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Updated: May 2, 2025
Bendemeer!" and the Oracle, without knowing which is Bendemeer, takes up the cry feverishly. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!" he yells, waggling his glasses about, trying to see where the animal is. "Where's Royal Scot, Charley? Where's Royal Scot?" screams one of his friends, in agony. "'Ow's he doin'?" "No 'ope!" says the Oracle, with fiendish glee. "Bendemeer! Bendemeer!"
"He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie," is quite as pleasing to the ear in its own way as "There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer stream, And the nightingale sings in it all the night long," is in another way. Browning had an unrivalled ear for this particular kind of staccato music.
But we listened spell-bound and immovable to the passion and pathos with which the singer poured forth the conclusion of his song: "Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul as 'twas then to my eyes Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer." "You scored that time, Mr. O'Moore," said the boatswain.
The big chestnut, in a dogged sort of way, seems to stick his body clear of his opponents, and passes the post a winner by a length. The Oracle doesn't know what has won, but fumbles with his book. The number on the saddle-cloth catches his eye No. 7; he looks hurriedly down the page. No. 7 Royal Scot. Second is No. 24 Bendemeer. Favourite nowhere.
"Don't ye think ye'd be more easy in bed than snorting and sighing there on my sofa, and groaning fit to make me go hang myself?" "I am thinking, Blake," says I, "about Pumpernickel, where old Speck gave you this pipe." "'Deed he did," replies the young man; "and did ye know the old Bar'n?" "I did," said I. "My friend, I have been by the banks of the Bendemeer.
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