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diff --git a/933-0.txt b/933-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f69531 --- /dev/null +++ b/933-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4857 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, More Bab Ballads, by W. S. Gilbert + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: More Bab Ballads + + +Author: W. S. Gilbert + + + +Release Date: August 14, 2019 [eBook #933] +[This file was first posted on June 3, 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BAB BALLADS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co edition of “The Bab Ballads”, +also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Public domain cover] + + + + + + MORE BAB BALLADS + + +CONTENTS + +THE BUMBOAT WOMAN’S STORY 214 +THE TWO OGRES 221 +LITTLE OLIVER 229 +MISTER WILLIAM 235 +PASHA BAILEY BEN 242 +LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE 248 +LOST MR. BLAKE 256 +THE BABY’S VENGEANCE 265 +THE CAPTAIN AND THE MERMAIDS 273 +ANNIE PROTHEROE 280 +AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS 287 +GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. 294 +THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM 301 +FIRST LOVE 309 +BRAVE ALUM BEY 317 +SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO 324 +THE MODEST COUPLE 330 +THE MARTINET 338 +THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS 348 +THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS 356 +DAMON _V._ PYTHIAS 363 +MY DREAM 368 +THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN 376 +A WORM WILL TURN 383 +THE HAUGHTY ACTOR 391 +THE TWO MAJORS 399 +EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I 405 +THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY 413 +OLD PAUL AND OLD TIM 420 +THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE 426 +THE CUNNING WOMAN 433 +PHRENOLOGY 440 +THE FAIRY CURATE 446 +THE WAY OF WOOING 454 +HONGREE AND MAHRY 460 +ETIQUETTE 541 + + + + +THE BUMBOAT WOMAN’S STORY + + + I’M old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief, + My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief! + For terrible sights I’ve seen, and dangers great I’ve run— + I’m nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done! + + Ah! I’ve been young in my time, and I’ve played the deuce with men! + I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then: + My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet, + POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet! + + A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships + With apples and cakes, and fowls, and beer, and halfpenny dips, + And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights, + And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites. + + Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay, + By far the sweetest of all was kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.’ + LIEUTENANT BELAYE commanded the gunboat _Hot Cross Bun_, + She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun. + + With a laudable view of enhancing his country’s naval pride, + When people inquired her size, LIEUTENANT BELAYE replied, + “Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Seventy-ones!” + Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns. + + Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below, + “Come down, Little Buttercup, come” (for he loved to call me so), + And he’d tell of the fights at sea in which he’d taken a part, + And so LIEUTENANT BELAYE won poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S heart! + + But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he, + “I’m ordered to sail with the _Hot Cross Bun_ to the German Sea.” + And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day, + For every Portsmouth maid loved good LIEUTENANT BELAYE. + + And I went to a back back street, with plenty of cheap cheap shops, + And I bought an oilskin hat and a second-hand suit of slops, + And I went to LIEUTENANT BELAYE (and he never suspected _me_!) + And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea. + + We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one,— + Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the _Hot Cross Bun_, + I’m sorry to say that I’ve heard that sailors sometimes swear, + But I never yet heard a _Bun_ say anything wrong, I declare. + + When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a “Messmate, ho! What cheer?” + But here, on the _Hot Cross Bun_, it was “How do you do, my dear?” + When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big D— + But the strongest oath of the _Hot Cross Buns_ was a mild “Dear me!” + + Yet, though they were all well-bred, you could scarcely call them + slick: + Whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick; + And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair, + They spent more time than a sailor should on his back back hair. + + They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run, + And they screamed when LIEUTENANT BELAYE discharged his only gun. + And as he was proud of his gun—such pride is hardly wrong— + The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long. + + They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said + That BILL had a way of his own of making his lips look red— + That JOE looked quite his age—or somebody might declare + That BARNACLE’S long pig-tail was never his own own hair. + + BELAYE would admit that his men were of no great use to him, + “But, then,” he would say, “there is little to do on a gunboat trim + I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too— + And it _is_ such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew.” + + I saw him every day. How the happy moments sped! + Reef topsails! Make all taut! There’s dirty weather ahead! + (I do not mean that tempests threatened the _Hot Cross Bun_: + In _that_ case, I don’t know whatever we _should_ have done!) + + After a fortnight’s cruise, we put into port one day, + And off on leave for a week went kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE, + And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life), + LIEUTENANT BELAYE returned to his ship with a fair young wife! + + He up, and he says, says he, “O crew of the _Hot Cross Bun_, + Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!” + And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits, + And all fell down in so many separate fainting-fits. + + And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be, + And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me, + Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor’s blue array, + To follow the shifting fate of kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE. + + It’s strange to think that _I_ should ever have loved young men, + But I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then, + And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow! + And poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes have lost their lustre now! + + + + +THE TWO OGRES + + + GOOD children, list, if you’re inclined, + And wicked children too— + This pretty ballad is designed + Especially for you. + + Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold— + Each _traits_ distinctive had: + The younger was as good as gold, + The elder was as bad. + + A wicked, disobedient son + Was JAMES M’ALPINE, and + A contrast to the elder one, + Good APPLEBODY BLAND. + + M’ALPINE—brutes like him are few— + In greediness delights, + A melancholy victim to + Unchastened appetites. + + Good, well-bred children every day + He ravenously ate,— + All boys were fish who found their way + Into M’ALPINE’S net: + + Boys whose good breeding is innate, + Whose sums are always right; + And boys who don’t expostulate + When sent to bed at night; + + And kindly boys who never search + The nests of birds of song; + And serious boys for whom, in church, + No sermon is too long. + + Contrast with JAMES’S greedy haste + And comprehensive hand, + The nice discriminating taste + Of APPLEBODY BLAND. + + BLAND only eats bad boys, who swear— + Who _can_ behave, but _don’t_— + Disgraceful lads who say “don’t care,” + And “shan’t,” and “can’t,” and “won’t.” + + Who wet their shoes and learn to box, + And say what isn’t true, + Who bite their nails and jam their frocks, + And make long noses too; + + Who kick a nurse’s aged shin, + And sit in sulky mopes; + And boys who twirl poor kittens in + Distracting zoëtropes. + + But JAMES, when he was quite a youth, + Had often been to school, + And though so bad, to tell the truth, + He wasn’t quite a fool. + + At logic few with him could vie; + To his peculiar sect + He could propose a fallacy + With singular effect. + + So, when his Mentors said, “Expound— + Why eat good children—why?” + Upon his Mentors he would round + With this absurd reply: + + “I have been taught to love the good— + The pure—the unalloyed— + And wicked boys, I’ve understood, + I always should avoid. + + “Why do I eat good children—why? + Because I love them so!” + (But this was empty sophistry, + As your Papa can show.) + + Now, though the learning of his friends + Was truly not immense, + They had a way of fitting ends + By rule of common sense. + + “Away, away!” his Mentors cried, + “Thou uncongenial pest! + A quirk’s a thing we can’t abide, + A quibble we detest! + + “A fallacy in your reply + Our intellect descries, + Although we don’t pretend to spy + Exactly where it lies. + + “In misery and penal woes + Must end a glutton’s joys; + And learn how ogres punish those + Who dare to eat good boys. + + “Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain, + And gagged securely—so— + You shall be placed in Drury Lane, + Where only good lads go. + + “Surrounded there by virtuous boys, + You’ll suffer torture wus + Than that which constantly annoys + Disgraceful TANTALUS. + + (“If you would learn the woes that vex + Poor TANTALUS, down there, + Pray borrow of Papa an ex- + Purgated LEMPRIERE.) + + “But as for BLAND who, as it seems, + Eats only naughty boys, + We’ve planned a recompense that teems + With gastronomic joys. + + “Where wicked youths in crowds are stowed + He shall unquestioned rule, + And have the run of Hackney Road + Reformatory School!” + + + + +LITTLE OLIVER + + + EARL JOYCE he was a kind old party + Whom nothing ever could put out, + Though eighty-two, he still was hearty, + Excepting as regarded gout. + + He had one unexampled daughter, + The LADY MINNIE-HAHA JOYCE, + Fair MINNIE-HAHA, “Laughing Water,” + So called from her melodious voice. + + By Nature planned for lover-capture, + Her beauty every heart assailed; + The good old nobleman with rapture + Observed how widely she prevailed + + Aloof from all the lordly flockings + Of titled swells who worshipped her, + There stood, in pumps and cotton stockings, + One humble lover—OLIVER. + + He was no peer by Fortune petted, + His name recalled no bygone age; + He was no lordling coronetted— + Alas! he was a simple page! + + With vain appeals he never bored her, + But stood in silent sorrow by— + He knew how fondly he adored her, + And knew, alas! how hopelessly! + + Well grounded by a village tutor + In languages alive and past, + He’d say unto himself, “Knee-suitor, + Oh, do not go beyond your last!” + + But though his name could boast no handle, + He could not every hope resign; + As moths will hover round a candle, + So hovered he about her shrine. + + The brilliant candle dazed the moth well: + One day she sang to her Papa + The air that MARIE sings with BOTHWELL + In NEIDERMEYER’S opera. + + (Therein a stable boy, it’s stated, + Devoutly loved a noble dame, + Who ardently reciprocated + His rather injudicious flame.) + + And then, before the piano closing + (He listened coyly at the door), + She sang a song of her composing— + I give one verse from half a score: + + + +BALLAD + + + _Why_, _pretty page_, _art ever sighing_? + _Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying_? + _Come_, _set a-ringing_ + _Thy laugh entrancing_, + _And ever singing_ + _And ever dancing_. + _Ever singing_, _Tra_! _la_! _la_! + _Ever dancing_, _Tra_! _la_! _la_! + _Ever singing_, _ever dancing_, + _Ever singing_, _Tra_! _la_! _la_! + + He skipped for joy like little muttons, + He danced like Esmeralda’s kid. + (She did not mean a boy in buttons, + Although he fancied that she did.) + + Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her, + He wore out many pairs of soles; + He danced when taking down the dinner— + He danced when bringing up the coals. + + He danced and sang (however laden) + With his incessant “Tra! la! la!” + Which much surprised the noble maiden, + And puzzled even her Papa. + + He nourished now his flame and fanned it, + He even danced at work below. + The upper servants wouldn’t stand it, + And BOWLES the butler told him so. + + At length on impulse acting blindly, + His love he laid completely bare; + The gentle Earl received him kindly + And told the lad to take a chair. + + “Oh, sir,” the suitor uttered sadly, + “Don’t give your indignation vent; + I fear you think I’m acting madly, + Perhaps you think me insolent?” + + The kindly Earl repelled the notion; + His noble bosom heaved a sigh, + His fingers trembled with emotion, + A tear stood in his mild blue eye: + + For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly + The half-forgotten time when he, + A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly + A governess of forty-three! + + “My boy,” he said, in tone consoling, + “Give up this idle fancy—do— + The song you heard my daughter trolling + Did not, indeed, refer to you. + + “I feel for you, poor boy, acutely; + I would not wish to give you pain; + Your pangs I estimate minutely,— + I, too, have loved, and loved in vain. + + “But still your humble rank and station + For MINNIE surely are not meet”— + He said much more in conversation + Which it were needless to repeat. + + Now I’m prepared to bet a guinea, + Were this a mere dramatic case, + The page would have eloped with MINNIE, + But, no—he only left his place. + + The simple Truth is my detective, + With me Sensation can’t abide; + The Likely beats the mere Effective, + And Nature is my only guide. + + + + +MISTER WILLIAM + + + OH, listen to the tale of MISTER WILLIAM, if you please, + Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas. + He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife, + Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life. + + He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone, + Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own. + But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike— + To plan _one_ little wickedness—to see what it was like. + + He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I; + I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try! + For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold, + And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold! + + “A baby who is wicked at the early age of one, + And then reforms—and dies at thirty-six a spotless son, + Is never, never saddled with his babyhood’s defect, + But earns from worthy men consideration and respect. + + “So one who never revelled in discreditable tricks + Until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six, + May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame, + Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame. + + “That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true, + But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue; + And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll, + Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control. + + “The common sin of babyhood—objecting to be drest— + If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest, + For anything you know, may represent, if you’re alive, + A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five. + + “Still, I wouldn’t take advantage of this fact, but be content + With some pardonable folly—it’s a mere experiment. + The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin; + So with something that’s particularly tempting I’ll begin. + + “I would not steal a penny, for my income’s very fair— + I do not want a penny—I have pennies and to spare— + And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till, + The sin would be enormous—the temptation being _nil_. + + “But if I broke asunder all such pettifogging bounds, + And forged a party’s Will for (say) Five Hundred Thousand Pounds, + With such an irresistible temptation to a haul, + Of course the sin must be infinitesimally small. + + “There’s WILSON who is dying—he has wealth from Stock and rent— + If I divert his riches from their natural descent, + I’m placed in a position to indulge each little whim.” + So he diverted them—and they, in turn, diverted him. + + Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw, + Temptation isn’t recognized by Britain’s Common Law; + Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch, + And WILLIAM got a “lifer,” which annoyed him very much. + + For, ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol, + He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale; + He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him so + That his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low. + + And sympathetic gaolers would remark, “It’s very true, + He ain’t been brought up common, like the likes of me and you.” + So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops, + And chocolate, and arrowroot, and buns, and malt and hops. + + Kind Clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate, + Affected by the details of his pitiable state. + They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall, + Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call. + + “Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case: + A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace; + It’s telling on young WILLIAM, who’s reduced to skin and bone— + Remember he’s a gentleman, with money of his own. + + “He had an ample income, and of course he stands in need + Of sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed; + No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips— + He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips. + + “He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude; + He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food. + When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad, + And other educational advantages he’s had. + + “A burglar or garotter, or, indeed, a common thief + Is very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef, + Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,— + A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward. + + “But beef and mutton-broth don’t seem to suit our WILLIAM’S whim, + A boon to other prisoners—a punishment to him. + It never was intended that the discipline of gaol + Should dash a convict’s spirits, sir, or make him thin or pale.” + + “Good Gracious Me!” that sympathetic Secretary cried, + “Suppose in prison fetters MISTER WILLIAM should have died! + Dear me, of course! Imprisonment for _Life_ his sentence saith: + I’m very glad you mentioned it—it might have been For Death! + + “Release him with a ticket—he’ll be better then, no doubt, + And tell him I apologize.” So MISTER WILLIAM’S out. + I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I’m sure, + And not begin experimentalizing any more. + + + + +PASHA BAILEY BEN + + + A PROUD Pasha was BAILEY BEN, + His wives were three, his tails were ten; + His form was dignified, but stout, + Men called him “Little Roundabout.” + + _His Importance_ + + Pale Pilgrims came from o’er the sea + To wait on PASHA BAILEY B., + All bearing presents in a crowd, + For B. was poor as well as proud. + + _His Presents_ + + They brought him onions strung on ropes, + And cold boiled beef, and telescopes, + And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns, + And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns. + + _More of them_ + + They brought him white kid gloves, and pails, + And candlesticks, and potted quails, + And capstan-bars, and scales and weights, + And ornaments for empty grates. + + _Why I mention these_ + + My tale is not of these—oh no! + I only mention them to show + The divers gifts that divers men + Brought o’er the sea to BAILEY BEN. + + _His Confidant_ + + A confidant had BAILEY B., + A gay Mongolian dog was he; + I am not good at Turkish names, + And so I call him SIMPLE JAMES. + + _His Confidant’s Countenance_ + + A dreadful legend you might trace + In SIMPLE JAMES’S honest face, + For there you read, in Nature’s print, + “A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint.” + + _His Character_ + + A deed of blood, or fire, or flames, + Was meat and drink to SIMPLE JAMES: + To hide his guilt he did not plan, + But owned himself a bad young man. + + _The Author to his Reader_ + + And why on earth good BAILEY BEN + (The wisest, noblest, best of men) + Made SIMPLE JAMES his right-hand man + Is quite beyond my mental span. + + _The same_, _continued_ + + But there—enough of gruesome deeds! + My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds; + And so let SIMPLE JAMES take wing,— + ’Tis not of him I’m going to sing. + + _The Pasha’s Clerk_ + + Good PASHA BAILEY kept a clerk + (For BAILEY only made his mark), + His name was MATTHEW WYCOMBE COO, + A man of nearly forty-two. + + _His Accomplishments_ + + No person that I ever knew + Could “yödel” half as well as COO, + And Highlanders exclaimed, “Eh, weel!” + When COO began to dance a reel. + + _His Kindness to the Pasha’s Wives_ + + He used to dance and sing and play + In such an unaffected way, + He cheered the unexciting lives + Of PASHA BAILEY’S lovely wives. + + _The Author to his Reader_ + + But why should I encumber you + With histories of MATTHEW COO? + Let MATTHEW COO at once take wing,— + ’Tis not of COO I’m going to sing. + + _The Author’s Muse_ + + Let me recall my wandering Muse; + She _shall_ be steady if I choose— + She roves, instead of helping me + To tell the deeds of BAILEY B. + + _The Pasha’s Visitor_ + + One morning knocked, at half-past eight, + A tall Red Indian at his gate. + In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware, + Red Indians are extremely rare. + + _The Visitor’s Outfit_ + + Mocassins decked his graceful legs, + His eyes were black, and round as eggs, + And on his neck, instead of beads, + Hung several Catawampous seeds. + + _What the Visitor said_ + + “Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one, + Poor offspring of an Eastern sun, + You’ve _never_ seen the Red Man skip + Upon the banks of Mississip!” + + _The Author’s Moderation_ + + To say that BAILEY oped his eyes + Would feebly paint his great surprise— + To say it almost made him die + Would be to paint it much too high. + + _The Author to his Reader_ + + But why should I ransack my head + To tell you all that Indian said; + We’ll let the Indian man take wing,— + ’Tis not of him I’m going to sing. + + _The Reader to the Author_ + + Come, come, I say, that’s quite enough + Of this absurd disjointed stuff; + Now let’s get on to that affair + About LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE. + + + + +LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE + + + THE earth has armies plenty, + And semi-warlike bands, + I dare say there are twenty + In European lands; + But, oh! in no direction + You’d find one to compare + In brotherly affection + With that of COLONEL FLARE. + + His soldiers might be rated + As military Pearls. + As unsophisticated + As pretty little girls! + They never smoked or ratted, + Or talked of Sues or Polls; + The Sergeant-Major tatted, + The others nursed their dolls. + + He spent his days in teaching + These truly solemn facts; + There’s little use in preaching, + Or circulating tracts. + (The vainest plan invented + For stifling other creeds, + Unless it’s supplemented + With charitable _deeds_.) + + He taught his soldiers kindly + To give at Hunger’s call: + “Oh, better far give blindly, + Than never give at all! + Though sympathy be kindled + By Imposition’s game, + Oh, better far be swindled + Than smother up its flame!” + + His means were far from ample + For pleasure or for dress, + Yet note this bright example + Of single-heartedness: + Though ranking as a Colonel, + His pay was but a groat, + While their reward diurnal + Was—each a five-pound note. + + Moreover,—this evinces + His kindness, you’ll allow,— + He fed them all like princes, + And lived himself on cow. + He set them all regaling + On curious wines, and dear, + While he would sit pale-ale-ing, + Or quaffing ginger-beer. + + Then at his instigation + (A pretty fancy this) + Their daily pay and ration + He’d take in change for his; + They brought it to him weekly, + And he without a groan, + Would take it from them meekly + And give them all his own! + + Though not exactly knighted + As knights, of course, should be, + Yet no one so delighted + In harmless chivalry. + If peasant girl or ladye + Beneath misfortunes sank, + Whate’er distinctions made he, + They were not those of rank. + + No maiden young and comely + Who wanted good advice + (However poor or homely) + Need ask him for it twice. + He’d wipe away the blindness + That comes of teary dew; + His sympathetic kindness + No sort of limit knew. + + He always hated dealing + With men who schemed or planned; + A person harsh—unfeeling— + The Colonel could not stand. + He hated cold, suspecting, + Official men in blue, + Who pass their lives detecting + The crimes that others do. + + For men who’d shoot a sparrow, + Or immolate a worm + Beneath a farmer’s harrow, + He could not find a term. + Humanely, ay, and knightly + He dealt with such an one; + He took and tied him tightly, + And blew him from a gun. + + The earth has armies plenty, + And semi-warlike bands, + I’m certain there are twenty + In European lands; + But, oh! in no direction + You’d find one to compare + In brotherly affection + With that of COLONEL FLARE. + + + + +LOST MR. BLAKE + + + MR. BLAKE was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner, + Who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak, + He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking a glass of + grog on a Sunday after dinner, + And seldom thought of going to church more than twice or—if Good + Friday or Christmas Day happened to come in it—three times a week. + + He was quite indifferent as to the particular kinds of dresses + That the clergyman wore at church where he used to go to pray, + And whatever he did in the way of relieving a chap’s distresses, + He always did in a nasty, sneaking, underhanded, hole-and-corner + sort of way. + + I have known him indulge in profane, ungentlemanly emphatics, + When the Protestant Church has been divided on the subject of the + proper width of a chasuble’s hem; + I have even known him to sneer at albs—and as for dalmatics, + Words can’t convey an idea of the contempt he expressed for _them_. + + He didn’t believe in persons who, not being well off themselves, are + obliged to confine their charitable exertions to collecting money from + wealthier people, + And looked upon individuals of the former class as ecclesiastical + hawks; + He used to say that he would no more think of interfering with his + priest’s robes than with his church or his steeple, + And that he did not consider his soul imperilled because somebody + over whom he had no influence whatever, chose to dress himself up like + an exaggerated GUY FAWKES. + + This shocking old vagabond was so unutterably shameless + That he actually went a-courting a very respectable and pious + middle-aged sister, by the name of BIGGS. + She was a rather attractive widow, whose life as such had always been + particularly blameless; + Her first husband had left her a secure but moderate competence, + owing to some fortunate speculations in the matter of figs. + + She was an excellent person in every way—and won the respect even of + MRS. GRUNDY, + She was a good housewife, too, and wouldn’t have wasted a penny if + she had owned the Koh-i-noor. + She was just as strict as he was lax in her observance of Sunday, + And being a good economist, and charitable besides, she took all + the bones and cold potatoes and broken pie-crusts and candle-ends + (when she had quite done with them), and made them into an excellent + soup for the deserving poor. + + I am sorry to say that she rather took to BLAKE—that outcast of + society, + And when respectable brothers who were fond of her began to look + dubious and to cough, + She would say, “Oh, my friends, it’s because I hope to bring this poor + benighted soul back to virtue and propriety,” + And besides, the poor benighted soul, with all his faults, was + uncommonly well off. + + And when MR. BLAKE’S dissipated friends called his attention to the + frown or the pout of her, + Whenever he did anything which appeared to her to savour of an + unmentionable place, + He would say that “she would be a very decent old girl when all that + nonsense was knocked out of her,” + And his method of knocking it out of her is one that covered him + with disgrace. + + She was fond of going to church services four times every Sunday, and, + four or five times in the week, and never seemed to pall of them, + So he hunted out all the churches within a convenient distance that + had services at different hours, so to speak; + And when he had married her he positively insisted upon their going to + all of them, + So they contrived to do about twelve churches every Sunday, and, if + they had luck, from twenty-two to twenty-three in the course of the + week. + + She was fond of dropping his sovereigns ostentatiously into the plate, + and she liked to see them stand out rather conspicuously against the + commonplace half-crowns and shillings, + So he took her to all the charity sermons, and if by any + extraordinary chance there wasn’t a charity sermon anywhere, he would + drop a couple of sovereigns (one for him and one for her) into the + poor-box at the door; + And as he always deducted the sums thus given in charity from the + housekeeping money, and the money he allowed her for her bonnets and + frillings, + She soon began to find that even charity, if you allow it to + interfere with your personal luxuries, becomes an intolerable bore. + + On Sundays she was always melancholy and anything but good society, + For that day in her household was a day of sighings and sobbings + and wringing of hands and shaking of heads: + She wouldn’t hear of a button being sewn on a glove, because it was a + work neither of necessity nor of piety, + And strictly prohibited her servants from amusing themselves, or + indeed doing anything at all except dusting the drawing-rooms, + cleaning the boots and shoes, cooking the parlour dinner, waiting + generally on the family, and making the beds. + + But BLAKE even went further than that, and said that people should do + their own works of necessity, and not delegate them to persons in a + menial situation, + So he wouldn’t allow his servants to do so much as even answer a + bell. + Here he is making his wife carry up the water for her bath to the + second floor, much against her inclination,— + And why in the world the gentleman who illustrates these ballads + has put him in a cocked hat is more than I can tell. + + After about three months of this sort of thing, taking the smooth with + the rough of it, + (Blacking her own boots and peeling her own potatoes was not her + notion of connubial bliss), + MRS. BLAKE began to find that she had pretty nearly had enough of it, + And came, in course of time, to think that BLAKE’S own original + line of conduct wasn’t so much amiss. + + And now that wicked person—that detestable sinner (“BELIAL BLAKE” his + friends and well-wishers call him for his atrocities), + And his poor deluded victim, whom all her Christian brothers + dislike and pity so, + Go to the parish church only on Sunday morning and afternoon and + occasionally on a week-day, and spend their evenings in connubial + fondlings and affectionate reciprocities, + And I should like to know where in the world (or rather, out of it) + they expect to go! + + + + +THE BABY’S VENGEANCE + + + WEARY at heart and extremely ill + Was PALEY VOLLAIRE of Bromptonville, + In a dirty lodging, with fever down, + Close to the Polygon, Somers Town. + + PALEY VOLLAIRE was an only son + (For why? His mother had had but one), + And PALEY inherited gold and grounds + Worth several hundred thousand pounds. + + But he, like many a rich young man, + Through this magnificent fortune ran, + And nothing was left for his daily needs + But duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds. + + Shabby and sorry and sorely sick, + He slept, and dreamt that the clock’s “tick, tick,” + Was one of the Fates, with a long sharp knife, + Snicking off bits of his shortened life. + + He woke and counted the pips on the walls, + The outdoor passengers’ loud footfalls, + And reckoned all over, and reckoned again, + The little white tufts on his counterpane. + + A medical man to his bedside came. + (I can’t remember that doctor’s name), + And said, “You’ll die in a very short while + If you don’t set sail for Madeira’s isle.” + + “Go to Madeira? goodness me! + I haven’t the money to pay your fee!” + “Then, PALEY VOLLAIRE,” said the leech, “good bye; + I’ll come no more, for you’re sure to die.” + + He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast; + “Oh, send,” said he, “for FREDERICK WEST, + Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim: + I’ve a terrible tale to whisper him!” + + Poor was FREDERICK’S lot in life,— + A dustman he with a fair young wife, + A worthy man with a hard-earned store, + A hundred and seventy pounds—or more. + + FREDERICK came, and he said, “Maybe + You’ll say what you happened to want with me?” + “Wronged boy,” said PALEY VOLLAIRE, “I will, + But don’t you fidget yourself—sit still.” + + * * * * * + + “’Tis now some thirty-seven years ago + Since first began the plot that I’m revealing, + A fine young woman, whom you ought to know, + Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing. + Herself by means of mangling reimbursing, + And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing. + + “Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot: + One was her own—the other only lent to her: + _Her own she slighted_. Tempted by a lot + Of gold and silver regularly sent to her, + She ministered unto the little other + In the capacity of foster-mother. + + “_I was her own_. Oh! how I lay and sobbed + In my poor cradle—deeply, deeply cursing + The rich man’s pampered bantling, who had robbed + My only birthright—an attentive nursing! + Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother, + I gnashed my gums—which terrified my mother. + + “One day—it was quite early in the week— + I _in_ MY _cradle having placed the bantling_— + Crept into his! He had not learnt to speak, + But I could see his face with anger mantling. + It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe, + For, oh! I was a bad, black-hearted baby! + + “So great a luxury was food, I think + No wickedness but I was game to try for it. + _Now_ if I wanted anything to drink + At any time, I only had to cry for it! + _Once_, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking, + My blubbering involved a serious smacking! + + “We grew up in the usual way—my friend, + My foster-brother, daily growing thinner, + While gradually I began to mend, + And thrived amazingly on double dinner. + And every one, besides my foster-mother, + Believed that either of us was the other. + + “I came into _his_ wealth—I bore _his_ name, + I bear it still—_his_ property I squandered— + I mortgaged everything—and now (oh, shame!) + Into a Somers Town shake-down I’ve wandered! + I am no PALEY—no, VOLLAIRE—it’s true, my boy! + The only rightful PALEY V. is _you_, my boy! + + “And all I have is yours—and yours is mine. + I still may place you in your true position: + Give me the pounds you’ve saved, and I’ll resign + My noble name, my rank, and my condition. + So far my wickedness in falsely owning + Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!” + + * * * * * * * + + FREDERICK he was a simple soul, + He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll, + And gave to PALEY his hard-earned store, + A hundred and seventy pounds or more. + + PALEY VOLLAIRE, with many a groan, + Gave FREDERICK all that he called his own,— + Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean, + A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane. + + And FRED (entitled to all things there) + He took the fever from MR. VOLLAIRE, + Which killed poor FREDERICK WEST. Meanwhile + VOLLAIRE sailed off to Madeira’s isle. + + + + +THE CAPTAIN AND THE MERMAIDS + + + I SING a legend of the sea, + So hard-a-port upon your lee! + A ship on starboard tack! + She’s bound upon a private cruise— + (This is the kind of spice I use + To give a salt-sea smack). + + Behold, on every afternoon + (Save in a gale or strong Monsoon) + Great CAPTAIN CAPEL CLEGGS + (Great morally, though rather short) + Sat at an open weather-port + And aired his shapely legs. + + And Mermaids hung around in flocks, + On cable chains and distant rocks, + To gaze upon those limbs; + For legs like those, of flesh and bone, + Are things “not generally known” + To any Merman TIMBS. + + But Mermen didn’t seem to care + Much time (as far as I’m aware) + With CLEGGS’S legs to spend; + Though Mermaids swam around all day + And gazed, exclaiming, “_That’s_ the way + A gentleman should end! + + “A pair of legs with well-cut knees, + And calves and ankles such as these + Which we in rapture hail, + Are far more eloquent, it’s clear + (When clothed in silk and kerseymere), + Than any nasty tail.” + + And CLEGGS—a worthy kind old boy— + Rejoiced to add to others’ joy, + And, when the day was dry, + Because it pleased the lookers-on, + He sat from morn till night—though con- + Stitutionally shy. + + At first the Mermen laughed, “Pooh! pooh!” + But finally they jealous grew, + And sounded loud recalls; + But vainly. So these fishy males + Declared they too would clothe their tails + In silken hose and smalls. + + They set to work, these water-men, + And made their nether robes—but when + They drew with dainty touch + The kerseymere upon their tails, + They found it scraped against their scales, + And hurt them very much. + + The silk, besides, with which they chose + To deck their tails by way of hose + (They never thought of shoon), + For such a use was much too thin,— + It tore against the caudal fin, + And “went in ladders” soon. + + So they designed another plan: + They sent their most seductive man + This note to him to show— + “Our Monarch sends to CAPTAIN CLEGGS + His humble compliments, and begs + He’ll join him down below; + + “We’ve pleasant homes below the sea— + Besides, if CAPTAIN CLEGGS should be + (As our advices say) + A judge of Mermaids, he will find + Our lady-fish of every kind + Inspection will repay.” + + Good CAPEL sent a kind reply, + For CAPEL thought he could descry + An admirable plan + To study all their ways and laws— + (But not their lady-fish, because + He was a married man). + + The Merman sank—the Captain too + Jumped overboard, and dropped from view + Like stone from catapult; + And when he reached the Merman’s lair, + He certainly was welcomed there, + But, ah! with what result? + + They didn’t let him learn their law, + Or make a note of what he saw, + Or interesting mem.: + The lady-fish he couldn’t find, + But that, of course, he didn’t mind— + He didn’t come for them. + + For though, when CAPTAIN CAPEL sank, + The Mermen drawn in double rank + Gave him a hearty hail, + Yet when secure of CAPTAIN CLEGGS, + They cut off both his lovely legs, + And gave him _such_ a tail! + + When CAPTAIN CLEGGS returned aboard, + His blithesome crew convulsive roar’d, + To see him altered so. + The Admiralty did insist + That he upon the Half-pay List + Immediately should go. + + In vain declared the poor old salt, + “It’s my misfortune—not my fault,” + With tear and trembling lip— + In vain poor CAPEL begged and begged. + “A man must be completely legged + Who rules a British ship.” + + So spake the stern First Lord aloud— + He was a wag, though very proud, + And much rejoiced to say, + “You’re only half a captain now— + And so, my worthy friend, I vow + You’ll only get half-pay!” + + + + +ANNIE PROTHEROE + + + A LEGEND OF STRATFORD-LE-BOW + + OH! listen to the tale of little ANNIE PROTHEROE. + She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of BOW; + She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day— + A gentle executioner whose name was GILBERT CLAY. + + I think I hear you say, “A dreadful subject for your rhymes!” + O reader, do not shrink—he didn’t live in modern times! + He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance) + That all his actions glitter with the lime-light of Romance. + + In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day— + “No doubt you mean his Cal-craft,” you amusingly will say— + But, no—he didn’t operate with common bits of string, + He was a Public Headsman, which is quite another thing. + + And when his work was over, they would ramble o’er the lea, + And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree, + And ANNIE’S simple prattle entertained him on his walk, + For public executions formed the subject of her talk. + + And sometimes he’d explain to her, which charmed her very much, + How famous operators vary very much in touch, + And then, perhaps, he’d show how he himself performed the trick, + And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick. + + Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look + At his favourable notices, all pasted in a book, + And then her cheek would flush—her swimming eyes would dance with joy + In a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy. + + One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle GILBERT said + (As he helped his pretty ANNIE to a slice of collared head), + “This reminds me I must settle on the next ensuing day + The hash of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY.” + + He saw his ANNIE tremble and he saw his ANNIE start, + Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart; + Young GILBERT’S manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear, + And he said, “O gentle ANNIE, what’s the meaning of this here?” + + And ANNIE answered, blushing in an interesting way, + “You think, no doubt, I’m sighing for that felon PETER GRAY: + That I was his young woman is unquestionably true, + But not since I began a-keeping company with you.” + + Then GILBERT, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore + He’d know the reason why if she refused to tell him more; + And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes) + “You mustn’t ask no questions, and you won’t be told no lies! + + “Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you, + Of chopping off a rival’s head and quartering him too! + Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!” + And GILBERT ground his molars as he answered her, “I will!” + + Young GILBERT rose from table with a stern determined look, + And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook; + And ANNIE watched his movements with an interested air— + For the morrow—for the morrow he was going to prepare! + + He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill, + He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until + This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law + Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw. + + And ANNIE said, “O GILBERT, dear, I do not understand + Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?” + He said, “It is intended for to lacerate and flay + The neck of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY!” + + “Now, GILBERT,” ANNIE answered, “wicked headsman, just beware— + I won’t have PETER tortured with that horrible affair; + If you appear with that, you may depend you’ll rue the day.” + But GILBERT said, “Oh, shall I?” which was just his nasty way. + + He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart, + For ANNIE was a _woman_, and had pity in her heart! + She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare; + She only said, “Remember, for your ANNIE will be there!” + + * * * * * * * * + + The morrow GILBERT boldly on the scaffold took his stand, + With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand, + And all the people noticed that the Engine of the Law + Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw. + + The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock, + And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block. + The hatchet was uplifted for to settle PETER GRAY, + When GILBERT plainly heard a woman’s voice exclaiming, “Stay!” + + ’Twas ANNIE, gentle ANNIE, as you’ll easily believe. + “O GILBERT, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve, + It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago, + And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow. + + “I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, GILBERT CLAY, + And as I’d quite surrendered all idea of PETER GRAY, + I quietly suppressed it, as you’ll clearly understand, + For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand. + + “In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before), + To lacerate poor PETER GRAY vindictively you swore; + I told you if you used that blunted axe you’d rue the day, + And so you will, young GILBERT, for I’ll marry PETER GRAY!” + + [_And so she did_. + + + + +AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS + + + I’VE painted SHAKESPEARE all my life— + “An infant” (even then at “play”!) + “A boy,” with stage-ambition rife, + Then “Married to ANN HATHAWAY.” + + “The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”), + His “First appearance on the stage,” + His “Call before the curtain”—then + “Rejoicings when he came of age.” + + The bard play-writing in his room, + The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk. + The bard a lawyer {287a}—parson {287b}—groom {287c}— + The bard deer-stealing, after dark. + + The bard a tradesman {288a}—and a Jew {288b}— + The bard a botanist {288c}—a beak {288d}— + The bard a skilled musician {288e} too— + A sheriff {288f} and a surgeon {288g} eke! + + Yet critics say (a friendly stock) + That, though it’s evident I try, + Yet even I can barely mock + The glimmer of his wondrous eye! + + One morning as a work I framed, + There passed a person, walking hard: + “My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed, + “How very like my dear old bard! + + “Oh, what a model he would make!” + I rushed outside—impulsive me!— + “Forgive the liberty I take, + But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he. + + “You needn’t waste your breath or time,— + I know what you are going to say,— + That you’re an artist, and that I’m + Remarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh? + + “You wish that I would sit to you?” + I clasped him madly round the waist, + And breathlessly replied, “I do!” + “All right,” said he, “but please make haste.” + + I led him by his hallowed sleeve, + And worked away at him apace, + I painted him till dewy eve,— + There never was a nobler face! + + “Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grand + Is yours, by dint of merest chance,— + To sport _his_ brow at second-hand, + To wear _his_ cast-off countenance! + + “To rub _his_ eyes whene’er they ache— + To wear _his_ baldness ere you’re old— + To clean _his_ teeth when you awake— + To blow _his_ nose when you’ve a cold!” + + His eyeballs glistened in his eyes— + I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; + “Bravo!” I said, “I recognize + The phrensy of your prototype!” + + His scanty hair he wildly tore: + “That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.” + He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore— + “Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!” + + “Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy + (Continuing to blaze away), + “You think my face a source of joy; + That shows you know not what you say. + + “Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: + I’m always thrown in some such state + When on his face well-meaning chaps + This wretched man congratulate. + + “For, oh! this face—this pointed chin— + This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too, + Have always been the origin + Of all the woes I ever knew! + + “If to the play my way I find, + To see a grand Shakesperian piece, + I have no rest, no ease of mind + Until the author’s puppets cease. + + “Men nudge each other—thus—and say, + ‘This certainly is SHAKESPEARE’S son,’ + And merry wags (of course in play) + Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done. + + “In church the people stare at me, + Their soul the sermon never binds; + I catch them looking round to see, + And thoughts of SHAKESPEARE fill their minds. + + “And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, + Who find it difficult to crown + A bust with BROWN’S insipid smile, + Or TOMKINS’S unmannered frown, + + “Yet boldly make my face their own, + When (oh, presumption!) they require + To animate a paving-stone + With SHAKESPEARE’S intellectual fire. + + “At parties where young ladies gaze, + And I attempt to speak my joy, + ‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says, + ‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’ + + “Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung + With these or some such whisperings: + ‘’Tis pity that a SHAKESPEARE’S tongue + Should say such un-Shakesperian things!’ + + “I should not thus be criticised + Had I a face of common wont: + Don’t envy me—now, be advised!” + And, now I think of it, I don’t! + + + + +GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. + + + A LEAFY cot, where no dry rot + Had ever been by tenant seen, + Where ivy clung and wopses stung, + Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed, + Where treeses grew and breezes blew— + A thatchy roof, quite waterproof, + Where countless herds of dicky-birds + Built twiggy beds to lay their heads + (My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,” + But though it’s true that dickies do + Construct a nest with chirpy noise, + With view to rest their eggy joys, + ’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds, + As I explain to her in vain + Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes). + ’Neath such a cot, built on a plot + Of freehold land, dwelt MARY and + Her worthy father, named by me + GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. + + He knew no guile, this simple man, + No worldly wile, or plot, or plan, + Except that plot of freehold land + That held the cot, and MARY, and + Her worthy father, named by me + GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. + + A grave and learned scholar he, + Yet simple as a child could be. + He’d shirk his meal to sit and cram + A goodish deal of Eton Gram. + No man alive could him nonplus + With vocative of _filius_; + No man alive more fully knew + The passive of a verb or two; + None better knew the worth than he + Of words that end in _b_, _d_, _t_. + Upon his green in early spring + He might be seen endeavouring + To understand the hooks and crooks + Of HENRY and his Latin books; + Or calling for his “Cæsar on + The Gallic War,” like any don; + Or, p’raps, expounding unto all + How mythic BALBUS built a wall. + So lived the sage who’s named by me + GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. + + To him one autumn day there came + A lovely youth of mystic name: + He took a lodging in the house, + And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse, + For, oh! that mild scholastic one + Let shooting for a single gun. + + By three or four, when sport was o’er, + The Mystic One laid by his gun, + And made sheep’s eyes of giant size, + Till after tea, at MARY P. + And MARY P. (so kind was she), + She, too, made eyes of giant size, + Whose every dart right through the heart + Appeared to run that Mystic One. + The Doctor’s whim engrossing him, + He did not know they flirted so. + For, save at tea, “_musa musæ_,” + As I’m advised, monopolised + And rendered blind his giant mind. + But looking up above his cup + One afternoon, he saw them spoon. + “Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass! + As quaint old OVID says, ‘Amas!’” + + The Mystic Youth avowed the truth, + And, claiming ruth, he said, “In sooth + I love your daughter, aged man: + Refuse to join us if you can. + Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn, + I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.” + “Young sir,” the aged scholar said, + “I never thought you meant to wed: + Engrossed completely with my books, + I little noticed lovers’ looks. + I’ve lived so long away from man, + I do not know of any plan + By which to test a lover’s worth, + Except, perhaps, the test of birth. + I’ve half forgotten in this wild + A father’s duty to his child. + It is his place, I think it’s said, + To see his daughters richly wed + To dignitaries of the earth— + If possible, of noble birth. + If noble birth is not at hand, + A father may, I understand + (And this affords a chance for you), + Be satisfied to wed her to + A BOUCICAULT or BARING—which + Means any one who’s very rich. + Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,— + My child and I will go and try + If he will make the maid his bride— + If not, to you she shall be tied.” + + They sought the Earl that very day; + The Sage began to say his say. + The Earl (a very wicked man, + Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban) + Cut short the scholar’s simple tale, + And said in voice to make them quail, + “Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt— + Here, PETERS, turn these people out!” + + The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth, + Returning, met the Mystic Youth. + “My darling boy,” the Scholar said, + “Take MARY—blessings on your head!” + + The Mystic Boy undid his vest, + And took a parchment from his breast, + And said, “Now, by that noble brow, + I ne’er knew father such as thou! + The sterling rule of common sense + Now reaps its proper recompense. + Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen, + For I am DUKE OF GRETNA GREEN!” + + + + +THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM + + + THE story of FREDERICK GOWLER, + A mariner of the sea, + Who quitted his ship, the _Howler_, + A-sailing in Caribbee. + For many a day he wandered, + Till he met in a state of rum + CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP, + The King of Canoodle-Dum. + + That monarch addressed him gaily, + “Hum! Golly de do to-day? + Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee”— + (You notice his playful way?)— + “What dickens you doin’ here, sar? + Why debbil you want to come? + Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn’t no sea + In City Canoodle-Dum!” + + And GOWLER he answered sadly, + “Oh, mine is a doleful tale! + They’ve treated me werry badly + In Lunnon, from where I hail. + I’m one of the Family Royal— + No common Jack Tar you see; + I’m WILLIAM THE FOURTH, far up in the North, + A King in my own countree!” + + Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered! + Bang-bang! How they thumped this gongs! + Bang-bang! How the people wondered! + Bang-bang! At it hammer and tongs! + Alliance with Kings of Europe + Is an honour Canoodlers seek, + Her monarchs don’t stop with PEPPERMINT DROP + Every day in the week! + + FRED told them that he was _un_done, + For his people all went insane, + And fired the Tower of London, + And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane. + And some of them racked St. James’s, + And vented their rage upon + The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall, + And the Angel at Islington. + + CALAMITY POP implored him + In his capital to remain + Till those people of his restored him + To power and rank again. + CALAMITY POP he made him + A Prince of Canoodle-Dum, + With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves, + And the run of the royal rum. + + Pop gave him his only daughter, + HUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP: + FRED vowed that if over the water + He went, in an English ship, + He’d make her his Queen,—though truly + It is an unusual thing + For a Caribbee brat who’s as black as your hat + To be wife of an English King. + + And all the Canoodle-Dummers + They copied his rolling walk, + His method of draining rummers, + His emblematical talk. + For his dress and his graceful breeding, + His delicate taste in rum, + And his nautical way, were the talk of the day + In the Court of Canoodle-Dum. + + CALAMITY POP most wisely + Determined in everything + To model his Court precisely + On that of the English King; + And ordered that every lady + And every lady’s lord + Should masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy), + And scatter its juice abroad. + + They signified wonder roundly + At any astounding yarn, + By darning their dear eyes roundly + (’T was all they had to darn). + They “hoisted their slacks,” adjusting + Garments of plantain-leaves + With nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches, + Instead of a dress like EVE’S!) + + They shivered their timbers proudly, + At a phantom forelock dragged, + And called for a hornpipe loudly + Whenever amusement flagged. + “Hum! Golly! him POP resemble, + Him Britisher sov’reign, hum! + CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP, + De King of Canoodle-Dum!” + + The mariner’s lively “Hollo!” + Enlivened Canoodle’s plain + (For blessings unnumbered follow + In Civilization’s train). + But Fortune, who loves a bathos, + A terrible ending planned, + For ADMIRAL D. CHICKABIDDY, C.B., + Placed foot on Canoodle land! + + That rebel, he seized KING GOWLER, + He threatened his royal brains, + And put him aboard the _Howler_, + And fastened him down with chains. + The _Howler_ she weighed her anchor, + With FREDERICK nicely nailed, + And off to the North with WILLIAM THE FOURTH + These horrible pirates sailed. + + CALAMITY said (with folly), + “Hum! nebber want him again— + Him civilize all of us, golly! + CALAMITY suck him brain!” + The people, however, were pained when + They saw him aboard his ship, + But none of them wept for their FREDDY, except + HUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP. + + + + +FIRST LOVE + + + A CLERGYMAN in Berkshire dwelt, + The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES, + And in his church there weekly knelt + At least a hundred souls. + + There little ELLEN you might see, + The modest rustic belle; + In maidenly simplicity, + She loved her BERNARD well. + + Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown + Untrimmed with lace or fur, + Yet not a husband in the town + But wished his wife like her. + + Though sterner memories might fade, + You never could forget + The child-form of that baby-maid, + The Village Violet! + + A simple frightened loveliness, + Whose sacred spirit-part + Shrank timidly from worldly stress, + And nestled in your heart. + + POWLES woo’d with every well-worn plan + And all the usual wiles + With which a well-schooled gentleman + A simple heart beguiles. + + The hackneyed compliments that bore + World-folks like you and me, + Appeared to her as if they wore + The crown of Poesy. + + His winking eyelid sang a song + Her heart could understand, + Eternity seemed scarce too long + When BERNARD squeezed her hand. + + He ordered down the martial crew + Of GODFREY’S Grenadiers, + And COOTE conspired with TINNEY to + Ecstaticise her ears. + + Beneath her window, veiled from eye, + They nightly took their stand; + On birthdays supplemented by + The Covent Garden band. + + And little ELLEN, all alone, + Enraptured sat above, + And thought how blest she was to own + The wealth of POWLES’S love. + + I often, often wonder what + Poor ELLEN saw in him; + For calculated he was _not_ + To please a woman’s whim. + + He wasn’t good, despite the air + An M.B. waistcoat gives; + Indeed, his dearest friends declare + No greater humbug lives. + + No kind of virtue decked this priest, + He’d nothing to allure; + He wasn’t handsome in the least,— + He wasn’t even poor. + + No—he was cursed with acres fat + (A Christian’s direst ban), + And gold—yet, notwithstanding that, + Poor ELLEN loved the man. + + As unlike BERNARD as could be + Was poor old AARON WOOD + (Disgraceful BERNARD’S curate he): + He was extremely good. + + A BAYARD in his moral pluck + Without reproach or fear, + A quiet venerable duck + With fifty pounds a year. + + No fault had he—no fad, except + A tendency to strum, + In mode at which you would have wept, + A dull harmonium. + + He had no gold with which to hire + The minstrels who could best + Convey a notion of the fire + That raged within his breast. + + And so, when COOTE and TINNEY’S Own + Had tootled all they knew, + And when the Guards, completely blown, + Exhaustedly withdrew, + + And NELL began to sleepy feel, + Poor AARON then would come, + And underneath her window wheel + His plain harmonium. + + He woke her every morn at two, + And having gained her ear, + In vivid colours AARON drew + The sluggard’s grim career. + + He warbled Apiarian praise, + And taught her in his chant + To shun the dog’s pugnacious ways, + And imitate the ant. + + Still NELL seemed not, how much he played, + To love him out and out, + Although the admirable maid + Respected him, no doubt. + + She told him of her early vow, + And said as BERNARD’S wife + It might be hers to show him how + To rectify his life. + + “You are so pure, so kind, so true, + Your goodness shines so bright, + What use would ELLEN be to you? + Believe me, you’re all right.” + + She wished him happiness and health, + And flew on lightning wings + To BERNARD with his dangerous wealth + And all the woes it brings. + + + + +BRAVE ALUM BEY + + + OH, big was the bosom of brave ALUM BEY, + And also the region that under it lay, + In safety and peril remarkably cool, + And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul. + + Each morning he went to his garden, to cull + A bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul, + And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom, + To BACKSHEESH, the daughter of RAHAT LAKOUM. + + No maiden like BACKSHEESH could tastily cook + A kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk, + As ALUM, brave fellow! sat pensively by, + With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye. + + Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day— + (A ship’s supercargo was brave ALUM BEY)— + To pretty young BACKSHEESH he made a salaam, + And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam. + + “O ALUM,” said she, “think again, ere you go— + Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow; + You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!” + But ALUM embraced her and spoke to her thus: + + “Cease weeping, fair BACKSHEESH! I willingly swear + Cork jackets and trousers I always will wear, + And I also throw in a large number of oaths + That I never—no, _never_—will take off my clothes!” + + * * * * * + + They left Madagascar away on their right, + And made Clapham Common the following night, + Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two, + Becalmed in the ocean of Honololu. + + One day ALUM saw, with alarm in his breast, + A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west; + The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream, + For they knew it—they knew it!—the dreaded Hareem!! + + The mast it went over, and so did the sails, + Brave ALUM threw over his casks and his bales; + The billows arose as the weather grew thick, + And all except ALUM were terribly sick. + + The crew were but three, but they holloa’d for nine, + They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine: + The skipper he fainted away in the fore, + For he hadn’t the heart for to skip any more. + + “Ho, coward!” said ALUM, “with heart of a child! + Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled! + Is ALUM in terror? is ALUM afeard? + Ho! ho! If you had one I’d laugh at your beard.” + + His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke; + He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke; + He daringly felt for the corks on his chest, + And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast. + + For he knew, the brave ALUM, that, happen what might, + With belts and cork-jacketing, _he_ was all right; + Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,— + No Hareem whatever had terrors for him! + + They begged him to spare from his personal store + A single cork garment—they asked for no more; + But he couldn’t, because of the number of oaths + That he never—no, never!—would take off his clothes. + + The billows dash o’er them and topple around, + They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned. + A terrible wave o’er the quarter-deck breaks, + And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes! + + The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow, + Expends all its strength in a minute or so; + When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed, + The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed. + + One seized on a cork with a yelling “Ha! ha!” + (Its bottle had ’prisoned a pint of Pacha)— + Another a toothpick—another a tray— + “Alas! it is useless!” said brave ALUM BEY. + + “To holloa and kick is a very bad plan: + Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can; + You’d better lay hold of a good lump of lead, + And cling to it tightly until you are dead. + + “Just raise your hands over your pretty heads—so— + Right down to the bottom you’re certain to go. + Ta! ta! I’m afraid we shall not meet again”— + For the truly courageous are truly humane. + + Brave ALUM was picked up the very next day— + A man-o’-war sighted him smoking away; + With hunger and cold he was ready to drop, + So they sent him below and they gave him a chop. + + O reader, or readress, whichever you be, + You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea? + O reader, or readress, read farther, and dry + The bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye. + + That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,— + It’s lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes! + They haul it aboard with a British “heave-ho!” + And what it has fished the drawing will show. + + There was WILSON, and PARKER, and TOMLINSON, too— + (The first was the captain, the others the crew)— + As lively and spry as a Malabar ape, + Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape. + + And ALUM, brave fellow, who stood in the fore, + And never expected to look on them more, + Was really delighted to see them again, + For the truly courageous are truly humane. + + + + +SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO + + + THIS is SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO, + Last of a noble race, + BARNABY BAMPTON, coming to woo, + All at a deuce of a pace. + BARNABY BAMPTON BOO, + Here is a health to you: + Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck— + BARNABY BAMPTON BOO! + + The excellent women of Tuptonvee + Knew SIR BARNABY BOO; + One of them surely his bride would be, + But dickens a soul knew who. + Women of Tuptonvee, + Here is a health to ye + For a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears, + Women of Tuptonvee! + + Here are old MR. and MRS. DE PLOW + (PETER his Christian name), + They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow— + Farming it was their game. + Worthy old PETER DE PLOW, + Here is a health to thou: + Your race isn’t run, though you’re seventy-one, + Worthy old PETER DE PLOW! + + To excellent MR. and MRS. DE PLOW + Came SIR BARNABY BOO, + He asked for their daughter, and told ’em as how + He was as rich as a Jew. + BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth, + Here is your jolly good health: + I’d never repine if you came to be mine, + BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth! + + “O great SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO” + (Said PLOW to that titled swell), + “My missus has given me daughters two— + AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!” + AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL, + I hope you’re uncommonly well: + You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls— + AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL! + + “AMELIA is passable only, in face, + But, oh! she’s a worthy girl; + Superior morals like hers would grace + The home of a belted Earl.” + Morality, heavenly link! + To you I’ll eternally drink: + I’m awfully fond of that heavenly bond, + Morality, heavenly link! + + “Now NELLY’S the prettier, p’raps, of my gals, + But, oh! she’s a wayward chit; + She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals, + And doesn’t read TUPPER a bit!” + O TUPPER, philosopher true, + How do you happen to do? + A publisher looks with respect on your books, + For they _do_ sell, philosopher true! + + The Bart. (I’ll be hanged if I drink him again, + Or care if he’s ill or well), + He sneered at the goodness of MILLY THE PLAIN, + And cottoned to VOLATILE NELL! + O VOLATILE NELLY DE P.! + Be hanged if I’ll empty to thee: + I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades, + VOLATILE NELLY DE P.! + + They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear, + And MILLY was left to pout; + For years they’ve got on very well, as I hear, + But soon he will rue it, no doubt. + O excellent MILLY DE PLOW, + I really can’t drink to you now; + My head isn’t strong, and the song has been long, + Excellent MILLY DE PLOW! + + + + +THE MODEST COUPLE + + + WHEN man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye, + I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy. + I’m also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns, + For modesty’s a quality that womankind adorns. + + Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid, + My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid; + I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red, + For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred. + + But still in all these matters, as in other things below, + There is a proper medium, as I’m about to show. + I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try + To carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH. + + Betrothed they were when very young—before they’d learnt to speak + (For SARAH was but six days old, and PETER was a week); + Though little more than babies at those early ages, yet + They bashfully would faint when they occasionally met. + + They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of + nine, + When PETER’S good papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine) + Determined to endeavour some sound argument to find + To bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind. + + He told them that as SARAH was to be his PETER’S bride, + They might at least consent to sit at table side by side; + He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was + hoarse, + Which SARAH thought indelicate, and PETER very coarse. + + And PETER in a tremble to the blushing maid would say, + “You must excuse papa, MISS BLIGH,—it is his mountain way.” + Says SARAH, “His behaviour I’ll endeavour to forget, + But your papa’s the coarsest person that I ever met. + + “He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young, + Before we had begun articulating with the tongue. + His underbred suggestions fill your SARAH with alarm; + Why, gracious me! he’ll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!” + + At length when SARAH reached the legal age of twenty-one, + The Baron he determined to unite her to his son; + And SARAH in a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay, + And PETER blushed so hard you might have heard him miles away. + + And when the time arrived for taking SARAH to his heart, + They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart + (Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff), + And the service was conducted by electric telegraph. + + And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say, + Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away, + They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn, + For _he_ waited in the attic, and _she_ waited on the lawn. + + At length, when four o’clock arrived, and it was time to go, + The carriage was announced, but decent SARAH answered “No! + Upon my word, I’d rather sleep my everlasting nap, + Than go and ride alone with MR. PETER in a trap.” + + And PETER’S over-sensitive and highly-polished mind + Wouldn’t suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind; + And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocks + At the bare idea of having any coachman on the box. + + So PETER into one turn-out incontinently rushed, + While SARAH in a second trap sat modestly and blushed; + And MR. NEWMAN’S coachman, on authority I’ve heard, + Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third. + + Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the car + Were very likely carrying a principle too far, + I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in them + Than that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM. + + ALPHONSO, who in cool assurance all creation licks, + He up and said to EMMIE (who had impudence for six), + “MISS EMILY, I love you—will you marry? Say the word!” + And EMILY said, “Certainly, ALPHONSO, like a bird!” + + I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try + To carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH, + But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in them + Than that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM. + + + + +THE MARTINET + + + SOME time ago, in simple verse + I sang the story true + Of CAPTAIN REECE, the _Mantelpiece_, + And all her happy crew. + + I showed how any captain may + Attach his men to him, + If he but heeds their smallest needs, + And studies every whim. + + Now mark how, by Draconic rule + And _hauteur_ ill-advised, + The noblest crew upon the Blue + May be demoralized. + + When his ungrateful country placed + Kind REECE upon half-pay, + Without much claim SIR BERKELY came, + And took command one day. + + SIR BERKELY was a martinet— + A stern unyielding soul— + Who ruled his ship by dint of whip + And horrible black-hole. + + A sailor who was overcome + From having freely dined, + And chanced to reel when at the wheel, + He instantly confined! + + And tars who, when an action raged, + Appeared alarmed or scared, + And those below who wished to go, + He very seldom spared. + + E’en he who smote his officer + For punishment was booked, + And mutinies upon the seas + He rarely overlooked. + + In short, the happy _Mantelpiece_, + Where all had gone so well, + Beneath that fool SIR BERKELY’S rule + Became a floating hell. + + When first SIR BERKELY came aboard + He read a speech to all, + And told them how he’d made a vow + To act on duty’s call. + + Then WILLIAM LEE, he up and said + (The Captain’s coxswain he), + “We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made, + And werry pleased we be. + + “We won’t pretend, my lad, as how + We’re glad to lose our REECE; + Urbane, polite, he suited quite + The saucy _Mantelpiece_. + + “But if your honour gives your mind + To study all our ways, + With dance and song we’ll jog along + As in those happy days. + + “I like your honour’s looks, and feel + You’re worthy of your sword. + Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid glad + To welcome you aboard!” + + SIR BERKELY looked amazed, as though + He didn’t understand. + “Don’t shake your head,” good WILLIAM said, + “It is an honest hand. + + “It’s grasped a better hand than yourn— + Come, gov’nor, I insist!” + The Captain stared—the coxswain glared— + The hand became a fist! + + “Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt; + But BERKELY dodged his aim, + And made him go in chains below: + The seamen murmured “Shame!” + + He stopped all songs at 12 p.m., + Stopped hornpipes when at sea, + And swore his cot (or bunk) should not + Be used by aught than he. + + He never joined their daily mess, + Nor asked them to his own, + But chaffed in gay and social way + The officers alone. + + His First Lieutenant, PETER, was + As useless as could be, + A helpless stick, and always sick + When there was any sea. + + This First Lieutenant proved to be + His foster-sister MAY, + Who went to sea for love of he + In masculine array. + + And when he learnt the curious fact, + Did he emotion show, + Or dry her tears or end her fears + By marrying her? No! + + Or did he even try to soothe + This maiden in her teens? + Oh, no!—instead he made her wed + The Sergeant of Marines! + + Of course such Spartan discipline + Would make an angel fret; + They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shot + This fearful martinet. + + The Admiralty saw how ill + They’d treated CAPTAIN REECE; + He was restored once more aboard + The saucy _Mantelpiece_. + + + + +THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS + + + I GO away this blessed day, + To sail across the sea, MATILDA! + My vessel starts for various parts + At twenty after three, MATILDA. + I hardly know where we may go, + Or if it’s near or far, MATILDA, + For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confide + In any ’fore-mast tar, MATILDA! + + Beneath my ban that mystic man + Shall suffer, _coûte qui coûte_, MATILDA! + What right has he to keep from me + The Admiralty route, MATILDA? + Because, forsooth! I am a youth + Of common sailors’ lot, MATILDA! + Am I a man on human plan + Designed, or am I not, MATILDA? + + But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass! + With anxious love I burn, MATILDA. + I want to know if we shall go + To church when I return, MATILDA? + Your eyes are red, you bow your head; + It’s pretty clear you thirst, MATILDA, + To name the day—What’s that you say?— + “You’ll see me further first,” MATILDA? + + I can’t mistake the signs you make, + Although you barely speak, MATILDA; + Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue + Right in your pretty cheek, MATILDA! + My dear, I fear I hear you sneer— + I do—I’m sure I do, MATILDA! + With simple grace you make a face, + Ejaculating, “Ugh!” MATILDA. + + Oh, pause to think before you drink + The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA! + Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, + Before you give me up, MATILDA! + Recall again the mental pain + Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA! + And be assured that I’ve endured + It, all along of you, MATILDA! + + Do you forget, my blithesome pet, + How once with jealous rage, MATILDA, + I watched you walk and gaily talk + With some one thrice your age, MATILDA? + You squatted free upon his knee, + A sight that made me sad, MATILDA! + You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak, + Which almost drove me mad, MATILDA! + + I knew him not, but hoped to spot + Some man you thought to wed, MATILDA! + I took a gun, my darling one, + And shot him through the head, MATILDA! + I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruff + Enough, I own; but, ah, MATILDA! + It _did_ annoy your sailor boy + To find it was your pa, MATILDA! + + I’ve passed a life of toil and strife, + And disappointments deep, MATILDA; + I’ve lain awake with dental ache + Until I fell asleep, MATILDA! + At times again I’ve missed a train, + Or p’rhaps run short of tin, MATILDA, + And worn a boot on corns that shoot, + Or, shaving, cut my chin, MATILDA. + + But, oh! no trains—no dental pains— + Believe me when I say, MATILDA, + No corns that shoot—no pinching boot + Upon a summer day, MATILDA— + It’s my belief, could cause such grief + As that I’ve suffered for, MATILDA, + My having shot in vital spot + Your old progenitor, MATILDA. + + Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow + I made one winter day, MATILDA— + That, come what could, I never would + Remain too long away, MATILDA. + And, oh! the crimes with which, at times, + I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA, + To keep the vow I made—and now + You treat me so unkind, MATILDA! + + For when at sea, off Caribbee, + I felt my passion burn, MATILDA, + By passion egged, I went and begged + The captain to return, MATILDA. + And when, my pet, I couldn’t get + That captain to agree, MATILDA, + Right through a sort of open port + I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA! + + Remember, too, how all the crew + With indignation blind, MATILDA, + Distinctly swore they ne’er before + Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA. + And how they’d shun me one by one— + An unforgiving group, MATILDA— + I stopped their howls and sulky scowls + By pizening their soup, MATILDA! + + So pause to think, before you drink + The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA; + Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, + Before you give me up, MATILDA. + Recall again the mental pain + Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA, + And be assured that I’ve endured + It, all along of you, MATILDA! + + + + +THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS + + + A RICH advowson, highly prized, + For private sale was advertised; + And many a parson made a bid; + The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did. + + He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I + Have come prepared at once to buy + (If your demand is not too big) + The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.” + + “Ah!” said the agent, “_there’s_ a berth— + The snuggest vicarage on earth; + No sort of duty (so I hear), + And fifteen hundred pounds a year! + + “If on the price we should agree, + The living soon will vacant be; + The good incumbent’s ninety five, + And cannot very long survive. + + “See—here’s his photograph—you see, + He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me! + Poor soul!” said SIMON. “His decease + Would be a merciful release!” + + The agent laughed—the agent blinked— + The agent blew his nose and winked— + And poked the parson’s ribs in play— + It was that agent’s vulgar way. + + The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieve + This light demeanour to perceive; + It’s scarcely _comme il faut_, I think: + Now—pray oblige me—do not wink. + + “Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes— + Your mission is to sell the souls + Of human sheep and human kids + To that divine who highest bids. + + “Do well in this, and on your head + Unnumbered honours will be shed.” + The agent said, “Well, truth to tell, + I _have_ been doing very well.” + + “You should,” said SIMON, “at your age; + But now about the parsonage. + How many rooms does it contain? + Show me the photograph again. + + “A poor apostle’s humble house + Must not be too luxurious; + No stately halls with oaken floor— + It should be decent and no more. + + “No billiard-rooms—no stately trees— + No croquêt-grounds or pineries.” + “Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true: + This property won’t do for you.” + + “All these about the house you’ll find.”— + “Well,” said the parson, “never mind; + I’ll manage to submit to these + Luxurious superfluities. + + “A clergyman who does not shirk + The various calls of Christian work, + Will have no leisure to employ + These ‘common forms’ of worldly joy. + + “To preach three times on Sabbath days— + To wean the lost from wicked ways— + The sick to soothe—the sane to wed— + The poor to feed with meat and bread; + + “These are the various wholesome ways + In which I’ll spend my nights and days: + My zeal will have no time to cool + At croquet, archery, or pool.” + + The agent said, “From what I hear, + This living will not suit, I fear— + There are no poor, no sick at all; + For services there is no call.” + + The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me! + Then there is _no_ ‘society’?— + I mean, of course, no sinners there + Whose souls will be my special care?” + + The cunning agent shook his head, + “No, none—except”—(the agent said)— + “The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B., + The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D. + + “But you will not be quite alone, + For though they’ve chaplains of their own, + Of course this noble well-bred clan + Receive the parish clergyman.” + + “Oh, silence, sir!” said SIMON M., + “Dukes—Earls! What should I care for them? + These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!” + “Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!” + + “Yet I might show these men of birth + The hollowness of rank on earth.” + The agent answered, “Very true— + But I should not, if I were you.” + + “Who sells this rich advowson, pray?” + The agent winked—it was his way— + “His name is HART; ’twixt me and you, + He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!” + + “A Jew?” said SIMON, “happy find! + I purchase this advowson, mind. + My life shall be devoted to + Converting that unhappy Jew!” + + + + +DAMON _v._ PYTHIAS + + + TWO better friends you wouldn’t pass + Throughout a summer’s day, + Than DAMON and his PYTHIAS,— + Two merchant princes they. + + At school together they contrived + All sorts of boyish larks; + And, later on, together thrived + As merry merchants’ clerks. + + And then, when many years had flown, + They rose together till + They bought a business of their own— + And they conduct it still. + + They loved each other all their lives, + Dissent they never knew, + And, stranger still, their very wives + Were rather friendly too. + + Perhaps you think, to serve my ends, + These statements I refute, + When I admit that these dear friends + Were parties to a suit? + + But ’twas a friendly action, for + Good PYTHIAS, as you see, + Fought merely as executor, + And DAMON as trustee. + + They laughed to think, as through the throng + Of suitors sad they passed, + That they, who’d lived and loved so long, + Should go to law at last. + + The junior briefs they kindly let + Two sucking counsel hold; + These learned persons never yet + Had fingered suitors’ gold. + + But though the happy suitors two + Were friendly as could be, + Not so the junior counsel who + Were earning maiden fee. + + They too, till then, were friends. At school + They’d done each other’s sums, + And under Oxford’s gentle rule + Had been the closest chums. + + But now they met with scowl and grin + In every public place, + And often snapped their fingers in + Each other’s learned face. + + It almost ended in a fight + When they on path or stair + Met face to face. They made it quite + A personal affair. + + And when at length the case was called + (It came on rather late), + Spectators really were appalled + To see their deadly hate. + + One junior rose—with eyeballs tense, + And swollen frontal veins: + To all his powers of eloquence + He gave the fullest reins. + + His argument was novel—for + A verdict he relied + On blackening the junior + Upon the other side. + + “Oh,” said the Judge, in robe and fur, + “The matter in dispute + To arbitration pray refer— + This is a friendly suit.” + + And PYTHIAS, in merry mood, + Digged DAMON in the side; + And DAMON, tickled with the feud, + With other digs replied. + + But oh! those deadly counsel twain, + Who were such friends before, + Were never reconciled again— + They quarrelled more and more. + + At length it happened that they met + On Alpine heights one day, + And thus they paid each one his debt, + Their fury had its way— + + They seized each other in a trice, + With scorn and hatred filled, + And, falling from a precipice, + They, both of them, were killed. + + + + +MY DREAM + + + THE other night, from cares exempt, + I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt? + I dreamt that somehow I had come + To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom— + + Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice: + Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice: + Where right is wrong and wrong is right— + Where white is black and black is white. + + Where babies, much to their surprise, + Are born astonishingly wise; + With every Science on their lips, + And Art at all their finger-tips. + + For, as their nurses dandle them + They crow binomial theorem, + With views (it seems absurd to us) + On differential calculus. + + But though a babe, as I have said, + Is born with learning in his head, + He must forget it, if he can, + Before he calls himself a man. + + For that which we call folly here, + Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; + The wisdom we so highly prize + Is blatant folly in their eyes. + + A boy, if he would push his way, + Must learn some nonsense every day; + And cut, to carry out this view, + His wisdom teeth and wisdom too. + + Historians burn their midnight oils, + Intent on giant-killers’ toils; + And sages close their aged eyes + To other sages’ lullabies. + + _Our_ magistrates, in duty bound, + Commit all robbers who are found; + But there the Beaks (so people said) + Commit all robberies instead. + + _Our_ Judges, pure and wise in tone, + Know crime from theory alone, + And glean the motives of a thief + From books and popular belief. + + But there, a Judge who wants to prime + His mind with true ideas of crime, + Derives them from the common sense + Of practical experience. + + Policemen march all folks away + Who practise virtue every day— + Of course, I mean to say, you know, + What we call virtue here below. + + For only scoundrels dare to do + What we consider just and true, + And only good men do, in fact, + What we should think a dirty act. + + But strangest of these social twirls, + The girls are boys—the boys are girls! + The men are women, too—but then, + _Per contra_, women all are men. + + To one who to tradition clings + This seems an awkward state of things, + But if to think it out you try, + It doesn’t really signify. + + With them, as surely as can be, + A sailor should be sick at sea, + And not a passenger may sail + Who cannot smoke right through a gale. + + A soldier (save by rarest luck) + Is always shot for showing pluck + (That is, if others can be found + With pluck enough to fire a round). + + “How strange!” I said to one I saw; + “You quite upset our every law. + However can you get along + So systematically wrong?” + + “Dear me!” my mad informant said, + “Have you no eyes within your head? + You sneer when you your hat should doff: + Why, we begin where you leave off! + + “Your wisest men are very far + Less learned than our babies are!” + I mused awhile—and then, oh me! + I framed this brilliant repartee: + + “Although your babes are wiser far + Than our most valued sages are, + Your sages, with their toys and cots, + Are duller than our idiots!” + + But this remark, I grieve to state, + Came just a little bit too late + For as I framed it in my head, + I woke and found myself in bed. + + Still I could wish that, ’stead of here, + My lot were in that favoured sphere!— + Where greatest fools bear off the bell + I ought to do extremely well. + + + + +THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN + + + I OFTEN wonder whether you + Think sometimes of that Bishop, who + From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo + Last summer twelvemonth came. + Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bring + Remembrance of the man I sing + To-day, by simply mentioning + That PETER was his name. + + Remember how that holy man + Came with the great Colonial clan + To Synod, called Pan-Anglican; + And kindly recollect + How, having crossed the ocean wide, + To please his flock all means he tried + Consistent with a proper pride + And manly self-respect. + + He only, of the reverend pack + Who minister to Christians black, + Brought any useful knowledge back + To his Colonial fold. + In consequence a place I claim + For “PETER” on the scroll of Fame + (For PETER was that Bishop’s name, + As I’ve already told). + + He carried Art, he often said, + To places where that timid maid + (Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid) + Could never hope to roam. + The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught + As he had learnt it; for he thought + The choicest fruits of Progress ought + To bless the Negro’s home. + + And he had other work to do, + For, while he tossed upon the Blue, + The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo + Forgot their kindly friend. + Their decent clothes they learnt to tear— + They learnt to say, “I do not care,” + Though they, of course, were well aware + How folks, who say so, end. + + Some sailors, whom he did not know, + Had landed there not long ago, + And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!” + (Of wickedness the germs). + No need to use a casuist’s pen + To prove that they were merchantmen; + No sailor of the Royal N. + Would use such awful terms. + + And so, when BISHOP PETER came + (That was the kindly Bishop’s name), + He heard these dreadful oaths with shame, + And chid their want of dress. + (Except a shell—a bangle rare— + A feather here—a feather there + The South Pacific Negroes wear + Their native nothingness.) + + He taught them that a Bishop loathes + To listen to disgraceful oaths, + He gave them all his left-off clothes— + They bent them to his will. + The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round; + In PETER’S left-off clothes they bound + (His three-and-twenty suits they found + In fair condition still). + + The Bishop’s eyes with water fill, + Quite overjoyed to find them still + Obedient to his sovereign will, + And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo! + Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare: + I’ll dress myself in cowries rare, + And fasten feathers in my hair, + And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’” + + And to conciliate his See + He married PICCADILLILLEE, + The youngest of his twenty-three, + Tall—neither fat nor thin. + (And though the dress he made her don + Looks awkwardly a girl upon, + It was a great improvement on + The one he found her in.) + + The Bishop in his gay canoe + (His wife, of course, went with him too) + To some adjacent island flew, + To spend his honeymoon. + Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo + A little PETER’ll be on view; + And that (if people tell me true) + Is like to happen soon. + + + + +A WORM WILL TURN + + + I LOVE a man who’ll smile and joke + When with misfortune crowned; + Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke, + And as he breaks his daily toke, + Conundrums gay propound. + + Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP, + He scoffed at Fortune’s frown; + He gaily drained his bitter cup— + Though Fortune often threw him up, + It never cast him down. + + Though years their share of sorrow bring, + We know that far above + All other griefs, are griefs that spring + From some misfortune happening + To those we really love. + + E’en sorrow for another’s woe + Our BERNARD failed to quell; + Though by this special form of blow + No person ever suffered so, + Or bore his grief so well. + + His father, wealthy and well clad, + And owning house and park, + Lost every halfpenny he had, + And then became (extremely sad!) + A poor attorney’s clerk. + + All sons it surely would appal, + Except the passing meek, + To see a father lose his all, + And from an independence fall + To one pound ten a week! + + But JUPP shook off this sorrow’s weight, + And, like a Christian son, + Proved Poverty a happy fate— + Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait, + To lure poor sinners on. + + With other sorrows BERNARD coped, + For sorrows came in packs; + His cousins with their housemaids sloped— + His uncles forged—his aunts eloped— + His sisters married blacks. + + But BERNARD, far from murmuring + (Exemplar, friends, to us), + Determined to his faith to cling,— + He made the best of everything, + And argued softly thus: + + “’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knack + Too rudely to condemn— + My aunts, repentant, may come back, + And blacks are nothing like as black + As people colour them!” + + Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife, + Maintained relentless fight: + His grandmamma next lost her life, + Then died the mother of his wife, + But still he seemed all right. + + His brother fond (the only link + To life that bound him now) + One morning, overcome by drink, + He broke his leg (the right, I think) + In some disgraceful row. + + But did my BERNARD swear and curse? + Oh no—to murmur loth, + He only said, “Go, get a nurse: + Be thankful that it isn’t worse; + You might have broken both!” + + But worms who watch without concern + The cockchafer on thorns, + Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn + If, walking through the slippery fern, + You tread upon their corns. + + One night as BERNARD made his track + Through Brompton home to bed, + A footpad, with a vizor black, + Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack + On BERNARD’S saint-like head. + + It was too much—his spirit rose, + He looked extremely cross. + Men thought him steeled to mortal foes, + But no—he bowed to countless blows, + But kicked against this loss. + + He finally made up his mind + Upon his friends to call; + Subscription lists were largely signed, + For men were really glad to find + Him mortal, after all! + + + + +THE HAUGHTY ACTOR + + + AN actor—GIBBS, of Drury Lane— + Of very decent station, + Once happened in a part to gain + Excessive approbation: + It sometimes turns a fellow’s brain + And makes him singularly vain + When he believes that he receives + Tremendous approbation. + + His great success half drove him mad, + But no one seemed to mind him; + Well, in another piece he had + Another part assigned him. + This part was smaller, by a bit, + Than that in which he made a hit. + So, much ill-used, he straight refused + To play the part assigned him. + + * * * * * * * * + + _That night that actor slept_, _and I’ll attempt_ + _To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt_. + + + +THE DREAM. + + + In fighting with a robber band + (A thing he loved sincerely) + A sword struck GIBBS upon the hand, + And wounded it severely. + At first he didn’t heed it much, + He thought it was a simple touch, + But soon he found the weapon’s bound + Had wounded him severely. + + To Surgeon COBB he made a trip, + Who’d just effected featly + An amputation at the hip + Particularly neatly. + A rising man was Surgeon COBB + But this extremely ticklish job + He had achieved (as he believed) + Particularly neatly. + + The actor rang the surgeon’s bell. + “Observe my wounded finger, + Be good enough to strap it well, + And prithee do not linger. + That I, dear sir, may fill again + The Theatre Royal Drury Lane: + This very night I have to fight— + So prithee do not linger.” + + “I don’t strap fingers up for doles,” + Replied the haughty surgeon; + “To use your cant, I don’t play rôles + Utility that verge on. + First amputation—nothing less— + That is my line of business: + We surgeon nobs despise all jobs + Utility that verge on + + “When in your hip there lurks disease” + (So dreamt this lively dreamer), + “Or devastating _caries_ + In _humerus_ or _femur_, + If you can pay a handsome fee, + Oh, then you may remember me— + With joy elate I’ll amputate + Your _humerus_ or _femur_.” + + The disconcerted actor ceased + The haughty leech to pester, + But when the wound in size increased, + And then began to fester, + He sought a learned Counsel’s lair, + And told that Counsel, then and there, + How COBB’S neglect of his defect + Had made his finger fester. + + “Oh, bring my action, if you please, + The case I pray you urge on, + And win me thumping damages + From COBB, that haughty surgeon. + He culpably neglected me + Although I proffered him his fee, + So pray come down, in wig and gown, + On COBB, that haughty surgeon!” + + That Counsel learned in the laws, + With passion almost trembled. + He just had gained a mighty cause + Before the Peers assembled! + Said he, “How dare you have the face + To come with Common Jury case + To one who wings rhetoric flings + Before the Peers assembled?” + + Dispirited became our friend— + Depressed his moral pecker— + “But stay! a thought!—I’ll gain my end, + And save my poor exchequer. + I won’t be placed upon the shelf, + I’ll take it into Court myself, + And legal lore display before + The Court of the Exchequer.” + + He found a Baron—one of those + Who with our laws supply us— + In wig and silken gown and hose, + As if at _Nisi Prius_. + But he’d just given, off the reel, + A famous judgment on Appeal: + It scarce became his heightened fame + To sit at _Nisi Prius_. + + Our friend began, with easy wit, + That half concealed his terror: + “Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sit + In _Banco_ or in Error. + Can you suppose, my man, that I’d + O’er _Nisi Prius_ Courts preside, + Or condescend my time to spend + On anything but Error?” + + “Too bad,” said GIBBS, “my case to shirk! + You must be bad innately, + To save your skill for mighty work + Because it’s valued greatly!” + But here he woke, with sudden start. + + * * * * * * * * + + He wrote to say he’d play the part. + I’ve but to tell he played it well— + The author’s words—his native wit + Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”— + The papers praised him greatly. + + + + +THE TWO MAJORS + + + AN excellent soldier who’s worthy the name + Loves officers dashing and strict: + When good, he’s content with escaping all blame, + When naughty, he likes to be licked. + + He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed, + Or imprisoned for several days, + And hates, for a duty correctly performed, + To be slavered with sickening praise. + + No officer sickened with praises his _corps_ + So little as MAJOR LA GUERRE— + No officer swore at his warriors more + Than MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE. + + Their soldiers adored them, and every grade + Delighted to hear their abuse; + Though whenever these officers came on parade + They shivered and shook in their shoes. + + For, oh! if LA GUERRE could all praises withhold, + Why, so could MAKREDI PREPERE, + And, oh! if MAKREDI could bluster and scold, + Why, so could the mighty LA GUERRE. + + “No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave— + Go on—you’re conferring a boon; + We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave, + Than praised by a wretched poltroon!” + + MAKREDI would say that in battle’s fierce rage + True happiness only was met: + Poor MAJOR MAKREDI, though fifty his age, + Had never known happiness yet! + + LA GUERRE would declare, “With the blood of a foe + No tipple is worthy to clink.” + Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so, + Yet tasted his favourite drink! + + They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass— + They agreed in the choice of their “set,” + And they also agreed in adoring, alas! + The Vivandière, pretty FILLETTE. + + Agreement, you see, may be carried too far, + And after agreeing all round + For years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,” + A bone of contention they found! + + It may seem improper to call such a pet— + By a metaphor, even—a bone; + But though they agreed in adoring her, yet + Each wanted to make her his own. + + “On the day that you marry her,” muttered PREPERE + (With a pistol he quietly played), + “I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear, + All over the stony parade!” + + “I cannot do _that_ to you,” answered LA GUERRE, + “Whatever events may befall; + But this _I can_ do—_if you_ wed her, _mon cher_! + I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!” + + The rivals, although they would never engage, + Yet quarrelled whenever they met; + They met in a fury and left in a rage, + But neither took pretty FILLETTE. + + “I am not afraid,” thought MAKREDI PREPERE: + “For country I’m ready to fall; + But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière, + To be eaten, moustachios and all! + + “Besides, though LA GUERRE has his faults, I’ll allow + He’s one of the bravest of men: + My goodness! if I disagree with him now, + I might disagree with him then.” + + “No coward am I,” said LA GUERRE, “as you guess— + I sneer at an enemy’s blade; + But I don’t want PREPERE to get into a mess + For splashing the stony parade!” + + One day on parade to PREPERE and LA GUERRE + Came CORPORAL JACOT DEBETTE, + And trembling all over, he prayed of them there + To give him the pretty FILLETTE. + + “You see, I am willing to marry my bride + Until you’ve arranged this affair; + I will blow out my brains when your honours decide + Which marries the sweet Vivandière!” + + “Well, take her,” said both of them in a duet + (A favourite form of reply), + “But when I am ready to marry FILLETTE. + Remember you’ve promised to die!” + + He married her then: from the flowery plains + Of existence the roses they cull: + He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains + Are reposing in peace in his skull. + + + + +EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I. + + + A DERBY LEGEND + + EMILY JANE was a nursery maid, + JAMES was a bold Life Guard, + JOHN was a constable, poorly paid + (And I am a doggerel bard). + + A very good girl was EMILY JANE, + JIMMY was good and true, + JOHN was a very good man in the main + (And I am a good man too). + + Rivals for EMMIE were JOHNNY and JAMES, + Though EMILY liked them both; + She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims + (And _I_ couldn’t take my oath). + + But sooner or later you’re certain to find + Your sentiments can’t lie hid— + JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind + (And I think it was time she did). + + Said JANE, with a smirk, and a blush on her face, + “I’ll promise to wed the boy + Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!” + (Which I would have done, with joy). + + From JOHNNY escaped an expression of pain, + But Jimmy said, “Done with you! + I’ll take you with pleasure, my EMILY JANE!” + (And I would have said so too). + + JOHN lay on the ground, and he roared like mad + (For JOHNNY was sore perplexed), + And he kicked very hard at a very small lad + (Which _I_ often do, when vexed). + + For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force, + To punish all Epsom crimes; + Young people _will_ cross when they’re clearing the course + (I do it myself, sometimes). + + * * * * * * * * + + The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads, + On maidens with gamboge hair, + On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads, + (For I, with my harp, was there). + + And JIMMY went down with his JANE that day, + And JOHN by the collar or nape + Seized everybody who came in his way + (And _I_ had a narrow escape). + + He noticed his EMILY JANE with JIM, + And envied the well-made elf; + And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!” + (I often say “dim!” myself). + + JOHN dogged them all day, without asking their leaves; + For his sergeant he told, aside, + That JIMMY and JANE were notorious thieves + (And I think he was justified). + + But JAMES wouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork, + And JENNY would blush with shame + At stealing so much as a bottle or cork + (A bottle I think fair game). + + But, ah! there’s another more serious crime! + They wickedly strayed upon + The course, at a critical moment of time + (I pointed them out to JOHN). + + The constable fell on the pair in a crack— + And then, with a demon smile, + Let JENNY cross over, but sent JIMMY back + (I played on my harp the while). + + Stern JOHNNY their agony loud derides + With a very triumphant sneer— + They weep and they wail from the opposite sides + (And _I_ shed a silent tear). + + And JENNY is crying away like mad, + And JIMMY is swearing hard; + And JOHNNY is looking uncommonly glad + (And I am a doggerel bard). + + But JIMMY he ventured on crossing again + The scenes of our Isthmian Games— + JOHN caught him, and collared him, giving him pain + (I felt very much for JAMES). + + JOHN led him away with a victor’s hand, + And JIMMY was shortly seen + In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand + (As many a time _I’ve_ been). + + And JIMMY, bad boy, was imprisoned for life, + Though EMILY pleaded hard; + And JOHNNY had EMILY JANE to wife + (And I am a doggerel bard). + + + + +THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY + + + OLD PETER led a wretched life— + Old PETER had a furious wife; + Old PETER too was truly stout, + He measured several yards about. + + The little fairy PICKLEKIN + One summer afternoon looked in, + And said, “Old PETER, how de do? + Can I do anything for you? + + “I have three gifts—the first will give + Unbounded riches while you live; + The second health where’er you be; + The third, invisibility.” + + “O little fairy PICKLEKIN,” + Old PETER answered with a grin, + “To hesitate would be absurd,— + Undoubtedly I choose the third.” + + “’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quite + Invisible to mortal sight + Whene’er you please. Remember me + Most kindly, pray, to MRS. P.” + + Old MRS. PETER overheard + Wee PICKLEKIN’S concluding word, + And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice, + Said, “That was some young woman’s voice!” + + Old PETER let her scold and swear— + Old PETER, bless him, didn’t care. + “My dear, your rage is wasted quite— + Observe, I disappear from sight!” + + A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard) + Is always faithful to her word: + Old PETER vanished like a shot, + Put then—_his suit of clothes did not_! + + For when conferred the fairy slim + Invisibility on _him_, + She popped away on fairy wings, + Without referring to his “things.” + + So there remained a coat of blue, + A vest and double eyeglass too, + His tail, his shoes, his socks as well, + His pair of—no, I must not tell. + + Old MRS. PETER soon began + To see the failure of his plan, + And then resolved (I quote the Bard) + To “hoist him with his own petard.” + + Old PETER woke next day and dressed, + Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest, + His shirt and stock; _but could not find_ + _His only pair of_—never mind! + + Old PETER was a decent man, + And though he twigged his lady’s plan, + Yet, hearing her approaching, he + Resumed invisibility. + + “Dear MRS. P., my only joy,” + Exclaimed the horrified old boy, + “Now, give them up, I beg of you— + You know what I’m referring to!” + + But no; the cross old lady swore + She’d keep his—what I said before— + To make him publicly absurd; + And MRS. PETER kept her word. + + The poor old fellow had no rest; + His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest, + Were all that now met mortal eye— + The rest, invisibility! + + “Now, madam, give them up, I beg— + I’ve had rheumatics in my leg; + Besides, until you do, it’s plain + I cannot come to sight again! + + “For though some mirth it might afford + To see my clothes without their lord, + Yet there would rise indignant oaths + If he were seen without his clothes!” + + But no; resolved to have her quiz, + The lady held her own—and his— + And PETER left his humble cot + To find a pair of—you know what. + + But—here’s the worst of the affair— + Whene’er he came across a pair + Already placed for him to don, + He was too stout to get them on! + + So he resolved at once to train, + And walked and walked with all his main; + For years he paced this mortal earth, + To bring himself to decent girth. + + At night, when all around is still, + You’ll find him pounding up a hill; + And shrieking peasants whom he meets, + Fall down in terror on the peats! + + Old PETER walks through wind and rain, + Resolved to train, and train, and train, + Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so— + And when he does, I’ll let you know. + + + + +OLD PAUL AND OLD TIM + + + WHEN rival adorers come courting a maid, + There’s something or other may often be said, + Why _he_ should be pitched upon rather than _him_. + This wasn’t the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM. + + No soul could discover a reason at all + For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL; + Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath, + Against marrying either—or marrying both. + + They were equally wealthy and equally old, + They were equally timid and equally bold; + They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes— + Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose. + + Had I been young EMILY, I should have said, + “You’re both much too old for a pretty young maid, + Threescore at the least you are verging upon”; + But I wasn’t young EMILY. Let us get on. + + No coward’s blood ran in young EMILY’S veins, + Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns; + At the rumours of battles all over the globe + He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in “Job.” + + He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise— + Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy’s spies, + Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee— + For an eminent army-contractor was he. + + So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried, + Implored her between them at once to decide, + She told them she’d marry whichever might bring + Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing. + + They both went away with a qualified joy: + That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy, + And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears, + He set to work boxing that little boy’s ears. + + The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair, + But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn’t care; + He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked + Till the poor little beggar was royally licked. + + Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that, + So he called for his stick and he called for his hat. + “I’ll cover myself with cheap glory—I’ll go + And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho! + + “The German invader is ravaging France + With infantry rifle and cavalry lance, + And beautiful Paris is fighting her best + To shake herself free from her terrible guest. + + “The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms, + Have all run away from the summons to arms; + They haven’t the pluck of a pigeon—I’ll go + And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!” + + Old TIMOTHY tried it and found it succeed: + That day he caused many French noses to bleed; + Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay, + And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay. + + He took care to abstain from employing his fist + On the old and the crippled, for they might resist; + A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast, + But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest. + + Old TIM and Old PAUL, with the list of their foes, + Prostrated themselves at their EMILY’S toes: + “Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?” + And EMILY answered and EMILY said: + + “Old TIM has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores, + Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores; + Old PAUL has made little chaps’ noses to bleed— + Old PAUL has accomplished the pluckier deed!” + + + + +THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE + + + Perhaps already you may know + SIR BLENNERHASSET PORTICO? + A Captain in the Navy, he— + A Baronet and K.C.B. + You do? I thought so! + It was that Captain’s favourite whim + (A notion not confined to him) + That RODNEY was the greatest tar + Who ever wielded capstan-bar. + He had been taught so. + + “BENBOW! CORNWALLIS! HOOD!—Belay! + Compared with RODNEY”—he would say— + “No other tar is worth a rap! + The great LORD RODNEY was the chap + The French to polish! + Though, mind you, I respect LORD HOOD; + CORNWALLIS, too, was rather good; + BENBOW could enemies repel, + LORD NELSON, too, was pretty well— + That is, tol-lol-ish!” + + SIR BLENNERHASSET spent his days + In learning RODNEY’S little ways, + And closely imitated, too, + His mode of talking to his crew— + His port and paces. + An ancient tar he tried to catch + Who’d served in RODNEY’S famous batch; + But since his time long years have fled, + And RODNEY’S tars are mostly dead: + _Eheu fugaces_! + + But after searching near and far, + At last he found an ancient tar + Who served with RODNEY and his crew + Against the French in ’Eighty-two, + (That gained the peerage). + He gave him fifty pounds a year, + His rum, his baccy, and his beer; + And had a comfortable den + Rigged up in what, by merchantmen, + Is called the steerage. + + “Now, JASPER”—’t was that sailor’s name— + “Don’t fear that you’ll incur my blame + By saying, when it seems to you, + That there is anything I do + That RODNEY wouldn’t.” + The ancient sailor turned his quid, + Prepared to do as he was bid: + “Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin, + You’ve done away with ‘swifting in’— + Well, sir, you shouldn’t! + + “Upon your spars I see you’ve clapped + Peak halliard blocks, all iron-capped. + I would not christen that a crime, + But ’twas not done in RODNEY’S time. + It looks half-witted! + Upon your maintop-stay, I see, + You always clap a selvagee! + Your stays, I see, are equalized— + No vessel, such as RODNEY prized, + Would thus be fitted! + + “And RODNEY, honoured sir, would grin + To see you turning deadeyes in, + Not _up_, as in the ancient way, + But downwards, like a cutter’s stay— + You didn’t oughter; + Besides, in seizing shrouds on board, + Breast backstays you have quite ignored; + Great RODNEY kept unto the last + Breast backstays on topgallant mast— + They make it tauter.” + + SIR BLENNERHASSET “swifted in,” + Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin + To strip (as told by JASPER KNOX) + The iron capping from his blocks, + Where there was any. + SIR BLENNERHASSET does away, + With selvagees from maintop-stay; + And though it makes his sailors stare, + He rigs breast backstays everywhere— + In fact, too many. + + One morning, when the saucy craft + Lay calmed, old JASPER toddled aft. + “My mind misgives me, sir, that we + Were wrong about that selvagee— + I should restore it.” + “Good,” said the Captain, and that day + Restored it to the maintop-stay. + Well-practised sailors often make + A much more serious mistake, + And then ignore it. + + Next day old JASPER came once more: + “I think, sir, I was right before.” + Well, up the mast the sailors skipped, + The selvagee was soon unshipped, + And all were merry. + Again a day, and JASPER came: + “I p’r’aps deserve your honour’s blame, + I can’t make up my mind,” said he, + “About that cursed selvagee— + It’s foolish—very. + + “On Monday night I could have sworn + That maintop-stay it should adorn, + On Tuesday morning I could swear + That selvagee should not be there. + The knot’s a rasper!” + “Oh, you be hanged,” said CAPTAIN P., + “Here, go ashore at Caribbee. + Get out—good bye—shove off—all right!” + Old JASPER soon was out of sight— + Farewell, old JASPER! + + + + +THE CUNNING WOMAN + + + On all Arcadia’s sunny plain, + On all Arcadia’s hill, + None were so blithe as BILL and JANE, + So blithe as JANE and BILL. + + No social earthquake e’er occurred + To rack their common mind: + To them a Panic was a word— + A Crisis, empty wind. + + No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad + With overwhelming shocks— + BILL ploughed with all the shares he had, + JANE planted all her stocks. + + And learn in what a simple way + Their pleasures they enhanced— + JANE danced like any lamb all day, + BILL piped as well as danced. + + Surrounded by a twittling crew, + Of linnet, lark, and thrush, + BILL treated his young lady to + This sentimental gush: + + “Oh, JANE, how true I am to you! + How true you are to me! + And how we woo, and how we coo! + So fond a pair are we! + + “To think, dear JANE, that anyways. + Your chiefest end and aim + Is, one of these fine summer days, + To bear my humble name!” + + Quoth JANE, “Well, as you put the case, + I’m true enough, no doubt, + But then, you see, in this here place + There’s none to cut you out. + + “But, oh! if anybody came— + A Lord or any such— + I do not think your humble name + Would fascinate me much. + + “For though your mates, you often boast. + You distance out-and-out; + Still, in the abstract, you’re a most + Uncompromising lout!” + + Poor BILL, he gave a heavy sigh, + He tried in vain to speak— + A fat tear started to each eye + And coursed adown each cheek. + + For, oh! right well in truth he knew + That very self-same day, + The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOO + Was coming there to stay! + + The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOO + All proper maidens shun— + He loves all women, it is true, + But never marries one. + + Now JANE, with all her mad self-will, + Was no coquette—oh no! + She really loved her faithful BILL, + And thus she tuned her woe: + + “Oh, willow, willow, o’er the lea! + And willow once again! + The Peer will fall in love with me! + Why wasn’t I made plain?” + + * * * * * + + A cunning woman lived hard by, + A sorceressing dame, + MACCATACOMB DE SALMON-EYE + Was her uncommon name. + + To her good JANE, with kindly yearn + For BILL’S increasing pain, + Repaired in secrecy to learn + How best to make her plain. + + “Oh, JANE,” the worthy woman said, + “This mystic phial keep, + And rub its liquor in your head + Before you go to sleep. + + “When you awake next day, I trow, + You’ll look in form and hue + To others just as you do now— + But not to PILLALOO! + + “When you approach him, you will find + He’ll think you coarse—unkempt— + And rudely bid you get behind, + With undisguised contempt.” + + The LORD DE PILLALOO arrived + With his expensive train, + And when in state serenely hived, + He sent for BILL and JANE. + + “Oh, spare her, LORD OF PILLALOO! + (Said BILL) if wed you be, + There’s anything _I’d_ rather do + Than flirt with LADY P.” + + The Lord he gazed in Jenny’s eyes, + He looked her through and through: + The cunning woman’s prophecies + Were clearly coming true. + + LORD PILLALOO, the Rustic’s Bane + (Bad person he, and proud), + _He laughed Ha_! _ha_! _at pretty_ JANE, + _And sneered at her aloud_! + + He bade her get behind him then, + And seek her mother’s stye— + Yet to her native countrymen + She was as fair as aye! + + MACCATACOMB, continue green! + Grow, SALMON-EYE, in might, + Except for you, there might have been + The deuce’s own delight + + + + +PHRENOLOGY + + + “COME, collar this bad man— + Around the throat he knotted me + Till I to choke began— + In point of fact, garotted me!” + + So spake SIR HERBERT WRITE + To JAMES, Policeman Thirty-two— + All ruffled with his fight + SIR HERBERT was, and dirty too. + + Policeman nothing said + (Though he had much to say on it), + But from the bad man’s head + He took the cap that lay on it. + + “No, great SIR HERBERT WHITE— + Impossible to take him up. + This man is honest quite— + Wherever did you rake him up? + + “For Burglars, Thieves, and Co., + Indeed, I’m no apologist, + But I, some years ago, + Assisted a Phrenologist. + + “Observe his various bumps, + His head as I uncover it: + His morals lie in lumps + All round about and over it.” + + “Now take him,” said SIR WHITE, + “Or you will soon be rueing it; + Bless me! I must be right,— + I caught the fellow doing it!” + + Policeman calmly smiled, + “Indeed you are mistaken, sir, + You’re agitated—riled— + And very badly shaken, sir. + + “Sit down, and I’ll explain + My system of Phrenology, + A second, please, remain”— + (A second is horology). + + Policeman left his beat— + (The Bart., no longer furious, + Sat down upon a seat, + Observing, “This is curious!”) + + “Oh, surely, here are signs + Should soften your rigidity: + This gentleman combines + Politeness with timidity. + + “Of Shyness here’s a lump— + A hole for Animosity— + And like my fist his bump + Of Impecuniosity. + + “Just here the bump appears + Of Innocent Hilarity, + And just behind his ears + Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity. + + “He of true Christian ways + As bright example sent us is— + This maxim he obeys, + ‘_Sorte tuâ contentus sis_.’ + + “There, let him go his ways, + He needs no stern admonishing.” + The Bart., in blank amaze, + Exclaimed, “This is astonishing! + + “I _must_ have made a mull, + This matter I’ve been blind in it: + Examine, please, _my_ skull, + And tell me what you find in it.” + + That Crusher looked, and said, + With unimpaired urbanity, + “SIR HERBERT, you’ve a head + That teems with inhumanity. + + “Here’s Murder, Envy, Strife + (Propensity to kill any), + And Lies as large as life, + And heaps of Social Villany. + + “Here’s Love of Bran-New Clothes, + Embezzling—Arson—Deism— + A taste for Slang and Oaths, + And Fraudulent Trusteeism. + + “Here’s Love of Groundless Charge— + Here’s Malice, too, and Trickery, + Unusually large + Your bump of Pocket-Pickery—” + + “Stop!” said the Bart., “my cup + Is full—I’m worse than him in all; + Policeman, take me up— + No doubt I am some criminal!” + + That Pleeceman’s scorn grew large + (Phrenology had nettled it), + He took that Bart. in charge— + I don’t know how they settled it. + + + + +THE FAIRY CURATE + + + ONCE a fairy + Light and airy + Married with a mortal; + Men, however, + Never, never + Pass the fairy portal. + Slyly stealing, + She to Ealing + Made a daily journey; + There she found him, + Clients round him + (He was an attorney). + + Long they tarried, + Then they married. + When the ceremony + Once was ended, + Off they wended + On their moon of honey. + Twelvemonth, maybe, + Saw a baby + (Friends performed an orgie). + Much they prized him, + And baptized him + By the name of GEORGIE. + + GEORGIE grew up; + Then he flew up + To his fairy mother. + Happy meeting— + Pleasant greeting— + Kissing one another. + “Choose a calling + Most enthralling, + I sincerely urge ye.” + “Mother,” said he + (Rev’rence made he), + “I would join the clergy. + + “Give permission + In addition— + Pa will let me do it: + There’s a living + In his giving— + He’ll appoint me to it. + Dreams of coff’ring, + Easter off’ring, + Tithe and rent and pew-rate, + So inflame me + (Do not blame me), + That I’ll be a curate.” + + She, with pleasure, + Said, “My treasure, + ’T is my wish precisely. + Do your duty, + There’s a beauty; + You have chosen wisely. + Tell your father + I would rather + As a churchman rank you. + You, in clover, + I’ll watch over.” + GEORGIE said, “Oh, thank you!” + + GEORGIE scudded, + Went and studied, + Made all preparations, + And with credit + (Though he said it) + Passed examinations. + (Do not quarrel + With him, moral, + Scrupulous digestions— + ’Twas his mother, + And no other, + Answered all the questions.) + + Time proceeded; + Little needed + GEORGIE admonition: + He, elated, + Vindicated + Clergyman’s position. + People round him + Always found him + Plain and unpretending; + Kindly teaching, + Plainly preaching, + All his money lending. + + So the fairy, + Wise and wary, + Felt no sorrow rising— + No occasion + For persuasion, + Warning, or advising. + He, resuming + Fairy pluming + (That’s not English, is it?) + Oft would fly up, + To the sky up, + Pay mamma a visit. + + * * * * * * * * + + Time progressing, + GEORGIE’S blessing + Grew more Ritualistic— + Popish scandals, + Tonsures—sandals— + Genuflections mystic; + Gushing meetings— + Bosom-beatings— + Heavenly ecstatics— + Broidered spencers— + Copes and censers— + Rochets and dalmatics. + + This quandary + Vexed the fairy— + Flew she down to Ealing. + “GEORGIE, stop it! + Pray you, drop it; + Hark to my appealing: + To this foolish + Papal rule-ish + Twaddle put an ending; + This a swerve is + From our Service + Plain and unpretending.” + + He, replying, + Answered, sighing, + Hawing, hemming, humming, + “It’s a pity— + They’re so pritty; + Yet in mode becoming, + Mother tender, + I’ll surrender— + I’ll be unaffected—” + But his Bishop + Into _his_ shop + Entered unexpected! + + “Who is this, sir,— + Ballet miss, sir?” + Said the Bishop coldly. + “’T is my mother, + And no other,” + GEORGIE answered boldly. + “Go along, sir! + You are wrong, sir; + You have years in plenty, + While this hussy + (Gracious mussy!) + Isn’t two and twenty!” + + (Fairies clever + Never, never + Grow in visage older; + And the fairy, + All unwary, + Leant upon his shoulder!) + Bishop grieved him, + Disbelieved him; + GEORGE the point grew warm on; + Changed religion, + Like a pigeon, {452} + And became a Mormon! + + + + +THE WAY OF WOOING + + + A MAIDEN sat at her window wide, + Pretty enough for a Prince’s bride, + Yet nobody came to claim her. + She sat like a beautiful picture there, + With pretty bluebells and roses fair, + And jasmine-leaves to frame her. + And why she sat there nobody knows; + But this she sang as she plucked a rose, + The leaves around her strewing: + “I’ve time to lose and power to choose; + ’T is not so much the gallant who woos, + But the gallant’s _way_ of wooing!” + + A lover came riding by awhile, + A wealthy lover was he, whose smile + Some maids would value greatly— + A formal lover, who bowed and bent, + With many a high-flown compliment, + And cold demeanour stately, + “You’ve still,” said she to her suitor stern, + “The ’prentice-work of your craft to learn, + If thus you come a-cooing. + I’ve time to lose and power to choose; + ’T is not so much the gallant who woos, + As the gallant’s _way_ of wooing!” + + A second lover came ambling by— + A timid lad with a frightened eye + And a colour mantling highly. + He muttered the errand on which he’d come, + Then only chuckled and bit his thumb, + And simpered, simpered shyly. + “No,” said the maiden, “go your way; + You dare but think what a man would say, + Yet dare to come a-suing! + I’ve time to lose and power to choose; + ’T is not so much the gallant who woos, + As the gallant’s _way_ of wooing!” + + A third rode up at a startling pace— + A suitor poor, with a homely face— + No doubts appeared to bind him. + He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist, + And off he rode with the maiden, placed + On a pillion safe behind him. + And she heard the suitor bold confide + This golden hint to the priest who tied + The knot there’s no undoing; + “With pretty young maidens who can choose, + ’Tis not so much the gallant who woos, + As the gallant’s _way_ of wooing!” + + + + +HONGREE AND MAHRY + + + A RICHARDSON MELODRAMA + + THE sun was setting in its wonted west, + When HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + Met MAHRY DAUBIGNY, the Village Rose, + Under the Wizard’s Oak—old trysting-place + Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine. + + They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not; + For HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + Found in LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC + A rival, envious and unscrupulous, + Who thought it not foul scorn to dodge his steps, + And listen, unperceived, to all that passed + Between the simple little Village Rose + And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores. + + A clumsy barrack-bully was DUBOSC, + Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact + That animates a proper gentleman + In dealing with a girl of humble rank. + You’ll understand his coarseness when I say + He would have married MAHRY DAUBIGNY, + And dragged the unsophisticated girl + Into the whirl of fashionable life, + For which her singularly rustic ways, + Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude), + Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical), + Would absolutely have unfitted her. + How different to this unreflecting boor + Was HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores. + + Contemporary with the incident + Related in our opening paragraph, + Was that sad war ’twixt Gallia and ourselves + That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes; + And so LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC + (Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style) + And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + Were sent by CHARLES of France against the lines + Of our Sixth HENRY (Fourteen twenty-nine), + To drive his legions out of Aquitaine. + + When HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + Returned, suspecting nothing, to his camp, + After his meeting with the Village Rose, + He found inside his barrack letter-box + A note from the commanding officer, + Requiring his attendance at head-quarters. + He went, and found LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES. + + “Young HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + This night we shall attack the English camp: + Be the ‘forlorn hope’ yours—you’ll lead it, sir, + And lead it too with credit, I’ve no doubt. + As every man must certainly be killed + (For you are twenty ’gainst two thousand men), + It is not likely that you will return. + But what of that? you’ll have the benefit + Of knowing that you die a soldier’s death.” + + Obedience was young HONGREE’S strongest point, + But he imagined that he only owed + Allegiance to his MAHRY and his King. + “If MAHRY bade me lead these fated men, + I’d lead them—but I do not think she would. + If CHARLES, my King, said, ‘Go, my son, and die,’ + I’d go, of course—my duty would be clear. + But MAHRY is in bed asleep, I hope, + And CHARLES, my King, a hundred leagues from this. + As for LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC, + How know I that our monarch would approve + The order he has given me to-night? + My King I’ve sworn in all things to obey— + I’ll only take my orders from my King!” + Thus HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + Interpreted the terms of his commission. + + And HONGREE, who was wise as he was good, + Disguised himself that night in ample cloak, + Round flapping hat, and vizor mask of black, + And made, unnoticed, for the English camp. + He passed the unsuspecting sentinels + (Who little thought a man in this disguise + Could be a proper object of suspicion), + And ere the curfew bell had boomed “lights out,” + He found in audience Bedford’s haughty Duke. + + “Your Grace,” he said, “start not—be not alarmed, + Although a Frenchman stands before your eyes. + I’m HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores. + My Colonel will attack your camp to-night, + And orders me to lead the hope forlorn. + Now I am sure our excellent KING CHARLES + Would not approve of this; but he’s away + A hundred leagues, and rather more than that. + So, utterly devoted to my King, + Blinded by my attachment to the throne, + And having but its interest at heart, + I feel it is my duty to disclose + All schemes that emanate from COLONEL JOOLES, + If I believe that they are not the kind + Of schemes that our good monarch would approve.” + + “But how,” said Bedford’s Duke, “do you propose + That we should overthrow your Colonel’s scheme?” + And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores, + Replied at once with never-failing tact: + “Oh, sir, I know this cursed country well. + Entrust yourself and all your host to me; + I’ll lead you safely by a secret path + Into the heart of COLONEL JOOLES’ array, + And you can then attack them unprepared, + And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed.” + + The thing was done. The DUKE OF BEDFORD gave + The order, and two thousand fighting men + Crept silently into the Gallic camp, + And slew the Frenchmen as they lay asleep; + And Bedford’s haughty Duke slew COLONEL JOOLES, + And gave fair MAHRY, pride of Aquitaine, + To HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores. + + + + +ETIQUETTE + + + THE _Ballyshannon_ foundered off the coast of Cariboo, + And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew; + Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured: + Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured. + + Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew, + The passengers were also drowned excepting only two: + Young PETER GRAY, who tasted teas for BAKER, CROOP, AND CO., + And SOMERS, who from Eastern shores imported indigo. + + These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast, + Upon a desert island were eventually cast. + They hunted for their meals, as ALEXANDER SELKIRK used, + But they couldn’t chat together—they had not been introduced. + + For PETER GRAY, and SOMERS too, though certainly in trade, + Were properly particular about the friends they made; + And somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth— + That GRAY should take the northern half, while SOMERS took the south. + + On PETER’S portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare, + But oysters were a delicacy PETER couldn’t bear. + On SOMERS’ side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick, + Which SOMERS couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick. + + GRAY gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store + Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore. + The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved, + For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved. + + And SOMERS sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south, + For the thought of PETER’S oysters brought the water to his mouth. + He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff: + He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough. + + How they wished an introduction to each other they had had + When on board the _Ballyshannon_! And it drove them nearly mad + To think how very friendly with each other they might get, + If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette! + + One day, when out a-hunting for the _mus ridiculus_, + GRAY overheard his fellow-man soliloquizing thus: + “I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on, + M‘CONNELL, S. B. WALTERS, PADDY BYLES, and ROBINSON?” + + These simple words made PETER as delighted as could be, + Old chummies at the Charterhouse were ROBINSON and he! + He walked straight up to SOMERS, then he turned extremely red, + Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said: + + “I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold, + But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old. + You spoke aloud of ROBINSON—I happened to be by. + You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.” + + It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on, + For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew ROBINSON! + And Mr. SOMERS’ turtle was at PETER’S service quite, + And Mr. SOMERS punished PETER’S oyster-beds all night. + + They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs: + They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs; + They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives; + On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives. + + They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night, + And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light; + Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon, + And all because it happened that they both knew ROBINSON! + + They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore, + And day by day they learned to love each other more and more. + At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day, + They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay. + + To PETER an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main? + So good an opportunity may not be found again.” + And SOMERS thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done! + I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?” + + “But stay,” said Mr. PETER: “when in England, as you know, + I earned a living tasting teas for BAKER, CROOP, AND CO., + I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!” + “Then come with me,” said SOMERS, “and taste indigo instead.” + + But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found + The vessel was a convict ship from Portland, outward bound; + When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind, + To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined. + + As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke, + They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke: + ’Twas ROBINSON—a convict, in an unbecoming frock! + Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!! + + They laughed no more, for SOMERS thought he had been rather rash + In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash; + And PETER thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon + In making the acquaintance of a friend of ROBINSON. + + At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard; + They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word: + The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head, + And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead. + + To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth, + And PETER takes the north again, and SOMERS takes the south; + And PETER has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick, + And SOMERS has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{287a} “Go with me to a Notary—seal me there +Your single bond.”—_Merchant of Venice_, Act I., sc. 3. + +{287b} “And there shall she, at Friar Lawrence’ cell, +Be shrived and married.”—_Romeo and Juliet_, Act II., sc. 4. + +{287c} “And give the fasting horses provender.”—_Henry the Fifth_, Act +IV., sc. 2. + +{288a} “Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares.”—_Troilus and +Cressida_, Act I., sc. 3. + +{288b} “Then must the Jew be merciful.”—_Merchant of Venice_, Act IV., +sc. 1. + +{288c} “The spring, the summer, +The chilling autumn, angry winter, change +Their wonted liveries.”—_Midsummer Night Dream_, Act IV., sc. 1. + +{288d} “In the county of Glo’ster, justice of the peace and +_coram_.”—_Merry Wives of Windsor_, Act I., sc. 1. + +{288e} “What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?”—_King John_, Act V., +sc. 2. + +{288f} “And I’ll provide his executioner.”—_Henry the Sixth_ (Second +Part), Act III., sc. 1. + +{288g} “The lioness had torn some flesh away, +Which all this while had bled.”—_As You Like It_, Act IV., sc. 3. + +{452} “Like a bird.” + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE BAB BALLADS*** + + +******* This file should be named 933-0.txt or 933-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/9/3/933 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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