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diff --git a/931-0.txt b/931-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..caea7a1 --- /dev/null +++ b/931-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4728 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Bab Ballads, by W. S. Gilbert + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Bab Ballads + + +Author: W. S. Gilbert + + + +Release Date: August 11, 2019 [eBook #931] +[This file was first posted on June 2, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BAB BALLADS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition of “The Bab Ballads” +(also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition) by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + + + THE BAB BALLADS + + + BY + W. S. GILBERT + + [Picture: Baby at piano] + + * * * * * + + MACMILLAN AND CO. LIMITED + ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON + 1920 + + * * * * * + + COPYRIGHT + + _Transferred to Macmillan and Co. Ltd._ 1904 + _Sixth Edition_ 1904 + _Reprinted_ 1906, 1910, 1912, 1914, 1917, 1919, 1920 + + * * * * * + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +CAPTAIN REECE 1 +THE RIVAL CURATES 8 +ONLY A DANCING GIRL 14 +GENERAL JOHN 18 +TO A LITTLE MAID 24 +JOHN AND FREDDY 28 +SIR GUY THE CRUSADER 34 +HAUNTED 39 +THE BISHOP AND THE ’BUSMAN 44 +THE TROUBADOUR 51 +FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA; OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN 58 +LORENZO DE LARDY 64 +DISILLUSIONED 71 +BABETTE’S LOVE 76 +TO MY BRIDE 82 +THE FOLLY OF BROWN 84 +SIR MACKLIN 94 +THE YARN OF THE “NANCY BELL” 101 +THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO 108 +THE PRECOCIOUS BABY 114 +TO PHŒBE 122 +BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN 125 +THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE 131 +THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS 467 +A DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKER 138 +THE PANTOMIME “SUPER” TO HIS MASK 144 +THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT 475 +THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLIN 148 +THE PHANTOM CURATE 484 +THE SENSATION CAPTAIN 492 +TEMPORA MUTANTUR 501 +AT A PANTOMIME 508 +KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO 155 +THE PERIWINKLE GIRL 164 +THOMSON GREEN AND HARRIET HALE 171 +BOB POLTER 176 +THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB 518 +ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN 185 +PETER THE WAG 193 +BEN ALLAH ACHMET; OR, THE FATAL TUM 549 +THE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOO 200 +JOE GOLIGHTLY; OR, THE FIRST LORD’S DAUGHTER 528 +TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE 539 +GENTLE ALICE BROWN 205 + + + +CAPTAIN REECE + + + OF all the ships upon the blue, + No ship contained a better crew + Than that of worthy CAPTAIN REECE, + Commanding of _The Mantelpiece_. + + He was adored by all his men, + For worthy CAPTAIN REECE, R.N., + Did all that lay within him to + Promote the comfort of his crew. + + If ever they were dull or sad, + Their captain danced to them like mad, + Or told, to make the time pass by, + Droll legends of his infancy. + + A feather bed had every man, + Warm slippers and hot-water can, + Brown windsor from the captain’s store, + A valet, too, to every four. + + Did they with thirst in summer burn, + Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, + And on all very sultry days + Cream ices handed round on trays. + + Then currant wine and ginger pops + Stood handily on all the “tops;” + And also, with amusement rife, + A “Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life.” + + New volumes came across the sea + From MISTER MUDIE’S libraree; + _The Times_ and _Saturday Review_ + Beguiled the leisure of the crew. + + Kind-hearted CAPTAIN REECE, R.N., + Was quite devoted to his men; + In point of fact, good CAPTAIN REECE + Beatified _The Mantelpiece_. + + One summer eve, at half-past ten, + He said (addressing all his men): + “Come, tell me, please, what I can do + To please and gratify my crew. + + “By any reasonable plan + I’ll make you happy if I can; + My own convenience count as _nil_: + It is my duty, and I will.” + + Then up and answered WILLIAM LEE + (The kindly captain’s coxswain he, + A nervous, shy, low-spoken man), + He cleared his throat and thus began: + + “You have a daughter, CAPTAIN REECE, + Ten female cousins and a niece, + A Ma, if what I’m told is true, + Six sisters, and an aunt or two. + + “Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, + More friendly-like we all should be, + If you united of ’em to + Unmarried members of the crew. + + “If you’d ameliorate our life, + Let each select from them a wife; + And as for nervous me, old pal, + Give me your own enchanting gal!” + + Good CAPTAIN REECE, that worthy man, + Debated on his coxswain’s plan: + “I quite agree,” he said, “O BILL; + It is my duty, and I will. + + “My daughter, that enchanting gurl, + Has just been promised to an Earl, + And all my other familee + To peers of various degree. + + “But what are dukes and viscounts to + The happiness of all my crew? + The word I gave you I’ll fulfil; + It is my duty, and I will. + + “As you desire it shall befall, + I’ll settle thousands on you all, + And I shall be, despite my hoard, + The only bachelor on board.” + + The boatswain of _The Mantelpiece_, + He blushed and spoke to CAPTAIN REECE: + “I beg your honour’s leave,” he said; + “If you would wish to go and wed, + + “I have a widowed mother who + Would be the very thing for you— + She long has loved you from afar: + She washes for you, CAPTAIN R.” + + The Captain saw the dame that day— + Addressed her in his playful way— + “And did it want a wedding ring? + It was a tempting ickle sing! + + “Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, + We’ll all be married this day week + At yonder church upon the hill; + It is my duty, and I will!” + + The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, + And widowed Ma of CAPTAIN REECE, + Attended there as they were bid; + It was their duty, and they did. + + + + +THE RIVAL CURATES + + + LIST while the poet trolls + Of MR. CLAYTON HOOPER, + Who had a cure of souls + At Spiffton-extra-Sooper. + + He lived on curds and whey, + And daily sang their praises, + And then he’d go and play + With buttercups and daisies. + + Wild croquêt HOOPER banned, + And all the sports of Mammon, + He warred with cribbage, and + He exorcised backgammon. + + His helmet was a glance + That spoke of holy gladness; + A saintly smile his lance; + His shield a tear of sadness. + + His Vicar smiled to see + This armour on him buckled: + With pardonable glee + He blessed himself and chuckled. + + “In mildness to abound + My curate’s sole design is; + In all the country round + There’s none so mild as mine is!” + + And HOOPER, disinclined + His trumpet to be blowing, + Yet didn’t think you’d find + A milder curate going. + + A friend arrived one day + At Spiffton-extra-Sooper, + And in this shameful way + He spoke to MR. HOOPER: + + “You think your famous name + For mildness can’t be shaken, + That none can blot your fame— + But, HOOPER, you’re mistaken! + + “Your mind is not as blank + As that of HOPLEY PORTER, + Who holds a curate’s rank + At Assesmilk-cum-Worter. + + “_He_ plays the airy flute, + And looks depressed and blighted, + Doves round about him ‘toot,’ + And lambkins dance delighted. + + “_He_ labours more than you + At worsted work, and frames it; + In old maids’ albums, too, + Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!” + + The tempter said his say, + Which pierced him like a needle— + He summoned straight away + His sexton and his beadle. + + (These men were men who could + Hold liberal opinions: + On Sundays they were good— + On week-days they were minions.) + + “To HOPLEY PORTER go, + Your fare I will afford you— + Deal him a deadly blow, + And blessings shall reward you. + + “But stay—I do not like + Undue assassination, + And so before you strike, + Make this communication: + + “I’ll give him this one chance— + If he’ll more gaily bear him, + Play croquêt, smoke, and dance, + I willingly will spare him.” + + They went, those minions true, + To Assesmilk-cum-Worter, + And told their errand to + The REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER. + + “What?” said that reverend gent, + “Dance through my hours of leisure? + Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?— + Play croquêt? Oh, with pleasure! + + “Wear all my hair in curl? + Stand at my door and wink—so— + At every passing girl? + My brothers, I should think so! + + “For years I’ve longed for some + Excuse for this revulsion: + Now that excuse has come— + I do it on compulsion!!!” + + He smoked and winked away— + This REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER— + The deuce there was to pay + At Assesmilk-cum-Worter. + + And HOOPER holds his ground, + In mildness daily growing— + They think him, all around, + The mildest curate going. + + + + +ONLY A DANCING GIRL + + + ONLY a dancing girl, + With an unromantic style, + With borrowed colour and curl, + With fixed mechanical smile, + With many a hackneyed wile, + With ungrammatical lips, + And corns that mar her trips. + + Hung from the “flies” in air, + She acts a palpable lie, + She’s as little a fairy there + As unpoetical I! + I hear you asking, Why— + Why in the world I sing + This tawdry, tinselled thing? + + No airy fairy she, + As she hangs in arsenic green + From a highly impossible tree + In a highly impossible scene + (Herself not over-clean). + For fays don’t suffer, I’m told, + From bunions, coughs, or cold. + + And stately dames that bring + Their daughters there to see, + Pronounce the “dancing thing” + No better than she should be, + With her skirt at her shameful knee, + And her painted, tainted phiz: + Ah, matron, which of us is? + + (And, in sooth, it oft occurs + That while these matrons sigh, + Their dresses are lower than hers, + And sometimes half as high; + And their hair is hair they buy, + And they use their glasses, too, + In a way she’d blush to do.) + + But change her gold and green + For a coarse merino gown, + And see her upon the scene + Of her home, when coaxing down + Her drunken father’s frown, + In his squalid cheerless den: + She’s a fairy truly, then! + + + + +GENERAL JOHN + + + THE bravest names for fire and flames + And all that mortal durst, + Were GENERAL JOHN and PRIVATE JAMES, + Of the Sixty-seventy-first. + + GENERAL JOHN was a soldier tried, + A chief of warlike dons; + A haughty stride and a withering pride + Were MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN’S. + + A sneer would play on his martial phiz, + Superior birth to show; + “Pish!” was a favourite word of his, + And he often said “Ho! ho!” + + FULL-PRIVATE JAMES described might be, + As a man of a mournful mind; + No characteristic trait had he + Of any distinctive kind. + + From the ranks, one day, cried PRIVATE JAMES, + “Oh! MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN, + I’ve doubts of our respective names, + My mournful mind upon. + + “A glimmering thought occurs to me + (Its source I can’t unearth), + But I’ve a kind of a notion we + Were cruelly changed at birth. + + “I’ve a strange idea that each other’s names + We’ve each of us here got on. + Such things have been,” said PRIVATE JAMES. + “They have!” sneered GENERAL JOHN. + + “My GENERAL JOHN, I swear upon + My oath I think ’tis so—” + “Pish!” proudly sneered his GENERAL JOHN, + And he also said “Ho! ho!” + + “My GENERAL JOHN! my GENERAL JOHN! + My GENERAL JOHN!” quoth he, + “This aristocratical sneer upon + Your face I blush to see! + + “No truly great or generous cove + Deserving of them names, + Would sneer at a fixed idea that’s drove + In the mind of a PRIVATE JAMES!” + + Said GENERAL JOHN, “Upon your claims + No need your breath to waste; + If this is a joke, FULL-PRIVATE JAMES, + It’s a joke of doubtful taste. + + “But, being a man of doubtless worth, + If you feel certain quite + That we were probably changed at birth, + I’ll venture to say you’re right.” + + So GENERAL JOHN as PRIVATE JAMES + Fell in, parade upon; + And PRIVATE JAMES, by change of names, + Was MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN. + + + + +TO A LITTLE MAID +BY A POLICEMAN + + + COME with me, little maid, + Nay, shrink not, thus afraid— + I’ll harm thee not! + Fly not, my love, from me— + I have a home for thee— + A fairy grot, + Where mortal eye + Can rarely pry, + There shall thy dwelling be! + + List to me, while I tell + The pleasures of that cell, + Oh, little maid! + What though its couch be rude, + Homely the only food + Within its shade? + No thought of care + Can enter there, + No vulgar swain intrude! + + Come with me, little maid, + Come to the rocky shade + I love to sing; + Live with us, maiden rare— + Come, for we “want” thee there, + Thou elfin thing, + To work thy spell, + In some cool cell + In stately Pentonville! + + + + +JOHN AND FREDDY + + + JOHN courted lovely MARY ANN, + So likewise did his brother, FREDDY. + FRED was a very soft young man, + While JOHN, though quick, was most unsteady. + + FRED was a graceful kind of youth, + But JOHN was very much the strongest. + “Oh, dance away,” said she, “in truth, + I’ll marry him who dances longest.” + + JOHN tries the maiden’s taste to strike + With gay, grotesque, outrageous dresses, + And dances comically, like + CLODOCHE AND CO., at the Princess’s. + + But FREDDY tries another style, + He knows some graceful steps and does ’em— + A breathing Poem—Woman’s smile— + A man all poesy and buzzem. + + Now FREDDY’S operatic _pas_— + Now JOHNNY’S hornpipe seems entrapping: + Now FREDDY’S graceful _entrechats_— + Now JOHNNY’S skilful “cellar-flapping.” + + For many hours—for many days— + For many weeks performed each brother, + For each was active in his ways, + And neither would give in to t’other. + + After a month of this, they say + (The maid was getting bored and moody) + A wandering curate passed that way + And talked a lot of goody-goody. + + “Oh my,” said he, with solemn frown, + “I tremble for each dancing _frater_, + Like unregenerated clown + And harlequin at some the-ayter.” + + He showed that men, in dancing, do + Both impiously and absurdly, + And proved his proposition true, + With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly. + + For months both JOHN and FREDDY danced, + The curate’s protests little heeding; + For months the curate’s words enhanced + The sinfulness of their proceeding. + + At length they bowed to Nature’s rule— + Their steps grew feeble and unsteady, + Till FREDDY fainted on a stool, + And JOHNNY on the top of FREDDY. + + “Decide!” quoth they, “let him be named, + Who henceforth as his wife may rank you.” + “I’ve changed my views,” the maiden said, + “I only marry curates, thank you!” + + Says FREDDY, “Here is goings on! + To bust myself with rage I’m ready.” + “I’ll be a curate!” whispers JOHN— + “And I,” exclaimed poetic FREDDY. + + But while they read for it, these chaps, + The curate booked the maiden bonny— + And when she’s buried him, perhaps, + She’ll marry FREDERICK or JOHNNY. + + + + +SIR GUY THE CRUSADER + + + SIR GUY was a doughty crusader, + A muscular knight, + Ever ready to fight, + A very determined invader, + And DICKEY DE LION’S delight. + + LENORE was a Saracen maiden, + Brunette, statuesque, + The reverse of grotesque, + Her pa was a bagman from Aden, + Her mother she played in burlesque. + + A _coryphée_, pretty and loyal, + In amber and red + The ballet she led; + Her mother performed at the Royal, + LENORE at the Saracen’s Head. + + Of face and of figure majestic, + She dazzled the cits— + Ecstaticised pits;— + Her troubles were only domestic, + But drove her half out of her wits. + + Her father incessantly lashed her, + On water and bread + She was grudgingly fed; + Whenever her father he thrashed her + Her mother sat down on her head. + + GUY saw her, and loved her, with reason, + For beauty so bright + Sent him mad with delight; + He purchased a stall for the season, + And sat in it every night. + + His views were exceedingly proper, + He wanted to wed, + So he called at her shed + And saw her progenitor whop her— + Her mother sit down on her head. + + “So pretty,” said he, “and so trusting! + You brute of a dad, + You unprincipled cad, + Your conduct is really disgusting, + Come, come, now admit it’s too bad! + + “You’re a turbaned old Turk, and malignant— + Your daughter LENORE + I intensely adore, + And I cannot help feeling indignant, + A fact that I hinted before; + + “To see a fond father employing + A deuce of a knout + For to bang her about, + To a sensitive lover’s annoying.” + Said the bagman, “Crusader, get out.” + + Says GUY, “Shall a warrior laden + With a big spiky knob, + Sit in peace on his cob + While a beautiful Saracen maiden + Is whipped by a Saracen snob? + + “To London I’ll go from my charmer.” + Which he did, with his loot + (Seven hats and a flute), + And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour + At MR. BEN-SAMUEL’S suit. + + SIR GUY he was lodged in the Compter, + Her pa, in a rage, + Died (don’t know his age), + His daughter, she married the prompter, + Grew bulky and quitted the stage. + + + + +HAUNTED + + + HAUNTED? Ay, in a social way + By a body of ghosts in dread array; + But no conventional spectres they— + Appalling, grim, and tricky: + I quail at mine as I’d never quail + At a fine traditional spectre pale, + With a turnip head and a ghostly wail, + And a splash of blood on the dickey! + + Mine are horrible, social ghosts,— + Speeches and women and guests and hosts, + Weddings and morning calls and toasts, + In every bad variety: + Ghosts who hover about the grave + Of all that’s manly, free, and brave: + You’ll find their names on the architrave + Of that charnel-house, Society. + + Black Monday—black as its school-room ink— + With its dismal boys that snivel and think + Of its nauseous messes to eat and drink, + And its frozen tank to wash in. + That was the first that brought me grief, + And made me weep, till I sought relief + In an emblematical handkerchief, + To choke such baby bosh in. + + First and worst in the grim array— + Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way, + Which I wouldn’t revive for a single day + For all the wealth of PLUTUS— + Are the horrible ghosts that school-days scared: + If the classical ghost that BRUTUS dared + Was the ghost of his “Cæsar” unprepared, + I’m sure I pity BRUTUS. + + I pass to critical seventeen; + The ghost of that terrible wedding scene, + When an elderly Colonel stole my Queen, + And woke my dream of heaven. + No schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room curls + Was my gushing innocent Queen of Pearls; + If she wasn’t a girl of a thousand girls, + She was one of forty-seven! + + I see the ghost of my first cigar, + Of the thence-arising family jar— + Of my maiden brief (I was at the Bar, + And I called the Judge “Your wushup!”) + Of reckless days and reckless nights, + With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights, + Unholy songs and tipsy fights, + Which I strove in vain to hush up. + + Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks, + Ghosts of “copy, declined with thanks,” + Of novels returned in endless ranks, + And thousands more, I suffer. + The only line to fitly grace + My humble tomb, when I’ve run my race, + Is, “Reader, this is the resting-place + Of an unsuccessful duffer.” + + I’ve fought them all, these ghosts of mine, + But the weapons I’ve used are sighs and brine, + And now that I’m nearly forty-nine, + Old age is my chiefest bogy; + For my hair is thinning away at the crown, + And the silver fights with the worn-out brown; + And a general verdict sets me down + As an irreclaimable fogy. + + + + +THE BISHOP AND THE ’BUSMAN + + + IT was a Bishop bold, + And London was his see, + He was short and stout and round about + And zealous as could be. + + It also was a Jew, + Who drove a Putney ’bus— + For flesh of swine however fine + He did not care a cuss. + + His name was HASH BAZ BEN, + And JEDEDIAH too, + And SOLOMON and ZABULON— + This ’bus-directing Jew. + + The Bishop said, said he, + “I’ll see what I can do + To Christianise and make you wise, + You poor benighted Jew.” + + So every blessed day + That ’bus he rode outside, + From Fulham town, both up and down, + And loudly thus he cried: + + “His name is HASH BAZ BEN, + And JEDEDIAH too, + And SOLOMON and ZABULON— + This ’bus-directing Jew.” + + At first the ’busman smiled, + And rather liked the fun— + He merely smiled, that Hebrew child, + And said, “Eccentric one!” + + And gay young dogs would wait + To see the ’bus go by + (These gay young dogs, in striking togs), + To hear the Bishop cry: + + “Observe his grisly beard, + His race it clearly shows, + He sticks no fork in ham or pork— + Observe, my friends, his nose. + + “His name is HASH BAZ BEN, + And JEDEDIAH too, + And SOLOMON and ZABULON— + This ’bus-directing Jew.” + + But though at first amused, + Yet after seven years, + This Hebrew child got rather riled, + And melted into tears. + + He really almost feared + To leave his poor abode, + His nose, and name, and beard became + A byword on that road. + + At length he swore an oath, + The reason he would know— + “I’ll call and see why ever he + Does persecute me so!” + + The good old Bishop sat + On his ancestral chair, + The ’busman came, sent up his name, + And laid his grievance bare. + + “Benighted Jew,” he said + (The good old Bishop did), + “Be Christian, you, instead of Jew— + Become a Christian kid! + + “I’ll ne’er annoy you more.” + “Indeed?” replied the Jew; + “Shall I be freed?” “You will, indeed!” + Then “Done!” said he, “with you!” + + The organ which, in man, + Between the eyebrows grows, + Fell from his face, and in its place + He found a Christian nose. + + His tangled Hebrew beard, + Which to his waist came down, + Was now a pair of whiskers fair— + His name ADOLPHUS BROWN! + + He wedded in a year + That prelate’s daughter JANE, + He’s grown quite fair—has auburn hair— + His wife is far from plain. + + + + +THE TROUBADOUR + + + A TROUBADOUR he played + Without a castle wall, + Within, a hapless maid + Responded to his call. + + “Oh, willow, woe is me! + Alack and well-a-day! + If I were only free + I’d hie me far away!” + + Unknown her face and name, + But this he knew right well, + The maiden’s wailing came + From out a dungeon cell. + + A hapless woman lay + Within that dungeon grim— + That fact, I’ve heard him say, + Was quite enough for him. + + “I will not sit or lie, + Or eat or drink, I vow, + Till thou art free as I, + Or I as pent as thou.” + + Her tears then ceased to flow, + Her wails no longer rang, + And tuneful in her woe + The prisoned maiden sang: + + “Oh, stranger, as you play, + I recognize your touch; + And all that I can say + Is, thank you very much.” + + He seized his clarion straight, + And blew thereat, until + A warden oped the gate. + “Oh, what might be your will?” + + “I’ve come, Sir Knave, to see + The master of these halls: + A maid unwillingly + Lies prisoned in their walls.”’ + + With barely stifled sigh + That porter drooped his head, + With teardrops in his eye, + “A many, sir,” he said. + + He stayed to hear no more, + But pushed that porter by, + And shortly stood before + SIR HUGH DE PECKHAM RYE. + + SIR HUGH he darkly frowned, + “What would you, sir, with me?” + The troubadour he downed + Upon his bended knee. + + “I’ve come, DE PECKHAM RYE, + To do a Christian task; + You ask me what would I? + It is not much I ask. + + “Release these maidens, sir, + Whom you dominion o’er— + Particularly her + Upon the second floor. + + “And if you don’t, my lord”— + He here stood bolt upright, + And tapped a tailor’s sword— + “Come out, you cad, and fight!” + + SIR HUGH he called—and ran + The warden from the gate: + “Go, show this gentleman + The maid in Forty-eight.” + + By many a cell they past, + And stopped at length before + A portal, bolted fast: + The man unlocked the door. + + He called inside the gate + With coarse and brutal shout, + “Come, step it, Forty-eight!” + And Forty-eight stepped out. + + “They gets it pretty hot, + The maidens what we cotch— + Two years this lady’s got + For collaring a wotch.” + + “Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,” + The troubadour exclaimed— + “If I may make so free, + How is this castle named?” + + The warden’s eyelids fill, + And sighing, he replied, + “Of gloomy Pentonville + This is the female side!” + + The minstrel did not wait + The Warden stout to thank, + But recollected straight + He’d business at the Bank. + + + + +FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA +OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN + + +PART I. + + + AT a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper + One whom I will call ELVIRA, and we talked of love and TUPPER, + + MR. TUPPER and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing, + For I’ve always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling. + + Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto, + And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to. + + Then she whispered, “To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking; + If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking.” + + There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins, + There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens. + + Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing, + Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing. + + Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle, + Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle. + + So I whispered, “Dear ELVIRA, say,—what can the matter be with you? + Does anything you’ve eaten, darling POPSY, disagree with you?” + + But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing, + And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing. + + Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me, + And she whispered, “FERDINANDO, do you really, _really_ love me?” + + “Love you?” said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly— + For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly. + + “Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure, + On a scientific goose-chase, with my COXWELL or my GLAISHER! + + “Tell me whither I may hie me—tell me, dear one, that I may know— + Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?” + + But she said, “It isn’t polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes: + Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!” + + + +PART II. + + + “Tell me, HENRY WADSWORTH, ALFRED POET CLOSE, or MISTER TUPPER, + Do you write the bon bon mottoes my ELVIRA pulls at supper?” + + But HENRY WADSWORTH smiled, and said he had not had that honour; + And ALFRED, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her. + + “MISTER MARTIN TUPPER, POET CLOSE, I beg of you inform us;” + But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous. + + MISTER CLOSE expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me; + And MISTER MARTIN TUPPER sent the following reply to me: + + “A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,”— + Which I know was very clever; but I didn’t understand it. + + Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway, + Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway. + + There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle, + So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle. + + He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy, + And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy. + + And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter + hearty— + He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party. + + And I said, “O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? + Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?” + + But he answered, “I’m so happy—no profession could be dearer— + If I am not humming ‘Tra! la! la!’ I’m singing ‘Tirer, lirer!’ + + “First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies, + Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is; + + “Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers; + Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers.”— + + “Found at last!” I madly shouted. “Gentle pieman, you astound me!” + Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me. + + And I shouted and I danced until he’d quite a crowd around him— + And I rushed away exclaiming, “I have found him! I have found him!” + + And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling, + “‘Tira, lira!’ stop him, stop him! ‘Tra! la! la!’ the soup’s a + shilling!” + + But until I reached ELVIRA’S home, I never, never waited, + And ELVIRA to her FERDINAND’S irrevocably mated! + + + + +LORENZO DE LARDY + + + DALILAH DE DARDY adored + The very correctest of cards, + LORENZO DE LARDY, a lord— + He was one of Her Majesty’s Guards. + + DALILAH DE DARDY was fat, + DALILAH DE DARDY was old— + (No doubt in the world about that) + But DALILAH DE DARDY had gold. + + LORENZO DE LARDY was tall, + The flower of maidenly pets, + Young ladies would love at his call, + But LORENZO DE LARDY had debts. + + His money-position was queer, + And one of his favourite freaks + Was to hide himself three times a year, + In Paris, for several weeks. + + Many days didn’t pass him before + He fanned himself into a flame, + For a beautiful “DAM DU COMPTWORE,” + And this was her singular name: + + ALICE EULALIE CORALINE + EUPHROSINE COLOMBINA THÉRÈSE + JULIETTE STEPHANIE CELESTINE + CHARLOTTE RUSSE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE. + + She booked all the orders and tin, + Accoutred in showy fal-lal, + At a two-fifty Restaurant, in + The glittering Palais Royal. + + He’d gaze in her orbit of blue, + Her hand he would tenderly squeeze, + But the words of her tongue that he knew + Were limited strictly to these: + + “CORALINE CELESTINE EULALIE, + Houp là! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo, + Combien donnez moi aujourd’hui + Bonjour, Mademoiselle, parlez voo.” + + MADEMOISELLE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE + Was a witty and beautiful miss, + Extremely correct in her ways, + But her English consisted of this: + + “Oh my! pretty man, if you please, + Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb, + Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese, + Rosbif, me spik Angleesh, godam.” + + A waiter, for seasons before, + Had basked in her beautiful gaze, + And burnt to dismember MILOR, + _He loved_ DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE. + + He said to her, “Méchante THÉRÈSE, + Avec désespoir tu m’accables. + Penses-tu, DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE, + Ses intentions sont honorables? + + “Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu ôses— + Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère, + _Je lui dirai de quoi l’on compose_ + _Vol au vent à la Financière_!” + + LORD LARDY knew nothing of this— + The waiter’s devotion ignored, + But he gazed on the beautiful miss, + And never seemed weary or bored. + + The waiter would screw up his nerve, + His fingers he’d snap and he’d dance— + And LORD LARDY would smile and observe, + “How strange are the customs of France!” + + Well, after delaying a space, + His tradesmen no longer would wait: + Returning to England apace, + He yielded himself to his fate. + + LORD LARDY espoused, with a groan, + MISS DARDY’S developing charms, + And agreed to tag on to his own, + Her name and her newly-found arms. + + The waiter he knelt at the toes + Of an ugly and thin coryphée, + Who danced in the hindermost rows + At the Théatre des Variétés. + + MADEMOISELLE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE + Didn’t yield to a gnawing despair + But married a soldier, and plays + As a pretty and pert Vivandière. + + + + +DISILLUSIONED +BY AN EX-ENTHUSIAST + + + OH, that my soul its gods could see + As years ago they seemed to me + When first I painted them; + Invested with the circumstance + Of old conventional romance: + Exploded theorem! + + The bard who could, all men above, + Inflame my soul with songs of love, + And, with his verse, inspire + The craven soul who feared to die + With all the glow of chivalry + And old heroic fire; + + I found him in a beerhouse tap + Awaking from a gin-born nap, + With pipe and sloven dress; + Amusing chums, who fooled his bent, + With muddy, maudlin sentiment, + And tipsy foolishness! + + The novelist, whose painting pen + To legions of fictitious men + A real existence lends, + Brain-people whom we rarely fail, + Whene’er we hear their names, to hail + As old and welcome friends; + + I found in clumsy snuffy suit, + In seedy glove, and blucher boot, + Uncomfortably big. + Particularly commonplace, + With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face, + And spectacles and wig. + + My favourite actor who, at will, + With mimic woe my eyes could fill + With unaccustomed brine: + A being who appeared to me + (Before I knew him well) to be + A song incarnadine; + + I found a coarse unpleasant man + With speckled chin—unhealthy, wan— + Of self-importance full: + Existing in an atmosphere + That reeked of gin and pipes and beer— + Conceited, fractious, dull. + + The warrior whose ennobled name + Is woven with his country’s fame, + Triumphant over all, + I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear; + His province seemed to be, to leer + At bonnets in Pall Mall. + + Would that ye always shone, who write, + Bathed in your own innate limelight, + And ye who battles wage, + Or that in darkness I had died + Before my soul had ever sighed + To see you off the stage! + + + + +BABETTE’S LOVE + + + BABETTE she was a fisher gal, + With jupon striped and cap in crimps. + She passed her days inside the Halle, + Or catching little nimble shrimps. + Yet she was sweet as flowers in May, + With no professional bouquet. + + JACOT was, of the Customs bold, + An officer, at gay Boulogne, + He loved BABETTE—his love he told, + And sighed, “Oh, soyez vous my own!” + But “Non!” said she, “JACOT, my pet, + Vous êtes trop scraggy pour BABETTE. + + “Of one alone I nightly dream, + An able mariner is he, + And gaily serves the Gen’ral Steam- + Boat Navigation Companee. + I’ll marry him, if he but will— + His name, I rather think, is BILL. + + “I see him when he’s not aware, + Upon our hospitable coast, + Reclining with an easy air + Upon the _Port_ against a post, + A-thinking of, I’ll dare to say, + His native Chelsea far away!” + + “Oh, mon!” exclaimed the Customs bold, + “Mes yeux!” he said (which means “my eye”) + “Oh, chère!” he also cried, I’m told, + “Par Jove,” he added, with a sigh. + “Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove! + Je n’aime pas cet enticing cove!” + + The _Panther’s_ captain stood hard by, + He was a man of morals strict + If e’er a sailor winked his eye, + Straightway he had that sailor licked, + Mast-headed all (such was his code) + Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed. + + He wept to think a tar of his + Should lean so gracefully on posts, + He sighed and sobbed to think of this, + On foreign, French, and friendly coasts. + “It’s human natur’, p’raps—if so, + Oh, isn’t human natur’ low!” + + He called his BILL, who pulled his curl, + He said, “My BILL, I understand + You’ve captivated some young gurl + On this here French and foreign land. + Her tender heart your beauties jog— + They do, you know they do, you dog. + + “You have a graceful way, I learn, + Of leaning airily on posts, + By which you’ve been and caused to burn + A tender flame on these here coasts. + A fisher gurl, I much regret,— + Her age, sixteen—her name, BABETTE. + + “You’ll marry her, you gentle tar— + Your union I myself will bless, + And when you matrimonied are, + I will appoint her stewardess.” + But WILLIAM hitched himself and sighed, + And cleared his throat, and thus replied: + + “Not so: unless you’re fond of strife, + You’d better mind your own affairs, + I have an able-bodied wife + Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs; + If all this here to her I tell, + She’ll larrup you and me as well. + + “Skin-deep, and valued at a pin, + Is beauty such as VENUS owns— + _Her_ beauty is beneath her skin, + And lies in layers on her bones. + The other sailors of the crew + They always calls her ‘Whopping Sue!’” + + “Oho!” the Captain said, “I see! + And is she then so very strong?” + “She’d take your honour’s scruff,” said he + “And pitch you over to Bolong!” + “I pardon you,” the Captain said, + “The fair BABETTE you needn’t wed.” + + Perhaps the Customs had his will, + And coaxed the scornful girl to wed, + Perhaps the Captain and his BILL, + And WILLIAM’S little wife are dead; + Or p’raps they’re all alive and well: + I cannot, cannot, cannot tell. + + + + +TO MY BRIDE +(WHOEVER SHE MAY BE) + + + OH! little maid!—(I do not know your name + Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution + I’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame! + (As one of these must be your present portion) + Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you, + And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you. + + You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain— + A bachelor of _circa_ two and thirty: + Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain, + And when you’re intimate, you’ll call him “BERTIE.” + Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified + As hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified. + + You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar, + After a touch at two or three professions, + From easy affluence extremely far, + A brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions; + A pound or two from whist and backing horses, + And, say three hundred from his own resources. + + Quiet in harness; free from serious vice, + His faults are not particularly shady, + You’ll never find him “_shy_”—for, once or twice + Already, he’s been driven by a lady, + Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him— + Because she hasn’t any further use for him. + + Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair! + Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden, + I’ve told _your_ fortune; solved the gravest care + With which your mind has hitherto been laden. + I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it; + Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it! + + You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will, + To whom I’m destined shortly to be mated, + Will she run up a heavy _modiste’s_ bill? + If so, I want to hear her income stated + (This is a point which interests me greatly). + To quote the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?” + + Say, must I wait till husband number one + Is comfortably stowed away at Woking? + How is her hair most usually done? + And tell me, please, will she object to smoking? + The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention: + Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all attention. + + + + +THE FOLLY OF BROWN +BY A GENERAL AGENT + + + I KNEW a boor—a clownish card + (His only friends were pigs and cows and + The poultry of a small farmyard), + Who came into two hundred thousand. + + Good fortune worked no change in BROWN, + Though she’s a mighty social chymist; + He was a clown—and by a clown + I do not mean a pantomimist. + + It left him quiet, calm, and cool, + Though hardly knowing what a crown was— + You can’t imagine what a fool + Poor rich uneducated BROWN was! + + He scouted all who wished to come + And give him monetary schooling; + And I propose to give you some + Idea of his insensate fooling. + + I formed a company or two— + (Of course I don’t know what the rest meant, + I formed them solely with a view + To help him to a sound investment). + + Their objects were—their only cares— + To justify their Boards in showing + A handsome dividend on shares + And keep their good promoter going. + + But no—the lout sticks to his brass, + Though shares at par I freely proffer: + Yet—will it be believed?—the ass + Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer! + + He adds, with bumpkin’s stolid grin + (A weakly intellect denoting), + He’d rather not invest it in + A company of my promoting! + + “You have two hundred ‘thou’ or more,” + Said I. “You’ll waste it, lose it, lend it; + Come, take my furnished second floor, + I’ll gladly show you how to spend it.” + + But will it be believed that he, + With grin upon his face of poppy, + Declined my aid, while thanking me + For what he called my “philanthroppy”? + + Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice + In doubting friends who wouldn’t harm them; + They will not hear the charmer’s voice, + However wisely he may charm them! + + I showed him that his coat, all dust, + Top boots and cords provoked compassion, + And proved that men of station must + Conform to the decrees of fashion. + + I showed him where to buy his hat + To coat him, trouser him, and boot him; + But no—he wouldn’t hear of that— + “He didn’t think the style would suit him!” + + I offered him a county seat, + And made no end of an oration; + I made it certainty complete, + And introduced the deputation. + + But no—the clown my prospect blights— + (The worth of birth it surely teaches!) + “Why should I want to spend my nights + In Parliament, a-making speeches? + + “I haven’t never been to school— + I ain’t had not no eddication— + And I should surely be a fool + To publish that to all the nation!” + + I offered him a trotting horse— + No hack had ever trotted faster— + I also offered him, of course, + A rare and curious “old master.” + + I offered to procure him weeds— + Wines fit for one in his position— + But, though an ass in all his deeds, + He’d learnt the meaning of “commission.” + + He called me “thief” the other day, + And daily from his door he thrusts me; + Much more of this, and soon I may + Begin to think that BROWN mistrusts me. + + So deaf to all sound Reason’s rule + This poor uneducated clown is, + You can_not_ fancy what a fool + Poor rich uneducated BROWN is. + + + + +SIR MACKLIN + + + OF all the youths I ever saw + None were so wicked, vain, or silly, + So lost to shame and Sabbath law, + As worldly TOM, and BOB, and BILLY. + + For every Sabbath day they walked + (Such was their gay and thoughtless natur) + In parks or gardens, where they talked + From three to six, or even later. + + SIR MACKLIN was a priest severe + In conduct and in conversation, + It did a sinner good to hear + Him deal in ratiocination. + + He could in every action show + Some sin, and nobody could doubt him. + He argued high, he argued low, + He also argued round about him. + + He wept to think each thoughtless youth + Contained of wickedness a skinful, + And burnt to teach the awful truth, + That walking out on Sunday’s sinful. + + “Oh, youths,” said he, “I grieve to find + The course of life you’ve been and hit on— + Sit down,” said he, “and never mind + The pennies for the chairs you sit on. + + “My opening head is ‘Kensington,’ + How walking there the sinner hardens, + Which when I have enlarged upon, + I go to ‘Secondly’—its ‘Gardens.’ + + “My ‘Thirdly’ comprehendeth ‘Hyde,’ + Of Secresy the guilts and shameses; + My ‘Fourthly’—‘Park’—its verdure wide— + My ‘Fifthly’ comprehends ‘St. James’s.’ + + “That matter settled, I shall reach + The ‘Sixthly’ in my solemn tether, + And show that what is true of each, + Is also true of all, together. + + “Then I shall demonstrate to you, + According to the rules of WHATELY, + That what is true of all, is true + Of each, considered separately.” + + In lavish stream his accents flow, + TOM, BOB, and BILLY dare not flout him; + He argued high, he argued low, + He also argued round about him. + + “Ha, ha!” he said, “you loathe your ways, + You writhe at these my words of warning, + In agony your hands you raise.” + (And so they did, for they were yawning.) + + To “Twenty-firstly” on they go, + The lads do not attempt to scout him; + He argued high, he argued low, + He also argued round about him. + + “Ho, ho!” he cries, “you bow your crests— + My eloquence has set you weeping; + In shame you bend upon your breasts!” + (And so they did, for they were sleeping.) + + He proved them this—he proved them that— + This good but wearisome ascetic; + He jumped and thumped upon his hat, + He was so very energetic. + + His Bishop at this moment chanced + To pass, and found the road encumbered; + He noticed how the Churchman danced, + And how his congregation slumbered. + + The hundred and eleventh head + The priest completed of his stricture; + “Oh, bosh!” the worthy Bishop said, + And walked him off as in the picture. + + + + +THE YARN OF THE “NANCY BELL” + + + ’TWAS on the shores that round our coast + From Deal to Ramsgate span, + That I found alone on a piece of stone + An elderly naval man. + + His hair was weedy, his beard was long, + And weedy and long was he, + And I heard this wight on the shore recite, + In a singular minor key: + + “Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, + And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, + And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain’s gig.” + + And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, + Till I really felt afraid, + For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking, + And so I simply said: + + “Oh, elderly man, it’s little I know + Of the duties of men of the sea, + And I’ll eat my hand if I understand + However you can be + + “At once a cook, and a captain bold, + And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, + And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain’s gig.” + + Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which + Is a trick all seamen larn, + And having got rid of a thumping quid, + He spun this painful yarn: + + “’Twas in the good ship _Nancy Bell_ + That we sailed to the Indian Sea, + And there on a reef we come to grief, + Which has often occurred to me. + + “And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned + (There was seventy-seven o’ soul), + And only ten of the _Nancy’s_ men + Said ‘Here!’ to the muster-roll. + + “There was me and the cook and the captain bold, + And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, + And the bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain’s gig. + + “For a month we’d neither wittles nor drink, + Till a-hungry we did feel, + So we drawed a lot, and, accordin’ shot + The captain for our meal. + + “The next lot fell to the _Nancy’s_ mate, + And a delicate dish he made; + Then our appetite with the midshipmite + We seven survivors stayed. + + “And then we murdered the bo’sun tight, + And he much resembled pig; + Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, + On the crew of the captain’s gig. + + “Then only the cook and me was left, + And the delicate question, ‘Which + Of us two goes to the kettle?’ arose, + And we argued it out as sich. + + “For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, + And the cook he worshipped me; + But we’d both be blowed if we’d either be stowed + In the other chap’s hold, you see. + + “‘I’ll be eat if you dines off me,’ says TOM; + ‘Yes, that,’ says I, ‘you’ll be,— + ‘I’m boiled if I die, my friend,’ quoth I; + And ‘Exactly so,’ quoth he. + + “Says he, ‘Dear JAMES, to murder me + Were a foolish thing to do, + For don’t you see that you can’t cook _me_, + While I can—and will—cook _you_!’ + + “So he boils the water, and takes the salt + And the pepper in portions true + (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, + And some sage and parsley too. + + “‘Come here,’ says he, with a proper pride, + Which his smiling features tell, + ‘’T will soothing be if I let you see + How extremely nice you’ll smell.’ + + “And he stirred it round and round and round, + And he sniffed at the foaming froth; + When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals + In the scum of the boiling broth. + + “And I eat that cook in a week or less, + And—as I eating be + The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, + For a wessel in sight I see! + + * * * * + + “And I never larf, and I never smile, + And I never lark nor play, + But sit and croak, and a single joke + I have—which is to say: + + “Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, + And the mate of the _Nancy_ brig, + And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain’s gig!’” + + + + +THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO + + + FROM east and south the holy clan + Of Bishops gathered to a man; + To Synod, called Pan-Anglican, + In flocking crowds they came. + Among them was a Bishop, who + Had lately been appointed to + The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo, + And PETER was his name. + + His people—twenty-three in sum— + They played the eloquent tum-tum, + And lived on scalps served up, in rum— + The only sauce they knew. + When first good BISHOP PETER came + (For PETER was that Bishop’s name), + To humour them, he did the same + As they of Rum-ti-Foo. + + His flock, I’ve often heard him tell, + (His name was PETER) loved him well, + And, summoned by the sound of bell, + In crowds together came. + “Oh, massa, why you go away? + Oh, MASSA PETER, please to stay.” + (They called him PETER, people say, + Because it was his name.) + + He told them all good boys to be, + And sailed away across the sea, + At London Bridge that Bishop he + Arrived one Tuesday night; + And as that night he homeward strode + To his Pan-Anglican abode, + He passed along the Borough Road, + And saw a gruesome sight. + + He saw a crowd assembled round + A person dancing on the ground, + Who straight began to leap and bound + With all his might and main. + To see that dancing man he stopped, + Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, + Then down incontinently dropped, + And then sprang up again. + + The Bishop chuckled at the sight. + “This style of dancing would delight + A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite. + I’ll learn it if I can, + To please the tribe when I get back.” + He begged the man to teach his knack. + “Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack,” + Replied that dancing man. + + The dancing man he worked away, + And taught the Bishop every day— + The dancer skipped like any fay— + Good PETER did the same. + The Bishop buckled to his task, + With _battements_, and _pas de basque_. + (I’ll tell you, if you care to ask, + That PETER was his name.) + + “Come, walk like this,” the dancer said, + “Stick out your toes—stick in your head, + Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread— + Your fingers thus extend; + The attitude’s considered quaint.” + The weary Bishop, feeling faint, + Replied, “I do not say it ain’t, + But ‘Time!’ my Christian friend!” + + “We now proceed to something new— + Dance as the PAYNES and LAURIS do, + Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two.” + The Bishop, never proud, + But in an overwhelming heat + (His name was PETER, I repeat) + Performed the PAYNE and LAURI feat, + And puffed his thanks aloud. + + Another game the dancer planned— + “Just take your ankle in your hand, + And try, my lord, if you can stand— + Your body stiff and stark. + If, when revisiting your see, + You learnt to hop on shore—like me— + The novelty would striking be, + And must attract remark.” + + “No,” said the worthy Bishop, “no; + That is a length to which, I trow, + Colonial Bishops cannot go. + You may express surprise + At finding Bishops deal in pride— + But if that trick I ever tried, + I should appear undignified + In Rum-ti-Foozle’s eyes. + + “The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo + Are well-conducted persons, who + Approve a joke as much as you, + And laugh at it as such; + But if they saw their Bishop land, + His leg supported in his hand, + The joke they wouldn’t understand— + ’Twould pain them very much!” + + + + +THE PRECOCIOUS BABY. +A VERY TRUE TALE + + + (_To be sung to the Air of the_ “_Whistling Oyster_.”) + + AN elderly person—a prophet by trade— + With his quips and tips + On withered old lips, + He married a young and a beautiful maid; + The cunning old blade! + Though rather decayed, + He married a beautiful, beautiful maid. + + She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be, + With her tempting smiles + And maidenly wiles, + And he was a trifle past seventy-three: + Now what she could see + Is a puzzle to me, + In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three! + + Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad) + With their loud high jinks + And underbred winks, + None thought they’d a family have—but they had; + A dear little lad + Who drove ’em half mad, + For he turned out a horribly fast little cad. + + For when he was born he astonished all by, + With their “Law, dear me!” + “Did ever you see?” + He’d a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye, + A hat all awry— + An octagon tie— + And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye. + + He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap, + With his “Oh, dear, oh!” + And his “Hang it! ’oo know!” + And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap— + “My friends, it’s a tap + Dat is not worf a rap.” + (Now this was remarkably excellent pap.) + + He’d chuck his nurse under the chin, and he’d say, + With his “Fal, lal, lal”— + “’Oo doosed fine gal!” + This shocking precocity drove ’em away: + “A month from to-day + Is as long as I’ll stay— + Then I’d wish, if you please, for to toddle away.” + + His father, a simple old gentleman, he + With nursery rhyme + And “Once on a time,” + Would tell him the story of “Little Bo-P,” + “So pretty was she, + So pretty and wee, + As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be.” + + But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox, + With his “C’ck! Oh, my!— + Go along wiz ’oo, fie!” + Would exclaim, “I’m afraid ’oo a socking ole fox.” + Now a father it shocks, + And it whitens his locks, + When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox. + + The name of his father he’d couple and pair + (With his ill-bred laugh, + And insolent chaff) + With those of the nursery heroines rare— + Virginia the Fair, + Or Good Goldenhair, + Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear. + + “There’s Jill and White Cat” (said the bold little brat, + With his loud, “Ha, ha!”) + “’Oo sly ickle Pa! + Wiz ’oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and ’oo Mrs. Jack Sprat! + I’ve noticed ’oo pat + _My_ pretty White Cat— + I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!” + + He early determined to marry and wive, + For better or worse + With his elderly nurse— + Which the poor little boy didn’t live to contrive: + His hearth didn’t thrive— + No longer alive, + He died an enfeebled old dotard at five! + + MORAL. + + Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew, + With wrinkled hose + And spectacled nose, + Don’t marry at all—you may take it as true + If ever you do + The step you will rue, + For your babes will be elderly—elderly too. + + + + +TO PHŒBE + + + “GENTLE, modest little flower, + Sweet epitome of May, + Love me but for half an hour, + Love me, love me, little fay.” + Sentences so fiercely flaming + In your tiny shell-like ear, + I should always be exclaiming + If I loved you, PHŒBE dear. + + “Smiles that thrill from any distance + Shed upon me while I sing! + Please ecstaticize existence, + Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!” + Words like these, outpouring sadly + You’d perpetually hear, + If I loved you fondly, madly;— + But I do not, PHŒBE dear. + + + + +BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN + + + OF all the good attorneys who + Have placed their names upon the roll, + But few could equal BAINES CAREW + For tender-heartedness and soul. + + Whene’er he heard a tale of woe + From client A or client B, + His grief would overcome him so + He’d scarce have strength to take his fee. + + It laid him up for many days, + When duty led him to distrain, + And serving writs, although it pays, + Gave him excruciating pain. + + He made out costs, distrained for rent, + Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye— + No bill of costs could represent + The value of such sympathy. + + No charges can approximate + The worth of sympathy with woe;— + Although I think I ought to state + He did his best to make them so. + + Of all the many clients who + Had mustered round his legal flag, + No single client of the crew + Was half so dear as CAPTAIN BAGG. + + Now, CAPTAIN BAGG had bowed him to + A heavy matrimonial yoke— + His wifey had of faults a few— + She never could resist a joke. + + Her chaff at first he meekly bore, + Till unendurable it grew. + “To stop this persecution sore + I will consult my friend CAREW. + + “And when CAREW’S advice I’ve got, + Divorce _a mensâ_ I shall try.” + (A legal separation—not + _A vinculo conjugii_.) + + “Oh, BAINES CAREW, my woe I’ve kept + A secret hitherto, you know;”— + (And BAINES CAREW, ESQUIRE, he wept + To hear that BAGG _had_ any woe.) + + “My case, indeed, is passing sad. + My wife—whom I considered true— + With brutal conduct drives me mad.” + “I am appalled,” said BAINES CAREW. + + “What! sound the matrimonial knell + Of worthy people such as these! + Why was I an attorney? Well— + Go on to the _sævitia_, please.” + + “Domestic bliss has proved my bane,— + A harder case you never heard, + My wife (in other matters sane) + Pretends that I’m a Dicky bird! + + “She makes me sing, ‘Too-whit, too-wee!’ + And stand upon a rounded stick, + And always introduces me + To every one as ‘Pretty Dick’!” + + “Oh, dear,” said weeping BAINES CAREW, + “This is the direst case I know.” + “I’m grieved,” said BAGG, “at paining you— + To COBB and POLTHERTHWAITE I’ll go— + + “To COBB’S cold, calculating ear, + My gruesome sorrows I’ll impart”— + “No; stop,” said BAINES, “I’ll dry my tear, + And steel my sympathetic heart.” + + “She makes me perch upon a tree, + Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’ + And threatens to exhibit me + With four or five performing mice.” + + “Restrain my tears I wish I could” + (Said BAINES), “I don’t know what to do.” + Said CAPTAIN BAGG, “You’re very good.” + “Oh, not at all,” said BAINES CAREW. + + “She makes me fire a gun,” said BAGG; + “And, at a preconcerted word, + Climb up a ladder with a flag, + Like any street performing bird. + + “She places sugar in my way— + In public places calls me ‘Sweet!’ + She gives me groundsel every day, + And hard canary-seed to eat.” + + “Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!” + (Said BAINES). “Be good enough to stop.” + And senseless on the floor he fell, + With unpremeditated flop! + + Said CAPTAIN BAGG, “Well, really I + Am grieved to think it pains you so. + I thank you for your sympathy; + But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!” + + But BAINES lay flat upon the floor, + Convulsed with sympathetic sob;— + The Captain toddled off next door, + And gave the case to MR. COBB. + + + + +THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE + + + IN all the towns and cities fair + On Merry England’s broad expanse, + No swordsman ever could compare + With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE. + + The dauntless lad could fairly hew + A silken handkerchief in twain, + Divide a leg of mutton too— + And this without unwholesome strain. + + On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick, + His sabre sometimes he’d employ— + No bar of lead, however thick, + Had terrors for the stalwart boy. + + At Dover daily he’d prepare + To hew and slash, behind, before— + Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE, + Who watched him from the Calais shore. + + It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance, + The sight annoyed and vexed him so; + He was the bravest man in France— + He said so, and he ought to know. + + “Regardez donc, ce cochon gros— + Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu! + Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots + Comme cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu! + + “Il sait que les foulards de soie + Give no retaliating whack— + Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi— + Le plomb don’t ever hit you back.” + + But every day the headstrong lad + Cut lead and mutton more and more; + And every day poor PIERRE, half mad, + Shrieked loud defiance from his shore. + + HANCE had a mother, poor and old, + A simple, harmless village dame, + Who crowed and clapped as people told + Of WINTERBOTTOM’S rising fame. + + She said, “I’ll be upon the spot + To see my TOMMY’S sabre-play;” + And so she left her leafy cot, + And walked to Dover in a day. + + PIERRE had a doating mother, who + Had heard of his defiant rage; + _His_ Ma was nearly ninety-two, + And rather dressy for her age. + + At HANCE’S doings every morn, + With sheer delight _his_ mother cried; + And MONSIEUR PIERRE’S contemptuous scorn + Filled _his_ mamma with proper pride. + + But HANCE’S powers began to fail— + His constitution was not strong— + And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale, + Grew thin from shouting all day long. + + Their mothers saw them pale and wan, + Maternal anguish tore each breast, + And so they met to find a plan + To set their offsprings’ minds at rest. + + Said MRS. HANCE, “Of course I shrinks + From bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware, + But still they’d better meet, I thinks.” + “Assurément!” said MADAME PIERRE. + + A sunny spot in sunny France + Was hit upon for this affair; + The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE, + The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE. + + Said MRS. H., “Your work you see— + Go in, my noble boy, and win.” + “En garde, mon fils!” said MADAME P. + “Allons!” “Go on!” “En garde!” “Begin!” + + (The mothers were of decent size, + Though not particularly tall; + But in the sketch that meets your eyes + I’ve been obliged to draw them small.) + + Loud sneered the doughty man of France, + “Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!” + “The French for ‘Pish’” said THOMAS HANCE. + Said PIERRE, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’” + + Said MRS. H., “Come, one! two! three!— + We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.” + “C’est magnifique!” said MADAME P., + “Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!” + + “Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,” + Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France. + “I fight not coward foe like you!” + Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE. + + “The French for ‘Pooh!’” our TOMMY cried. + “L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed. + And so, with undiminished pride, + Each went on his respective road. + + + + +THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS + + + THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS, + He shouts and yells and howls, + He screams, he mouths, he bumps, + He foams, he rants, he thumps. + + His armour he has buckled on, to wage + The regulation war against the Stage; + And warns his congregation all to shun + “The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,” + + The subject’s sad enough + To make him rant and puff, + And fortunately, too, + His Bishop’s in a pew. + + So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam, + His eyes are flashing with superior gleam, + He is as energetic as can be, + For there are fatter livings in that see. + + The Bishop, when it’s o’er, + Goes through the vestry door, + Where MICAH, very red, + Is mopping of his head. + + “Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS’ excessive zeal, + It is a theme on which I strongly feel.” + (The sermon somebody had sent him down + From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.) + + The Bishop bowed his head, + And, acquiescing, said, + “I’ve heard your well-meant rage + Against the Modern Stage. + + “A modern Theatre, as I heard you say, + Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may; + But let me ask you, my respected son, + Pray, have you ever ventured into one?” + + “My Lord,” said MICAH, “no! + I never, never go! + What! Go and see a play? + My goodness gracious, nay!” + + The worthy Bishop said, “My friend, no doubt + The Stage may be the place you make it out; + But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you never go, + I don’t quite understand how you’re to know.” + + “Well, really,” MICAH said, + “I’ve often heard and read, + But never go—do you?” + The Bishop said, “I do.” + + “That proves me wrong,” said MICAH, in a trice: + “I thought it all frivolity and vice.” + The Bishop handed him a printed card; + “Go to a theatre where they play our Bard.” + + The Bishop took his leave, + Rejoicing in his sleeve. + The next ensuing day + SOWLS went and heard a play. + + He saw a dreary person on the stage, + Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage, + Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd, + And spoke an English SOWLS had never heard. + + For “gaunt” was spoken “garnt,” + And “haunt” transformed to “harnt,” + And “wrath” pronounced as “rath,” + And “death” was changed to “dath.” + + For hours and hours that dismal actor walked, + And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, + Till lethargy upon the parson crept, + And sleepy MICAH SOWLS serenely slept. + + He slept away until + The farce that closed the bill + Had warned him not to stay, + And then he went away. + + “I thought _my_ gait ridiculous,” said he— + “_My_ elocution faulty as could be; + I thought _I_ mumbled on a matchless plan— + I had not seen our great Tragedian! + + “Forgive me, if you can, + O great Tragedian! + I own it with a sigh— + You’re drearier than I!” + + + + +A DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKER + + + A GENTLEMAN of City fame + Now claims your kind attention; + East India broking was his game, + His name I shall not mention: + No one of finely-pointed sense + Would violate a confidence, + And shall _I_ go + And do it? No! + His name I shall not mention. + + He had a trusty wife and true, + And very cosy quarters, + A manager, a boy or two, + Six clerks, and seven porters. + A broker must be doing well + (As any lunatic can tell) + Who can employ + An active boy, + Six clerks, and seven porters. + + His knocker advertised no dun, + No losses made him sulky, + He had one sorrow—only one— + He was extremely bulky. + A man must be, I beg to state, + Exceptionally fortunate + Who owns his chief + And only grief + Is—being very bulky. + + “This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear; + I’m nineteen stone or twenty! + Henceforward I’ll go in for air + And exercise in plenty.” + Most people think that, should it come, + They can reduce a bulging tum + To measures fair + By taking air + And exercise in plenty. + + In every weather, every day, + Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty, + He took to dancing all the way + From Brompton to the City. + You do not often get the chance + Of seeing sugar brokers dance + From their abode + In Fulham Road + Through Brompton to the City. + + He braved the gay and guileless laugh + Of children with their nusses, + The loud uneducated chaff + Of clerks on omnibuses. + Against all minor things that rack + A nicely-balanced mind, I’ll back + The noisy chaff + And ill-bred laugh + Of clerks on omnibuses. + + His friends, who heard his money chink, + And saw the house he rented, + And knew his wife, could never think + What made him discontented. + It never entered their pure minds + That fads are of eccentric kinds, + Nor would they own + That fat alone + Could make one discontented. + + “Your riches know no kind of pause, + Your trade is fast advancing; + You dance—but not for joy, because + You weep as you are dancing. + To dance implies that man is glad, + To weep implies that man is sad; + But here are you + Who do the two— + You weep as you are dancing!” + + His mania soon got noised about + And into all the papers; + His size increased beyond a doubt + For all his reckless capers: + It may seem singular to you, + But all his friends admit it true— + The more he found + His figure round, + The more he cut his capers. + + His bulk increased—no matter that— + He tried the more to toss it— + He never spoke of it as “fat,” + But “adipose deposit.” + Upon my word, it seems to me + Unpardonable vanity + (And worse than that) + To call your fat + An “adipose deposit.” + + At length his brawny knees gave way, + And on the carpet sinking, + Upon his shapeless back he lay + And kicked away like winking. + Instead of seeing in his state + The finger of unswerving Fate, + He laboured still + To work his will, + And kicked away like winking. + + His friends, disgusted with him now, + Away in silence wended— + I hardly like to tell you how + This dreadful story ended. + The shocking sequel to impart, + I must employ the limner’s art— + If you would know, + This sketch will show + How his exertions ended. + + MORAL. + + I hate to preach—I hate to prate— + I’m no fanatic croaker, + But learn contentment from the fate + Of this East India broker. + He’d everything a man of taste + Could ever want, except a waist; + And discontent + His size anent, + And bootless perseverance blind, + Completely wrecked the peace of mind + Of this East India broker. + + + + +THE PANTOMIME “SUPER” TO HIS MASK + + + VAST empty shell! + Impertinent, preposterous abortion! + With vacant stare, + And ragged hair, + And every feature out of all proportion! + Embodiment of echoing inanity! + Excellent type of simpering insanity! + Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! + I ring thy knell! + + To-night thou diest, + Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born identity! + Nine weeks of nights, + Before the lights, + Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity, + I’ve been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally, + Credited for the smile you wear externally— + I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally, + As there thou liest! + + I’ve been thy brain: + _I’ve_ been the brain that lit thy dull concavity! + The human race + Invest _my_ face + With thine expression of unchecked depravity, + Invested with a ghastly reciprocity, + _I’ve_ been responsible for thy monstrosity, + I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity— + But not again! + + ’T is time to toll + Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical: + A nine weeks’ run, + And thou hast done + All thou canst do to make thyself inimical. + Adieu, embodiment of all inanity! + Excellent type of simpering insanity! + Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! + Freed is thy soul! + + (_The Mask respondeth_.) + + Oh! master mine, + Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me. + Art thou aware + Of nothing there + Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me? + A brain that mourns _thine_ unredeemed rascality? + A soul that weeps at _thy_ threadbare morality? + Both grieving that _their_ individuality + Is merged in thine? + + + + +THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT + + + LORD B. was a nobleman bold + Who came of illustrious stocks, + He was thirty or forty years old, + And several feet in his socks. + + To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea + This elegant nobleman went, + For that was a borough that he + Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent. + + At local assemblies he danced + Until he felt thoroughly ill; + He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced, + And threaded the mazy quadrille. + + The maidens of Turniptopville + Were simple—ingenuous—pure— + And they all worked away with a will + The nobleman’s heart to secure. + + Two maidens all others beyond + Endeavoured his cares to dispel— + The one was the lively ANN POND, + The other sad MARY MORELL. + + ANN POND had determined to try + And carry the Earl with a rush; + Her principal feature was eye, + Her greatest accomplishment—gush. + + And MARY chose this for her play: + Whenever he looked in her eye + She’d blush and turn quickly away, + And flitter, and flutter, and sigh. + + It was noticed he constantly sighed + As she worked out the scheme she had planned, + A fact he endeavoured to hide + With his aristocratical hand. + + Old POND was a farmer, they say, + And so was old TOMMY MORELL. + In a humble and pottering way + They were doing exceedingly well. + + They both of them carried by vote + The Earl was a dangerous man; + So nervously clearing his throat, + One morning old TOMMY began: + + “My darter’s no pratty young doll— + I’m a plain-spoken Zommerzet man— + Now what do ’ee mean by my POLL, + And what do ’ee mean by his ANN?” + + Said B., “I will give you my bond + I mean them uncommonly well, + Believe me, my excellent POND, + And credit me, worthy MORELL. + + “It’s quite indisputable, for + I’ll prove it with singular ease,— + You shall have it in ‘Barbara’ or + ‘Celarent’—whichever you please. + + ‘You see, when an anchorite bows + To the yoke of intentional sin, + If the state of the country allows, + Homogeny always steps in— + + “It’s a highly æsthetical bond, + As any mere ploughboy can tell—” + “Of course,” replied puzzled old POND. + “I see,” said old TOMMY MORELL. + + “Very good, then,” continued the lord; + “When it’s fooled to the top of its bent, + With a sweep of a Damocles sword + The web of intention is rent. + + “That’s patent to all of us here, + As any mere schoolboy can tell.” + POND answered, “Of course it’s quite clear”; + And so did that humbug MORELL. + + “Its tone’s esoteric in force— + I trust that I make myself clear?” + MORELL only answered, “Of course,” + While POND slowly muttered, “Hear, hear.” + + “Volition—celestial prize, + Pellucid as porphyry cell— + Is based on a principle wise.” + “Quite so,” exclaimed POND and MORELL. + + “From what I have said you will see + That I couldn’t wed either—in fine, + By Nature’s unchanging decree + _Your_ daughters could never be _mine_. + + “Go home to your pigs and your ricks, + My hands of the matter I’ve rinsed.” + So they take up their hats and their sticks, + And _exeunt ambo_, convinced. + + + + +THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLIN + + + O’ER unreclaimed suburban clays + Some years ago were hobblin’ + An elderly ghost of easy ways, + And an influential goblin. + The ghost was a sombre spectral shape, + A fine old five-act fogy, + The goblin imp, a lithe young ape, + A fine low-comedy bogy. + + And as they exercised their joints, + Promoting quick digestion, + They talked on several curious points, + And raised this delicate question: + “Which of us two is Number One— + The ghostie, or the goblin?” + And o’er the point they raised in fun + They fairly fell a-squabblin’. + + They’d barely speak, and each, in fine, + Grew more and more reflective: + Each thought his own particular line + By chalks the more effective. + At length they settled some one should + By each of them be haunted, + And so arrange that either could + Exert his prowess vaunted. + + “The Quaint against the Statuesque”— + By competition lawful— + The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque, + The ghost the Grandly Awful. + “Now,” said the goblin, “here’s my plan— + In attitude commanding, + I see a stalwart Englishman + By yonder tailor’s standing. + + “The very fittest man on earth + My influence to try on— + Of gentle, p’r’aps of noble birth, + And dauntless as a lion! + Now wrap yourself within your shroud— + Remain in easy hearing— + Observe—you’ll hear him scream aloud + When I begin appearing!” + + The imp with yell unearthly—wild— + Threw off his dark enclosure: + His dauntless victim looked and smiled + With singular composure. + For hours he tried to daunt the youth, + For days, indeed, but vainly— + The stripling smiled!—to tell the truth, + The stripling smiled inanely. + + For weeks the goblin weird and wild, + That noble stripling haunted; + For weeks the stripling stood and smiled, + Unmoved and all undaunted. + The sombre ghost exclaimed, “Your plan + Has failed you, goblin, plainly: + Now watch yon hardy Hieland man, + So stalwart and ungainly. + + “These are the men who chase the roe, + Whose footsteps never falter, + Who bring with them, where’er they go, + A smack of old SIR WALTER. + Of such as he, the men sublime + Who lead their troops victorious, + Whose deeds go down to after-time, + Enshrined in annals glorious! + + “Of such as he the bard has said + ‘Hech thrawfu’ raltie rorkie! + Wi’ thecht ta’ croonie clapperhead + And fash’ wi’ unco pawkie!’ + He’ll faint away when I appear, + Upon his native heather; + Or p’r’aps he’ll only scream with fear, + Or p’r’aps the two together.” + + The spectre showed himself, alone, + To do his ghostly battling, + With curdling groan and dismal moan, + And lots of chains a-rattling! + But no—the chiel’s stout Gaelic stuff + Withstood all ghostly harrying; + His fingers closed upon the snuff + Which upwards he was carrying. + + For days that ghost declined to stir, + A foggy shapeless giant— + For weeks that splendid officer + Stared back again defiant. + Just as the Englishman returned + The goblin’s vulgar staring, + Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned + The ghost’s unmannered scaring. + + For several years the ghostly twain + These Britons bold have haunted, + But all their efforts are in vain— + Their victims stand undaunted. + This very day the imp, and ghost, + Whose powers the imp derided, + Stand each at his allotted post— + The bet is undecided. + + + + +THE PHANTOM CURATE. +A FABLE + + + A BISHOP once—I will not name his see— + Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional; + From pulpit shackles never set them free, + And found a sin where sin was unintentional. + All pleasures ended in abuse auricular— + The Bishop was so terribly particular. + + Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man, + He sought to make of human pleasures clearances; + And form his priests on that much-lauded plan + Which pays undue attention to appearances. + He couldn’t do good deeds without a psalm in ’em, + Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in ’em. + + Enraged to find a deacon at a dance, + Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity, + He sought by open censure to enhance + Their dread of joining harmless social jollity. + Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety) + The ordinary pleasures of society. + + One evening, sitting at a pantomime + (Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him), + Roaring at jokes, _sans_ metre, sense, or rhyme, + He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him, + His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it, + A curate, also heartily enjoying it. + + Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to enhance + His children’s pleasure in their harmless rollicking, + He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance; + When something checked the current of his frolicking: + That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly, + Stood up and figured with him in the “Coverley!” + + Once, yielding to an universal choice + (The company’s demand was an emphatic one, + For the old Bishop had a glorious voice), + In a quartet he joined—an operatic one. + Harmless enough, though ne’er a word of grace in it, + When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it! + + One day, when passing through a quiet street, + He stopped awhile and joined a Punch’s gathering; + And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet, + To see that gentleman his Judy lathering; + And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty, + That phantom curate laughing all hyænally. + + Now at a picnic, ’mid fair golden curls, + Bright eyes, straw hats, _bottines_ that fit amazingly, + A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls; + And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt praisingly; + But suddenly declines to play at all in it— + The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it! + + Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed + From cares episcopal and ties monarchical, + He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed, + In manner anything but hierarchical— + He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it— + That curate’s face, with half a yard of hair on it! + + At length he gave a charge, and spake this word: + “Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may; + To check their harmless pleasuring’s absurd; + What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may.” + He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him, + The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him. + + + + +THE SENSATION CAPTAIN + + + NO nobler captain ever trod + Than CAPTAIN PARKLEBURY TODD, + So good—so wise—so brave, he! + But still, as all his friends would own, + He had one folly—one alone— + This Captain in the Navy. + + I do not think I ever knew + A man so wholly given to + Creating a sensation, + Or p’raps I should in justice say— + To what in an Adelphi play + Is known as “situation.” + + He passed his time designing traps + To flurry unsuspicious chaps— + The taste was his innately; + He couldn’t walk into a room + Without ejaculating “Boom!” + Which startled ladies greatly. + + He’d wear a mask and muffling cloak, + Not, you will understand, in joke, + As some assume disguises; + He did it, actuated by + A simple love of mystery + And fondness for surprises. + + I need not say he loved a maid— + His eloquence threw into shade + All others who adored her. + The maid, though pleased at first, I know, + Found, after several years or so, + Her startling lover bored her. + + So, when his orders came to sail, + She did not faint or scream or wail, + Or with her tears anoint him: + She shook his hand, and said “Good-bye,” + With laughter dancing in her eye— + Which seemed to disappoint him. + + But ere he went aboard his boat, + He placed around her little throat + A ribbon, blue and yellow, + On which he hung a double-tooth— + A simple token this, in sooth— + ’Twas all he had, poor fellow! + + “I often wonder,” he would say, + When very, very far away, + “If ANGELINA wears it? + A plan has entered in my head: + I will pretend that I am dead, + And see how ANGY bears it.” + + The news he made a messmate tell. + His ANGELINA bore it well, + No sign gave she of crazing; + But, steady as the Inchcape Rock, + His ANGELINA stood the shock + With fortitude amazing. + + She said, “Some one I must elect + Poor ANGELINA to protect + From all who wish to harm her. + Since worthy CAPTAIN TODD is dead, + I rather feel inclined to wed + A comfortable farmer.” + + A comfortable farmer came + (BASSANIO TYLER was his name), + Who had no end of treasure. + He said, “My noble gal, be mine!” + The noble gal did not decline, + But simply said, “With pleasure.” + + When this was told to CAPTAIN TODD, + At first he thought it rather odd, + And felt some perturbation; + But very long he did not grieve, + He thought he could a way perceive + To _such_ a situation! + + “I’ll not reveal myself,” said he, + “Till they are both in the Ecclesiastical arena; + Then suddenly I will appear, + And paralysing them with fear, + Demand my ANGELINA!” + + At length arrived the wedding day; + Accoutred in the usual way + Appeared the bridal body; + The worthy clergyman began, + When in the gallant Captain ran + And cried, “Behold your TODDY!” + + The bridegroom, p’raps, was terrified, + And also possibly the bride— + The bridesmaids _were_ affrighted; + But ANGELINA, noble soul, + Contrived her feelings to control, + And really seemed delighted. + + “My bride!” said gallant CAPTAIN TODD, + “She’s mine, uninteresting clod! + My own, my darling charmer!” + “Oh dear,” said she, “you’re just too late— + I’m married to, I beg to state, + This comfortable farmer!” + + “Indeed,” the farmer said, “she’s mine: + You’ve been and cut it far too fine!” + “I see,” said TODD, “I’m beaten.” + And so he went to sea once more, + “Sensation” he for aye forswore, + And married on her native shore + A lady whom he’d met before— + A lovely Otaheitan. + + + + +TEMPORA MUTANTUR + + + LETTERS, letters, letters, letters! + Some that please and some that bore, + Some that threaten prison fetters + (Metaphorically, fetters + Such as bind insolvent debtors)— + Invitations by the score. + + One from COGSON, WILES, and RAILER, + My attorneys, off the Strand; + One from COPPERBLOCK, my tailor— + My unreasonable tailor— + One in FLAGG’S disgusting hand. + + One from EPHRAIM and MOSES, + Wanting coin without a doubt, + I should like to pull their noses— + Their uncompromising noses; + One from ALICE with the roses— + Ah, I know what that’s about! + + Time was when I waited, waited + For the missives that she wrote, + Humble postmen execrated— + Loudly, deeply execrated— + When I heard I wasn’t fated + To be gladdened with a note! + + Time was when I’d not have bartered + Of her little pen a dip + For a peerage duly gartered— + For a peerage starred and gartered— + With a palace-office chartered, + Or a Secretaryship. + + But the time for that is over, + And I wish we’d never met. + I’m afraid I’ve proved a rover— + I’m afraid a heartless rover— + Quarters in a place like Dover + Tend to make a man forget. + + Bills for carriages and horses, + Bills for wine and light cigar, + Matters that concern the Forces— + News that may affect the Forces— + News affecting my resources, + Much more interesting are! + + And the tiny little paper, + With the words that seem to run + From her little fingers taper + (They are very small and taper), + By the tailor and the draper + Are in interest outdone. + + And unopened it’s remaining! + I can read her gentle hope— + Her entreaties, uncomplaining + (She was always uncomplaining), + Her devotion never waning— + Through the little envelope! + + + + +AT A PANTOMIME. +BY A BILIOUS ONE + + + AN Actor sits in doubtful gloom, + His stock-in-trade unfurled, + In a damp funereal dressing-room + In the Theatre Royal, World. + + He comes to town at Christmas-time, + And braves its icy breath, + To play in that favourite pantomime, + _Harlequin Life and Death_. + + A hoary flowing wig his weird + Unearthly cranium caps, + He hangs a long benevolent beard + On a pair of empty chaps. + + To smooth his ghastly features down + The actor’s art he cribs,— + A long and a flowing padded gown. + Bedecks his rattling ribs. + + He cries, “Go on—begin, begin! + Turn on the light of lime— + I’m dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in + A favourite pantomime!” + + The curtain’s up—the stage all black— + Time and the year nigh sped— + Time as an advertising quack— + The Old Year nearly dead. + + The wand of Time is waved, and lo! + Revealed Old Christmas stands, + And little children chuckle and crow, + And laugh and clap their hands. + + The cruel old scoundrel brightens up + At the death of the Olden Year, + And he waves a gorgeous golden cup, + And bids the world good cheer. + + The little ones hail the festive King,— + No thought can make them sad. + Their laughter comes with a sounding ring, + They clap and crow like mad! + + They only see in the humbug old + A holiday every year, + And handsome gifts, and joys untold, + And unaccustomed cheer. + + The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar, + Their breasts in anguish beat— + They’ve seen him seventy times before, + How well they know the cheat! + + They’ve seen that ghastly pantomime, + They’ve felt its blighting breath, + They know that rollicking Christmas-time + Meant Cold and Want and Death,— + + Starvation—Poor Law Union fare— + And deadly cramps and chills, + And illness—illness everywhere, + And crime, and Christmas bills. + + They know Old Christmas well, I ween, + Those men of ripened age; + They’ve often, often, often seen + That Actor off the stage! + + They see in his gay rotundity + A clumsy stuffed-out dress— + They see in the cup he waves on high + A tinselled emptiness. + + Those aged men so lean and wan, + They’ve seen it all before, + They know they’ll see the charlatan + But twice or three times more. + + And so they bear with dance and song, + And crimson foil and green, + They wearily sit, and grimly long + For the Transformation Scene. + + + + +KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO + + + KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO + Was a man-eating African swell; + His sigh was a hullaballoo, + His whisper a horrible yell— + A horrible, horrible yell! + + Four subjects, and all of them male, + To BORRIA doubled the knee, + They were once on a far larger scale, + But he’d eaten the balance, you see + (“Scale” and “balance” is punning, you see). + + There was haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH, + There was lumbering DOODLE-DUM-DEY, + Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH, + And good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH— + Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH. + + One day there was grief in the crew, + For they hadn’t a morsel of meat, + And BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO + Was dying for something to eat— + “Come, provide me with something to eat! + + “ALACK-A-DEY, famished I feel; + Oh, good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH, + Where on earth shall I look for a meal? + For I haven’t no dinner to-day!— + Not a morsel of dinner to-day! + + “Dear TOOTLE-TUM, what shall we do? + Come, get us a meal, or, in truth, + If you don’t, we shall have to eat you, + Oh, adorable friend of our youth! + Thou beloved little friend of our youth!” + + And he answered, “Oh, BUNGALEE BOO, + For a moment I hope you will wait,— + TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO + Is the Queen of a neighbouring state— + A remarkably neighbouring state. + + “TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO, + She would pickle deliciously cold— + And her four pretty Amazons, too, + Are enticing, and not very old— + Twenty-seven is not very old. + + “There is neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH, + There is rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH, + There is jocular WAGGETY-WEH, + There is musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH— + There’s the nightingale DOH-REH-MI-FAH!” + + So the forces of BUNGALEE BOO + Marched forth in a terrible row, + And the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOO + Prepared to encounter the foe— + This dreadful, insatiate foe! + + But they sharpened no weapons at all, + And they poisoned no arrows—not they! + They made ready to conquer or fall + In a totally different way— + An entirely different way. + + With a crimson and pearly-white dye + They endeavoured to make themselves fair, + With black they encircled each eye, + And with yellow they painted their hair + (It was wool, but they thought it was hair). + + And the forces they met in the field:— + And the men of KING BORRIA said, + “Amazonians, immediately yield!” + And their arrows they drew to the head— + Yes, drew them right up to the head. + + But jocular WAGGETY-WEH + Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong), + And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH + Said, “TOOTLE-TUM, you go along! + You naughty old dear, go along!” + + And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH + Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her fan; + And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH + Said, “Pish, go away, you bad man! + Go away, you delightful young man!” + + And the Amazons simpered and sighed, + And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed, + And they opened their pretty eyes wide, + And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed + (At least, if they could, they’d have blushed). + + But haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH + Said, “ALACK-A-DEY, what does this mean?” + And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH + Said, “They think us uncommonly green! + Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!” + + Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEY + Was insensible quite to their leers, + And said good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH, + “It’s your blood we desire, pretty dears— + We have come for our dinners, my dears!” + + And the Queen of the Amazons fell + To BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO,— + In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell, + TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO— + The pretty QUEEN TOL-THE-ROL-LOO. + + And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH + Was eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH, + And light-hearted WAGGETY-WEH + By dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH— + Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH. + + And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH + Was eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEY, + And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH + By good little TOOTLE-DUM-TEH— + Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH! + + + + +THE PERIWINKLE GIRL + + + I’VE often thought that headstrong youths + Of decent education, + Determine all-important truths, + With strange precipitation. + + The ever-ready victims they, + Of logical illusions, + And in a self-assertive way + They jump at strange conclusions. + + Now take my case: Ere sorrow could + My ample forehead wrinkle, + I had determined that I should + Not care to be a winkle. + + “A winkle,” I would oft advance + With readiness provoking, + “Can seldom flirt, and never dance, + Or soothe his mind by smoking.” + + In short, I spurned the shelly joy, + And spoke with strange decision— + Men pointed to me as a boy + Who held them in derision. + + But I was young—too young, by far— + Or I had been more wary, + I knew not then that winkles are + The stock-in-trade of MARY. + + I had not watched her sunlight blithe + As o’er their shells it dances— + I’ve seen those winkles almost writhe + Beneath her beaming glances. + + Of slighting all the winkly brood + I surely had been chary, + If I had known they formed the food + And stock-in-trade of MARY. + + Both high and low and great and small + Fell prostrate at her tootsies, + They all were noblemen, and all + Had balances at COUTTS’S. + + Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt, + DUKE BAILEY and DUKE HUMPHY, + Who ate her winkles till they felt + Exceedingly uncomfy. + + DUKE BAILEY greatest wealth computes, + And sticks, they say, at no-thing, + He wears a pair of golden boots + And silver underclothing. + + DUKE HUMPHY, as I understand, + Though mentally acuter, + His boots are only silver, and + His underclothing pewter. + + A third adorer had the girl, + A man of lowly station— + A miserable grov’ling Earl + Besought her approbation. + + This humble cad she did refuse + With much contempt and loathing, + He wore a pair of leather shoes + And cambric underclothing! + + “Ha! ha!” she cried. “Upon my word! + Well, really—come, I never! + Oh, go along, it’s too absurd! + My goodness! Did you ever? + + “Two Dukes would Mary make a bride, + And from her foes defend her”— + “Well, not exactly that,” they cried, + “We offer guilty splendour. + + “We do not offer marriage rite, + So please dismiss the notion!” + “Oh dear,” said she, “that alters quite + The state of my emotion.” + + The Earl he up and says, says he, + “Dismiss them to their orgies, + For I am game to marry thee + Quite reg’lar at St. George’s.” + + (He’d had, it happily befell, + A decent education, + His views would have befitted well + A far superior station.) + + His sterling worth had worked a cure, + She never heard him grumble; + She saw his soul was good and pure, + Although his rank was humble. + + Her views of earldoms and their lot, + All underwent expansion— + Come, Virtue in an earldom’s cot! + Go, Vice in ducal mansion! + + + + +THOMSON GREEN AND HARRIET HALE + + + (_To be sung to the Air of_ “_An ’Orrible Tale_.”) + + OH list to this incredible tale + Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE; + Its truth in one remark you’ll sum— + “Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!” + + Oh, THOMSON GREEN was an auctioneer, + And made three hundred pounds a year; + And HARRIET HALE, most strange to say, + Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day. + + Oh, THOMSON GREEN, I may remark, + Met HARRIET HALE in Regent’s Park, + Where he, in a casual kind of way, + Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day. + + They met again, and strange, though true, + He courted her for a month or two, + Then to her pa he said, says he, + “Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!” + + Their names were regularly banned, + The wedding day was settled, and + I’ve ascertained by dint of search + They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot’s Church. + + Oh, list to this incredible tale + Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE, + Its truth in one remark you’ll sum— + “Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!” + + That very self-same afternoon + They started on their honeymoon, + And (oh, astonishment!) took flight + To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight. + + But now—you’ll doubt my word, I know— + In a month they both returned, and lo! + Astounding fact! this happy pair + Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square! + + They led a weird and reckless life, + They dined each day, this man and wife + (Pray disbelieve it, if you please), + On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese. + + In time came those maternal joys + Which take the form of girls or boys, + And strange to say of each they’d one— + A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son! + + Oh, list to this incredible tale + Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE, + Its truth in one remark you’ll sum— + “Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!” + + My name for truth is gone, I fear, + But, monstrous as it may appear, + They let their drawing-room one day + To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way. + + Whenever THOMSON GREEN fell sick + His wife called in a doctor, quick, + From whom some words like these would come— + _Fiat mist. sumendum haustus_, in a _cochleyareum_. + + For thirty years this curious pair + Hung out in Canonbury Square, + And somehow, wonderful to say, + They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way. + + Well, THOMSON GREEN fell ill and died; + For just a year his widow cried, + And then her heart she gave away + To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way. + + Oh, list to this incredible tale + Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE, + Its truth in one remark you’ll sum— + “Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!” + + + + +BOB POLTER + + + BOB POLTER was a navvy, and + His hands were coarse, and dirty too, + His homely face was rough and tanned, + His time of life was thirty-two. + + He lived among a working clan + (A wife he hadn’t got at all), + A decent, steady, sober man— + No saint, however—not at all. + + He smoked, but in a modest way, + Because he thought he needed it; + He drank a pot of beer a day, + And sometimes he exceeded it. + + At times he’d pass with other men + A loud convivial night or two, + With, very likely, now and then, + On Saturdays, a fight or two. + + But still he was a sober soul, + A labour-never-shirking man, + Who paid his way—upon the whole + A decent English working man. + + One day, when at the Nelson’s Head + (For which he may be blamed of you), + A holy man appeared, and said, + “Oh, ROBERT, I’m ashamed of you.” + + He laid his hand on ROBERT’S beer + Before he could drink up any, + And on the floor, with sigh and tear, + He poured the pot of “thruppenny.” + + “Oh, ROBERT, at this very bar + A truth you’ll be discovering, + A good and evil genius are + Around your noddle hovering. + + “They both are here to bid you shun + The other one’s society, + For Total Abstinence is one, + The other, Inebriety.” + + He waved his hand—a vapour came— + A wizard POLTER reckoned him; + A bogy rose and called his name, + And with his finger beckoned him. + + The monster’s salient points to sum,— + His heavy breath was portery: + His glowing nose suggested rum: + His eyes were gin-and-_wor_tery. + + His dress was torn—for dregs of ale + And slops of gin had rusted it; + His pimpled face was wan and pale, + Where filth had not encrusted it. + + “Come, POLTER,” said the fiend, “begin, + And keep the bowl a-flowing on— + A working man needs pints of gin + To keep his clockwork going on.” + + BOB shuddered: “Ah, you’ve made a miss + If you take me for one of you: + You filthy beast, get out of this— + BOB POLTER don’t wan’t none of you.” + + The demon gave a drunken shriek, + And crept away in stealthiness, + And lo! instead, a person sleek, + Who seemed to burst with healthiness. + + “In me, as your adviser hints, + Of Abstinence you’ve got a type— + Of MR. TWEEDIE’S pretty prints + I am the happy prototype. + + “If you abjure the social toast, + And pipes, and such frivolities, + You possibly some day may boast + My prepossessing qualities!” + + BOB rubbed his eyes, and made ’em blink: + “You almost make me tremble, you! + If I abjure fermented drink, + Shall I, indeed, resemble you? + + “And will my whiskers curl so tight? + My cheeks grow smug and muttony? + My face become so red and white? + My coat so blue and buttony? + + “Will trousers, such as yours, array + Extremities inferior? + Will chubbiness assert its sway + All over my exterior? + + “In this, my unenlightened state, + To work in heavy boots I comes; + Will pumps henceforward decorate + My tiddle toddle tootsicums? + + “And shall I get so plump and fresh, + And look no longer seedily? + My skin will henceforth fit my flesh + So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?” + + The phantom said, “You’ll have all this, + You’ll know no kind of huffiness, + Your life will be one chubby bliss, + One long unruffled puffiness!” + + “Be off!” said irritated BOB. + “Why come you here to bother one? + You pharisaical old snob, + You’re wuss almost than t’other one! + + “I takes my pipe—I takes my pot, + And drunk I’m never seen to be: + I’m no teetotaller or sot, + And as I am I mean to be!” + + + + +THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB + + + STRIKE the concertina’s melancholy string! + Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything! + Let the piano’s martial blast + Rouse the Echoes of the Past, + For of AGIB, Prince of Tartary, I sing! + + Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes, + Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens: + His gentle spirit rolls + In the melody of souls— + Which is pretty, but I don’t know what it means. + + Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight, + Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite. + He would diligently play + On the Zoetrope all day, + And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night. + + One winter—I am shaky in my dates— + Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates; + Oh, ALLAH be obeyed, + How infernally they played! + I remember that they called themselves the “Oüaits.” + + Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, + I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, + Photographically lined + On the tablet of my mind, + When a yesterday has faded from its page! + + Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in; + Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin. + And when (as snobs would say) + They had “put it all away,” + He requested them to tune up and begin. + + Though its icy horror chill you to the core, + I will tell you what I never told before,— + The consequences true + Of that awful interview, + _For I listened at the keyhole in the door_! + + They played him a sonata—let me see! + “_Medulla oblongata_”—key of G. + Then they began to sing + That extremely lovely thing, + “_Scherzando_! _ma non troppo_, _ppp_.” + + He gave them money, more than they could count, + Scent from a most ingenious little fount, + More beer, in little kegs, + Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, + And goodies to a fabulous amount. + + Now follows the dim horror of my tale, + And I feel I’m growing gradually pale, + For, even at this day, + Though its sting has passed away, + When I venture to remember it, I quail! + + The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, + All-overish it made me for to feel; + “Oh, PRINCE,” he says, says he, + “_If a Prince indeed you be_, + I’ve a mystery I’m going to reveal! + + “Oh, listen, if you’d shun a horrid death, + To what the gent who’s speaking to you saith: + No ‘Oüaits’ in truth are we, + As you fancy that we be, + For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK—this is BETH!” + + Said AGIB, “Oh! accursed of your kind, + I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!” + BETH gave a dreadful shriek— + But before he’d time to speak + I was mercilessly collared from behind. + + In number ten or twelve, or even more, + They fastened me full length upon the floor. + On my face extended flat, + I was walloped with a cat + For listening at the keyhole of a door. + + Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! + (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). + For a week from ten to four + I was fastened to the floor, + While a mercenary wopped me with a will + + They branded me and broke me on a wheel, + And they left me in an hospital to heal; + And, upon my solemn word, + I have never never heard + What those Tartars had determined to reveal. + + But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, + I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, + Photographically lined + On the tablet of my mind, + When a yesterday has faded from its page + + + + +ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN + + + MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS M‘CLAN + Was the son of an elderly labouring man; + You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight, + And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right. + + From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside, + Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde, + There wasn’t a child or a woman or man + Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS M‘CLAN. + + No other could wake such detestable groans, + With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones: + All day and ill night he delighted the chiels + With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels. + + He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, + And the neighbouring maidens would gather around + To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een, + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN. + + All loved their M‘CLAN, save a Sassenach brute, + Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot; + He dressed himself up in a Highlander way, + Tho’ his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY. + + TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense + To make him a Scotchman in every sense; + But this is a matter, you’ll readily own, + That isn’t a question of tailors alone. + + A Sassenach chief may be bonily built, + He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt; + Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an acre of stripes— + But he cannot assume an affection for pipes. + + CLONGLOCKETY’S pipings all night and all day + Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY; + The girls were amused at his singular spleen, + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN, + + “MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad, + With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad. + If you really must play on that cursed affair, + My goodness! play something resembling an air.” + + Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON M‘CLAN— + The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man; + For all were enraged at the insult, I ween— + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN. + + “Let’s show,” said M‘CLAN, “to this Sassenach loon + That the bagpipes _can_ play him a regular tune. + Let’s see,” said M‘CLAN, as he thoughtfully sat, + “‘_In my Cottage_’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.” + + He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will, + For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until + (You’ll hardly believe it) M‘CLAN, I declare, + Elicited something resembling an air. + + It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze— + It wandered about into several keys; + It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware; + But still it distinctly suggested an air. + + The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced; + He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced; + And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene— + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN. + + “Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around; + And fill a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound. + An air fra’ the bagpipes—beat that if ye can! + Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS M‘CLAN!” + + The fame of his piping spread over the land: + Respectable widows proposed for his hand, + And maidens came flocking to sit on the green— + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN. + + One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore + He’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore, + And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste) + Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist. + + Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS M‘CLAN, + Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man; + The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene— + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN. + + It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY + To find them “take on” in this serious way; + He pitied the poor little fluttering birds, + And solaced their souls with the following words: + + “Oh, maidens,” said PATTISON, touching his hat, + “Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that; + Observe, I’m a very superior man, + A much better fellow than ANGUS M‘CLAN.” + + They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,” + And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, + A pleasanter gentleman never was seen— + Especially ELLEN M‘JONES ABERDEEN. + + + + +PETER THE WAG + + + POLICEMAN PETER forth I drag + From his obscure retreat: + He was a merry genial wag, + Who loved a mad conceit. + If he were asked the time of day, + By country bumpkins green, + He not unfrequently would say, + “A quarter past thirteen.” + + If ever you by word of mouth + Inquired of MISTER FORTH + The way to somewhere in the South, + He always sent you North. + With little boys his beat along + He loved to stop and play; + He loved to send old ladies wrong, + And teach their feet to stray. + + He would in frolic moments, when + Such mischief bent upon, + Take Bishops up as betting men— + Bid Ministers move on. + Then all the worthy boys he knew + He regularly licked, + And always collared people who + Had had their pockets picked. + + He was not naturally bad, + Or viciously inclined, + But from his early youth he had + A waggish turn of mind. + The Men of London grimly scowled + With indignation wild; + The Men of London gruffly growled, + But PETER calmly smiled. + + Against this minion of the Crown + The swelling murmurs grew— + From Camberwell to Kentish Town— + From Rotherhithe to Kew. + Still humoured he his wagsome turn, + And fed in various ways + The coward rage that dared to burn, + But did not dare to blaze. + + Still, Retribution has her day, + Although her flight is slow: + _One day that Crusher lost his way_ + _Near Poland Street_, _Soho_. + The haughty boy, too proud to ask, + To find his way resolved, + And in the tangle of his task + Got more and more involved. + + The Men of London, overjoyed, + Came there to jeer their foe, + And flocking crowds completely cloyed + The mazes of Soho. + The news on telegraphic wires + Sped swiftly o’er the lea, + Excursion trains from distant shires + Brought myriads to see. + + For weeks he trod his self-made beats + Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear- + Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets, + And into Golden Square. + But all, alas! in vain, for when + He tried to learn the way + Of little boys or grown-up men, + They none of them would say. + + Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind— + Their lips would tightly curl— + They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find, + Thou misdirecting churl!” + And, similarly, also, when + He tried a foreign friend; + Italians answered, “_Il balen_”— + The French, “No comprehend.” + + The Russ would say with gleaming eye + “Sevastopol!” and groan. + The Greek said, “Τυπτω, τυπτομαι, + Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων.” + To wander thus for many a year + That Crusher never ceased— + The Men of London dropped a tear, + Their anger was appeased. + + At length exploring gangs were sent + To find poor FORTH’S remains— + A handsome grant by Parliament + Was voted for their pains. + To seek the poor policeman out + Bold spirits volunteered, + And when they swore they’d solve the doubt, + The Men of London cheered. + + And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear, + They found him, on the floor— + It leads from Richmond Buildings—near + The Royalty stage-door. + With brandy cold and brandy hot + They plied him, starved and wet, + And made him sergeant on the spot— + The Men of London’s pet! + + + + +BEN ALLAH ACHMET; +OR, THE FATAL TUM + + + I ONCE did know a Turkish man + Whom I upon a two-pair-back met, + His name it was EFFENDI KHAN + BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET. + + A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew— + I’ve often eaten of his bounty; + The Turk and he they lived at Hooe, + In Sussex, that delightful county! + + I knew a nice young lady there, + Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON, + And though she wore another’s hair, + She was an interesting person. + + The Turk adored the maid of Hooe + (Although his harem would have shocked her). + But BROWN adored that maiden too: + He was a most seductive doctor. + + They’d follow her where’er she’d go— + A course of action most improper; + She neither knew by sight, and so + For neither of them cared a copper. + + BROWN did not know that Turkish male, + He might have been his sainted mother: + The people in this simple tale + Are total strangers to each other. + + One day that Turk he sickened sore, + And suffered agonies oppressive; + He threw himself upon the floor + And rolled about in pain excessive. + + It made him moan, it made him groan, + And almost wore him to a mummy. + Why should I hesitate to own + That pain was in his little tummy? + + At length a doctor came, and rung + (As ALLAH ACHMET had desired), + Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue, + And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired: + + “Where is the pain that long has preyed + Upon you in so sad a way, sir?” + The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said: + “I don’t exactly like to say, sir.” + + “Come, nonsense!” said good DOCTOR BROWN. + “So this is Turkish coyness, is it? + You must contrive to fight it down— + Come, come, sir, please to be explicit.” + + The Turk he shyly bit his thumb, + And coyly blushed like one half-witted, + “The pain is in my little tum,” + He, whispering, at length admitted. + + “Then take you this, and take you that— + Your blood flows sluggish in its channel— + You must get rid of all this fat, + And wear my medicated flannel. + + “You’ll send for me when you’re in need— + My name is BROWN—your life I’ve saved it.” + “My rival!” shrieked the invalid, + And drew a mighty sword and waved it: + + “This to thy weazand, Christian pest!” + Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it, + And drove right through the doctor’s chest + The sabre and the hand that held it. + + The blow was a decisive one, + And DOCTOR BROWN grew deadly pasty, + “Now see the mischief that you’ve done— + You Turks are so extremely hasty. + + “There are two DOCTOR BROWNS in Hooe— + _He’s_ short and stout, _I’m_ tall and wizen; + You’ve been and run the wrong one through, + That’s how the error has arisen.” + + The accident was thus explained, + Apologies were only heard now: + “At my mistake I’m really pained— + I am, indeed—upon my word now. + + “With me, sir, you shall be interred, + A mausoleum grand awaits me.” + “Oh, pray don’t say another word, + I’m sure that more than compensates me. + + “But p’r’aps, kind Turk, you’re full inside?” + “There’s room,” said he, “for any number.” + And so they laid them down and died. + In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber, + + + + +THE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOO + + + THERE were three niggers of Chickeraboo— + PACIFICO, BANG-BANG, POPCHOP—who + Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day, + “Oh, let’s be kings in a humble way.” + + The first was a highly-accomplished “bones,” + The next elicited banjo tones, + The third was a quiet, retiring chap, + Who danced an excellent break-down “flap.” + + “We niggers,” said they, “have formed a plan + By which, whenever we like, we can + Extemporise kingdoms near the beach, + And then we’ll collar a kingdom each. + + “Three casks, from somebody else’s stores, + Shall represent our island shores, + Their sides the ocean wide shall lave, + Their heads just topping the briny wave. + + “Great Britain’s navy scours the sea, + And everywhere her ships they be; + She’ll recognise our rank, perhaps, + When she discovers we’re Royal Chaps. + + “If to her skirts you want to cling, + It’s quite sufficient that you’re a king; + She does not push inquiry far + To learn what sort of king you are.” + + A ship of several thousand tons, + And mounting seventy-something guns, + Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue, + Discovering kings and countries new. + + The brave REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP, + Commanding that magnificent ship, + Perceived one day, his glasses through, + The kings that came from Chickeraboo. + + “Dear eyes!” said ADMIRAL PIP, “I see + Three flourishing islands on our lee. + And, bless me! most remarkable thing! + On every island stands a king! + + “Come, lower the Admiral’s gig,” he cried, + “And over the dancing waves I’ll glide; + That low obeisance I may do + To those three kings of Chickeraboo!” + + The Admiral pulled to the islands three; + The kings saluted him gracious_lee_. + The Admiral, pleased at his welcome warm, + Unrolled a printed Alliance form. + + “Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray— + I come in a friendly kind of way— + I come, if you please, with the best intents, + And QUEEN VICTORIA’S compliments.” + + The kings were pleased as they well could be; + The most retiring of the three, + In a “cellar-flap” to his joy gave vent + With a banjo-bones accompaniment. + + The great REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP + Embarked on board his jolly big ship, + Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore, + And off he sailed to his native shore. + + ADMIRAL PIP directly went + To the Lord at the head of the Government, + Who made him, by a stroke of a quill, + BARON DE PIPPE, OF PIPPETONNEVILLE. + + The College of Heralds permission yield + That he should quarter upon his shield + Three islands, _vert_, on a field of blue, + With the pregnant motto “Chickeraboo.” + + Ambassadors, yes, and attachés, too, + Are going to sail for Chickeraboo. + And, see, on the good ship’s crowded deck, + A bishop, who’s going out there on spec. + + And let us all hope that blissful things + May come of alliance with darky kings, + And, may we never, whatever we do, + Declare a war with Chickeraboo! + + + + +JOE GOLIGHTLY +OR, THE FIRST LORD’S DAUGHTER + + + A tar, but poorly prized, + Long, shambling, and unsightly, + Thrashed, bullied, and despised, + Was wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY. + + He bore a workhouse brand; + No Pa or Ma had claimed him, + The Beadle found him, and + The Board of Guardians named him. + + P’r’aps some Princess’s son— + A beggar p’r’aps his mother. + _He_ rather thought the one, + I rather think the other. + + He liked his ship at sea, + He loved the salt sea-water, + He worshipped junk, and he + Adored the First Lord’s daughter. + + The First Lord’s daughter, proud, + Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly; + She sneered at Barts. aloud, + And spurned poor Joe Golightly. + + Whene’er he sailed afar + Upon a Channel cruise, he + Unpacked his light guitar + And sang this ballad (Boosey): + + Ballad + + The moon is on the sea, + Willow! + The wind blows towards the lee, + Willow! + But though I sigh and sob and cry, + No Lady Jane for me, + Willow! + + She says, “’Twere folly quite, + Willow! + For me to wed a wight, + Willow! + Whose lot is cast before the mast”; + And possibly she’s right, + Willow! + + His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE), + He gave him many a rating, + And almost lost his voice + From thus expostulating: + + “Lay aft, you lubber, do! + What’s come to that young man, JOE? + Belay!—’vast heaving! you! + Do kindly stop that banjo! + + “I wish, I do—O lor’!— + You’d shipped aboard a trader: + _Are_ you a sailor or + A negro serenader?” + + But still the stricken lad, + Aloft or on his pillow, + Howled forth in accents sad + His aggravating “Willow!” + + Stern love of duty had + Been JOYCE’S chiefest beauty; + Says he, “I love that lad, + But duty, damme! duty! + + “Twelve months’ black-hole, I say, + Where daylight never flashes; + And always twice a day + A good six dozen lashes!” + + But JOSEPH had a mate, + A sailor stout and lusty, + A man of low estate, + But singularly trusty. + + Says he, “Cheer hup, young JOE! + I’ll tell you what I’m arter— + To that Fust Lord I’ll go + And ax him for his darter. + + “To that Fust Lord I’ll go + And say you love her dearly.” + And JOE said (weeping low), + “I wish you would, sincerely!” + + That sailor to that Lord + Went, soon as he had landed, + And of his own accord + An interview demanded. + + Says he, with seaman’s roll, + “My Captain (wot’s a Tartar) + Guv JOE twelve months’ black-hole, + For lovering your darter. + + “He loves MISS LADY JANE + (I own she is his betters), + But if you’ll jine them twain, + They’ll free him from his fetters. + + “And if so be as how + You’ll let her come aboard ship, + I’ll take her with me now.” + “Get out!” remarked his Lordship. + + That honest tar repaired + To JOE upon the billow, + And told him how he’d fared. + JOE only whispered, “Willow!” + + And for that dreadful crime + (Young sailors, learn to shun it) + He’s working out his time; + In six months he’ll have done it. + + + + +TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. +BY A MISERABLE WRETCH + + + ROLL on, thou ball, roll on! + Through pathless realms of Space + Roll on! + What though I’m in a sorry case? + What though I cannot meet my bills? + What though I suffer toothache’s ills? + What though I swallow countless pills? + Never _you_ mind! + Roll on! + + Roll on, thou ball, roll on! + Through seas of inky air + Roll on! + It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear; + It’s true my butcher’s bill is due; + It’s true my prospects all look blue— + But don’t let that unsettle you! + Never _you_ mind! + Roll on! + + [_It rolls on_. + + + + +GENTLE ALICE BROWN + + + IT was a robber’s daughter, and her name was ALICE BROWN, + Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; + Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; + But it isn’t of her parents that I’m going for to sing. + + As ALICE was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, + A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; + She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, + That she thought, “I could be happy with a gentleman like you!” + + And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, + She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; + A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road + (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes’ walk from her abode). + + But ALICE was a pious girl, who knew it wasn’t wise + To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; + So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, + The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. + + “Oh, holy father,” ALICE said, “’t would grieve you, would it not, + To discover that I was a most disreputable lot? + Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!” + The padre said, “Whatever have you been and gone and done?” + + “I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, + I’ve assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, + I’ve planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, + And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!” + + The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, + And said, “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear: + It’s wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; + But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece. + + “Girls will be girls—you’re very young, and flighty in your mind; + Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: + We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish tricks— + Let’s see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six.” + + “Oh, father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness makes me weep, + You do these little things for me so singularly cheap— + Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; + But, oh! there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet! + + “A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, + I’ve noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies; + He passes by it every day as certain as can be— + I blush to say I’ve winked at him, and he has winked at me!” + + “For shame!” said FATHER PAUL, “my erring daughter! On my word + This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. + Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand + To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! + + “This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! + They are the most remunerative customers I know; + For many many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors: + I never knew so criminal a family as yours! + + “The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood + Have nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good; + And if you marry any one respectable at all, + Why, you’ll reform, and what will then become of FATHER PAUL?” + + The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, + And started off in haste to tell the news to ROBBER BROWN— + To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, + Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. + + Good ROBBER BROWN he muffled up his anger pretty well: + He said, “I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; + I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, + And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. + + “I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two: + Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do— + A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall + When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small.” + + He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; + He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware; + He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, + And MRS. BROWN dissected him before she went to bed. + + And pretty little ALICE grew more settled in her mind, + She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, + Until at length good ROBBER BROWN bestowed her pretty hand + On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BAB BALLADS*** + + +******* This file should be named 931-0.txt or 931-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/3/931 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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