches the grate, without ceasing to spy
Whether purses or coffins will out of it fly?
’Tis Betty; who saw the false tailor, Bob Scott,
Lead a bride to the altar, which bride she was not.
’Tis Betty, determined love from her to fling,
And woo, for his riches, the dark Cinder-King.
Now spent tallow-candle-grease fattened the soil,
And the blue-burning lamp had half wasted its oil,
And the black-beetle boldly came crawling from far,
And the red coals were sinking beneath the third bar;
When “one!” struck the clock—and instead of the bird
Who used to sing cuckoo whene’er the clock stirred,
Out burst a grim raven, and uttered “caw! caw!”
While Puss, though she woke, durst not put forth a claw.
Then the jack fell a-going as if one should sup,
Then the earth rocked as though it would swallow one up;
With fuel from Hell, a strange coal-scuttle came,
And a self-handled poker made fearful the flame.
A cinder shot from it, of size to amaze,
With a bounce, such as Betty ne’er heard in her days,
Thrice, serpent-like, hissed as its heat fled away,
And, lo! something dark in a vast coffin lay!
“Come, Betty,” quoth croaking that nondescript thing,
“Come, bless the fond arms of your true Cinder-King!
Three more Kings, my brothers, are waiting to greet ye,
Who—don’t take it ill—must at four o’clock eat ye.
“My darling! it must be, do make up your mind;
We element brothers, united, and kind,
Have a feast and a wedding, each night of our lives,
So constantly sup on each other’s new wives.”
In vain squalled the cook-maid, and prayed not to wed;
Cinder crunched in her mouth, cinder rained on her head.
She sank in the coffin with cinders strewn o’er,
And coffin nor Betty saw man any more.
Modern, anon.