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