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Title: The Bab Ballads
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<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<h1>THE BAB BALLADS</h1>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
<p>Contents:</p>
<p>Captain Reece<br />The Rival Curates<br />Only A Dancing Girl<br />General
John<br />To A Little Maid—By A Policeman<br />John And Freddy<br />Sir
Guy The Crusader<br />Haunted<br />The Bishop And The `Busman<br />The
Troubadour<br />Ferdinando And Elvira; Or, The Gentle Pieman<br />Lorenzo
De Lardy<br />Disillusioned—By An Ex-Enthusiast<br />Babette’s
Love<br />To My Bride—(Whoever She May Be)<br />The Folly Of Brown—By
A General Agent<br />Sir Macklin<br />The Yarn Of The “Nancy Bell”<br />The
Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo<br />The Precocious Baby. A Very True Tale<br />To
Phoebe<br />Baines Carew, Gentleman<br />Thomas Winterbottom Hance<br />The
Reverend Micah Sowls<br />A Discontented Sugar Broker<br />The Pantomime
“Super” To His Mask<br />The Force Of Argument<br />The
Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin<br />The Phantom Curate.
A Fable<br />The Sensation Captain<br />Tempora Mutantur<br />At A Pantomime.
By A Bilious One<br />King Borria Bungalee Boo<br />The Periwinkle Girl<br />Thomson
Green And Harriet Hale<br />Bob Polter<br />The Story Of Prince Agib<br />Ellen
McJones Aberdeen<br />Peter The Wag<br />Ben Allah Achmet;—Or,
The Fatal Tum<br />The Three Kings Of Chickeraboo<br />Joe Golightly—Or,
The First Lord’s Daughter<br />To The Terrestrial Globe.
By A Miserable Wretch<br />Gentle Alice Brown</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Captain Reece</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Of all the ships upon the blue,<br />No ship contained a better crew<br />Than
that of worthy CAPTAIN REECE,<br />Commanding of <i>The Mantelpiece</i>.</p>
<p>He was adored by all his men,<br />For worthy CAPTAIN REECE, R.N.,<br />Did
all that lay within him to<br />Promote the comfort of his crew.</p>
<p>If ever they were dull or sad,<br />Their captain danced to them
like mad,<br />Or told, to make the time pass by,<br />Droll legends
of his infancy.</p>
<p>A feather bed had every man,<br />Warm slippers and hot-water can,<br />Brown
windsor from the captain’s store,<br />A valet, too, to every
four.</p>
<p>Did they with thirst in summer burn,<br />Lo, seltzogenes at every
turn,<br />And on all very sultry days<br />Cream ices handed round
on trays.</p>
<p>Then currant wine and ginger pops<br />Stood handily on all the “tops;”<br />And
also, with amusement rife,<br />A “Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life.”</p>
<p>New volumes came across the sea<br />From MISTER MUDIE’S libraree;<br /><i>The
Times</i> and<i> Saturday Review<br /></i>Beguiled the leisure of the
crew.</p>
<p>Kind-hearted CAPTAIN REECE, R.N.,<br />Was quite devoted to his men;<br />In
point of fact, good CAPTAIN REECE<br />Beatified <i>The Mantelpiece.</i></p>
<p>One summer eve, at half-past ten,<br />He said (addressing all his
men):<br />“Come, tell me, please, what I can do<br />To please
and gratify my crew.</p>
<p>“By any reasonable plan<br />I’ll make you happy if I
can;<br />My own convenience count as <i>nil</i>:<br />It is my duty,
and I will.”</p>
<p>Then up and answered WILLIAM LEE<br />(The kindly captain’s
coxswain he,<br />A nervous, shy, low-spoken man),<br />He cleared his
throat and thus began:</p>
<p>“You have a daughter, CAPTAIN REECE,<br />Ten female cousins
and a niece,<br />A Ma, if what I’m told is true,<br />Six sisters,
and an aunt or two.</p>
<p>“Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,<br />More friendly-like
we all should be,<br />If you united of ’em to<br />Unmarried
members of the crew.</p>
<p>“If you’d ameliorate our life,<br />Let each select from
them a wife;<br />And as for nervous me, old pal,<br />Give me your
own enchanting gal!”</p>
<p>Good CAPTAIN REECE, that worthy man,<br />Debated on his coxswain’s
plan:<br />“I quite agree,” he said, “O BILL;<br />It
is my duty, and I will.</p>
<p>“My daughter, that enchanting gurl,<br />Has just been promised
to an Earl,<br />And all my other familee<br />To peers of various degree.</p>
<p>“But what are dukes and viscounts to<br />The happiness of
all my crew?<br />The word I gave you I’ll fulfil;<br />It is
my duty, and I will.</p>
<p>“As you desire it shall befall,<br />I’ll settle thousands
on you all,<br />And I shall be, despite my hoard,<br />The only bachelor
on board.”</p>
<p>The boatswain of <i>The Mantelpiece,<br /></i>He blushed and spoke
to CAPTAIN REECE:<br />“I beg your honour’s leave,”
he said;<br />“If you would wish to go and wed,</p>
<p>“I have a widowed mother who<br />Would be the very thing for
you—<br />She long has loved you from afar:<br />She washes for
you, CAPTAIN R.”</p>
<p>The Captain saw the dame that day—<br />Addressed her in his
playful way—<br />“And did it want a wedding ring?<br />It
was a tempting ickle sing!</p>
<p>“Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,<br />We’ll all
be married this day week<br />At yonder church upon the hill;<br />It
is my duty, and I will!”</p>
<p>The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,<br />And widowed Ma of CAPTAIN
REECE,<br />Attended there as they were bid;<br />It was their duty,
and they did.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Rival Curates</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>List while the poet trolls<br />Of MR. CLAYTON HOOPER,<br />Who had
a cure of souls<br />At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.</p>
<p>He lived on curds and whey,<br />And daily sang their praises,<br />And
then he’d go and play<br />With buttercups and daisies.</p>
<p>Wild croquêt HOOPER banned,<br />And all the sports of Mammon,<br />He
warred with cribbage, and<br />He exorcised backgammon.</p>
<p>His helmet was a glance<br />That spoke of holy gladness;<br />A
saintly smile his lance;<br />His shield a tear of sadness.</p>
<p>His Vicar smiled to see<br />This armour on him buckled:<br />With
pardonable glee<br />He blessed himself and chuckled.</p>
<p>“In mildness to abound<br />My curate’s sole design is;<br />In
all the country round<br />There’s none so mild as mine is!”</p>
<p>And HOOPER, disinclined<br />His trumpet to be blowing,<br />Yet
didn’t think you’d find<br />A milder curate going.</p>
<p>A friend arrived one day<br />At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,<br />And
in this shameful way<br />He spoke to Mr. HOOPER:</p>
<p>“You think your famous name<br />For mildness can’t be
shaken,<br />That none can blot your fame—<br />But, HOOPER, you’re
mistaken!</p>
<p>“Your mind is not as blank<br />As that of HOPLEY PORTER,<br />Who
holds a curate’s rank<br />At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.</p>
<p>“<i>He</i> plays the airy flute,<br />And looks depressed and
blighted,<br />Doves round about him ‘toot,’<br />And lambkins
dance delighted.</p>
<p>“<i>He</i> labours more than you<br />At worsted work, and
frames it;<br />In old maids’ albums, too,<br />Sticks seaweed—yes,
and names it!”</p>
<p>The tempter said his say,<br />Which pierced him like a needle—<br />He
summoned straight away<br />His sexton and his beadle.</p>
<p>(These men were men who could<br />Hold liberal opinions:<br />On
Sundays they were good—<br />On week-days they were minions.)</p>
<p>“To HOPLEY PORTER go,<br />Your fare I will afford you—<br /> Deal
him a deadly blow,<br />And blessings shall reward you.</p>
<p>“But stay—I do not like<br />Undue assassination,<br />And
so before you strike,<br />Make this communication:</p>
<p>“I’ll give him this one chance—<br />If he’ll
more gaily bear him,<br />Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,<br />I
willingly will spare him.”</p>
<p>They went, those minions true,<br />To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,<br />And
told their errand to<br />The REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER.</p>
<p>“What?” said that reverend gent,<br />“Dance through
my hours of leisure?<br />Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—<br />Play
croquêt? Oh, with pleasure!</p>
<p>“Wear all my hair in curl?<br />Stand at my door and wink—so—<br />At
every passing girl?<br />My brothers, I should think so!</p>
<p>“For years I’ve longed for some<br />Excuse for this
revulsion:<br />Now that excuse has come—<br />I do it on compulsion!!!”</p>
<p>He smoked and winked away—<br />This REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER—<br />The
deuce there was to pay<br />At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.</p>
<p>And HOOPER holds his ground,<br />In mildness daily growing—<br />They
think him, all around,<br />The mildest curate going.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Only A Dancing Girl</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Only a dancing girl,<br />With an unromantic style,<br />With borrowed
colour and curl,<br />With fixed mechanical smile,<br />With many a
hackneyed wile,<br />With ungrammatical lips,<br />And corns that mar
her trips.</p>
<p>Hung from the “flies” in air,<br />She acts a palpable
lie,<br />She’s as little a fairy there<br />As unpoetical I!<br />I
hear you asking, Why—<br />Why in the world I sing<br />This tawdry,
tinselled thing?</p>
<p>No airy fairy she,<br />As she hangs in arsenic green<br />From a
highly impossible tree<br />In a highly impossible scene<br />(Herself
not over-clean).<br />For fays don’t suffer, I’m told,<br />From
bunions, coughs, or cold.</p>
<p>And stately dames that bring<br />Their daughters there to see,<br />Pronounce
the “dancing thing”<br />No better than she should be,<br />With
her skirt at her shameful knee,<br />And her painted, tainted phiz:<br />Ah,
matron, which of us is?</p>
<p>(And, in sooth, it oft occurs<br />That while these matrons sigh,<br />Their
dresses are lower than hers,<br />And sometimes half as high;<br />And
their hair is hair they buy,<br />And they use their glasses, too,<br />In
a way she’d blush to do.)</p>
<p>But change her gold and green<br />For a coarse merino gown,<br />And
see her upon the scene<br />Of her home, when coaxing down<br />Her
drunken father’s frown,<br />In his squalid cheerless den:<br />She’s
a fairy truly, then!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>General John</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The bravest names for fire and flames<br />And all that mortal durst,<br />Were
GENERAL JOHN and PRIVATE JAMES,<br />Of the Sixty-seventy-first.</p>
<p>GENERAL JOHN was a soldier tried,<br />A chief of warlike dons;<br />A
haughty stride and a withering pride<br />Were MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN’S.</p>
<p>A sneer would play on his martial phiz,<br />Superior birth to show;<br />“Pish!”
was a favourite word of his,<br />And he often said “Ho! ho!”</p>
<p>FULL-PRIVATE JAMES described might be,<br />As a man of a mournful
mind;<br />No characteristic trait had he<br />Of any distinctive kind.</p>
<p>From the ranks, one day, cried PRIVATE JAMES,<br />“Oh! MAJOR-GENERAL
JOHN,<br />I’ve doubts of our respective names,<br />My mournful
mind upon.</p>
<p>“A glimmering thought occurs to me<br />(Its source I can’t
unearth),<br />But I’ve a kind of a notion we<br />Were cruelly
changed at birth.</p>
<p>“I’ve a strange idea that each other’s names<br />We’ve
each of us here got on.<br />Such things have been,” said PRIVATE
JAMES.<br />“They have!” sneered GENERAL JOHN.</p>
<p>“My GENERAL JOHN, I swear upon<br />My oath I think ’tis
so—”<br />“Pish!” proudly sneered his GENERAL
JOHN,<br />And he also said “Ho! ho!”</p>
<p>“My GENERAL JOHN! my GENERAL JOHN!<br />My GENERAL JOHN!”
quoth he,<br />“This aristocratical sneer upon<br />Your face
I blush to see!</p>
<p>“No truly great or generous cove<br />Deserving of them names,<br />Would
sneer at a fixed idea that’s drove<br />In the mind of a PRIVATE
JAMES!”</p>
<p>Said GENERAL JOHN, “Upon your claims<br />No need your breath
to waste;<br />If this is a joke, FULL-PRIVATE JAMES,<br />It’s
a joke of doubtful taste.</p>
<p>“But, being a man of doubtless worth,<br />If you feel certain
quite<br />That we were probably changed at birth,<br />I’ll venture
to say you’re right.”</p>
<p>So GENERAL JOHN as PRIVATE JAMES<br />Fell in, parade upon;<br />And
PRIVATE JAMES, by change of names,<br />Was MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>To A Little Maid—By A Policeman</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Come with me, little maid,<br />Nay, shrink not, thus afraid—<br />I’ll
harm thee not!<br />Fly not, my love, from me—<br />I have a home
for thee—<br />A fairy grot,<br />Where mortal eye<br />Can rarely
pry,<br />There shall thy dwelling be!</p>
<p>List to me, while I tell<br />The pleasures of that cell,<br />Oh,
little maid!<br />What though its couch be rude,<br />Homely the only
food<br />Within its shade?<br />No thought of care<br />Can enter there,<br />No
vulgar swain intrude!</p>
<p>Come with me, little maid,<br />Come to the rocky shade<br />I love
to sing;<br />Live with us, maiden rare—<br />Come, for we “want”
thee there,<br />Thou elfin thing,<br />To work thy spell,<br />In some
cool cell<br />In stately Pentonville!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>John And Freddy</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>JOHN courted lovely MARY ANN,<br />So likewise did his brother, FREDDY.<br />FRED
was a very soft young man,<br />While JOHN, though quick, was most unsteady.</p>
<p>FRED was a graceful kind of youth,<br />But JOHN was very much the
strongest.<br />“Oh, dance away,” said she, “in truth,<br />I’ll
marry him who dances longest.”</p>
<p>JOHN tries the maiden’s taste to strike<br />With gay, grotesque,
outrageous dresses,<br />And dances comically, like<br />CLODOCHE AND
Co., at the Princess’s.</p>
<p>But FREDDY tries another style,<br />He knows some graceful steps
and does ’em—<br />A breathing Poem—Woman’s
smile—<br />A man all poesy and buzzem.</p>
<p>Now FREDDY’S operatic <i>pas</i>—<br />Now JOHNNY’S
hornpipe seems entrapping:<br />Now FREDDY’S graceful <i>entrechats—<br /></i>Now
JOHNNY’S skilful “cellar-flapping.”</p>
<p>For many hours—for many days—<br />For many weeks performed
each brother,<br />For each was active in his ways,<br />And neither
would give in to t’other.</p>
<p>After a month of this, they say<br />(The maid was getting bored
and moody)<br />A wandering curate passed that way<br />And talked a
lot of goody-goody.</p>
<p>“Oh my,” said he, with solemn frown,<br />“I tremble
for each dancing <i>frater</i>,<br />Like unregenerated clown<br />And
harlequin at some the-ayter.”</p>
<p>He showed that men, in dancing, do<br />Both impiously and absurdly,<br />And
proved his proposition true,<br />With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly.</p>
<p>For months both JOHN and FREDDY danced,<br />The curate’s protests
little heeding;<br />For months the curate’s words enhanced<br />The
sinfulness of their proceeding.</p>
<p>At length they bowed to Nature’s rule—<br />Their steps
grew feeble and unsteady,<br />Till FREDDY fainted on a stool,<br />And
JOHNNY on the top of FREDDY.</p>
<p>“Decide!” quoth they, “let him be named,<br />Who
henceforth as his wife may rank you.”<br />“I’ve changed
my views,” the maiden said,<br />“I only marry curates,
thank you!”</p>
<p>Says FREDDY, “Here is goings on!<br />To bust myself with rage
I’m ready.”<br />“I’ll be a curate!” whispers
JOHN—<br />“And I,” exclaimed poetic FREDDY.</p>
<p>But while they read for it, these chaps,<br />The curate booked the
maiden bonny—<br />And when she’s buried him, perhaps,<br />She’ll
marry FREDERICK or JOHNNY.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Sir Guy The Crusader</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Sir GUY was a doughty crusader,<br />A muscular knight,<br />Ever
ready to fight,<br />A very determined invader,<br />And DICKEY DE LION’S
delight.</p>
<p>LENORE was a Saracen maiden,<br />Brunette, statuesque,<br />The
reverse of grotesque,<br />Her pa was a bagman from Aden,<br />Her mother
she played in burlesque.</p>
<p>A <i>coryphée</i>, pretty and loyal,<br />In amber and red<br />The
ballet she led;<br />Her mother performed at the Royal,<br />LENORE
at the Saracen’s Head.</p>
<p>Of face and of figure majestic,<br />She dazzled the cits—<br />Ecstaticised
pits;—<br />Her troubles were only domestic,<br />But drove her
half out of her wits.</p>
<p>Her father incessantly lashed her,<br />On water and bread<br />She
was grudgingly fed;<br />Whenever her father he thrashed her<br />Her
mother sat down on her head.</p>
<p>GUY saw her, and loved her, with reason,<br />For beauty so bright<br />Sent
him mad with delight;<br />He purchased a stall for the season,<br />And
sat in it every night.</p>
<p>His views were exceedingly proper,<br />He wanted to wed,<br />So
he called at her shed<br />And saw her progenitor whop her—<br />Her
mother sit down on her head.</p>
<p>“So pretty,” said he, “and so trusting!<br />You
brute of a dad,<br />You unprincipled cad,<br />Your conduct is really
disgusting,<br />Come, come, now admit it’s too bad!</p>
<p>“You’re a turbaned old Turk, and malignant—<br />Your
daughter LENORE<br />I intensely adore,<br />And I cannot help feeling
indignant,<br />A fact that I hinted before;</p>
<p>“To see a fond father employing<br />A deuce of a knout<br />For
to bang her about,<br />To a sensitive lover’s annoying.”<br />Said
the bagman, “Crusader, get out.”</p>
<p>Says GUY, “Shall a warrior laden<br />With a big spiky knob,<br />Sit
in peace on his cob<br />While a beautiful Saracen maiden<br />Is whipped
by a Saracen snob?</p>
<p>“To London I’ll go from my charmer.”<br />Which
he did, with his loot<br />(Seven hats and a flute),<br />And was nabbed
for his Sydenham armour<br />At MR. BEN-SAMUEL’S suit.</p>
<p>SIR GUY he was lodged in the Compter,<br />Her pa, in a rage,<br />Died
(don’t know his age),<br />His daughter, she married the prompter,<br />Grew
bulky and quitted the stage.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Haunted</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Haunted? Ay, in a social way<br />By a body of ghosts in dread
array;<br />But no conventional spectres they—<br />Appalling,
grim, and tricky:<br />I quail at mine as I’d never quail<br />At
a fine traditional spectre pale,<br />With a turnip head and a ghostly
wail,<br />And a splash of blood on the dickey!</p>
<p>Mine are horrible, social ghosts,—<br />Speeches and women
and guests and hosts,<br />Weddings and morning calls and toasts,<br />In
every bad variety:<br />Ghosts who hover about the grave<br />Of all
that’s manly, free, and brave:<br />You’ll find their names
on the architrave<br />Of that charnel-house, Society.</p>
<p>Black Monday—black as its school-room ink—<br />With
its dismal boys that snivel and think<br />Of its nauseous messes to
eat and drink,<br />And its frozen tank to wash in.<br />That was the
first that brought me grief,<br />And made me weep, till I sought relief<br />In
an emblematical handkerchief,<br />To choke such baby bosh in.</p>
<p>First and worst in the grim array-<br />Ghosts of ghosts that have
gone their way,<br />Which I wouldn’t revive for a single day<br />For
all the wealth of PLUTUS—<br />Are the horrible ghosts that school-days
scared:<br />If the classical ghost that BRUTUS dared<br />Was the ghost
of his “Caesar” unprepared,<br />I’m sure I pity BRUTUS.</p>
<p>I pass to critical seventeen;<br />The ghost of that terrible wedding
scene,<br />When an elderly Colonel stole my Queen,<br />And woke my
dream of heaven.<br />No schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room curls<br />Was
my gushing innocent Queen of Pearls;<br />If she wasn’t a girl
of a thousand girls,<br />She was one of forty-seven!</p>
<p>I see the ghost of my first cigar,<br />Of the thence-arising family
jar—<br />Of my maiden brief (I was at the Bar,<br />And I called
the Judge “Your wushup!”)<br />Of reckless days and reckless
nights,<br />With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights,<br />Unholy
songs and tipsy fights,<br />Which I strove in vain to hush up.</p>
<p>Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks,<br />Ghosts of “copy,
declined with thanks,”<br />Of novels returned in endless ranks,<br />And
thousands more, I suffer.<br />The only line to fitly grace<br />My
humble tomb, when I’ve run my race,<br />Is, “Reader, this
is the resting-place<br />Of an unsuccessful duffer.”</p>
<p>I’ve fought them all, these ghosts of mine,<br />But the weapons
I’ve used are sighs and brine,<br />And now that I’m nearly
forty-nine,<br />Old age is my chiefest bogy;<br />For my hair is thinning
away at the crown,<br />And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;<br />And
a general verdict sets me down<br />As an irreclaimable fogy.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Bishop And The ’Busman</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was a Bishop bold,<br />And London was his see,<br />He was short
and stout and round about<br />And zealous as could be.</p>
<p>It also was a Jew,<br />Who drove a Putney ’bus—<br />For
flesh of swine however fine<br />He did not care a cuss.</p>
<p>His name was HASH BAZ BEN,<br />And JEDEDIAH too,<br />And SOLOMON
and ZABULON—<br />This ’bus-directing Jew.</p>
<p>The Bishop said, said he,<br />“I’ll see what I can do<br />To
Christianise and make you wise,<br />You poor benighted Jew.”</p>
<p>So every blessed day<br />That ’bus he rode outside,<br />From
Fulham town, both up and down,<br />And loudly thus he cried:</p>
<p>“His name is HASH BAZ BEN,<br />And JEDEDIAH too,<br />And
SOLOMON and ZABULON—<br />This ’bus-directing Jew.”</p>
<p>At first the ’busman smiled,<br />And rather liked the fun—<br />He
merely smiled, that Hebrew child,<br />And said, “Eccentric one!”</p>
<p>And gay young dogs would wait<br />To see the ’bus go by<br />(These
gay young dogs, in striking togs),<br />To hear the Bishop cry:</p>
<p>“Observe his grisly beard,<br />His race it clearly shows,<br />He
sticks no fork in ham or pork—<br />Observe, my friends, his nose.</p>
<p>“His name is HASH BAZ BEN,<br />And JEDEDIAH too,<br />And
SOLOMON and ZABULON—<br />This ’bus-directing Jew.”</p>
<p>But though at first amused,<br />Yet after seven years,<br />This
Hebrew child got rather riled,<br />And melted into tears.</p>
<p>He really almost feared<br />To leave his poor abode,<br />His nose,
and name, and beard became<br />A byword on that road.</p>
<p>At length he swore an oath,<br />The reason he would know—<br />“I’ll
call and see why ever he<br />Does persecute me so!”</p>
<p>The good old Bishop sat<br />On his ancestral chair,<br />The ’busman
came, sent up his name,<br />And laid his grievance bare.</p>
<p>“Benighted Jew,” he said<br />(The good old Bishop did),<br />“Be
Christian, you, instead of Jew—<br />Become a Christian kid!</p>
<p>“I’ll ne’er annoy you more.”<br />“Indeed?”
replied the Jew;<br />“Shall I be freed?” “You
will, indeed!”<br />Then “Done!” said he, “with
you!”</p>
<p>The organ which, in man,<br />Between the eyebrows grows,<br />Fell
from his face, and in its place<br />He found a Christian nose.</p>
<p>His tangled Hebrew beard,<br />Which to his waist came down,<br />Was
now a pair of whiskers fair—<br />His name ADOLPHUS BROWN!</p>
<p>He wedded in a year<br />That prelate’s daughter JANE,<br />He’s
grown quite fair—has auburn hair—<br />His wife is far from
plain.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Troubadour</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A TROUBADOUR he played<br />Without a castle wall,<br />Within, a
hapless maid<br />Responded to his call.</p>
<p>“Oh, willow, woe is me!<br />Alack and well-a-day!<br />If
I were only free<br />I’d hie me far away!”</p>
<p>Unknown her face and name,<br />But this he knew right well,<br />The
maiden’s wailing came<br />From out a dungeon cell.</p>
<p>A hapless woman lay<br />Within that dungeon grim—<br />That
fact, I’ve heard him say,<br />Was quite enough for him.</p>
<p>“I will not sit or lie,<br />Or eat or drink, I vow,<br />Till
thou art free as I,<br />Or I as pent as thou.”</p>
<p>Her tears then ceased to flow,<br />Her wails no longer rang,<br />And
tuneful in her woe<br />The prisoned maiden sang:</p>
<p>“Oh, stranger, as you play,<br />I recognize your touch;<br />And
all that I can say<br />Is, thank you very much.”</p>
<p>He seized his clarion straight,<br />And blew thereat, until<br />A
warden oped the gate.<br />“Oh, what might be your will?”</p>
<p>“I’ve come, Sir Knave, to see<br />The master of these
halls:<br />A maid unwillingly<br />Lies prisoned in their walls.”’</p>
<p>With barely stifled sigh<br />That porter drooped his head,<br />With
teardrops in his eye,<br />“A many, sir,” he said.</p>
<p>He stayed to hear no more,<br />But pushed that porter by,<br />And
shortly stood before<br />SIR HUGH DE PECKHAM RYE.</p>
<p>SIR HUGH he darkly frowned,<br />“What would you, sir, with
me?”<br />The troubadour he downed<br />Upon his bended knee.</p>
<p>“I’ve come, DE PECKHAM RYE,<br />To do a Christian task;<br />You
ask me what would I?<br />It is not much I ask.</p>
<p>“Release these maidens, sir,<br />Whom you dominion o’er—<br />Particularly
her<br />Upon the second floor.</p>
<p>“And if you don’t, my lord”—<br />He here
stood bolt upright,<br />And tapped a tailor’s sword—<br />“Come
out, you cad, and fight!”</p>
<p>SIR HUGH he called—and ran<br />The warden from the gate:<br />“Go,
show this gentleman<br />The maid in Forty-eight.”</p>
<p>By many a cell they past,<br />And stopped at length before<br />A
portal, bolted fast:<br />The man unlocked the door.</p>
<p>He called inside the gate<br />With coarse and brutal shout,<br />“Come,
step it, Forty-eight!”<br />And Forty-eight stepped out.</p>
<p>“They gets it pretty hot,<br />The maidens what we cotch—<br />Two
years this lady’s got<br />For collaring a wotch.”</p>
<p>“Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,”<br />The troubadour
exclaimed—<br />“If I may make so free,<br />How is this
castle named?</p>
<p>The warden’s eyelids fill,<br />And sighing, he replied,<br />“Of
gloomy Pentonville<br />This is the female side!”</p>
<p>The minstrel did not wait<br />The Warden stout to thank,<br />But
recollected straight<br />He’d business at the Bank.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Ferdinando And Elvira; Or, The Gentle Pieman</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>PART I.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper<br />One whom
I will call ELVIRA, and we talked of love and TUPPER,</p>
<p>MR. TUPPER and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing,<br />For
I’ve always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.</p>
<p>Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,<br />And
she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.</p>
<p>Then she whispered, “To the ball-room we had better, dear,
be walking;<br />If we stop down here much longer, really people will
be talking.”</p>
<p>There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,<br />There
were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.</p>
<p>Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing,<br />Then
she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing.</p>
<p>Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,<br />Then
she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.</p>
<p>So I whispered, “Dear ELVIRA, say,—what can the
matter be with you?<br />Does anything you’ve eaten, darling POPSY,
disagree with you?”</p>
<p>But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,<br />And
she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.</p>
<p>Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me,<br />And
she whispered, “FERDINANDO, do you really, <i>really</i> love
me?”</p>
<p>“Love you?” said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon
her sweetly—<br />For I think I do this sort of thing particularly
neatly.</p>
<p>“Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,<br />On
a scientific goose-chase, with my COXWELL or my GLAISHER!</p>
<p>“Tell me whither I may hie me—tell me, dear one, that
I may know—<br />Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?”</p>
<p>But she said, “It isn’t polar bears, or hot volcanic
grottoes:<br />Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker
mottoes!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>PART II.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>“Tell me, HENRY WADSWORTH, ALFRED POET CLOSE, or MISTER TUPPER,<br />Do
you write the bon bon mottoes my ELVIRA pulls at supper?”</p>
<p>But HENRY WADSWORTH smiled, and said he had not had that honour;<br />And
ALFRED, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.</p>
<p>“MISTER MARTIN TUPPER, POET CLOSE, I beg of you inform us;”<br />But
my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.</p>
<p>MISTER CLOSE expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me;<br />And
MISTER MARTIN TUPPER sent the following reply to me:</p>
<p>“A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,”—<br />Which
I know was very clever; but I didn’t understand it.</p>
<p>Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,<br />Till
at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.</p>
<p>There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,<br />So
I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.</p>
<p>He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,<br />And
his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.</p>
<p>And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter
hearty—<br />He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.</p>
<p>And I said, “O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?<br />Is
it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?”</p>
<p>But he answered, “I’m so happy—no profession could
be dearer—<br />If I am not humming ‘Tra! la! la!’
I’m singing ‘Tirer, lirer!’</p>
<p>“First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the
jellies,<br />Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell
is;</p>
<p>“Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers;<br />Then
I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers.”—</p>
<p>“Found at last!” I madly shouted. “Gentle
pieman, you astound me!”<br />Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically
round me.</p>
<p>And I shouted and I danced until he’d quite a crowd around
him—<br />And I rushed away exclaiming, “I have found him!
I have found him!”</p>
<p>And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,<br />“‘Tira,
lira!’ stop him, stop him! ‘Tra! la! la!’ the
soup’s a shilling!”</p>
<p>But until I reached ELVIRA’S home, I never, never waited,<br />And
ELVIRA to her FERDINAND’S irrevocably mated!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Lorenzo De Lardy</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>DALILAH DE DARDY adored<br />The very correctest of cards,<br />LORENZO
DE LARDY, a lord—<br />He was one of Her Majesty’s Guards.</p>
<p>DALILAH DE DARDY was fat,<br />DALILAH DE DARDY was old—<br />(No
doubt in the world about that)<br />But DALILAH DE DARDY had gold.</p>
<p>LORENZO DE LARDY was tall,<br />The flower of maidenly pets,<br />Young
ladies would love at his call,<br />But LORENZO DE LARDY had debts.</p>
<p>His money-position was queer,<br />And one of his favourite freaks<br />Was
to hide himself three times a year,<br />In Paris, for several weeks.</p>
<p>Many days didn’t pass him before<br />He fanned himself into
a flame,<br />For a beautiful “DAM DU COMPTWORE,”<br />And
this was her singular name:</p>
<p>ALICE EULALIE CORALINE<br />EUPHROSINE COLOMBINA THÉRÈSE<br />JULIETTE
STEPHANIE CELESTINE<br />CHARLOTTE RUSSE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE.</p>
<p>She booked all the orders and tin,<br />Accoutred in showy fal-lal,<br />At
a two-fifty Restaurant, in<br />The glittering Palais Royal.</p>
<p>He’d gaze in her orbit of blue,<br />Her hand he would tenderly
squeeze,<br />But the words of her tongue that he knew<br />Were limited
strictly to these:</p>
<p>“CORALINE CELESTINE EULALIE,<br />Houp là! Je
vous aime, oui, mossoo,<br />Combien donnez moi aujourd’hui<br />Bonjour,
Mademoiselle, parlez voo.”</p>
<p>MADEMOISELLE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE<br />Was a witty and beautiful
miss,<br />Extremely correct in her ways,<br />But her English consisted
of this:</p>
<p>“Oh my! pretty man, if you please,<br />Blom boodin, biftek,
currie lamb,<br />Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,<br />Rosbif,
me spik Angleesh, godam.”</p>
<p>A waiter, for seasons before,<br />Had basked in her beautiful gaze,<br />And
burnt to dismember MILOR,<br /><i>He loved</i> DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE.</p>
<p>He said to her, “Méchante THÉRÈSE,<br />Avec
désespoir tu m’accables.<br />Penses-tu, DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE,<br />Ses
intentions sont honorables?</p>
<p>“Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu ôses—<br />Je
me vengerai ainsi, ma chère,<br /><i>Je lui dirai de quoi l’on
compose<br />Vol au vent à la Financière</i>!”</p>
<p>LORD LARDY knew nothing of this—<br />The waiter’s devotion
ignored,<br />But he gazed on the beautiful miss,<br />And never seemed
weary or bored.</p>
<p>The waiter would screw up his nerve,<br />His fingers he’d
snap and he’d dance—<br />And LORD LARDY would smile and
observe,<br />“How strange are the customs of France!”</p>
<p>Well, after delaying a space,<br />His tradesmen no longer would
wait:<br />Returning to England apace,<br />He yielded himself to his
fate.</p>
<p>LORD LARDY espoused, with a groan,<br />MISS DARDY’S developing
charms,<br />And agreed to tag on to his own,<br />Her name and her
newly-found arms.</p>
<p>The waiter he knelt at the toes<br />Of an ugly and thin coryphée,<br />Who
danced in the hindermost rows<br />At the Théatre des Variétés.</p>
<p>MADEMOISELLE DE LA SAUCE MAYONNAISE<br />Didn’t yield to a
gnawing despair<br />But married a soldier, and plays<br />As a pretty
and pert Vivandière.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Disillusioned—By An Ex-Enthusiast</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Oh, that my soul its gods could see<br />As years ago they seemed
to me<br />When first I painted them;<br />Invested with the circumstance<br />Of
old conventional romance:<br />Exploded theorem!</p>
<p>The bard who could, all men above,<br />Inflame my soul with songs
of love,<br />And, with his verse, inspire<br />The craven soul who
feared to die<br />With all the glow of chivalry<br />And old heroic
fire;</p>
<p>I found him in a beerhouse tap<br />Awaking from a gin-born nap,<br />With
pipe and sloven dress;<br />Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,<br />With
muddy, maudlin sentiment,<br />And tipsy foolishness!</p>
<p>The novelist, whose painting pen<br />To legions of fictitious men<br />A
real existence lends,<br />Brain-people whom we rarely fail,<br />Whene’er
we hear their names, to hail<br />As old and welcome friends;</p>
<p>I found in clumsy snuffy suit,<br />In seedy glove, and blucher boot,<br />Uncomfortably
big.<br />Particularly commonplace,<br />With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking
face,<br />And spectacles and wig.</p>
<p>My favourite actor who, at will,<br />With mimic woe my eyes could
fill<br />With unaccustomed brine:<br />A being who appeared to me<br />(Before
I knew him well) to be<br />A song incarnadine;</p>
<p>I found a coarse unpleasant man<br />With speckled chin—unhealthy,
wan—<br />Of self-importance full:<br />Existing in an atmosphere<br />That
reeked of gin and pipes and beer—<br />Conceited, fractious, dull.</p>
<p>The warrior whose ennobled name<br />Is woven with his country’s
fame,<br />Triumphant over all,<br />I found weak, palsied, bloated,
blear;<br />His province seemed to be, to leer<br />At bonnets in Pall
Mall.</p>
<p>Would that ye always shone, who write,<br />Bathed in your own innate
limelight,<br />And ye who battles wage,<br />Or that in darkness I
had died<br />Before my soul had ever sighed<br />To see you off the
stage!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Babette’s Love</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>BABETTE she was a fisher gal,<br />With jupon striped and cap in
crimps.<br />She passed her days inside the Halle,<br />Or catching
little nimble shrimps.<br />Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,<br />With
no professional bouquet.</p>
<p>JACOT was, of the Customs bold,<br />An officer, at gay Boulogne,<br />He
loved BABETTE—his love he told,<br />And sighed, “Oh, soyez
vous my own!”<br />But “Non!” said she, “JACOT,
my pet,<br />Vous êtes trop scraggy pour BABETTE.</p>
<p>“Of one alone I nightly dream,<br />An able mariner is he,<br />And
gaily serves the Gen’ral Steam-<br />Boat Navigation Companee.<br />I’ll
marry him, if he but will—<br />His name, I rather think, is BILL.</p>
<p>“I see him when he’s not aware,<br />Upon our hospitable
coast,<br />Reclining with an easy air<br />Upon the <i>Port</i> against
a post,<br />A-thinking of, I’ll dare to say,<br />His native
Chelsea far away!”</p>
<p>“Oh, mon!” exclaimed the Customs bold,<br />“Mes
yeux!” he said (which means “my eye”)<br />“Oh,
chère!” he also cried, I’m told,<br />“Par
Jove,” he added, with a sigh.<br />“Oh, mon! oh, chère!
mes yeux! par Jove!<br />Je n’aime pas cet enticing cove!”</p>
<p>The <i>Panther’s</i> captain stood hard by,<br />He was a man
of morals strict<br />If e’er a sailor winked his eye,<br />Straightway
he had that sailor licked,<br />Mast-headed all (such was his code)<br />Who
dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.</p>
<p>He wept to think a tar of his<br />Should lean so gracefully on posts,<br />He
sighed and sobbed to think of this,<br />On foreign, French, and friendly
coasts.<br />“It’s human natur’, p’raps—if
so,<br />Oh, isn’t human natur’ low!”</p>
<p>He called his BILL, who pulled his curl,<br />He said, “My
BILL, I understand<br />You’ve captivated some young gurl<br />On
this here French and foreign land.<br />Her tender heart your beauties
jog—<br />They do, you know they do, you dog.</p>
<p>“You have a graceful way, I learn,<br />Of leaning airily on
posts,<br />By which you’ve been and caused to burn<br />A tender
flame on these here coasts.<br />A fisher gurl, I much regret,—<br />Her
age, sixteen—her name, BABETTE.</p>
<p>“You’ll marry her, you gentle tar—<br />Your union
I myself will bless,<br />And when you matrimonied are,<br />I will
appoint her stewardess.”<br />But WILLIAM hitched himself and
sighed,<br />And cleared his throat, and thus replied:</p>
<p>“Not so: unless you’re fond of strife,<br />You’d
better mind your own affairs,<br />I have an able-bodied wife<br />Awaiting
me at Wapping Stairs;<br />If all this here to her I tell,<br />She’ll
larrup you and me as well.</p>
<p>“Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,<br />Is beauty such as VENUS
owns—<br /><i>Her</i> beauty is beneath her skin,<br />And lies
in layers on her bones.<br />The other sailors of the crew<br />They
always calls her ‘Whopping Sue!’”</p>
<p>“Oho!” the Captain said, “I see!<br />And is she
then so very strong?”<br />“She’d take your honour’s
scruff,” said he<br />“And pitch you over to Bolong!”<br />“I
pardon you,” the Captain said,<br />“The fair BABETTE you
needn’t wed.”</p>
<p>Perhaps the Customs had his will,<br />And coaxed the scornful girl
to wed,<br />Perhaps the Captain and his BILL,<br />And WILLIAM’S
little wife are dead;<br />Or p’raps they’re all alive and
well:<br />I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>To My Bride—(Whoever She May Be)</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name<br />Or who you are,
so, as a safe precaution<br />I’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow!
married dame!<br />(As one of these must be your present portion)<br />Listen,
while I unveil prophetic lore for you,<br />And sing the fate that Fortune
has in store for you.</p>
<p>You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain—<br />A
bachelor of <i>circa</i> two and thirty:<br />Tall, gentlemanly, but
extremely plain,<br />And when you’re intimate, you’ll call
him “BERTIE.”<br />Neat—dresses well; his temper has
been classified<br />As hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified.</p>
<p>You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar,<br />After a touch
at two or three professions,<br />From easy affluence extremely far,<br />A
brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions;<br />A
pound or two from whist and backing horses,<br />And, say three hundred
from his own resources.</p>
<p>Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,<br />His faults are not
particularly shady,<br />You’ll never find him “<i>shy</i>”—for,
once or twice<br />Already, he’s been driven by a lady,<br />Who
parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—<br />Because
she hasn’t any further use for him.</p>
<p>Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!<br />Oh! widow—wife,
maybe, or blushing maiden,<br />I’ve told <i>your</i> fortune;
solved the gravest care<br />With which your mind has hitherto been
laden.<br />I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it;<br />Now
tell me mine—and please be quick about it!</p>
<p>You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will,<br />To
whom I’m destined shortly to be mated,<br />Will she run up a
heavy <i>modiste’s</i> bill?<br />If so, I want to hear her income
stated<br />(This is a point which interests me greatly).<br />To quote
the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?”</p>
<p>Say, must I wait till husband number one<br />Is comfortably stowed
away at Woking?<br />How is her hair most usually done?<br />And tell
me, please, will she object to smoking?<br />The colour of her eyes,
too, you may mention:<br />Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all
attention.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Folly Of Brown—By A General Agent</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I knew a boor—a clownish card<br />(His only friends were pigs
and cows and<br />The poultry of a small farmyard),<br />Who came into
two hundred thousand.</p>
<p>Good fortune worked no change in BROWN,<br />Though she’s a
mighty social chymist;<br />He was a clown—and by a clown<br />I
do not mean a pantomimist.</p>
<p>It left him quiet, calm, and cool,<br />Though hardly knowing what
a crown was—<br />You can’t imagine what a fool<br />Poor
rich uneducated BROWN was!</p>
<p>He scouted all who wished to come<br />And give him monetary schooling;<br />And
I propose to give you some<br />Idea of his insensate fooling.</p>
<p>I formed a company or two—<br />(Of course I don’t know
what the rest meant,<br />I formed them solely with a view<br />To help
him to a sound investment).</p>
<p>Their objects were—their only cares—<br />To justify
their Boards in showing<br />A handsome dividend on shares<br />And
keep their good promoter going.</p>
<p>But no—the lout sticks to his brass,<br />Though shares at
par I freely proffer:<br />Yet—will it be believed?—the
ass<br />Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!</p>
<p>He adds, with bumpkin’s stolid grin<br />(A weakly intellect
denoting),<br />He’d rather not invest it in<br />A company of
my promoting!</p>
<p>“You have two hundred ‘thou’ or more,”<br />Said
I. “You’ll waste it, lose it, lend it;<br />Come,
take my furnished second floor,<br />I’ll gladly show you how
to spend it.”</p>
<p>But will it be believed that he,<br />With grin upon his face of
poppy,<br />Declined my aid, while thanking me<br />For what he called
my “philanthroppy”?</p>
<p>Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice<br />In doubting friends who
wouldn’t harm them;<br />They will not hear the charmer’s
voice,<br />However wisely he may charm them!</p>
<p>I showed him that his coat, all dust,<br />Top boots and cords provoked
compassion,<br />And proved that men of station must<br />Conform to
the decrees of fashion.</p>
<p>I showed him where to buy his hat<br />To coat him, trouser him,
and boot him;<br />But no—he wouldn’t hear of that—<br />“He
didn’t think the style would suit him!”</p>
<p>I offered him a county seat,<br />And made no end of an oration;<br />I
made it certainty complete,<br />And introduced the deputation.</p>
<p>But no—the clown my prospect blights—<br />(The worth
of birth it surely teaches!)<br />“Why should I want to spend
my nights<br />In Parliament, a-making speeches?</p>
<p>“I haven’t never been to school—<br />I ain’t
had not no eddication—<br />And I should surely be a fool<br />To
publish that to all the nation!”</p>
<p>I offered him a trotting horse—<br />No hack had ever trotted
faster—<br />I also offered him, of course,<br />A rare and curious
“old master.”</p>
<p>I offered to procure him weeds—<br />Wines fit for one in his
position—<br />But, though an ass in all his deeds,<br />He’d
learnt the meaning of “commission.”</p>
<p>He called me “thief” the other day,<br />And daily from
his door he thrusts me;<br />Much more of this, and soon I may<br />Begin
to think that BROWN mistrusts me.</p>
<p>So deaf to all sound Reason’s rule<br />This poor uneducated
clown is,<br />You can<i>not</i> fancy what a fool<br />Poor rich uneducated
BROWN is.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Sir Macklin</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Of all the youths I ever saw<br />None were so wicked, vain, or silly,<br />So
lost to shame and Sabbath law,<br />As worldly TOM, and BOB, and BILLY.</p>
<p>For every Sabbath day they walked<br />(Such was their gay and thoughtless
natur)<br />In parks or gardens, where they talked<br />From three to
six, or even later.</p>
<p>SIR MACKLIN was a priest severe<br />In conduct and in conversation,<br />It
did a sinner good to hear<br />Him deal in ratiocination.</p>
<p>He could in every action show<br />Some sin, and nobody could doubt
him.<br />He argued high, he argued low,<br />He also argued round about
him.</p>
<p>He wept to think each thoughtless youth<br />Contained of wickedness
a skinful,<br />And burnt to teach the awful truth,<br />That walking
out on Sunday’s sinful.</p>
<p>“Oh, youths,” said he, “I grieve to find<br />The
course of life you’ve been and hit on—<br />Sit down,”
said he, “and never mind<br />The pennies for the chairs you sit
on.</p>
<p>“My opening head is ‘Kensington,’<br />How walking
there the sinner hardens,<br />Which when I have enlarged upon,<br />I
go to ‘Secondly’—its ‘Gardens.’</p>
<p>“My ‘Thirdly’ comprehendeth ‘Hyde,’<br />Of
Secresy the guilts and shameses;<br />My ‘Fourthly’—‘Park’—its
verdure wide—<br />My ‘Fifthly’ comprehends ‘St.
James’s.’</p>
<p>“That matter settled, I shall reach<br />The ‘Sixthly’
in my solemn tether,<br />And show that what is true of each,<br />Is
also true of all, together.</p>
<p>“Then I shall demonstrate to you,<br />According to the rules
of WHATELY,<br />That what is true of all, is true<br />Of each, considered
separately.”</p>
<p>In lavish stream his accents flow,<br />TOM, BOB, and BILLY dare
not flout him;<br />He argued high, he argued low,<br />He also argued
round about him.</p>
<p>“Ha, ha!” he said, “you loathe your ways,<br />You
writhe at these my words of warning,<br />In agony your hands you raise.”<br />(And
so they did, for they were yawning.)</p>
<p>To “Twenty-firstly” on they go,<br />The lads do not
attempt to scout him;<br />He argued high, he argued low,<br />He also
argued round about him.</p>
<p>“Ho, ho!” he cries, “you bow your crests—<br />My
eloquence has set you weeping;<br />In shame you bend upon your breasts!”<br />(And
so they did, for they were sleeping.)</p>
<p>He proved them this—he proved them that—<br />This good
but wearisome ascetic;<br />He jumped and thumped upon his hat,<br />He
was so very energetic.</p>
<p>His Bishop at this moment chanced<br />To pass, and found the road
encumbered;<br />He noticed how the Churchman danced,<br />And how his
congregation slumbered.</p>
<p>The hundred and eleventh head<br />The priest completed of his stricture;<br />“Oh,
bosh!” the worthy Bishop said,<br />And walked him off as in the
picture.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Yarn Of The “Nancy Bell”</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>’Twas on the shores that round our coast<br />From Deal to
Ramsgate span,<br />That I found alone on a piece of stone<br />An elderly
naval man.</p>
<p>His hair was weedy, his beard was long,<br />And weedy and long was
he,<br />And I heard this wight on the shore recite,<br />In a singular
minor key:</p>
<p>“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,<br />And the mate of the
<i>Nancy</i> brig,<br />And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,<br />And
the crew of the captain’s gig.”</p>
<p>And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,<br />Till I really felt
afraid,<br />For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,<br />And
so I simply said:</p>
<p>“Oh, elderly man, it’s little I know<br />Of the duties
of men of the sea,<br />And I’ll eat my hand if I understand<br />However
you can be</p>
<p>“At once a cook, and a captain bold,<br />And the mate of the
<i>Nancy</i> brig,<br />And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,<br />And
the crew of the captain’s gig.”</p>
<p>Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which<br />Is a trick all seamen
larn,<br />And having got rid of a thumping quid,<br />He spun this
painful yarn:</p>
<p>“’Twas in the good ship <i>Nancy Bell<br /></i>That we
sailed to the Indian Sea,<br />And there on a reef we come to grief,<br />Which
has often occurred to me.</p>
<p>“And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned<br />(There was seventy-seven
o’ soul),<br />And only ten of the <i>Nancy’s</i> men<br />Said
‘Here!’ to the muster-roll.</p>
<p>“There was me and the cook and the captain bold,<br />And the
mate of the <i>Nancy</i> brig,<br />And the bo’sun tight, and
a midshipmite,<br />And the crew of the captain’s gig.</p>
<p>“For a month we’d neither wittles nor drink,<br />Till
a-hungry we did feel,<br />So we drawed a lot, and, accordin’
shot<br />The captain for our meal.</p>
<p>“The next lot fell to the <i>Nancy’s</i> mate,<br />And
a delicate dish he made;<br />Then our appetite with the midshipmite<br />We
seven survivors stayed.</p>
<p>“And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,<br />And he much
resembled pig;<br />Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,<br />On
the crew of the captain’s gig.</p>
<p>“Then only the cook and me was left,<br />And the delicate
question, ‘Which<br />Of us two goes to the kettle?’ arose,<br />And
we argued it out as sich.</p>
<p>“For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,<br />And the cook
he worshipped me;<br />But we’d both be blowed if we’d either
be stowed<br />In the other chap’s hold, you see.</p>
<p>“‘I’ll be eat if you dines off me,’ says
TOM;<br />‘Yes, that,’ says I, ‘you’ll be,—<br />‘I’m
boiled if I die, my friend,’ quoth I;<br />And ‘Exactly
so,’ quoth he.</p>
<p>“Says he, ‘Dear JAMES, to murder me<br />Were a foolish
thing to do,<br />For don’t you see that you can’t cook
<i>me</i>,<br />While I can—and will—cook <i>you</i>!’</p>
<p>“So he boils the water, and takes the salt<br />And the pepper
in portions true<br />(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.<br />And
some sage and parsley too.</p>
<p>“‘Come here,’ says he, with a proper pride,<br />Which
his smiling features tell,<br />‘’T will soothing be if
I let you see<br />How extremely nice you’ll smell.’</p>
<p>“And he stirred it round and round and round,<br />And he sniffed
at the foaming froth;<br />When I ups with his heels, and smothers his
squeals<br />In the scum of the boiling broth.</p>
<p>“And I eat that cook in a week or less,<br />And—as I
eating be<br />The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,<br />For
a wessel in sight I see!</p>
<p>* * * *</p>
<p>“And I never larf, and I never smile,<br />And I never lark
nor play,<br />But sit and croak, and a single joke<br />I have—which
is to say:</p>
<p>“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,<br />And the mate of the
<i>Nancy</i> brig,<br />And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,<br />And
the crew of the captain’s gig!’”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>From east and south the holy clan<br />Of Bishops gathered to a man;<br />To
Synod, called Pan-Anglican,<br />In flocking crowds they came.<br />Among
them was a Bishop, who<br />Had lately been appointed to<br />The balmy
isle of Rum-ti-Foo,<br />And PETER was his name.</p>
<p>His people—twenty-three in sum—<br />They played the
eloquent tum-tum,<br />And lived on scalps served up, in rum—<br />The
only sauce they knew.<br />When first good BISHOP PETER came<br />(For
PETER was that Bishop’s name),<br />To humour them, he did the
same<br />As they of Rum-ti-Foo.</p>
<p>His flock, I’ve often heard him tell,<br />(His name was PETER)
loved him well,<br />And, summoned by the sound of bell,<br />In crowds
together came.<br />“Oh, massa, why you go away?<br />Oh, MASSA
PETER, please to stay.”<br />(They called him PETER, people say,<br />Because
it was his name.)</p>
<p>He told them all good boys to be,<br />And sailed away across the
sea,<br />At London Bridge that Bishop he<br />Arrived one Tuesday night;<br />And
as that night he homeward strode<br />To his Pan-Anglican abode,<br />He
passed along the Borough Road,<br />And saw a gruesome sight.</p>
<p>He saw a crowd assembled round<br />A person dancing on the ground,<br />Who
straight began to leap and bound<br />With all his might and main.<br />To
see that dancing man he stopped,<br />Who twirled and wriggled, skipped
and hopped,<br />Then down incontinently dropped,<br />And then sprang
up again.</p>
<p>The Bishop chuckled at the sight.<br />“This style of dancing
would delight<br />A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.<br />I’ll learn
it if I can,<br />To please the tribe when I get back.”<br />He
begged the man to teach his knack.<br />“Right Reverend Sir, in
half a crack!<br />Replied that dancing man.</p>
<p>The dancing man he worked away,<br />And taught the Bishop every
day—<br />The dancer skipped like any fay—<br />Good PETER
did the same.<br />The Bishop buckled to his task,<br />With <i>battements</i>,
and <i>pas de basque.<br /></i>(I’ll tell you, if you care to
ask,<br />That PETER was his name.)</p>
<p>“Come, walk like this,” the dancer said,<br />“Stick
out your toes—stick in your head,<br />Stalk on with quick, galvanic
tread—<br />Your fingers thus extend;<br />The attitude’s
considered quaint.”<br />The weary Bishop, feeling faint,<br />Replied,
“I do not say it ain’t,<br />But ‘Time!’ my
Christian friend!”</p>
<p>“We now proceed to something new—<br />Dance as the PAYNES
and LAURIS do,<br />Like this—one, two—one, two—one,
two.”<br />The Bishop, never proud,<br />But in an overwhelming
heat<br />(His name was PETER, I repeat)<br />Performed the PAYNE and
LAURI feat,<br />And puffed his thanks aloud.</p>
<p>Another game the dancer planned—<br />“Just take your
ankle in your hand,<br />And try, my lord, if you can stand—<br />Your
body stiff and stark.<br />If, when revisiting your see,<br />You learnt
to hop on shore—like me—<br />The novelty would striking
be,<br />And must attract remark.”</p>
<p>“No,” said the worthy Bishop, “no;<br />That is
a length to which, I trow,<br />Colonial Bishops cannot go.<br />You
may express surprise<br />At finding Bishops deal in pride—<br />But
if that trick I ever tried,<br />I should appear undignified<br />In
Rum-ti-Foozle’s eyes.</p>
<p>“The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo<br />Are well-conducted persons,
who<br />Approve a joke as much as you,<br />And laugh at it as such;<br />But
if they saw their Bishop land,<br />His leg supported in his hand,<br />The
joke they wouldn’t understand—<br />’T would pain
them very much!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Precocious Baby. A Very True Tale</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>(<i>To be sung to the Air of the “Whistling Oyster</i>.”)</p>
<p>An elderly person—a prophet by trade—<br />With his quips
and tips<br />On withered old lips,<br />He married a young and a beautiful
maid;<br />The cunning old blade!<br />Though rather decayed,<br />He
married a beautiful, beautiful maid.</p>
<p>She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be,<br />With her tempting
smiles<br />And maidenly wiles,<br />And he was a trifle past seventy-three:<br />Now
what she could see<br />Is a puzzle to me,<br />In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three!</p>
<p>Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad)<br />With their loud high
jinks<br />And underbred winks,<br />None thought they’d a family
have—but they had;<br />A dear little lad<br />Who drove ’em
half mad,<br />For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.</p>
<p>For when he was born he astonished all by,<br />With their “Law,
dear me!”<br />“Did ever you see?”<br />He’d
a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye,<br />A hat all awry—<br />An
octagon tie—<br />And a miniature—miniature glass in his
eye.</p>
<p>He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,<br />With his “Oh,
dear, oh!”<br />And his “Hang it! ’oo know!”<br />And
he turned up his nose at his excellent pap—<br />“My friends,
it’s a tap<br />Dat is not worf a rap.”<br />(Now this was
remarkably excellent pap.)</p>
<p>He’d chuck his nurse under the chin, and he’d say,<br />With
his “Fal, lal, lal”—<br />“’Oo doosed
fine gal!”<br />This shocking precocity drove ’em away:<br />“A
month from to-day<br />Is as long as I’ll stay—<br />Then
I’d wish, if you please, for to toddle away.”</p>
<p>His father, a simple old gentleman, he<br />With nursery rhyme<br />And
“Once on a time,”<br />Would tell him the story of “Little
Bo-P,”<br />“So pretty was she,<br />So pretty and wee,<br />As
pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be.”</p>
<p>But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,<br />With his
“C’ck! Oh, my!—<br />Go along wiz ’oo,
fie!”<br />Would exclaim, “I’m afraid ’oo a
socking ole fox.”<br />Now a father it shocks,<br />And it whitens
his locks,<br />When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.</p>
<p>The name of his father he’d couple and pair<br />(With his
ill-bred laugh,<br />And insolent chaff)<br />With those of the nursery
heroines rare—<br />Virginia the Fair,<br />Or Good Goldenhair,<br />Till
the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.</p>
<p>“There’s Jill and White Cat” (said the bold little
brat,<br />With his loud, “Ha, ha!”)<br />“’Oo
sly ickle Pa!<br />Wiz ’oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and ’oo Mrs.
Jack Sprat!<br />I’ve noticed ’oo pat<br /><i>My</i> pretty
White Cat—<br />I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!”</p>
<p>He early determined to marry and wive,<br />For better or worse<br />With
his elderly nurse—<br />Which the poor little boy didn’t
live to contrive:<br />His hearth didn’t thrive—<br />No
longer alive,<br />He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!</p>
<p>MORAL.</p>
<p>Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew,<br />With wrinkled hose<br />And
spectacled nose,<br />Don’t marry at all—you may take it
as true<br />If ever you do<br />The step you will rue,<br />For your
babes will be elderly—elderly too.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>To Phoebe</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>“Gentle, modest little flower,<br />Sweet epitome of May,<br />Love
me but for half an hour,<br />Love me, love me, little fay.”<br />Sentences
so fiercely flaming<br />In your tiny shell-like ear,<br />I should
always be exclaiming<br />If I loved you, PHOEBE dear.</p>
<p>“Smiles that thrill from any distance<br />Shed upon me while
I sing!<br />Please ecstaticize existence,<br />Love me, oh, thou fairy
thing!”<br />Words like these, outpouring sadly<br />You’d
perpetually hear,<br />If I loved you fondly, madly;—<br />But
I do not, PHOEBE dear.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Baines Carew, Gentleman</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Of all the good attorneys who<br />Have placed their names upon the
roll,<br />But few could equal BAINES CAREW<br />For tender-heartedness
and soul.</p>
<p>Whene’er he heard a tale of woe<br />From client A or client
B,<br />His grief would overcome him so<br />He’d scarce have
strength to take his fee.</p>
<p>It laid him up for many days,<br />When duty led him to distrain,<br />And
serving writs, although it pays,<br />Gave him excruciating pain.</p>
<p>He made out costs, distrained for rent,<br />Foreclosed and sued,
with moistened eye—<br />No bill of costs could represent<br />The
value of such sympathy.</p>
<p>No charges can approximate<br />The worth of sympathy with woe;—<br />Although
I think I ought to state<br />He did his best to make them so.</p>
<p>Of all the many clients who<br />Had mustered round his legal flag,<br />No
single client of the crew<br />Was half so dear as CAPTAIN BAGG.</p>
<p>Now, CAPTAIN BAGG had bowed him to<br />A heavy matrimonial yoke—<br />His
wifey had of faults a few—<br />She never could resist a joke.</p>
<p>Her chaff at first he meekly bore,<br />Till unendurable it grew.<br />“To
stop this persecution sore<br />I will consult my friend CAREW.</p>
<p>“And when CAREW’S advice I’ve got,<br />Divorce
<i>a mensâ</i> I shall try.”<br />(A legal separation—not<br /><i>A
vinculo conjugii</i>.)</p>
<p>“Oh, BAINES CAREW, my woe I’ve kept<br />A secret hitherto,
you know;”—<br />(And BAINES CAREW, ESQUIRE, he wept<br />To
hear that BAGG <i>had</i> any woe.)</p>
<p>“My case, indeed, is passing sad.<br />My wife—whom I
considered true—<br />With brutal conduct drives me mad.”<br />“I
am appalled,” said BAINES CAREW.</p>
<p>“What! sound the matrimonial knell<br />Of worthy people such
as these!<br />Why was I an attorney? Well—<br />Go on to
the <i>saevitia</i>, please.”</p>
<p>“Domestic bliss has proved my bane,—<br />A harder case
you never heard,<br />My wife (in other matters sane)<br />Pretends
that I’m a Dicky bird!</p>
<p>“She makes me sing, ‘Too-whit, too-wee!’<br />And
stand upon a rounded stick,<br />And always introduces me<br />To every
one as ‘Pretty Dick’!”</p>
<p>“Oh, dear,” said weeping BAINES CAREW,<br />“This
is the direst case I know.”<br />“I’m grieved,”
said BAGG, “at paining you—<br />“To COBB and POLTHERTHWAITE
I’ll go—</p>
<p>“To COBB’S cold, calculating ear,<br />My gruesome sorrows
I’ll impart”—<br />“No; stop,” said BAINES,
“I’ll dry my tear,<br />And steel my sympathetic heart.”</p>
<p>“She makes me perch upon a tree,<br />Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’<br />And
threatens to exhibit me<br />With four or five performing mice.”</p>
<p>“Restrain my tears I wish I could”<br />(Said BAINES),
“I don’t know what to do.”<br />Said CAPTAIN BAGG,
“You’re very good.”<br />“Oh, not at all,”
said BAINES CAREW.</p>
<p>“She makes me fire a gun,” said BAGG;<br />“And,
at a preconcerted word,<br />Climb up a ladder with a flag,<br />Like
any street performing bird.</p>
<p>“She places sugar in my way—<br />In public places calls
me ‘Sweet!’<br />She gives me groundsel every day,<br />And
hard canary-seed to eat.”</p>
<p>“Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!”<br />(Said BAINES).
“Be good enough to stop.”<br />And senseless on the floor
he fell,<br />With unpremeditated flop!</p>
<p>Said CAPTAIN BAGG, “Well, really I<br />Am grieved to think
it pains you so.<br />I thank you for your sympathy;<br />But, hang
it!—come—I say, you know!”</p>
<p>But BAINES lay flat upon the floor,<br />Convulsed with sympathetic
sob;—<br />The Captain toddled off next door,<br />And gave the
case to MR. COBB.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Thomas Winterbottom Hance</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>In all the towns and cities fair<br />On Merry England’s broad
expanse,<br />No swordsman ever could compare<br />With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM
HANCE.</p>
<p>The dauntless lad could fairly hew<br />A silken handkerchief in
twain,<br />Divide a leg of mutton too—<br />And this without
unwholesome strain.</p>
<p>On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,<br />His sabre sometimes
he’d employ—<br />No bar of lead, however thick,<br />Had
terrors for the stalwart boy.</p>
<p>At Dover daily he’d prepare<br />To hew and slash, behind,
before—<br />Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,<br />Who watched
him from the Calais shore.</p>
<p>It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,<br />The sight annoyed
and vexed him so;<br />He was the bravest man in France—<br />He
said so, and he ought to know.</p>
<p>“Regardez donc, ce cochon gros—<br />Ce polisson!
Oh, sacré bleu!<br />Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots<br />Comme
cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!</p>
<p>“Il sait que les foulards de soie<br />Give no retaliating
whack—<br />Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi—<br />Le
plomb don’t ever hit you back.”</p>
<p>But every day the headstrong lad<br />Cut lead and mutton more and
more;<br />And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,<br />Shrieked loud defiance
from his shore.</p>
<p>HANCE had a mother, poor and old,<br />A simple, harmless village
dame,<br />Who crowed and clapped as people told<br />Of WINTERBOTTOM’S
rising fame.</p>
<p>She said, “I’ll be upon the spot<br />To see my TOMMY’S
sabre-play;”<br />And so she left her leafy cot,<br />And walked
to Dover in a day.</p>
<p>PIERRE had a doating mother, who<br />Had heard of his defiant rage;<br /><i>His</i>
Ma was nearly ninety-two,<br />And rather dressy for her age.</p>
<p>At HANCE’S doings every morn,<br />With sheer delight <i>his</i>
mother cried;<br />And MONSIEUR PIERRE’S contemptuous scorn<br />Filled
<i>his</i> mamma with proper pride.</p>
<p>But HANCE’S powers began to fail—<br />His constitution
was not strong—<br />And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale,<br />Grew
thin from shouting all day long.</p>
<p>Their mothers saw them pale and wan,<br />Maternal anguish tore each
breast,<br />And so they met to find a plan<br />To set their offsprings’
minds at rest.</p>
<p>Said MRS. HANCE, “Of course I shrinks<br />From bloodshed,
ma’am, as you’re aware,<br />But still they’d better
meet, I thinks.”<br />“Assurément!” said MADAME
PIERRE.</p>
<p>A sunny spot in sunny France<br />Was hit upon for this affair;<br />The
ground was picked by MRS. HANCE,<br />The stakes were pitched by MADAME
PIERRE.</p>
<p>Said MRS. H., “Your work you see—<br />Go in, my noble
boy, and win.”<br />“En garde, mon fils!” said MADAME
P.<br />“Allons!” “Go on!” “En
garde!” “Begin!”</p>
<p>(The mothers were of decent size,<br />Though not particularly tall;<br />But
in the sketch that meets your eyes<br />I’ve been obliged to draw
them small.)</p>
<p>Loud sneered the doughty man of France,<br />“Ho! ho!
Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!<br />“The French for ‘Pish’”
said THOMAS HANCE.<br />Said PIERRE, “L’Anglais, Monsieur,
pour ‘Bah.’”</p>
<p>Said MRS. H., “Come, one! two! three!—<br />We’re
sittin’ here to see all fair.”<br />“C’est magnifique!”
said MADAME P.,<br />“Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!”</p>
<p>“Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,”<br />Said PIERRE,
the doughty son of France.<br />“I fight not coward foe like you!”<br />Said
our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.</p>
<p>“The French for ‘Pooh!’” our TOMMY cried.<br />“L’Anglais
pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed.<br />And so, with
undiminished pride,<br />Each went on his respective road.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Reverend Micah Sowls</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS,<br />He shouts and yells and howls,<br />He
screams, he mouths, he bumps,<br />He foams, he rants, he thumps.</p>
<p>His armour he has buckled on, to wage<br />The regulation war against
the Stage;<br />And warns his congregation all to shun<br />“The
Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,”</p>
<p>The subject’s sad enough<br />To make him rant and puff,<br />And
fortunately, too,<br />His Bishop’s in a pew.</p>
<p>So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam,<br />His eyes are flashing
with superior gleam,<br />He is as energetic as can be,<br />For there
are fatter livings in that see.</p>
<p>The Bishop, when it’s o’er,<br />Goes through the vestry
door,<br />Where MICAH, very red,<br />Is mopping of his head.</p>
<p>“Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS’ excessive zeal,<br />It
is a theme on which I strongly feel.”<br />(The sermon somebody
had sent him down<br />From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)</p>
<p>The Bishop bowed his head,<br />And, acquiescing, said,<br />“I’ve
heard your well-meant rage<br />Against the Modern Stage.</p>
<p>“A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,<br />Sows seeds of evil
broadcast—well it may;<br />But let me ask you, my respected son,<br />Pray,
have you ever ventured into one?”</p>
<p>“My Lord,” said MICAH, “no!<br />I never, never
go!<br />What! Go and see a play?<br />My goodness gracious, nay!”</p>
<p>The worthy Bishop said, “My friend, no doubt<br />The Stage
may be the place you make it out;<br />But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you
never go,<br />I don’t quite understand how you’re to know.”</p>
<p>“Well, really,” MICAH said,<br />“I’ve often
heard and read,<br />But never go—do you?”<br />The Bishop
said, “I do.”</p>
<p>“That proves me wrong,” said MICAH, in a trice:<br />“I
thought it all frivolity and vice.”<br />The Bishop handed him
a printed card;<br />“Go to a theatre where they play our Bard.”</p>
<p>The Bishop took his leave,<br />Rejoicing in his sleeve.<br />The
next ensuing day<br />SOWLS went and heard a play.</p>
<p>He saw a dreary person on the stage,<br />Who mouthed and mugged
in simulated rage,<br />Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,<br />And
spoke an English SOWLS had never heard.</p>
<p>For “gaunt” was spoken “garnt,”<br /> And
“haunt” transformed to “harnt,”<br /> And
“wrath “ pronounced as “rath,”<br /> And
“death” was changed to “dath.”</p>
<p>For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,<br />And talked, and
talked, and talked, and talked,<br />Till lethargy upon the parson crept,<br />And
sleepy MICAH SOWLS serenely slept.</p>
<p>He slept away until<br />The farce that closed the bill<br />Had
warned him not to stay,<br />And then he went away.</p>
<p>“I thought <i>my</i> gait ridiculous,” said he—<br />“<i>My</i>
elocution faulty as could be;<br />I thought <i>I</i> mumbled on a matchless
plan—<br />I had not seen our great Tragedian!</p>
<p>“Forgive me, if you can,<br />O great Tragedian!<br />I own
it with a sigh—<br />You’re drearier than I!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>A Discontented Sugar Broker</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A GENTLEMAN of City fame<br />Now claims your kind attention;<br />East
India broking was his game,<br />His name I shall not mention:<br />No
one of finely-pointed sense<br />Would violate a confidence,<br />And
shall <i>I</i> go<br />And do it? No!<br />His name I shall not
mention.</p>
<p>He had a trusty wife and true,<br />And very cosy quarters,<br />A
manager, a boy or two,<br />Six clerks, and seven porters.<br />A broker
must be doing well<br />(As any lunatic can tell)<br />Who can employ<br />An
active boy,<br />Six clerks, and seven porters.</p>
<p>His knocker advertised no dun,<br />No losses made him sulky,<br />He
had one sorrow—only one—<br />He was extremely bulky.<br />A
man must be, I beg to state,<br />Exceptionally fortunate<br />Who owns
his chief<br />And only grief<br />Is—being very bulky.</p>
<p>“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;<br />I’m
nineteen stone or twenty!<br />Henceforward I’ll go in for air<br />And
exercise in plenty.”<br />Most people think that, should it come,<br />They
can reduce a bulging tum<br />To measures fair<br />By taking air<br />And
exercise in plenty.</p>
<p>In every weather, every day,<br />Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,<br />He
took to dancing all the way<br />From Brompton to the City.<br />You
do not often get the chance<br />Of seeing sugar brokers dance<br />From
their abode<br />In Fulham Road<br />Through Brompton to the City.</p>
<p>He braved the gay and guileless laugh<br />Of children with their
nusses,<br />The loud uneducated chaff<br />Of clerks on omnibuses.<br />Against
all minor things that rack<br />A nicely-balanced mind, I’ll back<br />The
noisy chaff<br />And ill-bred laugh<br />Of clerks on omnibuses.</p>
<p>His friends, who heard his money chink,<br />And saw the house he
rented,<br />And knew his wife, could never think<br />What made him
discontented.<br />It never entered their pure minds<br />That fads
are of eccentric kinds,<br />Nor would they own<br />That fat alone<br />Could
make one discontented.</p>
<p>“Your riches know no kind of pause,<br />Your trade is fast
advancing;<br />You dance—but not for joy, because<br />You weep
as you are dancing.<br />To dance implies that man is glad,<br />To
weep implies that man is sad;<br />But here are you<br />Who do the
two—<br />You weep as you are dancing!”</p>
<p>His mania soon got noised about<br />And into all the papers;<br />His
size increased beyond a doubt<br />For all his reckless capers:<br />It
may seem singular to you,<br />But all his friends admit it true—<br />The
more he found<br />His figure round,<br />The more he cut his capers.</p>
<p>His bulk increased—no matter that—<br />He tried the
more to toss it—<br />He never spoke of it as “fat,”<br />But
“adipose deposit.”<br />Upon my word, it seems to me<br />Unpardonable
vanity<br />(And worse than that)<br />To call your fat<br />An “adipose
deposit.”</p>
<p>At length his brawny knees gave way,<br />And on the carpet sinking,<br />Upon
his shapeless back he lay<br />And kicked away like winking.<br />Instead
of seeing in his state<br />The finger of unswerving Fate,<br />He laboured
still<br />To work his will,<br />And kicked away like winking.</p>
<p>His friends, disgusted with him now,<br />Away in silence wended—<br />I
hardly like to tell you how<br />This dreadful story ended.<br />The
shocking sequel to impart,<br />I must employ the limner’s art—<br />If
you would know,<br />This sketch will show<br />How his exertions ended.</p>
<p>MORAL.</p>
<p>I hate to preach—I hate to prate—<br />- I’m no
fanatic croaker,<br />But learn contentment from the fate<br />Of this
East India broker.<br />He’d everything a man of taste<br />Could
ever want, except a waist;<br />And discontent<br />His size anent,<br />And
bootless perseverance blind,<br />Completely wrecked the peace of mind<br />Of
this East India broker.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Pantomime “Super” To His Mask</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Vast empty shell!<br />Impertinent, preposterous abortion!<br />With
vacant stare,<br />And ragged hair,<br />And every feature out of all
proportion!<br />Embodiment of echoing inanity!<br />Excellent type
of simpering insanity!<br />Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!<br />I
ring thy knell!</p>
<p>To-night thou diest,<br />Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born
identity!<br />Nine weeks of nights,<br />Before the lights,<br />Swamped
in thine own preposterous nonentity,<br />I’ve been ill-treated,
cursed, and thrashed diurnally,<br />Credited for the smile you wear
externally—<br />I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,<br />As
there thou liest!</p>
<p>I’ve been thy brain:<br /><i>I’ve</i> been the brain
that lit thy dull concavity!<br />The human race<br />Invest <i>my</i>
face<br />With thine expression of unchecked depravity,<br />Invested
with a ghastly reciprocity,<br /><i>I’ve</i> been responsible
for thy monstrosity,<br />I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity—<br />But
not again!</p>
<p>’T is time to toll<br />Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:<br />A
nine weeks’ run,<br />And thou hast done<br />All thou canst do
to make thyself inimical.<br />Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!<br />Excellent
type of simpering insanity!<br />Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!<br />Freed
is thy soul!</p>
<p>(<i>The Mask respondeth</i>.)</p>
<p>Oh! master mine,<br />Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using
me.<br />Art thou aware<br />Of nothing there<br />Which might abuse
thee, as thou art abusing me?<br />A brain that mourns <i>thine</i>
unredeemed rascality?<br />A soul that weeps at <i>thy</i> threadbare
morality?<br />Both grieving that <i>their</i> individuality<br />Is
merged in thine?</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Force Of Argument</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Lord B. was a nobleman bold<br />Who came of illustrious stocks,<br />He
was thirty or forty years old,<br />And several feet in his socks.</p>
<p>To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea<br />This elegant nobleman went,<br />For
that was a borough that he<br />Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.</p>
<p>At local assemblies he danced<br />Until he felt thoroughly ill;<br />He
waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,<br />And threaded the mazy quadrille.</p>
<p>The maidens of Turniptopville<br />Were simple—ingenuous—pure—<br />And
they all worked away with a will<br />The nobleman’s heart to
secure.</p>
<p>Two maidens all others beyond<br />Endeavoured his cares to dispel—<br />The
one was the lively ANN POND,<br />The other sad MARY MORELL.</p>
<p>ANN POND had determined to try<br />And carry the Earl with a rush;<br />Her
principal feature was eye,<br />Her greatest accomplishment—gush.</p>
<p>And MARY chose this for her play:<br />Whenever he looked in her
eye<br />She’d blush and turn quickly away,<br />And flitter,
and flutter, and sigh.</p>
<p>It was noticed he constantly sighed<br />As she worked out the scheme
she had planned,<br />A fact he endeavoured to hide<br />With his aristocratical
hand.</p>
<p>Old POND was a farmer, they say,<br />And so was old TOMMY MORELL.<br />In
a humble and pottering way<br />They were doing exceedingly well.</p>
<p>They both of them carried by vote<br />The Earl was a dangerous man;<br />So
nervously clearing his throat,<br />One morning old TOMMY began:</p>
<p>“My darter’s no pratty young doll—<br />I’m
a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—<br />Now what do ’ee mean
by my POLL,<br />And what do ’ee mean by his ANN?</p>
<p>Said B., “I will give you my bond<br />I mean them uncommonly
well,<br />Believe me, my excellent POND,<br />And credit me, worthy
MORELL.</p>
<p>“It’s quite indisputable, for<br />I’ll prove it
with singular ease,—<br />You shall have it in ‘Barbara’
or<br />‘Celarent’—whichever you please.</p>
<p>‘You see, when an anchorite bows<br />To the yoke of intentional
sin,<br />If the state of the country allows,<br />Homogeny always steps
in—</p>
<p>“It’s a highly aesthetical bond,<br />As any mere ploughboy
can tell—”<br />“Of course,” replied puzzled
old POND.<br />“I see,” said old TOMMY MORELL.</p>
<p>“Very good, then,” continued the lord;<br />“When
it’s fooled to the top of its bent,<br />With a sweep of a Damocles
sword<br />The web of intention is rent.</p>
<p>“That’s patent to all of us here,<br />As any mere schoolboy
can tell.”<br />POND answered, “Of course it’s quite
clear”;<br />And so did that humbug MORELL.</p>
<p>“Its tone’s esoteric in force—<br />I trust that
I make myself clear?”<br />MORELL only answered, “Of course,”<br />While
POND slowly muttered, “Hear, hear.”</p>
<p>“Volition—celestial prize,<br />Pellucid as porphyry
cell—<br />Is based on a principle wise.”<br />“Quite
so,” exclaimed POND and MORELL.</p>
<p>“From what I have said you will see<br />That I couldn’t
wed either—in fine,<br />By Nature’s unchanging decree<br /><i>Your</i>
daughters could never be <i>mine.</i></p>
<p>“Go home to your pigs and your ricks,<br />My hands of the
matter I’ve rinsed.”<br />So they take up their hats and
their sticks, .<br />And <i>exeunt ambo</i>, convinced.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>O’er unreclaimed suburban clays<br />Some years ago were hobblin’<br />An
elderly ghost of easy ways,<br />And an influential goblin.<br />The
ghost was a sombre spectral shape,<br />A fine old five-act fogy,<br />The
goblin imp, a lithe young ape,<br />A fine low-comedy bogy.</p>
<p>And as they exercised their joints,<br />Promoting quick digestion,<br />They
talked on several curious points,<br />And raised this delicate question:<br />“Which
of us two is Number One—<br />The ghostie, or the goblin?”<br />And
o’er the point they raised in fun<br />They fairly fell a-squabblin’.</p>
<p>They’d barely speak, and each, in fine,<br />Grew more and
more reflective:<br />Each thought his own particular line<br />By chalks
the more effective.<br />At length they settled some one should<br />By
each of them be haunted,<br />And so arrange that either could<br />Exert
his prowess vaunted.</p>
<p>“The Quaint against the Statuesque”—<br />By competition
lawful—<br />The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,<br />The
ghost the Grandly Awful.<br />“Now,” said the goblin, “here’s
my plan—<br />In attitude commanding,<br />I see a stalwart Englishman<br />By
yonder tailor’s standing.</p>
<p>“The very fittest man on earth<br />My influence to try on—<br />Of
gentle, p’r’aps of noble birth,<br />And dauntless as a
lion!<br />Now wrap yourself within your shroud—<br />Remain in
easy hearing—<br />Observe—you’ll hear him scream
aloud<br />When I begin appearing!</p>
<p>The imp with yell unearthly—wild—<br />Threw off his
dark enclosure:<br />His dauntless victim looked and smiled<br />With
singular composure.<br />For hours he tried to daunt the youth,<br />For
days, indeed, but vainly—<br />The stripling smiled!—to
tell the truth,<br />The stripling smiled inanely.</p>
<p>For weeks the goblin weird and wild,<br />That noble stripling haunted;<br />For
weeks the stripling stood and smiled,<br />Unmoved and all undaunted.<br />The
sombre ghost exclaimed, “Your plan<br />Has failed you, goblin,
plainly:<br />Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,<br />So stalwart and
ungainly.</p>
<p>“These are the men who chase the roe,<br />Whose footsteps
never falter,<br />Who bring with them, where’er they go,<br />A
smack of old SIR WALTER.<br />Of such as he, the men sublime<br />Who
lead their troops victorious,<br />Whose deeds go down to after-time,<br />Enshrined
in annals glorious!</p>
<p>“Of such as he the bard has said<br />‘Hech thrawfu’
raltie rorkie!<br />Wi’ thecht ta’ croonie clapperhead<br />And
fash’ wi’ unco pawkie!’<br />He’ll faint away
when I appear,<br />Upon his native heather;<br />Or p’r’aps
he’ll only scream with fear,<br />Or p’r’aps the two
together.”</p>
<p>The spectre showed himself, alone,<br />To do his ghostly battling,<br />With
curdling groan and dismal moan,<br />And lots of chains a-rattling!<br />But
no—the chiel’s stout Gaelic stuff<br />Withstood all ghostly
harrying;<br />His fingers closed upon the snuff<br />Which upwards
he was carrying.</p>
<p>For days that ghost declined to stir,<br />A foggy shapeless giant—<br />For
weeks that splendid officer<br />Stared back again defiant.<br />Just
as the Englishman returned<br />The goblin’s vulgar staring,<br />Just
so the Scotchman boldly spurned<br />The ghost’s unmannered scaring.</p>
<p>For several years the ghostly twain<br />These Britons bold have
haunted,<br />But all their efforts are in vain—<br />Their victims
stand undaunted.<br />This very day the imp, and ghost,<br />Whose powers
the imp derided,<br />Stand each at his allotted post—<br />The
bet is undecided.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Phantom Curate. A Fable</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A BISHOP once—I will not name his see—<br />Annoyed his
clergy in the mode conventional;<br />From pulpit shackles never set
them free,<br />And found a sin where sin was unintentional.<br />All
pleasures ended in abuse auricular—<br />The Bishop was so terribly
particular.</p>
<p>Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,<br />He sought to make
of human pleasures clearances;<br />And form his priests on that much-lauded
plan<br />Which pays undue attention to appearances.<br />He couldn’t
do good deeds without a psalm in ’em,<br />Although, in truth,
he bore away the palm in ’em.</p>
<p>Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,<br />Or catch a curate at some
mild frivolity,<br />He sought by open censure to enhance<br />Their
dread of joining harmless social jollity.<br />Yet he enjoyed (a fact
of notoriety)<br />The ordinary pleasures of society.</p>
<p>One evening, sitting at a pantomime<br />(Forbidden treat to those
who stood in fear of him),<br />Roaring at jokes, <i>sans</i> metre,
sense, or rhyme,<br />He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,<br />His
peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it,<br />A curate, also heartily
enjoying it.</p>
<p>Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to enhance<br />His children’s
pleasure in their harmless rollicking,<br />He, like a good old fellow,
stood to dance;<br />When something checked the current of his frolicking:<br />That
curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,<br />Stood up and figured with
him in the “Coverley!”</p>
<p>Once, yielding to an universal choice<br />(The company’s demand
was an emphatic one,<br />For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),<br />In
a quartet he joined—an operatic one.<br />Harmless enough, though
ne’er a word of grace in it,<br />When, lo! that curate came and
took the bass in it!</p>
<p>One day, when passing through a quiet street,<br />He stopped awhile
and joined a Punch’s gathering;<br />And chuckled more than solemn
folk think meet,<br />To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;<br />And
heard, as Punch was being treated penalty,<br />That phantom curate
laughing all hyaenally.</p>
<p>Now at a picnic, ’mid fair golden curls,<br />Bright eyes,
straw hats, <i>bottines</i> that fit amazingly,<br />A croquêt-bout
is planned by all the girls;<br />And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt
praisingly;<br />But suddenly declines to play at all in it—<br />The
curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!</p>
<p>Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed<br />From cares episcopal
and ties monarchical,<br />He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant
weed,<br />In manner anything but hierarchical—<br />He sees—and
fixes an unearthly stare on it—<br />That curate’s face,
with half a yard of hair on it!</p>
<p>At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:<br />“Vicars,
your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;<br />To check their harmless
pleasuring’s absurd;<br />What laymen do without reproach, my
clergy may.”<br />He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of
him,<br />The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Sensation Captain</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>No nobler captain ever trod<br />Than CAPTAIN PARKLEBURY TODD,<br />So
good—so wise—so brave, he!<br />But still, as all his friends
would own,<br />He had one folly—one alone—<br />This Captain
in the Navy.</p>
<p>I do not think I ever knew<br />A man so wholly given to<br />Creating
a sensation,<br />Or p’raps I should in justice say—<br />To
what in an Adelphi play<br />Is known as “situation.”</p>
<p>He passed his time designing traps<br />To flurry unsuspicious chaps—<br />The
taste was his innately;<br />He couldn’t walk into a room<br />Without
ejaculating “Boom!”<br />Which startled ladies greatly.</p>
<p>He’d wear a mask and muffling cloak,<br />Not, you will understand,
in joke,<br />As some assume disguises;<br />He did it, actuated by<br />A
simple love of mystery<br />And fondness for surprises.</p>
<p>I need not say he loved a maid—<br />His eloquence threw into
shade<br />All others who adored her.<br />The maid, though pleased
at first, I know,<br />Found, after several years or so,<br />Her startling
lover bored her.</p>
<p>So, when his orders came to sail,<br />She did not faint or scream
or wail,<br />Or with her tears anoint him:<br />She shook his hand,
and said “Good-bye,”<br />With laughter dancing in her eye—<br />Which
seemed to disappoint him.</p>
<p>But ere he went aboard his boat,<br />He placed around her little
throat<br />A ribbon, blue and yellow,<br />On which he hung a double-tooth—<br />A
simple token this, in sooth—<br />’Twas all he had, poor
fellow!</p>
<p>“I often wonder,” he would say,<br />When very, very
far away,<br />“If ANGELINA wears it?<br />A plan has entered
in my head:<br />I will pretend that I am dead,<br />And see how ANGY
bears it.”</p>
<p>The news he made a messmate tell.<br />His ANGELINA bore it well,<br />No
sign gave she of crazing;<br />But, steady as the Inchcape Rock,<br />His
ANGELINA stood the shock<br />With fortitude amazing.</p>
<p>She said, “Some one I must elect<br />Poor ANGELINA to protect<br />From
all who wish to harm her.<br />Since worthy CAPTAIN TODD is dead,<br />I
rather feel inclined to wed<br />A comfortable farmer.”</p>
<p>A comfortable farmer came<br />(BASSANIO TYLER was his name),<br />Who
had no end of treasure.<br />He said, “My noble gal, be mine!”<br />The
noble gal did not decline,<br />But simply said, “With pleasure.”</p>
<p>When this was told to CAPTAIN TODD,<br />At first he thought it rather
odd,<br />And felt some perturbation;<br />But very long he did not
grieve,<br />He thought he could a way perceive<br />To <i>such</i>
a situation!</p>
<p>“I’ll not reveal myself,” said he,<br />“Till
they are both in the Ecclesiastical arena;<br />Then suddenly I will
appear,<br />And paralysing them with fear,<br />Demand my ANGELINA!”</p>
<p>At length arrived the wedding day;<br />Accoutred in the usual way<br />Appeared
the bridal body;<br />The worthy clergyman began,<br />When in the gallant
Captain ran<br />And cried, “Behold your TODDY!”</p>
<p>The bridegroom, p’raps, was terrified,<br />And also possibly
the bride—<br />The bridesmaids <i>were</i> affrighted;<br />But
ANGELINA, noble soul,<br />Contrived her feelings to control,<br />And
really seemed delighted.</p>
<p>“My bride!” said gallant CAPTAIN TODD,<br />“She’s
mine, uninteresting clod!<br />My own, my darling charmer!”<br />“Oh
dear,” said she, “you’re just too late—<br />I’m
married to, I beg to state,<br />This comfortable farmer!”</p>
<p>“Indeed,” the farmer said, “she’s mine:<br />You’ve
been and cut it far too fine!”<br />“I see,” said
TODD, “I’m beaten.”<br />And so he went to sea once
more,<br />“Sensation” he for aye forswore,<br />And married
on her native shore<br />A lady whom he’d met before—<br />A
lovely Otaheitan.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Tempora Mutantur</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Letters, letters, letters, letters!<br />Some that please and some
that bore,<br />Some that threaten prison fetters<br />(Metaphorically,
fetters<br />Such as bind insolvent debtors)—<br />Invitations
by the score.</p>
<p>One from COGSON, WILES, and RAILER,<br />My attorneys, off the Strand;<br />One
from COPPERBLOCK, my tailor—<br />My unreasonable tailor—<br />One
in FLAGG’S disgusting hand.</p>
<p>One from EPHRAIM and MOSES,<br />Wanting coin without a doubt,<br />I
should like to pull their noses—<br />Their uncompromising noses;<br />One
from ALICE with the roses—<br />Ah, I know what that’s about
!</p>
<p>Time was when I waited, waited<br />For the missives that she wrote,<br />Humble
postmen execrated—<br />Loudly, deeply execrated—<br />When
I heard I wasn’t fated<br />To be gladdened with a note!</p>
<p>Time was when I’d not have bartered<br />Of her little pen
a dip<br />For a peerage duly gartered—<br />For a peerage starred
and gartered—<br />With a palace-office chartered,<br />Or a Secretaryship.</p>
<p>But the time for that is over,<br />And I wish we’d never met.<br />I’m
afraid I’ve proved a rover—<br />I’m afraid a heartless
rover—<br />Quarters in a place like Dover<br />Tend to make a
man forget.</p>
<p>Bills for carriages and horses,<br />Bills for wine and light cigar,<br />Matters
that concern the Forces—<br />News that may affect the Forces—<br />News
affecting my resources,<br />Much more interesting are!</p>
<p>And the tiny little paper,<br />With the words that seem to run<br />From
her little fingers taper<br />(They are very small and taper),<br />By
the tailor and the draper<br />Are in interest outdone.</p>
<p>And unopened it’s remaining!<br />I can read her gentle hope—<br />Her
entreaties, uncomplaining<br />(She was always uncomplaining),<br />Her
devotion never waning—<br />Through the little envelope!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>At A Pantomime. By A Bilious One</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>An Actor sits in doubtful gloom,<br />His stock-in-trade unfurled,<br />In
a damp funereal dressing-room<br />In the Theatre Royal, World.</p>
<p>He comes to town at Christmas-time,<br />And braves its icy breath,<br />To
play in that favourite pantomime,<br /><i>Harlequin Life and Death.</i></p>
<p>A hoary flowing wig his weird<br />Unearthly cranium caps,<br />He
hangs a long benevolent beard<br />On a pair of empty chaps.</p>
<p>To smooth his ghastly features down<br />The actor’s art he
cribs,—<br />A long and a flowing padded gown.<br />Bedecks his
rattling ribs.</p>
<p>He cries, “Go on—begin, begin!<br />Turn on the light
of lime—<br />I’m dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in<br />A
favourite pantomime!”</p>
<p>The curtain’s up—the stage all black—<br />Time
and the year nigh sped—<br />Time as an advertising quack—<br />The
Old Year nearly dead.</p>
<p>The wand of Time is waved, and lo!<br />Revealed Old Christmas stands,<br />And
little children chuckle and crow,<br />And laugh and clap their hands.</p>
<p>The cruel old scoundrel brightens up<br />At the death of the Olden
Year,<br />And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,<br />And bids the world
good cheer.</p>
<p>The little ones hail the festive King,—<br />No thought can
make them sad.<br />Their laughter comes with a sounding ring,<br />They
clap and crow like mad!</p>
<p>They only see in the humbug old<br />A holiday every year,<br />And
handsome gifts, and joys untold,<br />And unaccustomed cheer.</p>
<p>The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,<br />Their breasts in anguish
beat—<br />They’ve seen him seventy times before,<br />How
well they know the cheat!</p>
<p>They’ve seen that ghastly pantomime,<br />They’ve felt
its blighting breath,<br />They know that rollicking Christmas-time<br />Meant
Cold and Want and Death,—</p>
<p>Starvation—Poor Law Union fare—<br />And deadly cramps
and chills,<br />And illness—illness everywhere,<br />And crime,
and Christmas bills.</p>
<p>They know Old Christmas well, I ween,<br />Those men of ripened age;<br />They’ve
often, often, often seen<br />That Actor off the stage!</p>
<p>They see in his gay rotundity<br />A clumsy stuffed-out dress—<br />They
see in the cup he waves on high<br />A tinselled emptiness.</p>
<p>Those aged men so lean and wan,<br />They’ve seen it all before,<br />They
know they’ll see the charlatan<br />But twice or three times more.</p>
<p>And so they bear with dance and song,<br />And crimson foil and green,<br />They
wearily sit, and grimly long<br />For the Transformation Scene.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>King Borria Bungalee Boo</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO<br />Was a man-eating African swell;<br />His
sigh was a hullaballoo,<br />His whisper a horrible yell—<br />A
horrible, horrible yell!</p>
<p>Four subjects, and all of them male,<br />To BORRIA doubled the knee,<br />They
were once on a far larger scale,<br />But he’d eaten the balance,
you see<br />(“Scale” and “balance” is punning,
you see).</p>
<p>There was haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH,<br />There was lumbering DOODLE-DUM-DEY,<br />Despairing
ALACK-A-DEY-AH,<br />And good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH—<br />Exemplary
TOOTLE-TUM-TEH.</p>
<p>One day there was grief in the crew,<br />For they hadn’t a
morsel of meat,<br />And BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO<br />Was dying for something
to eat—<br />“Come, provide me with something to eat!</p>
<p>“ALACK-A-DEY, famished I feel;<br />Oh, good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,<br />Where
on earth shall I look for a meal?<br />For I haven’t no dinner
to-day!—<br />Not a morsel of dinner to-day!</p>
<p>“Dear TOOTLE-TUM, what shall we do?<br />Come, get us a meal,
or, in truth,<br />If you don’t, we shall have to eat you,<br />Oh,
adorable friend of our youth!<br />Thou beloved little friend of our
youth!”</p>
<p>And he answered, “Oh, BUNGALEE BOO,<br />For a moment I hope
you will wait,—<br />TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO<br />Is the
Queen of a neighbouring state—<br />A remarkably neighbouring
state.</p>
<p>“TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO,<br />She would pickle deliciously
cold—<br />And her four pretty Amazons, too,<br />Are enticing,
and not very old—<br />Twenty-seven is not very old.</p>
<p>“There is neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH,<br />There is rollicking
TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH,<br />There is jocular WAGGETY-WEH,<br />There is musical
DOH-REH-MI-FAH—<br />There’s the nightingale DOH-REH-MI-FAH!”</p>
<p>So the forces of BUNGALEE BOO<br />Marched forth in a terrible row,<br />And
the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOO<br />Prepared to encounter the foe—<br />This
dreadful, insatiate foe!</p>
<p>But they sharpened no weapons at all,<br />And they poisoned no arrows—not
they!<br />They made ready to conquer or fall<br />In a totally different
way—<br />An entirely different way.</p>
<p>With a crimson and pearly-white dye<br />They endeavoured to make
themselves fair,<br />With black they encircled each eye,<br />And with
yellow they painted their hair<br />(It was wool, but they thought it
was hair).</p>
<p>And the forces they met in the field:-<br />And the men of KING BORRIA
said,<br />“Amazonians, immediately yield!”<br />And their
arrows they drew to the head—<br />Yes, drew them right up to
the head.</p>
<p>But jocular WAGGETY-WEH<br />Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong),<br />And
neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH<br />Said, “TOOTLE-TUM, you go along!<br />You
naughty old dear, go along!”</p>
<p>And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH<br />Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her
fan;<br />And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH<br />Said, “PISH, go away,
you bad man!<br />Go away, you delightful young man!”</p>
<p>And the Amazons simpered and sighed,<br />And they ogled, and giggled,
and flushed,<br />And they opened their pretty eyes wide,<br />And they
chuckled, and flirted, and blushed<br />(At least, if they could, they’d
have blushed).</p>
<p>But haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH<br />Said, “ALACK-A-DEY, what
does this mean?”<br />And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH<br />Said,
“They think us uncommonly green!<br />Ha! ha! most uncommonly
green!”</p>
<p>Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEY<br />Was insensible quite to their
leers,<br />And said good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,<br />“It’s
your blood we desire, pretty dears—<br />We have come for our
dinners, my dears!”</p>
<p>And the Queen of the Amazons fell<br />To BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO,—<br />In
a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,<br />TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO—<br />The
pretty QUEEN TOL-THE-ROL-LOO.</p>
<p>And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH<br />Was eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH,<br />And
light-hearted WAGGETY-WEH<br />By dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH—<br />Despairing
ALACK-A-DEY-AH.</p>
<p>And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH<br />Was eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEY,<br />And
musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH<br />By good little TOOTLE-DUM-TEH—<br />Exemplary
TOOTLE-TUM-TEH!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Periwinkle Girl</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I’ve often thought that headstrong youths<br />Of decent education,<br />Determine
all-important truths,<br />With strange precipitation.</p>
<p>The ever-ready victims they,<br />Of logical illusions,<br />And
in a self-assertive way<br />They jump at strange conclusions.</p>
<p>Now take my case: Ere sorrow could<br />My ample forehead wrinkle,<br />I
had determined that I should<br />Not care to be a winkle.</p>
<p>“A winkle,” I would oft advance<br />With readiness provoking,<br />“Can
seldom flirt, and never dance,<br />Or soothe his mind by smoking.”</p>
<p>In short, I spurned the shelly joy,<br />And spoke with strange decision—<br />Men
pointed to me as a boy<br />Who held them in derision.</p>
<p>But I was young—too young, by far—<br />Or I had been
more wary,<br />I knew not then that winkles are<br />The stock-in-trade
of MARY.</p>
<p>I had not watched her sunlight blithe<br />As o’er their shells
it dances—<br />I’ve seen those winkles almost writhe<br />Beneath
her beaming glances.</p>
<p>Of slighting all the winkly brood<br />I surely had been chary,<br />If
I had known they formed the food<br />And stock-in-trade of MARY.</p>
<p>Both high and low and great and small<br />Fell prostrate at her
tootsies,<br />They all were noblemen, and all<br />Had balances at
COUTTS’S.</p>
<p>Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,<br />DUKE BAILEY and DUKE HUMPHY,<br />Who
ate her winkles till they felt<br />Exceedingly uncomfy.</p>
<p>DUKE BAILEY greatest wealth computes,<br />And sticks, they say,
at no-thing,<br />He wears a pair of golden boots<br />And silver underclothing.</p>
<p>DUKE HUMPHY, as I understand,<br />Though mentally acuter,<br />His
boots are only silver, and<br />His underclothing pewter.</p>
<p>A third adorer had the girl,<br />A man of lowly station—<br />A
miserable grov’ling Earl<br />Besought her approbation.</p>
<p>This humble cad she did refuse<br />With much contempt and loathing,<br />He
wore a pair of leather shoes<br />And cambric underclothing!</p>
<p>“Ha! ha!” she cried. “Upon my word!<br />Well,
really—come, I never!<br />Oh, go along, it’s too absurd!<br />My
goodness! Did you ever?</p>
<p>“Two Dukes would Mary make a bride,<br />And from her foes
defend her”—<br />“Well, not exactly that,”
they cried,<br />“We offer guilty splendour.</p>
<p>“We do not offer marriage rite,<br />So please dismiss the
notion!”<br />“Oh dear,” said she, “that alters
quite<br />The state of my emotion.”</p>
<p>The Earl he up and says, says he,<br />“Dismiss them to their
orgies,<br />For I am game to marry thee<br />Quite reg’lar at
St. George’s.”</p>
<p>(He’d had, it happily befell,<br />A decent education,<br />His
views would have befitted well<br />A far superior station.)</p>
<p>His sterling worth had worked a cure,<br />She never heard him grumble;<br />She
saw his soul was good and pure,<br />Although his rank was humble.</p>
<p>Her views of earldoms and their lot,<br />All underwent expansion—<br />Come,
Virtue in an earldom’s cot!<br />Go, Vice in ducal mansion!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Thomson Green And Harriet Hale</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>(To be sung to the Air of “An ’Orrible Tale.”)</p>
<p>Oh list to this incredible tale<br />Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET
HALE;<br />Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—<br />“Twaddle
twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”</p>
<p>Oh, THOMSON GREEN was an auctioneer,<br />And made three hundred
pounds a year;<br />And HARRIET HALE, most strange to say,<br />Gave
pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.</p>
<p>Oh, THOMSON GREEN, I may remark,<br />Met HARRIET HALE in Regent’s
Park,<br />Where he, in a casual kind of way,<br />Spoke of the extraordinary
beauty of the day.</p>
<p>They met again, and strange, though true,<br />He courted her for
a month or two,<br />Then to her pa he said, says he,<br />“Old
man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!”</p>
<p>Their names were regularly banned,<br />The wedding day was settled,
and<br />I’ve ascertained by dint of search<br />They were married
on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot’s Church.</p>
<p>Oh, list to this incredible tale<br />Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET
HALE,<br />Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—<br />“Twaddle
twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”</p>
<p>That very self-same afternoon<br />They started on their honeymoon,<br />And
(oh, astonishment!) took flight<br />To a pretty little cottage close
to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.</p>
<p>But now—you’ll doubt my word, I know—<br />In a
month they both returned, and lo!<br />Astounding fact! this happy pair<br />Took
a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!</p>
<p>They led a weird and reckless life,<br />They dined each day, this
man and wife<br />(Pray disbelieve it, if you please),<br />On a joint
of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.</p>
<p>In time came those maternal joys<br />Which take the form of girls
or boys,<br />And strange to say of each they’d one—<br />A
tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!</p>
<p>Oh, list to this incredible tale<br />Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET
HALE,<br />Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—<br />“Twaddle
twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”</p>
<p>My name for truth is gone, I fear,<br />But, monstrous as it may
appear,<br />They let their drawing-room one day<br />To an eligible
person in the cotton-broking way.</p>
<p>Whenever THOMSON GREEN fell sick<br />His wife called in a doctor,
quick,<br />From whom some words like these would come—<br /><i>Fiat
mist. sumendum haustus</i>, in a <i>cochleyareum.</i></p>
<p>For thirty years this curious pair<br />Hung out in Canonbury Square,<br />And
somehow, wonderful to say,<br />They loved each other dearly in a quiet
sort of way.</p>
<p>Well, THOMSON GREEN fell ill and died;<br />For just a year his widow
cried,<br />And then her heart she gave away<br />To the eligible lodger
in the cotton-broking way.</p>
<p>Oh, list to this incredible tale<br />Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET
HALE,<br />Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—<br />“Twaddle
twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Bob Polter</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>BOB POLTER was a navvy, and<br />His hands were coarse, and dirty
too,<br />His homely face was rough and tanned,<br />His time of life
was thirty-two.</p>
<p>He lived among a working clan<br />(A wife he hadn’t got at
all),<br />A decent, steady, sober man—<br />No saint, however—not
at all.</p>
<p>He smoked, but in a modest way,<br />Because he thought he needed
it;<br />He drank a pot of beer a day,<br />And sometimes he exceeded
it.</p>
<p>At times he’d pass with other men<br />A loud convivial night
or two,<br />With, very likely, now and then,<br />On Saturdays, a fight
or two.</p>
<p>But still he was a sober soul,<br />A labour-never-shirking man,<br />Who
paid his way—upon the whole<br />A decent English working man.</p>
<p>One day, when at the Nelson’s Head<br />(For which he may be
blamed of you),<br />A holy man appeared, and said,<br />“Oh,
ROBERT, I’m ashamed of you.”</p>
<p>He laid his hand on ROBERT’S beer<br />Before he could drink
up any,<br />And on the floor, with sigh and tear,<br />He poured the
pot of “thruppenny.”</p>
<p>“Oh, ROBERT, at this very bar<br />A truth you’ll be
discovering,<br />A good and evil genius are<br />Around your noddle
hovering.</p>
<p>“They both are here to bid you shun<br />The other one’s
society,<br />For Total Abstinence is one,<br />The other, Inebriety.”</p>
<p>He waved his hand—a vapour came—<br />A wizard POLTER
reckoned him;<br />A bogy rose and called his name,<br />And with his
finger beckoned him.</p>
<p>The monster’s salient points to sum,—<br />His heavy
breath was portery:<br />His glowing nose suggested rum:<br />His eyes
were gin-and-<i>wor</i>tery.</p>
<p>His dress was torn—for dregs of ale<br />And slops of gin had
rusted it;<br />His pimpled face was wan and pale,<br />Where filth
had not encrusted it.</p>
<p>“Come, POLTER,” said the fiend, “begin,<br />And
keep the bowl a-flowing on—<br />A working man needs pints of
gin<br />To keep his clockwork going on.”</p>
<p>BOB shuddered: “Ah, you’ve made a miss<br />If you take
me for one of you:<br />You filthy beast, get out of this—<br />BOB
POLTER don’t wan’t none of you.”</p>
<p>The demon gave a drunken shriek,<br />And crept away in stealthiness,<br />And
lo! instead, a person sleek,<br />Who seemed to burst with healthiness.</p>
<p>“In me, as your adviser hints,<br />Of Abstinence you’ve
got a type—<br />Of MR. TWEEDIE’S pretty prints<br />I am
the happy prototype.</p>
<p>“If you abjure the social toast,<br />And pipes, and such frivolities,<br />You
possibly some day may boast<br />My prepossessing qualities!”</p>
<p>BOB rubbed his eyes, and made ’em blink:<br />“You almost
make me tremble, you!<br />If I abjure fermented drink,<br />Shall I,
indeed, resemble you?</p>
<p>“And will my whiskers curl so tight?<br />My cheeks grow smug
and muttony?<br />My face become so red and white?<br />My coat so blue
and buttony?</p>
<p>“Will trousers, such as yours, array<br />Extremities inferior?<br />Will
chubbiness assert its sway<br />All over my exterior?</p>
<p>“In this, my unenlightened state,<br />To work in heavy boots
I comes;<br />Will pumps henceforward decorate<br />My tiddle toddle
tootsicums?</p>
<p>“And shall I get so plump and fresh,<br />And look no longer
seedily?<br />My skin will henceforth fit my flesh<br />So tightly and
so TWEEDIE-ly?”</p>
<p>The phantom said, “You’ll have all this,<br />You’ll
know no kind of huffiness,<br />Your life will be one chubby bliss,<br />One
long unruffled puffiness!”</p>
<p>“Be off!” said irritated BOB.<br />“Why come you
here to bother one?<br />You pharisaical old snob,<br />You’re
wuss almost than t’other one!</p>
<p>“I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,<br />And drunk I’m
never seen to be:<br />I’m no teetotaller or sot,<br />And as
I am I mean to be!”</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Story Of Prince Agib</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Strike the concertina’s melancholy string!<br />Blow the spirit-stirring
harp like anything!<br />Let the piano’s martial blast<br />Rouse
the Echoes of the Past,<br />For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!</p>
<p>Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,<br />Wrote a lot of ballet music
in his teens:<br />His gentle spirit rolls<br />In the melody of souls—<br />Which
is pretty, but I don’t know what it means.</p>
<p>Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,<br />Strum a march upon the
loud Theodolite.<br />He would diligently play<br />On the Zoetrope
all day,<br />And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.</p>
<p>One winter—I am shaky in my dates—<br />Came two starving
Tartar minstrels to his gates;<br />Oh, ALLAH be obeyed,<br />How infernally
they played!<br />I remember that they called themselves the “Oüaits.”</p>
<p>Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,<br />I shall carry to the
Catacombs of Age,<br />Photographically lined<br />On the tablet of
my mind,<br />When a yesterday has faded from its page!</p>
<p>Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in;<br />Gave them beer, and
eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.<br />And when (as snobs would
say)<br />They had “put it all away,”<br />He requested
them to tune up and begin.</p>
<p>Though its icy horror chill you to the core,<br />I will tell you
what I never told before,—<br />The consequences true<br />Of
that awful interview,<br /><i>For I listened at the keyhole in the door</i>!</p>
<p>They played him a sonata—let me see!<br />“<i>Medulla
oblongata</i>”—key of G.<br />Then they began to sing<br />That
extremely lovely thing,<br /><i>Scherzando! ma non troppo</i>, <i>ppp</i>.”</p>
<p>He gave them money, more than they could count,<br />Scent from a
most ingenious little fount,<br />More beer, in little kegs,<br />Many
dozen hard-boiled eggs,<br />And goodies to a fabulous amount.</p>
<p>Now follows the dim horror of my tale,<br />And I feel I’m
growing gradually pale,<br />For, even at this day,<br />Though its
sting has passed away,<br />When I venture to remember it, I quail!</p>
<p>The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,<br />All-overish it made
me for to feel;<br />“Oh, PRINCE,” he says, says he,<br />“<i>If
a Prince indeed you be</i>,<br />I’ve a mystery I’m going
to reveal!</p>
<p>“Oh, listen, if you’d shun a horrid death,<br />To what
the gent who’s speaking to you saith:<br />No ‘Oüaits’
in truth are we,<br />As you fancy that we be,<br />For (ter-remble!)
I am ALECK—this is BETH!”</p>
<p>Said AGIB, “Oh! accursed of your kind,<br />I have heard that
ye are men of evil mind!”<br />BETH gave a dreadful shriek—<br />But
before he’d time to speak<br />I was mercilessly collared from
behind.</p>
<p>In number ten or twelve, or even more,<br />They fastened me full
length upon the floor.<br />On my face extended flat,<br />I was walloped
with a cat<br />For listening at the keyhole of a door.</p>
<p>Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!<br />(I can feel the place
in frosty weather still).<br />For a week from ten to four<br />I was
fastened to the floor,<br />While a mercenary wopped me with a will</p>
<p>They branded me and broke me on a wheel,<br />And they left me in
an hospital to heal;<br />And, upon my solemn word,<br />I have never
never heard<br />What those Tartars had determined to reveal.</p>
<p>But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,<br />I shall carry to the
Catacombs of Age,<br />Photographically lined<br />On the tablet of
my mind,<br />When a yesterday has faded from its page</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Ellen McJones Aberdeen</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN<br />Was the son of an elderly
labouring man;<br />You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader,
at sight,<br />And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re
right.</p>
<p>From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,<br />Round by Dingwall
and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,<br />There wasn’t a child
or a woman or man<br />Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.</p>
<p>No other could wake such detestable groans,<br />With reed and with
chaunter—with bag and with drones:<br />All day and ill night
he delighted the chiels<br />With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.</p>
<p>He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,<br />And the
neighbouring maidens would gather around<br />To list to the pipes and
to gaze in his een,<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.</p>
<p>All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute,<br />Who came to
the Highlands to fish and to shoot;<br />He dressed himself up in a
Highlander way,<br />Tho’ his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.</p>
<p>TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense<br />To make him a Scotchman
in every sense;<br />But this is a matter, you’ll readily own,<br />That
isn’t a question of tailors alone.</p>
<p>A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,<br />He may purchase a sporran,
a bonnet, and kilt;<br />Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an
acre of stripes—<br />But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.</p>
<p>CLONGLOCKETY’S pipings all night and all day<br />Quite frenzied
poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY;<br />The girls were amused at his singular
spleen,<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,</p>
<p>“MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad,<br />With pibrochs
and reels you are driving me mad.<br />If you really must play on that
cursed affair,<br />My goodness! play something resembling an air.”</p>
<p>Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN—<br />The Clan
of Clonglocketty rose as one man;<br />For all were enraged at the insult,
I ween—<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.</p>
<p>“Let’s show,” said McCLAN, “to this Sassenach
loon<br />That the bagpipes <i>can</i> play him a regular tune.<br />Let’s
see,” said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat,<br />“’<i>In
my Cottage</i>’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.”</p>
<p>He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,<br />For
a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until<br />(You’ll hardly
believe it) McCLAN, I declare,<br />Elicited something resembling an
air.</p>
<p>It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—<br />It
wandered about into several keys;<br />It was jerky, spasmodic, and
harsh, I’m aware;<br />But still it distinctly suggested an air.</p>
<p>The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;<br />He shrieked
in his agony—bellowed and pranced;<br />And the maidens who gathered
rejoiced at the scene—<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.</p>
<p>“Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;<br />And fill
a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound.<br />An air fra’
the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!<br />Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY
ANGUS McCLAN!”</p>
<p>The fame of his piping spread over the land:<br />Respectable widows
proposed for his hand,<br />And maidens came flocking to sit on the
green—<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.</p>
<p>One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore<br />He’d stand it
no longer—he drew his claymore,<br />And (this was, I think, in
extremely bad taste)<br />Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.</p>
<p>Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN,<br />Oh! deep was the
grief for that excellent man;<br />The maids stood aghast at the horrible
scene—<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.</p>
<p>It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY<br />To find them “take
on” in this serious way;<br />He pitied the poor little fluttering
birds,<br />And solaced their souls with the following words:</p>
<p>“Oh, maidens,” said PATTISON, touching his hat,<br />“Don’t
blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;<br />Observe, I’m a
very superior man,<br />A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN.”</p>
<p>They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,”<br />And
they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,<br />A pleasanter
gentleman never was seen—<br />Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Peter The Wag</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Policeman PETER forth I drag<br />From his obscure retreat:<br />He
was a merry genial wag,<br />Who loved a mad conceit.<br />If he were
asked the time of day,<br />By country bumpkins green,<br />He not unfrequently
would say,<br />“A quarter past thirteen.”</p>
<p>If ever you by word of mouth<br />Inquired of MISTER FORTH<br />The
way to somewhere in the South,<br />He always sent you North.<br />With
little boys his beat along<br />He loved to stop and play;<br />He loved
to send old ladies wrong,<br />And teach their feet to stray.</p>
<p>He would in frolic moments, when<br />Such mischief bent upon,<br />Take
Bishops up as betting men—<br />Bid Ministers move on.<br />Then
all the worthy boys he knew<br />He regularly licked,<br />And always
collared people who<br />Had had their pockets picked.</p>
<p>He was not naturally bad,<br />Or viciously inclined,<br />But from
his early youth he had<br />A waggish turn of mind.<br />The Men of
London grimly scowled<br />With indignation wild;<br />The Men of London
gruffly growled,<br />But PETER calmly smiled.</p>
<p>Against this minion of the Crown<br />The swelling murmurs grew—<br />From
Camberwell to Kentish Town—<br />From Rotherhithe to Kew.<br />Still
humoured he his wagsome turn,<br />And fed in various ways<br />The
coward rage that dared to burn,<br />But did not dare to blaze.</p>
<p>Still, Retribution has her day,<br />Although her flight is slow:<br /><i>One
day that Crusher lost his way<br />Near Poland Street</i>, <i>Soho.<br /></i>The
haughty boy, too proud to ask,<br />To find his way resolved,<br />And
in the tangle of his task<br />Got more and more involved.</p>
<p>The Men of London, overjoyed,<br />Came there to jeer their foe,<br />And
flocking crowds completely cloyed<br />The mazes of Soho.<br />The news
on telegraphic wires<br />Sped swiftly o’er the lea,<br />Excursion
trains from distant shires<br />Brought myriads to see.</p>
<p>For weeks he trod his self-made beats<br />Through Newport- Gerrard-
Bear-<br />Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,<br />And into
Golden Square.<br />But all, alas! in vain, for when<br />He tried to
learn the way<br />Of little boys or grown-up men,<br />They none of
them would say.</p>
<p>Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—<br />Their
lips would tightly curl—<br />They’d say, “Thy way
thyself must find,<br />Thou misdirecting churl!”<br />And, similarly,
also, when<br />He tried a foreign friend;<br />Italians answered, “<i>Il
balen</i>”—<br />The French, “No comprehend.”</p>
<p>The Russ would say with gleaming eye<br />“ Sevastopol!”
and groan.<br />The Greek said, Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,<br />Τυπτω,
τυπτειν, τυπτων.”<br />To
wander thus for many a year<br />That Crusher never ceased—<br />The
Men of London dropped a tear,<br />Their anger was appeased</p>
<p>At length exploring gangs were sent<br />To find poor FORTH’S
remains—<br />A handsome grant by Parliament<br />Was voted for
their pains.<br />To seek the poor policeman out<br />Bold spirits volunteered,<br />And
when they swore they’d solve the doubt,<br />The Men of London
cheered.</p>
<p>And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,<br />They found him, on the
floor—<br />It leads from Richmond Buildings—near<br />The
Royalty stage-door.<br />With brandy cold and brandy hot<br />They plied
him, starved and wet,<br />And made him sergeant on the spot—<br />The
Men of London’s pet!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Ben Allah Achmet;—Or, The Fatal Tum</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>I once did know a Turkish man<br />Whom I upon a two-pair-back met,<br />His
name it was EFFENDI KHAN<br />BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET.</p>
<p>A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew—<br />I’ve often eaten of
his bounty;<br />The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,<br />In Sussex,
that delightful county!</p>
<p>I knew a nice young lady there,<br />Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON,<br />And
though she wore another’s hair,<br />She was an interesting person.</p>
<p>The Turk adored the maid of Hooe<br />(Although his harem would have
shocked her).<br />But BROWN adored that maiden too:<br />He was a most
seductive doctor.</p>
<p>They’d follow her where’er she’d go—<br />A
course of action most improper;<br />She neither knew by sight, and
so<br />For neither of them cared a copper.</p>
<p>BROWN did not know that Turkish male,<br />He might have been his
sainted mother:<br />The people in this simple tale<br />Are total strangers
to each other.</p>
<p>One day that Turk he sickened sore,<br />And suffered agonies oppressive;<br />He
threw himself upon the floor<br />And rolled about in pain excessive.</p>
<p>It made him moan, it made him groan,<br />And almost wore him to
a mummy.<br />Why should I hesitate to own<br />That pain was in his
little tummy?</p>
<p>At length a doctor came, and rung<br />(As ALLAH ACHMET had desired),<br />Who
felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,<br />And hemmed and hawed, and
then inquired:</p>
<p>“Where is the pain that long has preyed<br />Upon you in so
sad a way, sir?”<br />The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said:<br />I
don’t exactly like to say, sir.”</p>
<p>“Come, nonsense!” said good DOCTOR BROWN.<br />“So
this is Turkish coyness, is it?<br />You must contrive to fight it down—<br />Come,
come, sir, please to be explicit.”</p>
<p>The Turk he shyly bit his thumb,<br />And coyly blushed like one
half-witted,<br />“The pain is in my little tum,”<br />He,
whispering, at length admitted.</p>
<p>“Then take you this, and take you that—<br />Your blood
flows sluggish in its channel—<br />You must get rid of all this
fat,<br />And wear my medicated flannel.</p>
<p>“You’ll send for me when you’re in need—<br />My
name is BROWN—your life I’ve saved it.”<br />“My
rival!” shrieked the invalid,<br />And drew a mighty sword and
waved it:</p>
<p>“This to thy weazand, Christian pest!”<br />Aloud the
Turk in frenzy yelled it,<br />And drove right through the doctor’s
chest<br />The sabre and the hand that held it.</p>
<p>The blow was a decisive one,<br />And DOCTOR BROWN grew deadly pasty,<br />“Now
see the mischief that you’ve done—<br />You Turks are so
extremely hasty.</p>
<p>“There are two DOCTOR BROWNS in Hooe—<br /><i>He’s</i>
short and stout, <i>I’m</i> tall and wizen;<br />You’ve
been and run the wrong one through,<br />That’s how the error
has arisen.”</p>
<p>The accident was thus explained,<br />Apologies were only heard now:<br />“At
my mistake I’m really pained—<br />I am, indeed—upon
my word now.</p>
<p>“With me, sir, you shall be interred,<br />A mausoleum grand
awaits me.”<br />“Oh, pray don’t say another word,<br />I’m
sure that more than compensates me.</p>
<p>“But p’r’aps, kind Turk, you’re full inside?”<br />“There’s
room,” said he, “for any number.”<br />And so they
laid them down and died.<br />In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber,</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>The Three Kings Of Chickeraboo</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>There were three niggers of Chickeraboo—<br />PACIFICO, BANG-BANG,
POPCHOP—who<br />Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day,<br />“Oh,
let’s be kings in a humble way.”</p>
<p>The first was a highly-accomplished “bones,”<br />The
next elicited banjo tones,<br />The third was a quiet, retiring chap,<br />Who
danced an excellent break-down “flap.”</p>
<p>“We niggers,” said they, “have formed a plan<br />By
which, whenever we like, we can<br />Extemporise kingdoms near the beach,<br />And
then we’ll collar a kingdom each.</p>
<p>“Three casks, from somebody else’s stores,<br />Shall
represent our island shores,<br />Their sides the ocean wide shall lave,<br />Their
heads just topping the briny wave.</p>
<p>“Great Britain’s navy scours the sea,<br />And everywhere
her ships they be;<br />She’ll recognise our rank, perhaps,<br />When
she discovers we’re Royal Chaps.</p>
<p>“If to her skirts you want to cling,<br />It’s quite
sufficient that you’re a king;<br />She does not push inquiry
far<br />To learn what sort of king you are.”</p>
<p>A ship of several thousand tons,<br />And mounting seventy-something
guns,<br />Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,<br />Discovering kings
and countries new.</p>
<p>The brave REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP,<br />Commanding that magnificent
ship,<br />Perceived one day, his glasses through,<br />The kings that
came from Chickeraboo.</p>
<p>“Dear eyes!” said ADMIRAL PIP, “I see<br />Three
flourishing islands on our lee.<br />And, bless me! most remarkable
thing!<br />On every island stands a king!</p>
<p>“Come, lower the Admiral’s gig,” he cried,<br />“And
over the dancing waves I’ll glide;<br />That low obeisance I may
do<br />To those three kings of Chickeraboo!”</p>
<p>The Admiral pulled to the islands three;<br />The kings saluted him
gracious<i>lee</i>.<br />The Admiral, pleased at his welcome warm,<br />Unrolled
a printed Alliance form.</p>
<p>“Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray—<br />I come in a
friendly kind of way—<br />I come, if you please, with the best
intents,<br />And QUEEN VICTORIA’S compliments.”</p>
<p>The kings were pleased as they well could be;<br />The most retiring
of the three,<br />In a “cellar-flap” to his joy gave vent<br />With
a banjo-bones accompaniment.</p>
<p>The great REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP<br />Embarked on board his jolly
big ship,<br />Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,<br />And off he
sailed to his native shore.</p>
<p>ADMIRAL PIP directly went<br />To the Lord at the head of the Government,<br />Who
made him, by a stroke of a quill,<br />BARON DE PIPPE, OF PIPPETONNEVILLE.</p>
<p>The College of Heralds permission yield<br />That he should quarter
upon his shield<br />Three islands, <i>vert</i>, on a field of blue,<br />With
the pregnant motto “Chickeraboo.”</p>
<p>Ambassadors, yes, and attachés, too,<br />Are going to sail
for Chickeraboo.<br />And, see, on the good ship’s crowded deck,<br />A
bishop, who’s going out there on spec.</p>
<p>And let us all hope that blissful things<br />May come of alliance
with darky kings,<br />And, may we never, whatever we do,<br />Declare
a war with Chickeraboo!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Joe Golightly—Or, The First Lord’s Daughter</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>A tar, but poorly prized,<br />Long, shambling, and unsightly,<br />Thrashed,
bullied, and despised,<br />Was wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY.</p>
<p>He bore a workhouse brand;<br />No Pa or Ma had claimed him,<br />The
Beadle found him, and<br />The Board of Guardians named him.</p>
<p>P’r’aps some Princess’s son—<br />A beggar
p’r’aps his mother.<br /><i>He</i> rather thought the one,<br />I
rather think the other.</p>
<p>He liked his ship at sea,<br />He loved the salt sea-water,<br />He
worshipped junk, and he<br />Adored the First Lord’s daughter.</p>
<p>The First Lord’s daughter, proud,<br />Snubbed Earls and Viscounts
nightly;<br />She sneered at Barts. aloud,<br />And spurned poor Joe
Golightly.</p>
<p>Whene’er he sailed afar<br />Upon a Channel cruise, he<br />Unpacked
his light guitar<br />And sang this ballad (Boosey):</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>Ballad</p>
<p>The moon is on the sea,<br />Willow!<br />The wind blows towards
the lee,<br />Willow!<br />But though I sigh and sob and cry,<br />No
Lady Jane for me,<br />Willow!</p>
<p>She says, “’Twere folly quite,<br />Willow!<br />For
me to wed a wight,<br />Willow!<br />Whose lot is cast before the mast”;<br />And
possibly she’s right,<br />Willow!</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div>
<p>His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE),<br />He gave him many a rating,<br />And
almost lost his voice<br />From thus expostulating:</p>
<p>“Lay aft, you lubber, do!<br />What’s come to that young
man, JOE?<br />Belay!—’vast heaving! you!<br />Do kindly
stop that banjo!</p>
<p>“I wish, I do—O lor’!—<br />You’d shipped
aboard a trader:<br /><i>Are</i> you a sailor or<br />A negro serenader?”</p>
<p>But still the stricken lad,<br />Aloft or on his pillow,<br />Howled
forth in accents sad<br />His aggravating “Willow!”</p>
<p>Stern love of duty bad<br />Been JOYCE’S chiefest beauty;<br />Says
he, “I love that lad,<br />But duty, damme! duty!</p>
<p>“Twelve months’ black-hole, I say,<br />Where daylight
never flashes;<br />And always twice a day<br />A good six dozen lashes!”</p>
<p>But JOSEPH had a mate,<br />A sailor stout and lusty,<br />A man
of low estate,<br />But singularly trusty.</p>
<p>Says he, “Cheer hup, young JOE!<br />I’ll tell you what
I’m arter—<br />To that Fust Lord I’ll go<br />And
ax him for his darter.</p>
<p>“To that Fust Lord I’ll go<br />And say you love her
dearly.”<br />And JOE said (weeping low),<br />“I wish you
would, sincerely!”</p>
<p>That sailor to that Lord<br />Went, soon as he had landed,<br />And
of his own accord<br />An interview demanded.</p>
<p>Says he, with seaman’s roll,<br />“My Captain (wot’s
a Tartar)<br />Guv JOE twelve months’ black-hole,<br />For lovering
your darter.</p>
<p>“He loves MISS LADY JANE<br />(I own she is his betters),<br />But
if you’ll jine them twain,<br />They’ll free him from his
fetters.</p>
<p>“And if so be as how<br />You’ll let her come aboard
ship,<br />I’ll take her with me now.”<br />“Get out!”
remarked his Lordship.</p>
<p>That honest tar repaired<br />To JOE upon the billow,<br />And told
him how he’d fared.<br />JOE only whispered, “Willow!”</p>
<p>And for that dreadful crime<br />(Young sailors, learn to shun it)<br />He’s
working out his time;<br />In six months he’ll have done it.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>To The Terrestrial Globe. By A Miserable Wretch</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>Roll on, thou ball, roll on!<br />Through pathless realms of Space<br />Roll
on!<br />What though I’m in a sorry case?<br />What though I cannot
meet my bills?<br />What though I suffer toothache’s ills?<br />What
though I swallow countless pills?<br />Never <i>you</i> mind!<br />Roll
on!</p>
<p>Roll on, thou ball, roll on!<br />Through seas of inky air<br />Roll
on!<br />It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;<br />It’s
true my butcher’s bill is due;<br />It’s true my prospects
all look blue—<br />But don’t let that unsettle you!<br />Never
<i>you</i> mind!<br />Roll on!</p>
<p>[<i>It rolls on</i>.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<h2>Gentle Alice Brown</h2>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div>
<p>It was a robber’s daughter, and her name was ALICE BROWN,<br />Her
father was the terror of a small Italian town;<br />Her mother was a
foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;<br />But it isn’t of her
parents that I’m going for to sing.</p>
<p>As ALICE was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,<br />A beautiful
young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;<br />She cast her eyes
upon him, and he looked so good and true,<br />That she thought, “I
could be happy with a gentleman like you!”</p>
<p>And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,<br />She
knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;<br />A sorter in the
Custom-house, it was his daily road<br />(The Custom-house was fifteen
minutes’ walk from her abode).</p>
<p>But ALICE was a pious girl, who knew it wasn’t wise<br />To
look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;<br />So she
sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,<br />The priest
by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.</p>
<p>“Oh, holy father,” ALICE said, “’t would
grieve you, would it not,<br />To discover that I was a most disreputable
lot?<br />Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!”<br />The
padre said, “Whatever have you been and gone and done?”</p>
<p>“I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,<br />I’ve
assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad,<br />I’ve planned
a little burglary and forged a little cheque,<br />And slain a little
baby for the coral on its neck!”</p>
<p>The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear,<br />And
said, “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear:<br />It’s
wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;<br />But sins like
these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.</p>
<p>“Girls will be girls—you’re very young, and flighty
in your mind;<br />Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect
to find:<br />We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish
tricks—<br />Let’s see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly
twelve-and-six.”</p>
<p>“Oh, father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness
makes me weep,<br />You do these little things for me so singularly
cheap—<br />Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;<br />But,
oh! there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet!</p>
<p>“A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,<br />I’ve
noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies;<br />He passes
by it every day as certain as can be—<br />I blush to say I’ve
winked at him, and he has winked at me!”</p>
<p>“For shame!” said FATHER PAUL, “my erring daughter!
On my word<br />This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.<br />Why,
naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand<br />To a promising
young robber, the lieutenant of his band!</p>
<p>“This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents
so!<br />They are the most remunerative customers I know;<br />For many
many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors:<br />I never
knew so criminal a family as yours!</p>
<p>“The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood<br />Have
nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good;<br />And if
you marry any one respectable at all,<br />Why, you’ll reform,
and what will then become of FATHER PAUL?”</p>
<p>The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,<br />And
started off in haste to tell the news to ROBBER BROWN—<br />To
tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,<br />Had winked
upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.</p>
<p>Good ROBBER BROWN he muffled up his anger pretty well:<br />He said,
“I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;<br />I will nab
this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,<br />And get my gentle
wife to chop him into little bits.</p>
<p>“I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two:<br />Though
a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—<br />A feeling
of disgust upon her senses there will fall<br />When she looks upon
his body chopped particularly small.”</p>
<p>He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;<br />He
watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware;<br />He took a life-preserver
and he hit him on the head,<br />And MRS. BROWN dissected him before
she went to bed.</p>
<p>And pretty little ALICE grew more settled in her mind,<br />She never
more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,<br />Until at length good
ROBBER BROWN bestowed her pretty hand<br />On the promising young robber,
the lieutenant of his band.</p>
<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div>
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