VIII

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. 
“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles,
Poke out the nests and block up the holes! 
Consult with carpenters and builders, 150
And leave in our town, not even a trace
Of the rats!”—­when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

IX

A thousand guilders!  The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation, too. 
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, deg.  Moselle, deg.  Vin-de-Grave, deg.  Hock deg.; deg.158
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish deg.. deg.160
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. 
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke 170
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. 
A thousand guilders!  Come, take fifty!”

X

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
“No trifling!  I can’t wait!  Beside,
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s deg. kitchen, deg.179
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:  180
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! 
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe after another fashion.”

XI

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a cook? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald? 
You threaten us, fellow?  Do your worst! 
Blow your pipe there till you burst!” 190

XII

Once more he stept into the street,
  And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
  And ere he blew three notes (such sweet,
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
  Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling;