The Bab Ballads

Name: The Bab Ballads
Author: W. S. Gilbert

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The Bab Ballads

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE BAB BALLADS

WITH WHICH ARE INCLUDED

SONGS OF A SAVOYARD

W. S. GILBERT

WITH 350 ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR

LONDON
MACMILLAN & CO LTD
NEW YORK. ST MARTIN'S PRESS

This book is copyright in all countries which
are signatories to the Berne Convention

Transferred to Macmillan and Co. Ltd., 1904
Sixth Edition 1904
Reprinted 1906, 1908, 1910, 1912, 1914, 1917, 1919
1920, 1922, 1924, 1926, 1932, 1953, 1960

MACMILLAN AND COMPANY LIMITED
London Bombay Calcutta Madras Melbourne

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA LIMITED
Toronto

ST MARTIN'S PRESS INC
New York

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

AUTHOR'S NOTE

About thirty years since, several of "The Bab Ballads" (most of which had appeared, from time to time, in the pages of Fun) were collected by me, and published by Messrs. George Routledge and Sons. This volume passed through several editions, and, in due course, was followed by a second series under the title of "More Bab Ballads," which achieved a popularity equal to that of its predecessor. Subsequently, excerpts were made from these two volumes, and, under the title of "Fifty Bab Ballads," had a very considerable sale; but I soon discovered that in making the selection for this volume I had discarded certain Ballads that were greater favourites with my readers than with me. Nevertheless this issue was followed by many editions, English and American, of "Bab Ballads," "More Bab Ballads," and "Fifty Bab Ballads," to the no little bewilderment of such of the public as had been good enough to concern themselves with my verses. So it became desirable (for our own private ends) that this confusion should be definitely cleared up; and thus it came to pass that a reissue of the two earlier collections, in one volume, was decided upon.

Some seven years since, I collected the most popular of the songs and ballads which I had written for the series of light operas with which my name is associated, and published them under the title of "Songs of a Savoyard." It recently occurred to me that these songs had so much in common with "The Bab Ballads" that it might be advisable to weld the two books into one. This is, briefly, the history of the present volume.

I have always felt that many of the original illustrations to "The Bab Ballads" erred gravely in the direction of unnecessary extravagance. This defect I have endeavoured to correct through the medium of the two hundred new drawings which I have designed for this volume. I am afraid I cannot claim for them any other recommendation,

W. S. GILBERT.

   Grim's Dyke, Harrow Weald,
      4th December 1897.

CAPTAIN REECE — THE DARNED MOUNSEER — THE RIVAL CURATES — THE ENGLISHMAN — ONLY A DANCING GIRL — THE DISAGREEABLE MAN — GENERAL JOHN — THE COMING BY-AND-BY — TO A LITTLE MAID — BY A POLICEMAN — THE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIER — JOHN AND FREDDY — THE FAIRY QUEEN'S SONG — SIR GUY THE CRUSADER — IS LIFE A BOON — HAUNTED — THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL — THE BISHOP AND THE 'BUSMAN — THE HEAVY DRAGOON — THE TROUBADOUR — PROPER PRIDE — FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN — PART I — PART II — THE POLICEMAN'S LOT — LORENZO DE LARDY — THE BAFFLED GRUMBLER — DISILLUSIONED — BY AN EX-ENTHUSIAST — THE HOUSE OF PEERS — BABETTE'S LOVE — A MERRY MADRIGAL — TO MY BRIDE — (WHOEVER SHE MAY BE) — THE DUKE AND THE DUCHESS — THE FOLLY OF BROWN — By a General Agent — EHEU FUGACES—! — SIR MACKLIN — THEY'LL NONE OF 'EM BE MISSED — THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL" — GIRL GRADUATES — THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO — BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR — THE PRECOCIOUS BABY — A VERY TRUE TALE — THE WORKING MONARCH — TO PHŒBE — THE APE AND THE LADY — BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN — ONLY ROSES — THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE — THE ROVER'S APOLOGY — A DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKER — AN APPEAL — THE PANTOMIME "SUPER" TO HIS MASK — THE REWARD OF MERIT — THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLIN — THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN — KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO — THE FAMILY FOOL — THE PERIWINKLE GIRL — SANS SOUCI — THOMSON GREEN AND HARRIET HALE — A RECIPE — BOB POLTER — THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID — ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN — THE SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR — PETER THE WAG — WHEN A MERRY MAIDEN MARRIES — THE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOO — THE BRITISH TAR — GENTLE ALICE BROWN — A MAN WHO WOULD WOO A FAIR MAID — THE SORCERER'S SONG — THE BUMBOAT WOMAN'S STORY — THE FICKLE BREEZE — THE TWO OGRES — THE FIRST LORD'S SONG — LITTLE OLIVER — Ballad — MISTER WILLIAM — WOULD YOU KNOW? — PASHA BAILEY BEN — LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE — SPECULATION — AH ME! — LOST MR. BLAKE — THE DUKE OF PLAZA-TORO — THE BABY'S VENGEANCE — THE ÆSTHETE — THE CAPTAIN AND THE MERMAIDS — SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I — ANNIE PROTHEROE — A LEGEND OF STRATFORD-LE-BOW — SORRY HER LOT — AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS — THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY — GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D. — THE PHILOSOPHIC PILL — THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM — BLUE BLOOD — FIRST LOVE — THE JUDGE'S SONG — BRAVE ALUM BEY — WHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ON — SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO — SOLATIUM — THE MODEST COUPLE — A NIGHTMARE — THE MARTINET — DON'T FORGET! — THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS — THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE — THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS — HE AND SHE — DAMON v. PYTHIAS — THE MIGHTY MUST — MY DREAM — A MIRAGE — THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN — THE GHOSTS' HIGH NOON — A WORM WILL TURN — THE HUMANE MIKADO — THE HAUGHTY ACTOR — THE DREAM — WILLOW WALY! — THE TWO MAJORS — LIFE IS LOVELY ALL THE YEAR — EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I — A DERBY LEGEND — THE USHER'S CHARGE — THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY — THE GREAT OAK TREE — OLD PAUL AND OLD TIM — KING GOODHEART — THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE — SLEEP ON! — THE CUNNING WOMAN — THE LOVE-SICK BOY — PHRENOLOGY — POETRY EVERYWHERE — THE FAIRY CURATE — HE LOVES! — THE WAY OF WOOING — TRUE DIFFIDENCE — HONGREE AND MAHRY — A RICHARDSONIAN MELODRAMA — THE TANGLED SKEIN — THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS — MY LADY — ONE AGAINST THE WORLD — THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT — PUT A PENNY IN THE SLOT — GOOD LITTLE GIRLS — THE PHANTOM CURATE — A FABLE — LIFE — LIMITED LIABILITY — THE SENSATION CAPTAIN — ANGLICISED UTOPIA — AN ENGLISH GIRL — TEMPORA MUTANTUR — A MANAGER'S PERPLEXITIES — OUT OF SORTS — AT A PANTOMIME — BY A BILIOUS ONE — HOW IT'S DONE — A CLASSICAL REVIVAL — THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB — THE PRACTICAL JOKER — THE NATIONAL ANTHEM — JOE GOLIGHTLY — OR, THE FIRST LORD'S DAUGHTER — HER TERMS — THE INDEPENDENT BEE — TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE — BY A MISERABLE WRETCH — ETIQUETTE [12] — THE DISCONCERTED TENOR — BEN ALLAH ACHMET; — OR, THE FATAL TUM — THE PLAYED-OUT HUMORIST

CONTENTS.

	Page
Captain Reece	1
The Darned Mounseer	6
The Rival Curates	8
The Englishman	13
Only a Dancing Girl	14
The Disagreeable Man	16
General John	18
The Coming By-and-By	22
To a Little Maid	24
The Highly Respectable Gondolier	26
John and Freddy	28
The Fairy Queen's Song	32
Sir Guy the Crusader	34
Is Life a Boon?	38
Haunted	39
The Modern Major-General	42
The Bishop and the 'Busman	44
The Heavy Dragoon	49
The Troubadour	51
Proper Pride	56
Ferdinando and Elvira; or, the Gentle Pieman	58
The Policeman's Lot	63
Lorenzo de Lardy	64
The Baffled Grumbler	69
[Pg viii]
Disillusioned	71
The House of Peers	74
Babette's Love	76
A Merry Madrigal	81
To my Bride	82
The Duke and the Duchess	84
The Folly of Brown	87
Eheu Fugaces—!	92
Sir Macklin	94
They'll None of 'em be Missed	99
The Yarn of the "Nancy Bell"	101
Girl Graduates	106
The Bishop of Rum-ti-Foo	108
Braid the Raven Hair	113
The Precocious Baby	114
The Working Monarch	119
To Phœbe	122
The Ape and the Lady	123
Baines Carew, Gentleman	125
Only Roses	130
Thomas Winterbottom Hance	131
The Rover's Apology	136
A Discontented Sugar Broker	138
An Appeal	143
The Pantomime "Super" to his Mask	144
The Reward of Merit	146
The Ghost, the Gallant, the Gael, and the Goblin	148
The Magnet and the Churn	153
King Borria Bungalee Boo	155
The Family Fool	161
The Periwinkle Girl	164
Sans Souci	169
Thomson Green and Harriet Hale	171
A Recipe	175
[Pg ix]
Bob Polter	176
The Merryman and his Maid	182
Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen	185
The Susceptible Chancellor	191
Peter the Wag	193
When a Merry Maiden Marries	198
The Three Kings of Chickeraboo	200
The British Tar	204
Gentle Alice Brown	205
A Man who would Woo a Fair Maid	209
The Sorcerer's Song	211
The Bumboat Woman's Story	214
The Fickle Breeze	219
The Two Ogres	221
The First Lord's Song	227
Little Oliver	229
Mister William	235
Would you Know?	240
Pasha Bailey Ben	242
Lieutenant-Colonel Flare	248
Speculation	254
Ah Me!	255
Lost Mr. Blake	256
The Duke of Plaza-Toro	262
The Baby's Vengeance	265
The Æsthete	271
The Captain and the Mermaids	273
Said I to Myself, Said I	278
Annie Protheroe	280
Sorry her Lot	286
An Unfortunate Likeness	287
The Contemplative Sentry	292
Gregory Parable, LL.D.	294
The Philosophic Pill	299
[Pg x]
The King of Canoodle-dum	301
Blue Blood	307
First Love	309
The Judge's Song	315
Brave Alum Bey	317
When I First put this Uniform on	322
Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo	324
Solatium	329
The Modest Couple	330
A Nightmare	335
The Martinet	338
Don't Forget!	345
The Sailor Boy to his Lass	348
The Suicide's Grave	354
The Reverend Simon Magus	356
He and She	361
Damon v. Pythias	363
The Mighty Must	367
My Dream	368
A Mirage	374
The Bishop of Rum-ti-Foo Again	376
The Ghosts' High Noon	381
A Worm will Turn	383
The Humane Mikado	388
The Haughty Actor	391
Willow Waly!	397
The Two Majors	399
Life is Lovely all the Year	403
Emily, John, James, and I	405
The Usher's Charge	411
The Perils of Invisibility	413
The Great Oak Tree	418
Old Paul and Old Tim	420
King Goodheart	424
[Pg xi]
The Mystic Selvagee	426
Sleep on!	431
The Cunning Woman	433
The Love-sick Boy	439
Phrenology	440
Poetry Everywhere	445
The Fairy Curate	446
He Loves!	453
The Way of Wooing	454
True Diffidence	458
Hongree and Mahry	460
The Tangled Skein	466
The Reverend Micah Sowls	467
My Lady	471
One against the World	473
The Force of Argument	475
Put a Penny in the Slot	480
Good Little Girls	482
The Phantom Curate	484
Life	487
Limited Liability	490
The Sensation Captain	492
Anglicised Utopia	497
An English Girl	499
Tempora Mutantur	501
A Manager's Perplexities	504
Out of Sorts	506
At a Pantomime	508
How it's Done	512
A Classical Revival	515
The Story of Prince Agib	518
The Practical Joker	523
The National Anthem	526
Joe Golightly; or, the First Lord's Daughter	528
[Pg xii]
Her Terms	534
The Independent Bee	536
To the Terrestrial Globe	539
Etiquette	541
The Disconcerted Tenor	547
Ben Allah Achmet; or, the Fatal Tum	549
The Played-out Humorist	553
Index to First Lines	555
Alphabetical Index to Titles	561

THE BAB BALLADS

Of all the ships upon the blue

No ship contained a better crew

Than that of worthy Captain Reece,

Commanding of The Mantelpiece.

He was adored by all his men,

For worthy Captain Reece, R.N.,

Did all that lay within him to

Promote the comfort of his crew.

If ever they were dull or sad,

Their captain danced to them like mad,

Or told, to make the time pass by.

Droll legends of his infancy.

A feather bed had every man,

Warm slippers and hot-water can,

Brown Windsor from the captain's store,

A valet, too, to every four.

Did they with thirst in summer burn?

Lo, seltzogenes at every turn,

And on all very sultry days

Cream ices handed round on trays.

Then currant wine and ginger pops

Stood handily on all the "tops";

And, also, with amusement rife,

A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."

New volumes came across the sea

From Mister Mudie's libraree;

The Times and Saturday Review

Beguiled the leisure of the crew.

Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N.,

Was quite devoted to his men;

In point of fact, good Captain Reece

Beatified The Mantelpiece.

One summer eve, at half-past ten,

He said (addressing all his men):

"Come, tell me, please, what I can do

To please and gratify my crew?

"By any reasonable plan

I'll make you happy, if I can;

My own convenience count as nil;

It is my duty, and I will."

Then up and answered William Lee

(The kindly captain's coxswain he,

A nervous, shy, low-spoken man),

He cleared his throat and thus began:

"You have a daughter, Captain Reece,

Ten female cousins and a niece,

A ma, if what I'm told is true,

Six sisters, and an aunt or two.

"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,

More friendly-like we all should be

If you united of 'em to

Unmarried members of the crew.

"If you'd ameliorate our life,

Let each select from them a wife;

And as for nervous me, old pal,

Give me your own enchanting gal!"

Good Captain Reece, that worthy man,

Debated on his coxswain's plan:

"I quite agree," he said, "O Bill;

It is my duty, and I will.

"My daughter, that enchanting gurl,

Has just been promised to an earl,

And all my other familee,

To peers of various degree.

"But what are dukes and viscounts to

The happiness of all my crew?

The word I gave you I'll fulfil;

It is my duty, and I will.

"As you desire it shall befall,

I'll settle thousands on you all,

And I shall be, despite my hoard,

The only bachelor on board."

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece,

He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece.

"I beg your honour's leave," he said,

"If you would wish to go and wed,

"I have a widowed mother who

Would be the very thing for you—

She long has loved you from afar,

She washes for you, Captain R."

The captain saw the dame that day—

Addressed her in his playful way—

"And did it want a wedding ring?

It was a tempting ickle sing!

"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,

We'll all be married this day week—

At yonder church upon the hill;

It is my duty, and I will!"

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,

And widowed ma of Captain Reece,

Attended there as they were bid;

It was their duty, and they did.

I shipped, d'ye see, in a Revenue sloop,

And, off Cape Finisteere,

A merchantman we see,

A Frenchman, going free,

So we made for the bold Mounseer,

D'ye see?

We made for the bold Mounseer!

But she proved to be a Frigate—and she up with her ports,

And fires with a thirty-two!

It come uncommon near,

But we answered with a cheer,

Which paralysed the Parley-voo,

D'ye see?

Which paralysed the Parley-voo!

Then our Captain he up and he says, says he,

"That chap we need not fear,—

We can take her, if we like,

She is sartin for to strike,

For she's only a darned Mounseer,

D'ye see?

She's only a darned Mounseer!

But to fight a French fal-lal—it's like hittin' of a gal—

It's a lubberly thing for to do;

For we, with all our faults,

Why, we're sturdy British salts,

While she's but a Parley-voo,

D'ye see?

A miserable Parley-voo!"

So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze,

As we gives a compassionating cheer;

Froggee answers with a shout

As he sees us go about,

Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer,

D'ye see?

Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer!

And I'll wager in their joy they kissed each other's cheek

(Which is what them furriners do),

And they blessed their lucky stars

We were hardy British tars

Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo,

D'ye see?

Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo!

List while the poet trolls

Of Mr. Clayton Hooper,

Who had a cure of souls

At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.

He lived on curds and whey,

And daily sang their praises,

And then he'd go and play

With buttercups and daisies.

Wild croquet Hooper banned,

And all the sports of Mammon,

He warred with cribbage, and

He exorcised backgammon.

His helmet was a glance

That spoke of holy gladness;

A saintly smile his lance,

His shield a tear of sadness.

His Vicar smiled to see

This armour on him buckled;

With pardonable glee

He blessed himself and chuckled:

"In mildness to abound

My curate's sole design is,

In all the country round

There's none so mild as mine is!"

And Hooper, disinclined

His trumpet to be blowing.

Yet didn't think you'd find

A milder curate going.

A friend arrived one day

At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,

And in this shameful way

He spoke to Mr. Hooper:

"You think your famous name

For mildness can't be shaken.

That none can blot your fame—

But, Hooper, you're mistaken!

"Your mind is not as blank

As that of Hopley Porter,

Who holds a curate's rank

At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

"He plays the airy flute,

And looks depressed and blighted,

Doves round about him 'toot,'

And lambkins dance delighted.

"He labours more than you

At worsted work, and frames it;

In old maids' albums, too,

Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!"

The tempter said his say,

Which pierced him like a needle—

He summoned straight away

His sexton and his beadle.

These men were men who could

Hold liberal opinions:

On Sundays they were good—

On week-days they were minions.

"To Hopley Porter go,

Your fare I will afford you—

Deal him a deadly blow,

And blessings shall reward you.

"But stay—I do not like

Undue assassination,

And so, before you strike,

Make this communication:

"I'll give him this one chance—

If he'll more gaily bear him,

Play croquet, smoke, and dance,

I willingly will spare him."

They went, those minions true,

To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,

And told their errand to

The Reverend Hopley Porter.

"What?" said that reverend gent,

"Dance through my hours of leisure?

Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—

Play croquet? Oh, with pleasure!

"Wear all my hair in curl?

Stand at my door, and wink—so—

At every passing girl?

My brothers, I should think so!

"For years I've longed for some

Excuse for this revulsion:

Now that excuse has come—

I do it on compulsion!!!"

He smoked and winked away—

This Reverend Hopley Porter—

The deuce there was to pay

At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

And Hooper holds his ground,

In mildness daily growing—

They think him, all around,

The mildest curate going.

He is an Englishman!

For he himself has said it,

And it's greatly to his credit,

That he is an Englishman!

For he might have been a Roosian,

A French, or Turk, or Proosian,

Or perhaps Itali-an!

But in spite of all temptations,

To belong to other nations,

He remains an Englishman!

Hurrah!

For the true-born Englishman!

Only a dancing girl,

With an unromantic style,

With borrowed colour and curl,

With fixed mechanical smile,

With many a hackneyed wile,

With ungrammatical lips,

And corns that mar her trips!

Hung from the "flies" in air,

She acts a palpable lie;

She's as little a fairy there

As unpoetical I!

I hear you asking, Why—

Why in the world I sing

This tawdry, tinselled thing?

No airy fairy she,

As she hangs in arsenic green,

From a highly impossible tree,

In a highly impossible scene

(Herself not over clean).

For fays don't suffer, I'm told,

From bunions, coughs, or cold.

And stately dames that bring

Their daughters there to see,

Pronounce the "dancing thing"

No better than she should be.

With her skirt at her shameful knee,

And her painted, tainted phiz:

Ah, matron, which of us is?

(And, in sooth, it oft occurs

That while these matrons sigh,

Their dresses are lower than hers,

And sometimes half as high;

And their hair is hair they buy.

And they use their glasses, too,

In a way she'd blush to do.)

But change her gold and green

For a coarse merino gown,

And see her upon the scene

Of her home, when coaxing down

Her drunken father's frown,

In his squalid cheerless den:

She's a fairy truly, then!

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:

I'm a genuine philanthropist—all other kinds are sham.

Each little fault of temper and each social defect

In my erring fellow-creatures, I endeavour to correct.

To all their little weaknesses I open people's eyes,

And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;

I love my fellow-creatures—I do all the good I can—

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

To compliments inflated I've a withering reply,

And vanity I always do my best to mortify;

A charitable action I can skilfully dissect;

And interested motives I'm delighted to detect.

I know everybody's income and what everybody earns,

And I carefully compare it with the income-tax returns;

But to benefit humanity however much I plan,

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

I'm sure I'm no ascetic; I'm as pleasant as can be;

You'll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;

I've an irritating chuckle, I've a celebrated sneer,

I've an entertaining snigger, I've a fascinating leer;

To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two;

I can tell a woman's age in half a minute—and I do—

But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can.

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

The bravest names for fire and flames

And all that mortal durst,

Were General John and Private James,

Of the Sixty-seventy-first.

General John was a soldier tried,

A chief of warlike dons;

A haughty stride and a withering pride

Were Major-General John's.

A sneer would play on his martial phiz,

Superior birth to show;

"Pish!" was a favourite word of his,

And he often said "Ho! ho!"

Full-Private James described might be

As a man of a mournful mind;

No characteristic trait had he

Of any distinctive kind.

From the ranks, one day, cried Private James,

"Oh! Major-General John,

I've doubts of our respective names

My mournful mind upon.

"A glimmering thought occurs to me

(Its source I can't unearth),

But I've a kind of a notion we

Were cruelly changed at birth.

"I've a strange idea that each other's names

We've each of us here got on.

Such things have been," said Private James.

"They have!" sneered General John.

"My General John, I swear upon

My oath I think 'tis so——"

"Pish!" proudly sneered his General John

And he also said "Ho! ho!"

"My General John! my General John!

My General John!" quoth he,

"This aristocratical sneer upon

Your face I blush to see!

"No truly great or generous cove

Deserving of them names

Would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove

In the mind of a Private James!"

Said General John, "Upon your claims

No need your breath to waste;

If this is a joke, Full-Private James,

It's a joke of doubtful taste.

"But, being a man of doubtless worth,

If you feel certain quite

That we were probably changed at birth,

I'll venture to say you're right."

So General John as Private James

Fell in, parade upon;

And Private James, by change of names,

Was Major-General John.

Sad is that woman's lot who, year by year,

Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear;

As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs,

Impatiently begins to "dim her eyes "!—

Herself compelled, in life's uncertain gloamings,

To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well-saved "combings"—

Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey,

To "make up" for lost time, as best she may!

Silvered is the raven hair,

Spreading is the parting straight,

Mottled the complexion fair,

Halting is the youthful gait,

Hollow is the laughter free,

Spectacled the limpid eye,

Little will be left of me,

In the coming by-and-by!

Fading is the taper waist—

Shapeless grows the shapely limb,

And although securely laced,

Spreading is the figure trim!

Stouter than I used to be,

Still more corpulent grow I—

There will be too much of me

In the coming by-and-by!

Come with me, little maid!

Nay, shrink not, thus afraid—

I'll harm thee not!

Fly not, my love, from me—

I have a home for thee—

A fairy grot,

Where mortal eye

Can rarely pry,

There shall thy dwelling be!

List to me, while I tell

The pleasures of that cell,

Oh, little maid!

What though its couch be rude—

Homely the only food

Within its shade?

No thought of care

Can enter there,

No vulgar swain intrude!

Come with me, little maid,

Come to the rocky shade

I love to sing;

Live with us, maiden rare—

Come, for we "want" thee there,

Thou elfin thing,

To work thy spell,

In some cool cell

In stately Pentonville!

I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,

And left him, gaily prattling

With a highly respectable Gondolier,

Who promised the Royal babe to rear,

And teach him the trade of a timoneer

With his own beloved bratling.

Both of the babes were strong and stout,

And, considering all things, clever.

Of that there is no manner of doubt—

No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

No possible doubt whatever.

Time sped, and when at the end of a year

I sought that infant cherished,

That highly respectable Gondolier

Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—

I dropped a Grand Inquisitor's tear—

That Gondolier had perished!

A taste for drink, combined with gout,

Had doubled him up for ever.

Of that there is no manner of doubt—

No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

No possible doubt whatever.

But owing, I'm much disposed to fear,

To his terrible taste for tippling,

That highly respectable Gondolier

Could never declare with a mind sincere

Which of the two was his offspring dear,

And which the Royal stripling!

Which was which he could never make out,

Despite his best endeavour.

Of that there is no manner of doubt—

No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

No possible doubt whatever.

The children followed his old career—

(This statement can't be parried)

Of a highly respectable Gondolier:

Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—

But which of the two is not quite clear—

Is the Royal Prince you married!

Search in and out and round about

And you'll discover never

A tale so free from every doubt—

All probable, possible shadow of doubt—

All possible doubt whatever!

John courted lovely Mary Ann,

So likewise did his brother, Freddy.

Fred was a very soft young man,

While John, though quick, was most unsteady

Fred was a graceful kind of youth,

But John was very much the strongest.

"Oh, dance away," said she, "in truth,

I'll marry him who dances longest."

John tries the maiden's taste to strike

With gay, grotesque, outrageous dresses,

And dances comically, like

Clodoche and Co., at the Princess's.

But Freddy tries another style,

He knows some graceful steps and does 'em—

A breathing Poem—Woman's smile—

A man all poesy and buzzem.

Now Freddy's operatic pas—

Now Johnny's hornpipe seems entrapping:

Now Freddy's graceful entrechats—

Now Johnny's skilful "cellar-flapping."

For many hours—for many days—

For many weeks performed each brother,

For each was active in his ways,

And neither would give in to t'other.

After a month of this, they say

(The maid was getting bored and moody)

A wandering curate passed that way

And talked a lot of goody-goody.

"Oh my," said he, with solemn frown,

"I tremble for each dancing frater,

Like unregenerated clown

And harlequin at some the-ayter."

He showed that men, in dancing, do

Both impiously and absurdly,

And proved his proposition true,

With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly.

For months both John and Freddy danced,

The curate's protests little heeding;

For months the curate's words enhanced

The sinfulness of their proceeding

At length they bowed to Nature's rule—

Their steps grew feeble and unsteady,

Till Freddy fainted on a stool,

And Johnny on the top of Freddy.

"Decide!" quoth they, "let him be named,

Who henceforth as his wife may rank you."

"I've changed my views," the maiden said,

"I only marry curates, thank you!"

Says Freddy, "Here is goings on!

To bust myself with rage I'm ready."

"I'll be a curate!" whispers John—

"And I," exclaimed poetic Freddy.

But while they read for it, these chaps,

The curate booked the maiden bonny—

And when she's buried him, perhaps,

She'll marry Frederick or Johnny.

Oh, foolish fay,

Think you because

Man's brave array

My bosom thaws

I'd disobey

Our fairy laws?

Because I fly

In realms above,

In tendency

To fall in love

Resemble I

The amorous dove?

Oh, amorous dove!

Type of Ovidius Naso!

This heart of mine

Is soft as thine,

Although I dare not say so!

On fire that glows

With heat intense

I turn the hose

Of Common Sense,

And out it goes

At small expense!

We must maintain

Our fairy law;

That is the main

On which to draw—

In that we gain

A Captain Shaw.

Oh, Captain Shaw!

Type of true love kept under!

Could thy Brigade

With cold cascade

Quench my great love, I wonder!

Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,

A muscular knight,

Ever ready to fight,

A very determined invader,

And Dickey de Lion's delight.

Lenore was a Saracen maiden,

Brunette, statuesque,

The reverse of grotesque,

Her pa was a bagman from Aden,

Her mother she played in burlesque.

A coryphée, pretty and loyal,

In amber and red

The ballet she led;

Her mother performed at the Royal,

Lenore at the Saracen's Head.

Of face and of figure majestic,

She dazzled the cits—

Ecstaticised pits;—

Her troubles were only domestic,

But drove her half out of her wits.

Her father incessantly lashed her,

On water and bread

She was grudgingly fed;

Whenever her father he thrashed her

Her mother sat down on her head.

Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason,

For beauty so bright

Sent him mad with delight;

He purchased a stall for the season,

And sat in it every night.

His views were exceedingly proper,

He wanted to wed,

So he called at her shed

And saw her progenitor whop her—

Her mother sit down on her head.

"So pretty," said he, "and so trusting!

You brute of a dad,

You unprincipled cad,

Your conduct is really disgusting,

Come, come, now admit it's too bad!

"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant—

Your daughter Lenore

I intensely adore,

And I cannot help feeling indignant.

A fact that I hinted before;

"To see a fond father employing

A deuce of a knout

For to bang her about,

To a sensitive lover's annoying."

Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."

Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden

With a big spiky knob,

Sit in peace on his cob

While a beautiful Saracen maiden

Is whipped by a Saracen snob?

"To London I'll go from my charmer."

Which he did, with his loot

(Seven hats and a flute),

And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour

At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.

Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter,

Her pa, in a rage,

Died (don't know his age),

His daughter, she married the prompter,

Grew bulky and quitted the stage.

Is life a boon?

If so, it must befall

That Death, whene'er he call,

Must call too soon.

Though fourscore years he give,

Yet one would pray to live

Another moon!

What kind of plaint have I,

Who perish in July?

I might have had to die

Perchance in June!

Is life a thorn?

Then count it not a whit!

Man is well done with it:

Soon as he's born

He should all means essay

To put the plague away;

And I, war-worn,

Poor captured fugitive,

My life most gladly give—

I might have had to live

Another morn!

Haunted? Ay, in a social way,

By a body of ghosts in a dread array:

But no conventional spectres they—

Appalling, grim, and tricky;

I quail at mine as I'd never quail

At a fine traditional spectre pale,

With a turnip head and a ghostly wail,

And a splash of blood on the dicky!

Mine are horrible social ghosts,

Speeches and women and guests and hosts,

Weddings and morning calls and toasts,

In every bad variety:

Ghosts that hover about the grave

Of all that's manly, free, and brave:

You'll find their names on the architrave

Of that charnel-house, Society.

Black Monday—black as its schoolroom ink—

With its dismal boys that snivel and think

Of nauseous messes to eat and drink,

And a frozen tank to wash in.

That was the first that brought me grief

And made me weep, till I sought relief

In an emblematical handkerchief,

To choke such baby bosh in.

First and worst in the grim array—

Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way,

Which I wouldn't revive for a single day

For all the wealth of Plutus—

Are the horrible ghosts that schooldays scared

If the classical ghost that Brutus dared

Was the ghost of his "Cæsar" unprepared,

I'm sure I pity Brutus.

I pass to critical seventeen:

The ghost of that terrible wedding scene,

When an elderly colonel stole my queen,

And woke my dream of heaven:

No school-girl decked in her nursery curls

Was my gushing innocent queen of pearls;

If she wasn't a girl of a thousand girls.

She was one of forty-seven!

I see the ghost of my first cigar—

Of the thence-arising family jar—

Of my maiden brief (I was at the Bar),

When I called the judge "Your wushup"!

Of reckless days and reckless nights,

With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights,

Unholy songs, and tipsy fights,

Which I strove in vain to hush up.

Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks,

Ghosts of copy, "declined with thanks,"

Of novels returned in endless ranks,

And thousands more, I suffer.

The only line to fitly grace

My humble tomb, when I've run my race,

Is "Reader, this is the resting-place

Of an unsuccessful duffer."

I've fought them all, these ghosts of mine,

But the weapons I've used are sighs and brine,

And now that I'm nearly forty-nine,

Old age is my only bogy;

For my hair is thinning away at the crown,

And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;

And a general verdict sets me down

As an irreclaimable fogy.

I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral;

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical;

About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,

With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus,

I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

I know our mythic history—King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's,

I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox;

I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,

In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.

I tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,

I know the croaking chorus from the "Frogs" of Aristophanes;

Then I can hum a fugue, of which I've heard the music's din afore,

And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense "Pinafore."

Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform,

And tell you every detail of Caractacus's uniform.

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin,"

When I can tell at sight a Chassepot rifle from a javelin,

When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,

And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,

When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,

When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,

In short, when I've a smattering of elementary strategy,

You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee—

For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,

Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century.

But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral!

It was a Bishop bold,

And London was his see,

He was short and stout and round about

And zealous as could be.

It also was a Jew,

Who drove a Putney 'bus—

For flesh of swine however fine

He did not care a cuss.

His name was Hash Baz Ben,

And Jedediah too,

And Solomon and Zabulon—-

This 'bus-directing Jew.

The Bishop said, said he,

"I'll see what I can do

To Christianise and make you wise,

You poor benighted Jew."

So every blessed day

That 'bus he rode outside,

From Fulham town, both up and down,

And loudly thus he cried:

"His name is Hash Baz Ben,

And Jedediah too,

And Solomon and Zabulon—

This 'bus-directing Jew."

At first the 'busman smiled,

And rather liked the fun—

He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,

And said, "Eccentric one!"

And gay young dogs would wait

To see the 'bus go by

(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),

To hear the Bishop cry:

"Observe his grisly beard,

His race it clearly shows,

He sticks no fork in ham or pork—

Observe, my friends, his nose.

"His name is Hash Baz Ben,

And Jedediah too,

And Solomon and Zabulon—

This 'bus-directing Jew."

But though at first amused,

Yet after seven years,

This Hebrew child got rather riled,

And melted into tears.

He really almost feared

To leave his poor abode,

His nose, and name, and beard became

A byword on that road.

At length he swore an oath,

The reason he would know—

"I'll call and see why ever he

Does persecute me so!"

The good old Bishop sat

On his ancestral chair,

The 'busman came, sent up his name,

And laid his grievance bare.

"Benighted Jew," he said

(The good old Bishop did),

"Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—

Become a Christian kid!

"I'll ne'er annoy you more."

"Indeed?" replied the Jew;

"Shall I be freed?" "You will, indeed!"

Then "Done!" said he, "with you!"

The organ which, in man,

Between the eyebrows grows,

Fell from his face, and in its place

He found a Christian nose.

His tangled Hebrew beard,

Which to his waist came down.

Was now a pair of whiskers fair—

His name Adolphus Brown!

He wedded in a year

That prelate's daughter Jane,

He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—

His wife is far from plain.

If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,

Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,

Take all the remarkable people in history,

Rattle them off to a popular tune!

The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—

Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;

The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—

Coolness of Paget about to trepan—

The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico—

Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—

The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—

Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—

The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery—

Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—

Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—

Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—

Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—

Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot!

Take of these elements all that is fusible,

Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible,

Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,

And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,

Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—

The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—

Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—

A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—

Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—

The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—

Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—

The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal—

Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibal—

Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—

Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—

Beadle of Burlington—Richardson's show—

Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!

Take of these elements all that is fusible—

Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible—

Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,

And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

A Troubadour he played

Without a castle wall,

Within, a hapless maid

Responded to his call.

"Oh, willow, woe is me!

Alack and well-a-day!

If I were only free

I'd hie me far away!"

Unknown her face and name,

But this he knew right well,

The maiden's wailing came

From out a dungeon cell.

A hapless woman lay

Within that prison grim—

That fact, I've heard him say,

Was quite enough for him.

"I will not sit or lie,

Or eat or drink, I vow,

Till thou art free as I,

Or I as pent as thou!"

Her tears then ceased to flow,

Her wails no longer rang,

And tuneful in her woe

The prisoned maiden sang:

"Oh, stranger, as you play

I recognise your touch;

And all that I can say,

Is thank you very much!"

He seized his clarion straight,

And blew thereat, until

A warder oped the gate,

"Oh, what might be your will?"

"I've come, sir knave, to see

The master of these halls:

A maid unwillingly

Lies prisoned in their walls."

With barely stifled sigh

That porter drooped his head,

With teardrops in his eye,

"A many, sir," he said.

He stayed to hear no more,

But pushed that porter by,

And shortly stood before

Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye.

Sir Hugh he darkly frowned,

"What would you, sir, with me?"

The troubadour he downed

Upon his bended knee.

"I've come, de Peckham Rye,

To do a Christian task,

You ask me what would I?

It is not much I ask.

"Release these maidens, sir,

Whom you dominion o'er—

Particularly her

Upon the second floor!

"And if you don't, my lord"—

He here stood bolt upright.

And tapped a tailor's sword—

"Come out at once and fight!"

Sir Hugh he called—and ran

The warden from the gate,

"Go, show this gentleman

The maid in forty-eight."

By many a cell they passed

And stopped at length before

A portal, bolted fast:

The man unlocked the door.

He called inside the gate

With coarse and brutal shout,

"Come, step it, forty-eight!"

And forty-eight stepped out.

"They gets it pretty hot,

The maidens wot we cotch—

Two years this lady's got

For collaring a wotch."

"Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,"

The troubadour exclaimed—

"If I may make so free,

How is this castle named?"

The warden's eyelids fill,

And, sighing, he replied,

"Of gloomy Pentonville

This is the Female Side!"

The minstrel did not wait

The warden stout to thank,

But recollected straight

He'd business at the Bank.

The Sun, whose rays

Are all ablaze

With ever-living glory,

Will not deny

His majesty—

He scorns to tell a story:

He won't exclaim,

"I blush for shame,

So kindly be indulgent,"

But, fierce and bold,

In fiery gold,

He glories all effulgent!

I mean to rule the earth,

As he the sky—

We really know our worth,

The Sun and I!

Observe his flame,

That placid dame,

The Moon's Celestial Highness;

There's not a trace

Upon her face

Of diffidence or shyness:

She borrows light

That, through the night,

Mankind may all acclaim her!

And, truth to tell,

She lights up well,

So I, for one, don't blame her!

Ah, pray make no mistake,

We are not shy;

We're very wide awake,

The Moon and I!

At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper

One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of love and Tupper,

Mr. Tupper and the poets, very lightly with them dealing,

For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,

And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.

Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;

If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."

There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,

There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.

Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing;

Then she let down all her back hair which had taken long in dressing.

Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,

Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.

So I whispered, "Dear Elvira, say—what can the matter be with you?

Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy, disagree with you?"

But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,

And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling then above me,

And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really, really love me?"

"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—

For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—

"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,

On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell or my Glaisher.

"Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that I may know—

Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"

But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes,

Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!"

"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet Close, or Mister Tupper,

Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honour;

And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

"Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";

But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.

Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me.

And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me:—

"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit."

Which I think must have been clever, for I didn't understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,

Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,

So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,

And his little wife was pretty, and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty—

He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?

Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer—

If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing, 'Tirer, lirer!'

"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings and the jellies,

Then I make a sugar birdcage, which upon a table swell is;

"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers;

Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers"—

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"

Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him—

And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,

"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"

But until I reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited,

And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated!

When a felon's not engaged in his employment,

Or maturing his felonious little plans,

His capacity for innocent enjoyment

Is just as great as any honest man's.

Our feelings we with difficulty smother

When constabulary duty's to be done:

Ah, take one consideration with another,

A policeman's lot is not a happy one!

When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,

When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,

He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,

And listen to the merry village chime.

When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,

He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:

Ah, take one consideration with another,

The policeman's lot is not a happy one!

Dalilah de Dardy adored

The very correctest of cards,

Lorenzo de Lardy, a lord—

He was one of Her Majesty's Guards.

Dalilah de Dardy was fat,

Dalilah de Dardy was old—

(No doubt in the world about that)

But Dalilah de Dardy had gold.

Lorenzo de Lardy was tall,

The flower of maidenly pets,

Young ladies would love at his call,

But Lorenzo de Lardy had debts.

His money-position was queer,

And one of his favourite freaks

Was to hide himself three times a year,

In Paris, for several weeks.

Many days didn't pass him before

He fanned himself into a flame,

For a beautiful "Dam du Comptwore,"

And this was her singular name:

Alice Eulalie Coraline

Euphrosine Colombina Thérèse

Juliette Stephanie Celestine

Charlotte Russe de la Sauce Mayonnaise.

She booked all the orders and tin,

Accoutred in showy fal-lal,

At a two-fifty Restaurant, in

The glittering Palais Royal.

He'd gaze in her orbit of blue,

Her hand he would tenderly squeeze,

But the words of her tongue that he knew

Were limited strictly to these:

"Coraline Celestine Eulalie,

Houp là! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo,

Combien donnez moi aujourd'hui

Bonjour, Mademoiselle, parlez voo."

Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise

Was a witty and beautiful miss,

Extremely correct in her ways,

But her English consisted of this:

"Oh my! pretty man, if you please,

Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb,

Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,

Rosbif, me spik Angleesh, godam."

A waiter, for seasons before,

Had basked in her beautiful gaze,

And burnt to dismember Milor,

He loved de la Sauce Mayonnaise.

He said to her, "Méchante Thérèse,

Avec désespoir tu m'accables.

Penses-tu, de la Sauce Mayonnaise,

Ses intentions sont honorables?

"Flirte toujours, ma belle, si tu oses—

Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère,

Je lui dirai de quoi l'on compose

Vol au vent à la Financière!"

Lord Lardy knew nothing of this—

The waiter's devotion ignored,

But he gazed on the beautiful miss,

And never seemed weary or bored.

The waiter would screw up his nerve,

His fingers he'd snap and he'd dance—

And Lord Lardy would smile and observe,

"How strange are the customs of France!"

Well, after delaying a space,

His tradesmen no longer would wait:

Returning to England apace,

He yielded himself to his fate.

Lord Lardy espoused, with a groan,

Miss Dardy's developing charms,

And agreed to tag on to his own

Her name and her newly-found arms.

The waiter he knelt at the toes

Of an ugly and thin coryphée,

Who danced in the hindermost rows

At the Théâtre des Variétés.

Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise

Didn't yield to a gnawing despair

But married a soldier, and plays

As a pretty and pert Vivandière.

Whene'er I poke

Sarcastic joke

Replete with malice spiteful,

The people vile

Politely smile

And vote me quite delightful!

Now, when a wight

Sits up all night

Ill-natured jokes devising,

And all his wiles

Are met with smiles,

It's hard, there's no disguising!

Oh, don't the days seem lank and long

When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,

And isn't your life extremely flat

With nothing whatever to grumble at!

When German bands

From music stands

Play Wagner imperfectly—

I bid them go—

They don't say no,

But off they trot directly!

The organ boys

They stop their noise

With readiness surprising,

And grinning herds

Of hurdy-gurds

Retire apologising!

Oh, don't the days seem lank and long

When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,

And isn't your life extremely flat

With nothing whatever to grumble at!

I've offered gold,

In sums untold,

To all who'd contradict me—

I've said I'd pay

A pound a day

To any one who kicked me—

I've bribed with toys

Great vulgar boys

To utter something spiteful,

But, bless you, no!

They will be so

Confoundedly politeful!

In short, these aggravating lads,

They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads,

They give me this and they give me that,

And I've nothing whatever to grumble at!

Oh, that my soul its gods could see

As years ago they seemed to me

When first I painted them;

Invested with the circumstance

Of old conventional romance:

Exploded theorem!

The bard who could, all men above,

Inflame my soul with songs of love,

And, with his verse, inspire

The craven soul who feared to die

With all the glow of chivalry

And old heroic fire;

I found him in a beerhouse tap

Awaking from a gin-born nap,

With pipe and sloven dress;

Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,

With muddy, maudlin sentiment,

And tipsy foolishness!

The novelist, whose painting pen

To legions of fictitious men

A real existence lends,

Brain-people whom we rarely fail,

Whene'er we hear their names, to hail

As old and welcome friends;

I found in clumsy snuffy suit,

In seedy glove, and blucher boot,

Uncomfortably big.

Particularly commonplace,

With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face,

And spectacles and wig.

My favourite actor who, at will,

With mimic woe my eyes could fill

With unaccustomed brine:

A being who appeared to me

(Before I knew him well) to be

A song incarnadine;

I found a coarse unpleasant man

With speckled chin—unhealthy, wan—

Of self-importance full:

Existing in an atmosphere

That reeked of gin and pipes and beer—

Conceited, fractious, dull.

The warrior whose ennobled name

Is woven with his country's fame,

Triumphant over all,

I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear;

His province seemed to be, to leer

At bonnets in Pall Mall.

Would that ye always shone, who write,

Bathed in your own innate limelight,

And ye who battles wage,

Or that in darkness I had died

Before my soul had ever sighed

To see you off the stage!

When Britain really ruled the waves—

(In good Queen Bess's time)

The House of Peers made no pretence

To intellectual eminence,

Or scholarship sublime;

Yet Britain won her proudest bays

In good Queen Bess's glorious days!

When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte,

As every child can tell,

The House of Peers, throughout the war,

Did nothing in particular,

And did it very well;

Yet Britain set the world ablaze

In good King George's glorious days!

And while the House of Peers withholds

Its legislative hand,

And noble statesmen do not itch

To interfere with matters which

They do not understand,

As bright will shine Great Britain's rays,

As in King George's glorious days!

Babette she was a fisher gal,

With jupon striped and cap in crimps.

She passed her days inside the Halle,

Or catching little nimble shrimps.

Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,

With no professional bouquet.

Jacot was, of the Customs bold,

An officer, at gay Boulogne,

He loved Babette—his love he told,

And sighed, "Oh, soyez vous my own!"

But "Non!" said she, "Jacot, my pet,

Vous êtes trop scraggy pour Babette.

"Of one alone I nightly dream,

An able mariner is he,

And gaily serves the Gen'ral Steam-

Boat Navigation Companee.

I'll marry him, if he but will—

His name, I rather think, is Bill.

"I see him when he's not aware,

Upon our hospitable coast,

Reclining with an easy air

Upon the Port against a post,

A-thinking of, I'll dare to say,

His native Chelsea far away!"

"Oh, mon!" exclaimed the Customs bold,

"Mes yeux!" he said (which means "my eye").

"Oh, chère!" he also cried, I'm told,

"Par Jove," he added, with a sigh.

"Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove!

Je n'aime pas cet enticing cove!"

The Panther's captain stood hard by,

He was a man of morals strict,

If e'er a sailor winked his eye,

Straightway he had that sailor licked,

Mast-headed all (such was his code)

Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.

He wept to think a tar of his

Should lean so gracefully on posts,

He sighed and sobbed to think of this,

On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.

"It's human natur', p'raps—if so,

Oh, isn't human natur' low!"

He called his Bill, who pulled his curl,

He said, "My Bill, I understand

You've captivated some young gurl

On this here French and foreign land.

Her tender heart your beauties jog—

They do, you know they do, you dog.

"You have a graceful way, I learn,

Of leaning airily on posts,

By which you've been and caused to burn

A tender flame on these here coasts.

A fisher gurl, I much regret,—

Her age, sixteen—her name, Babette.

"You'll marry her, you gentle tar—

Your union I myself will bless,

And when you matrimonied are,

I will appoint her stewardess."

But William hitched himself and sighed,

And cleared his throat, and thus replied:

"Not so: unless you're fond of strife,

You'd better mind your own affairs,

I have an able-bodied wife

Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs;

If all this here to her I tell,

She'll larrup you and me as well.

"Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,

Is beauty such as Venus owns—

Her beauty is beneath her skin,

And lies in layers on her bones.

The other sailors of the crew

They always calls her 'Whopping Sue!'"

"Oho!" the Captain said, "I see!

And is she then so very strong?"

"She'd take your honour's scruff," said he,

"And pitch you over to Bolong!"

"I pardon you," the Captain said,

"The fair Babette you needn't wed."

Perhaps the Customs had his will,

And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,

Perhaps the Captain and his Bill,

And William's little wife are dead;

Or p'raps they're all alive and well:

I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.

Brightly dawns our wedding day;

Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!

Whither, whither art thou fleeting?

Fickle moment, prithee stay!

What though mortal joys be hollow?

Pleasures come, if sorrows follow.

Though the tocsin sound, ere long,

Ding dong! Ding dong!

Yet until the shadows fall

Over one and over all,

Sing a merry madrigal—

Fal la!

Let us dry the ready tear;

Though the hours are surely creeping,

Little need for woeful weeping

Till the sad sundown is near.

All must sip the cup of sorrow,

I to-day and thou to-morrow:

This the close of every song—

Ding dong! Ding dong!

What though solemn shadows fall,

Sooner, later, over all?

Sing a merry madrigal—

Fal la!

Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name,

Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution

I'll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!

(As one of these must be your present portion)

Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,

And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.

You'll marry soon—within a year or twain—

A bachelor of circa two-and-thirty,

Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,

And, when you're intimate, you call him "Bertie."

Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified

As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.

You'll find him working mildly at the Bar,

After a touch at two or three professions,

From easy affluence extremely far,

A brief or two on Circuit—"soup" at Sessions;

A pound or two from whist and backing horses,

And, say, three hundred from his own resources.

Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,

His faults are not particularly shady;

You'll never find him "shy"—for, once or twice

Already, he's been driven by a lady,

Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—

Because she hasn't any further use for him.

Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!

Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,

I've told your fortune: solved the gravest care

With which your mind has hitherto been laden.

I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it;

Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!

You—only you—can tell me, an you will,

To whom I'm destined shortly to be mated,

Will she run up a heavy modiste's bill?

If so, I want to hear her income stated.

(This is a point which interests me greatly),

To quote the bard, "Oh! have I seen her lately?"

Say, must I wait till husband number one

Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?

How is her hair most usually done?

And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?

The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:

Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I'm all attention.

The Duke. Small titles and orders

For Mayors and Recorders

I get—and they're highly delighted.

M.P.s baronetted,

Sham Colonels gazetted,

And second-rate Aldermen knighted.

Foundation-stone laying

I find very paying,

It adds a large sum to my makings.

At charity dinners

The best of speech-spinners,

I get ten per cent on the takings!

The Duchess.I present any lady

Whose conduct is shady

Or smacking of doubtful propriety;

When Virtue would quash her

I take and whitewash her

And launch her in first-rate society.

I recommend acres

Of clumsy dressmakers—

Their fit and their finishing touches;

A sum in addition

They pay for permission

To say that they make for the Duchess!

The Duke. Those pressing prevailers,

The ready-made tailors,

Quote me as their great double-barrel;

I allow them to do so,

Though Robinson Crusoe

Would jib at their wearing apparel!

I sit, by selection,

Upon the direction

Of several Companies bubble;

As soon as they're floated

I'm freely bank-noted—

I'm pretty well paid for my trouble!

The Duchess.At middle-class party

I play at écarté—

And I'm by no means a beginner;

To one of my station

The remuneration—

Five guineas a night and my dinner.

I write letters blatant

On medicines patent—

And use any other you mustn't;

And vow my complexion

Derives its perfection

From somebody's soap—which it doesn't.

The Duke. We're ready as witness

To any one's fitness

To fill any place or preferment;

We're often in waiting

At junket or fêting,

And sometimes attend an interment.

In short, if you'd kindle

The spark of a swindle,

Lure simpletons into your clutches,

Or hoodwink a debtor,

You cannot do better

Than trot out a Duke or a Duchess!

I knew a boor—a clownish card

(His only friends were pigs and cows and

The poultry of a small farmyard),

Who came into two hundred thousand.

Good fortune worked no change in Brown,

Though she's a mighty social chymist;

He was a clown—and by a clown

I do not mean a pantomimist.

It left him quiet, calm, and cool,

Though hardly knowing what a crown was—

You can't imagine what a fool

Poor rich uneducated Brown was!

He scouted all who wished to come

And give him monetary schooling;

And I propose to give you some

Idea of his insensate fooling.

I formed a company or two—

(Of course I don't know what the rest meant,

I formed them solely with a view

To help him to a sound investment).

Their objects were—their only cares—

To justify their Boards in showing

A handsome dividend on shares

And keep their good promoter going.

But no—the lout sticks to his brass,

Though shares at par I freely proffer:

Yet—will it be believed?—the ass

Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!

He adds, with bumpkin's stolid grin

(A weakly intellect denoting),

He'd rather not invest it in

A company of my promoting!

"You have two hundred 'thou' or more,"

Said I. "You'll waste it, lose it, lend it;

Come, take my furnished second floor,

I'll gladly show you how to spend it."

But will it be believed that he,

With grin upon his face of poppy,

Declined my aid, while thanking me

For what he called my "philanthroppy"?

Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice

In doubting friends who wouldn't harm them;

They will not hear the charmer's voice,

However wisely he may charm them!

I showed him that his coat, all dust,

Top boots and cords provoked compassion,

And proved that men of station must

Conform to the decrees of fashion.

I showed him where to buy his hat,

To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;

But no—he wouldn't hear of that—

"He didn't think the style would suit him!"

I offered him a county seat,

And made no end of an oration;

I made it certainty complete,

And introduced the deputation.

But no—the clown my prospect blights—

(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)

"Why should I want to spend my nights

In Parliament, a-making speeches?

"I haven't never been to school—

I ain't had not no eddication—

And I should surely be a fool

To publish that to all the nation!"

I offered him a trotting horse—

No hack had ever trotted faster—

I also offered him, of course,

A rare and curious "old master."

I offered to procure him weeds—

Wines fit for one in his position—

But, though an ass in all his deeds,

He'd learnt the meaning of "commission."

He called me "thief" the other day,

And daily from his door he thrusts me;

Much more of this, and soon I may

Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me.

So deaf to all sound Reason's rule

This poor uneducated clown is,

You cannot fancy what a fool

Poor rich uneducated Brown is.

The air is charged with amatory numbers—

Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays.

Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers

The aching memory of the old, old days?

Time was when Love and I were well acquainted;

Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;

A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,

None better loved than I in all the land!

Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,

Forsaking even military men,

Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration—

Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!

Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled;

Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear;

Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled;

And when I coughed all thought the end was near!

I had no care—no jealous doubts hung o'er me—

For I was loved beyond all other men.

Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me—

Ah me, I was a pale young curate then!

Of all the youths I ever saw

None were so wicked, vain, or silly,

So lost to shame and Sabbath law

As worldly Tom, and Bob, and Billy.

For every Sabbath day they walked

(Such was their gay and thoughtless natur')

In parks or gardens, where they talked

From three to six, or even later.

Sir Macklin was a priest severe

In conduct and in conversation,

It did a sinner good to hear

Him deal in ratiocination.

He could in every action show

Some sin, and nobody could doubt him.

He argued high, he argued low,

He also argued round about him.

He wept to think each thoughtless youth

Contained of wickedness a skinful,

And burnt to teach the awful truth,

That walking out on Sunday's sinful.

"Oh, youths," said he, "I grieve to find

The course of life you've been and hit on—

Sit down," said he, "and never mind

The pennies for the chairs you sit on.

"My opening head is 'Kensington,'

How walking there the sinner hardens;

Which when I have enlarged upon,

I go to 'Secondly'—its Gardens.

"My 'Thirdly' comprehendeth 'Hyde,'

Of Secrecy the guilts and shameses;

My 'Fourthly'—'Park'—its verdure wide—

My 'Fifthly' comprehends 'St. James's.'

"That matter settled I shall reach

The 'Sixthly' in my solemn tether,

And show that what is true of each,

Is also true of all, together.

"Then I shall demonstrate to you,

According to the rules of Whately.

That what is true of all, is true

Of each, considered separately."

In lavish stream his accents flow,

Tom, Bob, and Billy dare not flout him;

He argued high, he argued low,

He also argued round about him.

"Ha, ha!" he said, "you loathe your ways,

Repentance on your souls is dawning,

In agony your hands you raise."

(And so they did, for they were yawning.)

To "Twenty-firstly" on they go,

The lads do not attempt to scout him;

He argued high, he argued low,

He also argued round about him.

"Ho, ho!" he cries, "you bow your crests—

My eloquence has set you weeping;

In shame you bend upon your breasts!"

(They bent their heads, for they were sleeping.)

He proved them this—he proved them that—

This good but wearisome ascetic;

He jumped and thumped upon his hat,

He was so very energetic.

His bishop at this moment chanced

To pass, and found the road encumbered;

He noticed how the Churchman danced,

And how his congregation slumbered.

The hundred and eleventh head

The priest completed of his stricture;

"Oh, bosh!" the worthy bishop said,

And walked him off, as in the picture.

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,

I've got a little list—I've got a little list

Of social offenders who might well be underground,

And who never would be missed—who never would be missed!

There's the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs—

All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs—

All children who are up in dates, and floor you with 'em flat—

All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like that—

And all third persons who on spoiling tête-à-têtes insist—

They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed!

There's the banjo serenader, and the others of his race,

And the piano organist—I've got him on the list!

And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face,

They never would be missed—they never would be missed!

Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone,

All centuries but this, and every country but his own;

And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy,

And who "doesn't think she waltzes, but would rather like to try";

And that fin-de-siècle anomaly, the scorching motorist—

I don't think he'd be missed—I'm sure he'd not be missed!

And that Nisi Prius nuisance, who just now is rather rife,

The Judicial humorist—I've got him on the list!

All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life—

They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed!

And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind,

Such as—What-d'ye-call-him—Thing'em-Bob, and likewise—Never-mind,

And 'St—'st—'st—and What's-his-name, and also—You-know-who—

(The task of filling up the blanks I'd rather leave to you!)

But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list,

For they'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed!

'Twas on the shores that round our coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea,

But I'll eat my hand if I understand

How you can possibly be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,

He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,

Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul),

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot

The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite

We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,

And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which

Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose

And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'—

'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,

And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,

While I can—and will—cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,

And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell,

"'Twill soothing be if I let you see,

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,

And—as I eating be

The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never grin, and I never smile,

And I never larf nor play,

But I sit and croak, and a single joke

I have—which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

They intend to send a wire

To the moon;

And they'll set the Thames on fire

Very soon;

Then they learn to make silk purses

With their rigs

From the ears of Lady Circe's

Piggy-wigs.

And weasels at their slumbers

They'll trepan;

To get sunbeams from cucumbers

They've a plan.

They've a firmly rooted notion

They can cross the Polar Ocean,

And they'll find Perpetual Motion

If they can!

These are the phenomena

That every pretty domina

Hopes that we shall see

At this Universitee!

As for fashion, they forswear it,

So they say,

And the circle—they will square it

Some fine day;

Then the little pigs they're teaching

For to fly;

And the niggers they'll be bleaching

By-and-by!

Each newly joined aspirant

To the clan

Must repudiate the tyrant

Known as Man;

They mock at him and flout him,

For they do not care about him,

And they're "going to do without him"

If they can!

These are the phenomena

That every pretty domina

Hopes that we shall see

At this Universitee!

From east and south the holy clan

Of Bishops gathered, to a man;

To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,

In flocking crowds they came.

Among them was a Bishop, who

Had lately been appointed to

The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,

And Peter was his name.

His people—twenty-three in sum—

They played the eloquent tum-tum,

And lived on scalps served up in rum—

The only sauce they knew.

When first good Bishop Peter came

(For Peter was that Bishop's name),

To humour them, he did the same

As they of Rum-ti-Foo.

His flock, I've often heard him tell,

(His name was Peter) loved him well,

And summoned by the sound of bell,

In crowds together came.

"Oh, massa, why you go away?

Oh, Massa Peter, please to stay."

(They called him Peter, people say,

Because it was his name.)

He told them all good boys to be,

And sailed away across the sea,

At London Bridge that Bishop he

Arrived one Tuesday night—

And as forthwith he homeward strode

To his Pan-Anglican abode,

He passed along the Borough Road

And saw a gruesome sight.

He saw a crowd assembled round

A person dancing on the ground,

Who straight began to leap and bound

With all his might and main.

To see that dancing man he stopped,

Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,

Then down incontinently dropped,

And then sprang up again.

The Bishop chuckled at the sight,

"This style of dancing would delight

A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite,

I'll learn it if I can,

To please the tribe when I get back."

He begged the man to teach his knack.

"Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack,"

Replied that dancing man.

The dancing man he worked away—

And taught the Bishop every day—

The dancer skipped like any fay—

Good Peter did the same.

The Bishop buckled to his task

With battements, cuts, and pas de basque

(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,

That Peter was his name).

"Come, walk like this," the dancer said,

"Stick out your toes—stick in your head,

Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread—

Your fingers thus extend;

The attitude's considered quaint."

The weary Bishop, feeling faint,

Replied, "I do not say it ain't,

But Time, my Christian friend."

"We now proceed to something new—

Dance as the Paynes and Lauris do,

Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two."

The Bishop, never proud,

But in an overwhelming heat

(His name was Peter, I repeat)

Performed the Payne and Lauri feat,

And puffed his thanks aloud.

Another game the dancer planned—

"Just take your ankle in your hand,

And try, my lord, if you can stand—

Your body stiff and stark.

If, when revisiting your see,

You learnt to hop on shore—like me—

The novelty would striking be,

And must attract remark."

"No," said the worthy Bishop, "No;

That is a length to which, I trow,

Colonial Bishops cannot go.

You may express surprise

At finding Bishops deal in pride—

But, if that trick I ever tried,

I should appear undignified

In Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes.

"The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo

Are well-conducted persons, who

Approve a joke as much as you,

And laugh at it as such;

But if they saw their Bishop land,

His leg supported in his hand,

The joke they wouldn't understand—

'Twould pain them very much!"

Braid the raven hair,

Weave the supple tress,

Deck the maiden fair

In her loveliness;

Paint the pretty face,

Dye the coral lip,

Emphasise the grace

Of her ladyship!

Art and nature, thus allied,

Go to make a pretty bride!

Sit with downcast eye,

Let it brim with dew;

Try if you can cry,

We will do so, too.

When you're summoned, start

Like a frightened roe;

Flutter, little heart,

Colour, come and go!

Modesty at marriage tide

Well becomes a pretty bride!

(To be sung to the Air of the "Whistling Oyster.")

An elderly person—a prophet by trade—

With his quips and tips

On withered old lips,

He married a young and a beautiful maid;

The cunning old blade,

Though rather decayed,

He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.

She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be.

With her tempting smiles

And maidenly wiles,

And he was a trifle of seventy-three:

Now what she could see

Is a puzzle to me,

In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three!

Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bade)

With their loud high jinks

And underbred winks

None thought they'd a family have—but they had;

A singular lad

Who drove 'em half mad,

He proved such a horribly fast little cad.

For when he was born he astonished all by,

With their "Law, dear me!"

"Did ever you see?"

He'd a weed in his mouth and a glass in his eye,

A hat all awry—

An octagon tie,

And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye.

He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,

With his "Oh dear, no!"

And his "Hang it! 'oo know!"

And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap—

"My friends, it's a tap

Dat is not worf a rap."

(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)

He'd chuck his nurse under the chin, and he'd say,

With his "Fal, lal, lal"—

"'Oo doosed fine gal!"

This shocking precocity drove 'em away:

"A month from to-day

Is as long as I'll stay—

Then I'd wish, if you please, for to go, if I may."

His father, a simple old gentleman, he

With nursery rhyme

And "Once on a time,"

Would tell him the story of "Little Bo-P,"

"So pretty was she,

So pretty and wee,

As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be."

But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,

With his "C'ck! Oh my!—

Go along wiz 'oo, fie!"

Would exclaim, "I'm afraid 'oo a socking ole fox."

Now a father it shocks,

And it whitens his locks

When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.

The name of his father he'd couple and pair

(With his ill-bred laugh,

And insolent chaff)

With those of the nursery heroines rare;

Virginia the fair,

Or Good Goldenhair,

Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.

"There's Jill and White Cat" (said the bold little brat,

With his loud, "Ha, ha!")

"'Oo sly ickle pa!

Wiz 'oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and 'oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!

I've noticed 'oo pat

My pretty White Cat—

I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!"

He early determined to marry and wive,

For better or worse

With his elderly nurse—

Which the poor little boy didn't live to contrive:

His health didn't thrive—

No longer alive,

He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!

MORAL

Now elderly men of the bachelor crew,

With wrinkled hose

And spectacled nose,

Don't marry at all—you may take it as true

If ever you do

The step you will rue,

For your babes will be elderly—elderly too.

Rising early in the morning,

We proceed to light the fire,

Then our Majesty adorning

In its work-a-day attire,

We embark without delay

On the duties of the day.

First, we polish off some batches

Of political despatches,

And foreign politicians circumvent;

Then, if business isn't heavy,

We may hold a Royal levée,

Or ratify some Acts of Parliament:

Then we probably review the household troops—

With the usual "Shalloo humps" and "Shalloo hoops!"

Or receive with ceremonial and state

An interesting Eastern Potentate.

After that we generally

Go and dress our private valet—

(It's a rather nervous duty—he a touchy little man)—

Write some letters literary

For our private secretary—

(He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.)

Then, in view of cravings inner,

We go down and order dinner;

Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate—

Spend an hour in titivating

All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;

Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.

Oh, philosophers may sing

Of the troubles of a King,

Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great;

But the privilege and pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!

After luncheon (making merry

On a bun and glass of sherry),

If we've nothing in particular to do,

We may make a Proclamation,

Or receive a Deputation—

Then we possibly create a Peer or two.

Then we help a fellow-creature on his path

With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:

Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State

To a festival, a function, or a fête.

Then we go and stand as sentry

At the Palace (private entry),

Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,

While the warrior on duty

Goes in search of beer and beauty

(And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go).

He relieves us, if he's able,

Just in time to lay the table,

Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,

With a pleasure that's emphatic,

Then we seek our little attic

With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.

Oh, philosophers may sing

Of the troubles of a King,

But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;

And the culminating pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!

"Gentle, modest, little flower,

Sweet epitome of May,

Love me but for half-an-hour,

Love me, love me, little fay."

Sentences so fiercely flaming

In your tiny shell-like ear,

I should always be exclaiming

If I loved you, Phœbe, dear.

"Smiles that thrill from any distance

Shed upon me while I sing!

Please ecstaticise existence,

Love me, oh thou fairy thing!"

Words like these, outpouring sadly.

You'd perpetually hear,

If I loved you, fondly, madly;—

But I do not, Phœbe, dear.

A lady fair, of lineage high,

Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by—

The Maid was radiant as the sun,

The Ape was a most unsightly one—

So it would not do—

His scheme fell through;

For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,

Expressed such terror

At his monstrous error,

That he stammered an apology and made his 'scape,

The picture of a disconcerted Ape.

With a view to rise in the social scale,

He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail,

He grew moustachios, and he took his tub,

And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.

But it would not do,

The scheme fell through—

For the Maid was Beauty's fairest Queen,

With golden tresses,

Like a real princess's,

While the Ape, despite his razor keen,

Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits.

He crammed his feet into bright tight boots.

And to start his life on a brand-new plan,

He christened himself Darwinian Man!

But it would not do,

The scheme fell through—

For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,

Was a radiant Being,

With a brain far-seeing—

While a Man, however well-behaved,

At best is only a monkey shaved!

Of all the good attorneys who

Have placed their names upon the roll,

But few could equal Baines Carew

For tender-heartedness and soul.

Whene'er he heard a tale of woe

From client A or client B,

His grief would overcome him so,

He'd scarce have strength to take his fee.

It laid him up for many days,

When duty led him to distrain;

And serving writs, although it pays,

Gave him excruciating pain.

He made out costs, distrained for rent,

Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye—

No bill of costs could represent

The value of such sympathy.

No charges can approximate

The worth of sympathy with woe;—

Although I think I ought to state

He did his best to make them so.

Of all the many clients who

Had mustered round his legal flag,

No single client of the crew

Was half so dear as Captain Bagg.

Now Captain Bagg had bowed him to

A heavy matrimonial yoke:

His wifey had of faults a few—

She never could resist a joke.

Her chaff at first he meekly bore,

Till unendurable it grew.

"To stop this persecution sore

I will consult my friend Carew.

"And when Carew's advice I've got,

Divorce a mensâ I shall try.'"

(A legal separation—not

A vinculo conjugii.)

"O Baines Carew, my woe I've kept

A secret hitherto, you know;"—

(And Baines Carew, Esquire, he wept

To hear that Bagg had any woe).

"My case, indeed, is passing sad,

My wife—whom I considered true—

With brutal conduct drives me mad."

"I am appalled," said Baines Carew.

"What! sound the matrimonial knell

Of worthy people such as these!

Why was I an attorney? Well—

Go on to the sævitia, please."

'Domestic bliss has proved my bane,

A harder case you never heard,

My wife (in other matters sane)

Pretends that I'm a Dicky Bird!

"She makes me sing, 'Too-whit, too-wee!'

And stand upon a rounded stick,

And always introduces me

To every one as 'Pretty Dick'!"

"Oh dear," said weeping Baines Carew,

"This is the direst case I know"—

"I'm grieved," said Bagg, "at paining you,

To Cobb and Polterthwaite I'll go.

"To Cobb's cold calculating ear

My gruesome sorrows I'll impart"—

"No; stop," said Baines, "I'll dry my tear

And steel my sympathetic heart!"

"She makes me perch upon a tree,

Rewarding me with, 'Sweety—nice!'

And threatens to exhibit me

With four or five performing mice."

"Restrain my tears I wish I could"

(Said Baines), "I don't know what to do."

Said Captain Bagg, "You're very good."

"Oh, not at all," said Baines Carew,

"She makes me fire a gun," said Bagg;

"And at a preconcerted word

Climb up a ladder with a flag,

Like any street-performing bird.

"She places sugar in my way—

In public places calls me 'Sweet!'—

She gives me groundsel every day,

And hard canary seed to eat."

"Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!"

(Said Baines), "Be good enough to stop."

And senseless on the floor he fell

With unpremeditated flop.

Said Captain Bagg, "Well, really I

Am grieved to think it pains you so.

I thank you for your sympathy;

But, hang it—come—I say, you know!"

But Baines lay flat upon the floor,

Convulsed with sympathetic sob—

The Captain toddled off next door,

And gave the case to Mr. Cobb.

To a garden full of posies

Cometh one to gather flowers,

And he wanders through its bowers

Toying with the wanton roses,

Who, uprising from their beds,

Hold on high their shameless heads

With their pretty lips a-pouting,

Never doubting—never doubting

That for Cytherean posies

He would gather aught but roses.

In a nest of weeds and nettles,

Lay a violet, half hidden;

Hoping that his glance unbidden

Yet might fall upon her petals.

Though she lived alone, apart,

Hope lay nestling at her heart,

But, alas! the cruel awaking

Set her little heart a-breaking,

For he gathered for his posies

Only roses—only roses!

In all the towns and cities fair

On Merry England's broad expanse,

No swordsman ever could compare

With Thomas Winterbottom Hance.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew

A silken handkerchief in twain,

Divide a leg of mutton, too—

And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,

His sabre sometimes he'd employ—

No bar of lead, however thick,

Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare

To hew and slash, behind, before—

Which aggravated Monsieur Pierre,

Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good Pierre to swear and dance,

The sight annoyed and vexed him so;

He was the bravest man in France—

He said so, and he ought to know.

'Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros—

Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!

Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots!

Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie

Give no retaliating whack—

Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi—

Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the zealous lad

Cut lead and mutton more and more;

And every day, poor Pierre, half mad,

Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

Hance had a mother, poor and old,

A simple, harmless village dame,

Who crowed and clapped as people told

Of Winterbottom's rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot

To see my Tommy's sabre-play";

And so she left her leafy cot,

And walked to Dover in a day.

Pierre had a doting mother, who

Had heard of his defiant rage:

His ma was nearly eighty-two,

And rather dressy for her age.

At Hance's doings every morn,

With sheer delight his mother cried;

And Monsieur Pierre's contemptuous scorn

Filled his mamma with proper pride.

But Hance's powers began to fail—

His constitution was not strong—

And Pierre, who once was stout and hale,

Grew thin from shouting all day long.

Their mothers saw them pale and wan,

Maternal anguish tore each breast,

And so they met to find a plan

To set their offsprings' minds at rest.

Said Mrs. Hance, "Of course I shrinks

From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,

But still they'd better meet, I thinks."

"Assurément!" said Madame Pierre.

A sunny spot in sunny France

Was hit upon for this affair;

The ground was picked by Mrs. Hance,

The stakes were pitched by Madame Pierre.

Said Mrs. H., "Your work you see—

Go in, my noble boy, and win."

"En garde, mon fils!" said Madame P.

"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"

Loud sneered the doughty man of France,

"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!"

"The French for 'Pish!'" said Thomas Hance.

Said Pierre, "L'anglais, Monsieur, pour 'bah!'"

Said Mrs. H., "Come, one! two! three!—

We're sittin' here to see all fair";

"C'est magnifique!" said Madame P.,

"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"

"Je scorn un foe si lâche que vous,"

Said Pierre, the doughty son of France.

"I fight not coward foe like you!"

Said our undaunted Tommy Hance.

"The French for 'Pooh!'" our Tommy cried.

"L'anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed.

And so, with undiminished pride,

Each went on his respective road.

Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;

Though I own that my heart has been ranging,

Of nature the laws I obey,

For nature is constantly changing.

The moon in her phases is found,

The time and the wind and the weather,

The months in succession come round,

And you don't find two Mondays together.

Consider the moral, I pray,

Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,

Who loves this young lady to-day,

And loves that young lady to-morrow!

You cannot eat breakfast all day,

Nor is it the act of a sinner,

When breakfast is taken away,

To turn your attention to dinner;

And it's not in the range of belief

That you could hold him as a glutton,

Who, when he is tired of beef,

Determines to tackle the mutton.

But this I am ready to say,

If it will diminish their sorrow,

I'll marry this lady to-day,

And I'll marry that lady to-morrow!

A gentleman of City fame

Now claims your kind attention;

West India broking was his game,

His name I shall not mention;

No one of finely pointed sense

Would violate a confidence,

And shall I go

And do it? No.

His name I shall not mention.

He had a trusty wife and true,

And very cosy quarters,

A manager, a boy or two,

Six clerks, and seven porters.

A broker must be doing well

(As any lunatic can tell)

Who can employ

An active boy,

Six clerks, and seven porters.

His knocker advertised no dun,

No losses made him sulky,

He had one sorrow—only one—

He was extremely bulky.

A man must be, I beg to state,

Exceptionally fortunate

Who owns his chief

And only grief

Is being very bulky.

"This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear,

I'm nineteen stone or twenty!

Henceforward I'll go in for air

And exercise in plenty."

Most people think that, should it come,

They can reduce a bulging tum

To measures fair

By taking air

And exercise in plenty.

In every weather, every day,

Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,

He took to dancing all the way

From Brompton to the City.

You do not often get the chance

Of seeing sugar-brokers dance

From their abode

In Fulham Road

Through Brompton to the City.

He braved the gay and guileless laugh

Of children with their nusses,

The loud uneducated chaff

Of clerks on omnibuses.

Against all minor things that rack

A nicely balanced mind, I'll back

The noisy chaff

And ill-bred laugh

Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money chink,

And saw the house he rented,

And knew his wife, could never think

What made him discontented.

It never struck their simple minds

That fads are of eccentric kinds,

Nor would they own

That fat alone

Could make one discontented.

"Your riches know no kind of pause,

Your trade is fast advancing,

You dance—but not for joy, because

You weep as you are dancing.

To dance implies that man is glad,

To weep implies that man is sad.

But here are you

Who do the two—

You weep as you are dancing!"

His mania soon got noised about

And into all the papers—

His size increased beyond a doubt

For all his reckless capers:

It may seem singular to you,

But all his friends admit it true—

The more he found

His figure round,

The more he cut his capers.

His bulk increased—no matter that—

He tried the more to toss it—

He never spoke of it as "fat"

But "adipose deposit."

Upon my word, it seems to me

Unpardonable vanity

(And worse than that)

To call your fat

An "adipose deposit."

At length his brawny knees gave way,

And on the carpet sinking,

Upon his shapeless back he lay

And kicked away like winking.

Instead of seeing in his state

The finger of unswerving Fate,

He laboured still

To work his will,

And kicked away like winking.

His friends, disgusted with him now,

Away in silence wended—

I hardly like to tell you how

This dreadful story ended.

The shocking sequel to impart,

I must employ the limner's art—

If you would know,

This sketch will show

How his exertions ended.

MORAL

I hate to preach—I hate to prate—

I'm no fanatic croaker,

But learn contentment from the fate

Of this West India broker.

He'd everything a man of taste

Could ever want, except a waist:

And discontent

His size anent,

And bootless perseverance blind,

Completely wrecked the peace of mind

Of this West India broker.

Oh! is there not one maiden breast

Which does not feel the moral beauty

Of making worldly interest

Subordinate to sense of duty?

Who would not give up willingly

All matrimonial ambition

To rescue such a one as I

From his unfortunate position?

Oh, is there not one maiden here,

Whose homely face and bad complexion

Have caused all hopes to disappear

Of ever winning man's affection?

To such a one, if such there be,

I swear by heaven's arch above you,

If you will cast your eyes on me,—-

However plain you be—I'll love you!

Vast, empty shell!

Impertinent, preposterous abortion:

With vacant stare,

And ragged hair,

And every feature out of all proportion!

Embodiment of echoing inanity,

Excellent type of simpering insanity,

Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity,

I ring thy knell!

To-night thou diest,

Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity!

Twelve weeks of nights

Before the lights,

Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,

I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,

Credited for the smile you wear externally—

I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,

As there thou liest!

I've been thy brain:

I've been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!

The human race

Invest my face

With thine expression of unchecked depravity:

Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,

I've been responsible for thy monstrosity,

I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity—

But not again!

'Tis time to toll

Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:

A twelve weeks' run,

And thou hast done

All thou canst do to make thyself inimical.

Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!

Excellent type of simpering insanity!

Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!

Freed is thy soul!

(The Mask respondeth.)

Oh! master mine,

Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.

Art thou aware

Of nothing there

Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?

A brain that mourns thine unredeemed rascality?

A soul that weeps at thy threadbare morality?

Both grieving that their individuality

Is merged in thine?

Dr. Belville was regarded as the Crichton of his age:

His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;

His poems held a noble rank, although it's very true

That, being very proper, they were read by very few.

He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the "line,"

And even Mr. Ruskin came and worshipped at his shrine;

But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high—

The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy;

And everybody said

"How can he be repaid—

This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?"

But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!

He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,

A plan for making everybody's fortune but his own;

For, in business, an Inventor's little better than a fool,

And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule.

His poems—people read them in the Quarterly Reviews—

His pictures—they engraved them in the Illustrated News—

His inventions—they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees,

But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;

And everybody said

"How can he be repaid—

This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?"

But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!

At last the point was given up in absolute despair,

When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire,

With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,

And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House!

Then it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewards

Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords!

And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,

As this very great—this very good—this very gifted man?

(Though I'm more than half afraid

That it sometimes may be said

That we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride,

However great his merits—if his cousin hadn't died!)

O'er unreclaimed suburban clays

Some years ago were hobblin'

An elderly ghost of easy ways,

And an influential goblin.

The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,

A fine old five-act fogy,

The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,

A fine low-comedy bogy.

And as they exercised their joints,

Promoting quick digestion,

They talked on several curious points,

And raised this pregnant question:

"Which of us two is Number One—

The ghostie, or the goblin?"

And o'er the point they raised in fun

They fairly fell a-squabblin'.

They'd barely speak, and each, in fine,

Grew more and more reflective,

Each thought his own particular line

By far the more effective.

At length they settled some one should

By each of them be haunted,

And so arranged that either could

Exert his prowess vaunted.

"The Quaint against the Statuesque"—

By competition lawful—

The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,

The ghost the Grandly Awful.

"Now," said the goblin, "here's my plan—

In attitude commanding,

I see a stalwart Englishman

By yonder tailor's standing.

"The very fittest man on earth

My influence to try on—

Of gentle, p'raps of noble birth,

And dauntless as a lion!

Now wrap yourself within your shroud—

Remain in easy hearing—

Observe—you'll hear him scream aloud

When I begin appearing!"

The imp with yell unearthly—wild—

Threw off his dark enclosure:

His dauntless victim looked and smiled

With singular composure.

For hours he tried to daunt the youth,

For days, indeed, but vainly—

The stripling smiled!—to tell the truth,

The stripling smiled inanely.

For weeks the goblin weird and wild,

That noble stripling haunted;

For weeks the stripling stood and smiled

Unmoved and all undaunted.

The sombre ghost exclaimed, "Your plan

Has failed you, goblin, plainly:

Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,

So stalwart and ungainly.

"These are the men who chase the roe,

Whose footsteps never falter,

Who bring with them where'er they go

A smack of old Sir Walter.

Of such as he, the men sublime

Who lead their troops victorious,

Whose deeds go down to after-time,

Enshrined in annals glorious!

"Of such as he the bard has said

'Hech thrawfu' raltie rawkie!

Wi' thecht ta' croonie clapperhead

And fash' wi' unco pawkie!'

He'll faint away when I appear

Upon his native heather;

Or p'raps he'll only scream with fear,

Or p'raps the two together."

The spectre showed himself, alone,

To do his ghostly battling,

With curdling groan and dismal moan

And lots of chains a-rattling!

But no—the chiel's stout Gaelic stuff

Withstood all ghostly harrying,

His fingers closed upon the snuff

Which upwards he was carrying.

For days that ghost declined to stir,

A foggy, shapeless giant—

For weeks that splendid officer

Stared back again defiant!

Just as the Englishman returned

The goblin's vulgar staring,

Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned

The ghost's unmannered scaring.

For several years the ghostly twain

These Britons bold have haunted,

But all their efforts are in vain—

Their victims stand undaunted.

Unto this day the imp and ghost

(Whose powers the imp derided)

Stand each at his allotted post—

The bet is undecided.

A Magnet hung in a hardware shop,

And all around was a loving crop

Of scissors and needles, nails and knives,

Offering love for all their lives;

But for iron the Magnet felt no whim,

Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,

From needles and nails and knives he'd turn,

For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn!

His most æsthetic,

Very magnetic

Fancy took this turn—

"If I can wheedle

A knife or needle,

Why not a Silver Churn?"

And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,

The needles opened their well-drilled eyes,

The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt,

The scissors declared themselves "cut out,"

The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said,

While every nail went off its head,

And hither and thither began to roam,

Till a hammer came up—and drove it home.

While this magnetic

Peripatetic

Lover he lived to learn,

By no endeavour,

Can Magnet ever

Attract a Silver Churn!

King Borria Bungalee Boo

Was a man-eating African swell;

His sigh was a hullaballoo,

His whisper a horrible yell—

A horrible, horrible yell!

Four subjects, and all of them male,

To Borria doubled the knee,

They were once on a far larger scale,

But he'd eaten the balance, you see

("Scale" and "balance" is punning, you see).

There was haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah.

There was lumbering Doodle-Dum-Deh.

Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah,

And good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—

Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh.

One day there was grief in the crew,

For they hadn't a morsel of meat,

And Borria Bungalee Boo

Was dying for something to eat—

"Come, provide me with something to eat!

"Alack-a-Dey, famished I feel;

Oh, good little Tootle-Tum-Teh,

Where on earth shall I look for a meal?

For I haven't had dinner to-day!—

Not a morsel of dinner to-day!

"Dear Tootle-Tum, what shall we do?

Come, get us a meal, or in truth,

If you don't we shall have to eat you,

Oh, adorable friend of our youth!

Thou beloved little friend of our youth!"

And he answered, "Oh, Bungalee Boo,

For a moment I hope you will wait,—

Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo

Is the Queen of a neighbouring state—

A remarkably neighbouring state.

"Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo,

She would pickle deliciously cold—

And her four pretty Amazons, too,

Are enticing, and not very old—

Twenty-seven is not very old.

"There is neat little Titty-Fol-Leh,

There is rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah,

There is jocular Waggety-Weh,

There is musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah—

There's the nightingale Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah!"

So the forces of Bungalee Boo

Marched forth in a terrible row,

And the ladies who fought for Queen Loo

Prepared to encounter the foe—

This dreadful insatiate foe!

But they sharpened no weapons at all,

And they poisoned no arrows—not they!

They made ready to conquer or fall

In a totally different way—

A perfectly different way.

With a crimson and pearly-white dye

They endeavoured to make themselves fair;

With black they encircled each eye,

And with yellow they painted their hair.

(It was wool, but they thought it was hair.)

The warriors met in the field:

And the men of King Borria said,

"Amazonians, immediately yield!"

And their arrows they drew to the head—

Yes, drew them right up to the head.

But jocular Waggety-Weh

Ogled Doodle-Dum-Deh (which was wrong),

And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh

Said, "Tootle-Tum, you go along!

You naughty old dear, go along!"

And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah

Tapped Alack-a-Dey-Ah with her fan;

And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah

Said, "Pish, go away, you bad man!

Go away, you delightful young man!"

And the Amazons simpered and sighed,

And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,

And they opened their pretty eyes wide,

And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed

(At least, if they could, they'd have blushed).

But haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah

Said, "Alack-a-Dey, what does this mean?"

And despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah

Said, "They think us uncommonly green—

Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!"

Even blundering Doodle-Dum-Deh

Was insensible quite to their leers,

And said good little Tootle-Tum-Teh,

"It's your blood that we're wanting, my dears—

We have come for our dinners, my dears!"

And the Queen of the Amazons fell

To Borria Bungalee Boo,—

In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,

Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo—

The pretty Queen Tol-the-Rol-Loo.

And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh

Was eaten by Pish-Pooh-Bah,

And light-hearted Waggety-Weh

By dismal Alack-a-Dey-Ah—

Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah.

And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah

Was eaten by Doodle-Dum-Deh,

And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah

By good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—-

Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh.

Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,

If you listen to popular rumour;

From morning to night he's so joyous and bright,

And he bubbles with wit and good humour!

He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;

Yet though people forgive his transgression,

There are one or two rules that all Family Fools

Must observe, if they love their profession.

There are one or two rules,

Half-a-dozen, maybe,

That all family fools,

Of whatever degree,

Must observe if they love their profession.

If you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll need

To consider each person's auricular:

What is all right for B would quite scandalise C

(For C is so very particular);

And D may be dull, and E's very thick skull

Is as empty of brains as a ladle;

While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,

That he's known your best joke from his cradle!

When your humour they flout,

You can't let yourself go;

And it does put you out

When a person says, "Oh!

I have known that old joke from my cradle!"

If your master is surly, from getting up early

(And tempers are short in the morning),

An inopportune joke is enough to provoke

Him to give you, at once, a month's warning.

Then if you refrain, he is at you again,

For he likes to get value for money:

He'll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,

"If you know that you're paid to be funny?"

It adds to the tasks

Of a merryman's place,

When your principal asks,

With a scowl on his face,

If you know that you're paid to be funny?

Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.—

Oh, beware of his anger provoking!

Better not pull his hair—don't stick pins in his chair;

He won't understand practical joking.

If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,

You may get a bland smile from these sages;

But should it, by chance, be imported from France,

Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!

It's a general rule,

Though your zeal it may quench,

If the Family Fool

Makes a joke that's too French,

Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!

Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,

And your senses with toothache you're losing,

And you're mopy and flat—they don't fine you for that

If you're properly quaint and amusing!

Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,

And took with her your trifle of money;

Bless your heart, they don't mind—they're exceedingly kind—

They don't blame you—as long as you're funny!

It's a comfort to feel

If your partner should flit,

Though you suffer a deal,

They don't mind it a bit—

They don't blame you—so long as you're funny!

I've often thought that headstrong youths

Of decent education

Determine all-important truths

With strange precipitation.

The ever-ready victims they,

Of logical illusions,

And in a self-assertive way

They jump at strange conclusions.

Now take my case: Ere sorrow could

My ample forehead wrinkle,

I had determined that I should

Not care to be a winkle.

"A winkle," I would oft advance

With readiness provoking,

"Can seldom flirt, and never dance,

Or soothe his mind by smoking."

In short, I spurned the shelly joy,

And spoke with strange decision—

Men pointed to me as a boy

Who held them in derision.

But I was young—too young, by far—

Or I had been more wary,

I knew not then that winkles are

The stock-in-trade of Mary.

I had not watched her sunlight blithe

As o'er their shells it dances—

I've seen those winkles almost writhe

Beneath her beaming glances.

Of slighting all the winkly brood

I surely had been chary,

If I had known they formed the food

And stock-in-trade of Mary.

Both high and low and great and small

Fell prostrate at her tootsies,

They all were noblemen, and all

Had balances at Coutts's.

Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,

Duke Bailey and Duke Humphy,

Who ate her winkles till they felt

Exceedingly uncomfy.

Duke Bailey greatest wealth computes,

And sticks, they say, at no-thing,

He wears a pair of golden boots

And silver underclothing.

Duke Humphy, as I understand,

Though mentally acuter,

His boots are only silver, and

His underclothing pewter.

A third adorer had the girl,

A man of lowly station—

A miserable grov'ling Earl

Besought her approbation.

This humble cad she did refuse

With much contempt and loathing,

He wore a pair of leather shoes

And cambric underclothing!

"Ha! ha!" she cried. "Upon my word!

Well, really—come, I never!

Oh, go along, it's too absurd!

My goodness! Did you ever?

"Two Dukes would Mary make a bride,

And from her foes defend her"—

"Well, not exactly that," they cried,

"We offer guilty splendour.

"We do not offer marriage rite,

So please dismiss the notion!"

"Oh dear," said she, "that alters quite

The state of my emotion."

The Earl he up and says, says he,

"Dismiss them to their orgies,

For I am game to marry thee

Quite reg'lar at St. George's."

(He'd had, it happily befell,

A decent education,

His views would have befitted well

A far superior station.)

His sterling worth had worked a cure,

She never heard him grumble;

She saw his soul was good and pure,

Although his rank was humble.

Her views of earldoms and their lot,

All underwent expansion—

Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot!

Go, Vice in ducal mansion!

I cannot tell what this love may be

That cometh to all but not to me.

It cannot be kind as they'd imply,

Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?

It cannot be joy and rapture deep,

Or why do these gentle ladies weep?

It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,

Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit

Who foolishly hug and foster it.

If love is a weed, how simple they

Who gather and gather it, day by day!

If love is a nettle that makes you smart,

Why do you wear it next your heart?

And if it be neither of these, say I,

Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

(To be sung to the Air of "An 'Orrible Tale.")

Oh list to this incredible tale

Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale;

Its truth in one remark you'll sum—

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

Oh, Thomson Green was an auctioneer,

And made three hundred pounds a year;

And Harriet Hale, most strange to say,

Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.

Oh, Thomson Green, I may remark,

Met Harriet Hale in Regent's Park,

Where he, in a casual kind of way,

Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.

They met again, and strange, though true,

He courted her for a month or two,

Then to her pa he said, says he,

"Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!"

Their names were regularly banned,

The wedding day was settled, and

I've ascertained by dint of search

They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot's Church.

Oh, list to this incredible tale

Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,

Its truth in one remark you'll sum—

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

That very self-same afternoon

They started on their honeymoon,

And (oh, astonishment!) took flight

To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.

But now—you'll doubt my word, I know—

In a month they both returned, and lo!

Astounding fact! this happy pair

Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!

They led a weird and reckless life,

They dined each day, this man and wife

(Pray disbelieve it, if you please),

On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.

In time came those maternal joys

Which take the form of girls or boys,

And strange to say of each they'd one—

A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!

Oh, list to this incredible tale

Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,

Its truth in one remark you'll sum—

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

My name for truth, is gone, I fear,

But, monstrous as it may appear,

They let their drawing-room one day

To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.

Whenever Thomson Green fell sick

His wife called in a doctor, quick,

From whom some words like these would come—

Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.

For thirty years this curious pair

Hung out in Canonbury Square,

And somehow, wonderful to say,

They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.

Well, Thomson Green fell ill and died;

For just a year his widow cried,

And then her heart she gave away

To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.

Oh, list to this incredible tale

Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,

Its truth in one remark you'll sum—

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

Take a pair of sparkling eyes,

Hidden, ever and anon,

In a merciful eclipse—

Do not heed their mild surprise—

Having passed the Rubicon,

Take a pair of rosy lips;

Take a figure trimly planned—

Such as admiration whets

(Be particular in this);

Take a tender little hand,

Fringed with dainty fingerettes,

Press it—in parenthesis;—

Take all these, you lucky man—

Take and keep them, if you can.

Take a pretty little cot—

Quite a miniature affair—

Hung about with trellised vine.

Furnish it upon the spot

With the treasures rich and rare

I've endeavoured to define.

Live to love and love to live—

You will ripen at your ease,

Growing on the sunny side—

Fate has nothing more to give.

You're a dainty man to please

If you are not satisfied.

Take my counsel, happy man:

Act upon it, if you can!

Bob Polter was a navvy, and

His hands were coarse, and dirty too,

His homely face was rough and tanned,

His time of life was thirty-two.

He lived among a working clan

(A wife he hadn't got at all),

A decent, steady, sober man—

No saint, however—not at all

He smoked, but in a modest way,

Because he thought he needed it;

He drank a pot of beer a day,

And sometimes he exceeded it.

At times he'd pass with other men

A loud convivial night or two,

With, very likely, now and then,

On Saturdays, a fight or two.

But still he was a sober soul,

A labour-never-shirking man,

Who paid his way—upon the whole,

A decent English working-man.

One day, when at the Nelson's Head

(For which he may be blamed of you),

A holy man appeared and said,

"Oh, Robert, I'm ashamed of you."

He laid his hand on Robert's beer

Before he could drink up any,

And on the floor, with sigh and tear,

He poured the pot of "thruppenny."

"Oh, Robert, at this very bar,

A truth you'll be discovering,

A good and evil genius are

Around your noddle hovering.

"They both are here to bid you shun

The other one's society,

For Total Abstinence is one,

The other, Inebriety."

He waved his hand—a vapour came—

A wizard, Polter reckoned him:

A bogy rose and called his name,

And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster's salient points to sum,

His breath was hot as cautery;

His glowing nose suggested rum;

His eyes were gin-and-watery.

His dress was torn—for dregs of ale

And slops of gin had rusted it;

His pimpled face was wan and pale,

Where filth had not encrusted it.

"Come, Polter," said the fiend, "begin,

And keep the bowl a-flowing on—

A working-man needs pints of gin

To keep his clockwork going on."

Bob shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss,

If you take me for one of you—

You filthy brute, get out of this—

Bob Polter don't want none of you."

The demon gave a drunken shriek,

And crept away in stealthiness,

And lo, instead, a person sleek

Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

"In me, as your adviser hints,

Of Abstinence you've got a type—

Of Mr. Tweedie's pretty prints

I am the happy prototype.

"If you abjure the social toast,

And pipes, and such frivolities,

You possibly some day may boast

My prepossessing qualities!"

Bob rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink.

"You almost make me tremble, you!

If I abjure fermented drink,

Shall I, indeed, resemble you?

"And will my whiskers curl so tight?

My cheeks grow smug and muttony?

My face become so pink and white?

My coat so blue and buttony?

"Will trousers, such as yours, array

Extremities inferior?

Will chubbiness assert its sway

All over my exterior?

"In this, my unenlightened state,

To work in heavy boots I comes—

Will pumps henceforward decorate

My tiddle toddle tootsicums?

"And shall I get so plump and fresh,

And look no longer seedily?

My skin will henceforth fit my flesh

So tightly and so Tweedie-ly?"

The phantom said, "You'll have all this,

You'll have no kind of huffiness,

Your life will be one chubby bliss,

One long unruffled puffiness!"

"Be off," said irritated Bob,

"Why come you here to bother one?

You pharisaical old snob,

You're wuss, almost, than t'other one!

"I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,

And drunk I'm never seen to be,

I'm no teetotaller or sot,

And as I am I mean to be!"

He. I have a song to sing, O!

She. Sing me your song, O!

He. It is sung to the moon

By a love-lorn loon,

Who fled from the mocking throng, O!

It's the song of a merryman, moping mum,

Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,

Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye.

Heighdy! heighdy!

Misery me—lackadaydee!

He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

She. I have a song to sing, O!

He. Sing me your song, O!

She. It is sung with the ring

Of the song maids sing

Who love with a love life-long, O!

It's the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,

Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud

At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,

Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,

Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

Heighdy! heighdy!

Misery me—lackadaydee!

He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

He. I have a song to sing, O!

She. Sing me your song, O!

He. It is sung to the knell

Of a churchyard bell,

And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!

It's a song of a popinjay, bravely born,

Who turned up his noble nose with scorn

At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,

Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud

At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,

Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,

Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

Heighdy! heighdy!

Misery me—lackadaydee!

He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

She. I have a song to sing, O!

He. Sing me your song, O!

She. It is sung with a sigh

And a tear in the eye,

For it tells of a righted wrong, O!

It's a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,

Who turned on her heel and tripped away

From the peacock popinjay, bravely born,

Who turned up his noble nose with scorn

At the humble heart that he did not prize;

And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes,

For the love of a merryman, moping mum,

Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,

Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,

As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

Both. Heighdy! heighdy!

Misery me—lackadaydee!

His pains were o'er, and he sighed no more,

For he lived in the love of a ladye!

MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS

M'CLAN

Was the son of an elderly labouring man,

You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,

And p'raps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the hills of Deeside,

Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde.

There wasn't a child or a woman or man

Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan.

No other could wake such detestable groans,

With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:

All day and all night he delighted the chiels

With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,

And the neighbouring maidens would gather around

To list to his pipes and to gaze in his e'en,

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

All loved their M'Clan, save a Sassenach brute,

Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;

He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,

Though his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.

Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense

To make him a Scotchman in every sense;

But this is a matter, you'll readily own,

That isn't a question of tailors alone.

A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,

He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;

Stick a skean in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—

But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

Clonglocketty's pipings all night and all day

Quite frenzied poor Pattison Corby Torbay;

The girls were amused at his singular spleen,

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

"Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad,

With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad;

If you really must play on that cursed affair,

My goodness! play something resembling an air."

Boiled over the blood of Macphairson M'Clan—

The clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;

For all were enraged at the insult, I ween—

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

"Let's show," said M'Clan, "to this Sassenach loon

That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.

Let's see," said M'Clan, as he thoughtfully sat,

"'In My Cottage' is easy—I'll practise at that."

He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will,

For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until

(You'll hardly believe it) M'Clan, I declare,

Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—

It wandered about into several keys;

It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware,

But still it distinctly suggested an air.

The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced,

He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced;

And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene,

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;

And fill a' yer lugs wi' the exquisite sound.

An air frae the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!

Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan!"

The fame of his piping spread over the land:

Respectable widows proposed for his hand,

And maidens came flocking to sit on the green—

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore

He'd stand it no longer—he drew his claymore,

And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste),

Divided Clonglocketty close to the waist.

Oh! loud were the wailings for Angus M'Clan—

Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man—

The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene,

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

It sorrowed poor Pattison Corby Torbay

To find them "take on" in this serious way,

He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,

And solaced their souls with the following words:—

"Oh, maidens," said Pattison, touching his hat,

"Don't snivel, my dears, for a fellow like that;

Observe, I'm a very superior man,

A much better fellow than Angus M'Clan."

They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears,"

And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,

A pleasanter gentleman never was seen—

Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

The law is the true embodiment

Of everything that's excellent.

It has no kind of fault or flaw,

And I, my lords, embody the Law.

The constitutional guardian I

Of pretty young Wards in Chancery,

All very agreeable girls—and none

Is over the age of twenty-one.

A pleasant occupation for

A rather susceptible Chancellor!

But though the compliment implied

Inflates me with legitimate pride,

It nevertheless can't be denied

That it has its inconvenient side.

For I'm not so old, and not so plain,

And I'm quite prepared to marry again,

But there'd be the deuce to pay in the Lords

If I fell in love with one of my Wards:

Which rather tries my temper, for

I'm such a susceptible Chancellor!

And every one who'd marry a Ward

Must come to me for my accord:

So in my court I sit all day,

Giving agreeable girls away,

With one for him—and one for he—

And one for you—and one for ye-

And one for thou—and one for thee—

But never, oh never a one for me!

Which is exasperating for

A highly susceptible Chancellor!

Policeman Peter Forth I drag

From his obscure retreat:

He was a merry, genial wag,

Who loved a mad conceit.

If he were asked the time of day

By country bumpkins green,

He not unfrequently would say,

"A quarter past thirteen."

If ever you by word of mouth

Enquired of Mister Forth

The way to somewhere in the South,

He always sent you North.

With little boys his beat along

He loved to stop and play;

He loved to send old ladies wrong,

And teach their feet to stray.

He would in frolic moments, when

Such mischief bent upon,

Take Bishops up as betting men—

Bid Ministers move on.

Then all the worthy boys he knew

He regularly licked,

And always collared people who

Had had their pockets picked.

He was not naturally bad,

Or viciously inclined,

But from his early youth he had

A waggish turn of mind.

The Men of London grimly scowled

With indignation wild;

The Men of London gruffly growled,

But Peter calmly smiled.

Against this minion of the Crown

The swelling murmurs grew—

From Camberwell to Kentish Town—

From Rotherhithe to Kew.

Still humoured he his wagsome turn,

And fed in various ways

The coward rage that dared to burn

But did not dare to blaze.

Still, Retribution has her day

Although her flight is slow:

One day that Crusher lost his way

Near Poland Street, Soho.

The haughty youth, too proud to ask,

To find his way resolved,

And in the tangle of his task

Got more and more involved.

The Men of London, overjoyed,

Came there to jeer their foe—

And flocking crowds completely cloyed

The mazes of Soho.

The news, on telegraphic wires,

Sped swiftly o'er the lea—

Excursion trains from distant shires

Brought myriads to see.

For weeks he trod his self-made beats

Through Newport, Gerrard, Bear,

Greek, Rupert, Frith, Dean, Poland Streets,

And into Golden Square:

But all, alas, in vain, for when

He tried to learn the way

Of little boys or grown-up men

They none of them would say.

Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—

Their lips would tightly curl—

They'd say, "Thy way thyself must find,

Thou misdirecting churl!"

And, similarly, also, when

He tried a foreign friend;

Italians answered, "Il balen"—

The French, "No comprehend."

The Russ would say with gleaming eye

"Sevastopol!" and groan.

The Greek said, "Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,

Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων."

To wander thus for many a year

That Crusher never ceased—

The Men of London dropped a tear,

Their anger was appeased.

At length exploring gangs were sent

To find poor Forth's remains—

A handsome grant by Parliament

Was voted for their pains.

To seek the poor policeman out

Bold spirits volunteered,

And when at length they solved the doubt

The Men of London cheered.

And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,

They found him, on the floor—

(It leads from Richmond Buildings—near

The Royalty stage-door.)

With brandy cold and brandy hot

They plied him, starved and wet,

And made him sergeant on the spot—

The Men of London's pet!

When a merry maiden marries,

Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;

Every sound becomes a song,

All is right and nothing's wrong!

From to-day and ever after

Let your tears be tears of laughter—

Every sigh that finds a vent

Be a sigh of sweet content!

When you marry merry maiden,

Then the air with love is laden;

Every flower is a rose,

Every goose becomes a swan,

Every kind of trouble goes

Where the last year's snows have gone;

Sunlight takes the place of shade

When you marry merry maid!

When a merry maiden marries

Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;

Every sound becomes a song,

All is right, and nothing's wrong.

Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,

Get ye gone until to-morrow;

Jealousies in grim array,

Ye are things of yesterday!

When you marry merry maiden,

Then the air with joy is laden;

All the corners of the earth

Ring with music sweetly played,

Worry is melodious mirth,

Grief is joy in masquerade;

Sullen night is laughing day—

All the year is merry May!

There were three niggers of Chickeraboo—

Pacifico, Bang-bang, Popchop—who

Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day,

"Oh, let's be kings in a humble way."

The first was a highly-accomplished "bones,"

The next elicited banjo tones,

The third was a quiet, retiring chap,

Who danced an excellent break-down "flap."

"We niggers," said they, "have formed a plan

By which, whenever we like, we can

Extemporise kingdoms near the beach,

And then we'll collar a kingdom each.

"Three casks, from somebody else's stores,

Shall represent our island shores,

Their sides the ocean wide shall lave,

Their heads just topping the briny wave.

"Great Britain's navy scours the sea,

And everywhere her ships they be;

She'll recognise our rank, perhaps,

When she discovers we're Royal Chaps.

"If to her skirts you want to cling,

It's quite sufficient that you're a king;

She does not push inquiry far

To learn what sort of king you are."

A ship of several thousand tons,

And mounting seventy-something guns,

Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,

Discovering kings and countries new.

The brave Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip,

Commanding that magnificent ship,

Perceived one day, his glasses through,

The kings that came from Chickeraboo.

"Dear eyes!" said Admiral Pip, "I see

Three flourishing islands on our lee.

And, bless me! most remarkable thing!

On every island stands a king!

"Come, lower the Admiral's gig," he cried,

"And over the dancing waves I'll glide;

That low obeisance I may do

To those three kings of Chickeraboo!"

The Admiral pulled to the islands three;

The kings saluted him graciouslee.

The Admiral, pleased at his welcome warm,

Unrolled a printed Alliance form.

"Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray—

I come in a friendly kind of way—

I come, if you please, with the best intents,

And Queen Victoria's compliments."

The kings were pleased as they well could be;

The most retiring of the three

In a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave vent

With a banjo-bones accompaniment.

The great Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip

Embarked on board his jolly big ship,

Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,

And off he sailed to his native shore.

Admiral Pip directly went

To the Lord at the head of the Government,

Who made him, by a stroke of a quill,

Baron de Pippe, of Pippetonneville.

The College of Heralds permission yield

That he should quarter upon his shield

Three islands, vert, on a field of blue,

With the pregnant motto "Chickeraboo."

Ambassadors, yes, and attachés, too,

Are going to sail for Chickeraboo.

And, see, on the good ship's crowded deck,

A bishop, who's going out there on spec.

And let us all hope that blissful things

May come of alliance with darky kings.

And, may we never, whatever we do,

Declare a war with Chickeraboo!

A British tar is a soaring soul,

As free as a mountain bird,

His energetic fist should be ready to resist

A dictatorial word.

His nose should pant and his lip should curl,

His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl,

His bosom should heave and his heart should glow

And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.

His eyes should flash with an inborn fire,

His brow with scorn be wrung;

He never should bow down to a domineering frown.

Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.

His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,

His hair should twirl and his face should scowl;

His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,

And this should be his customary attitude!

It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown,

Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;

Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;

But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day

A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;

She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,

That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,

She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten,

A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road

(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).

But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise

To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;

So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed—

The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

"Oh, holy father," Alice said, "'twould grieve you, would it not?

To discover that I was a most disreputable lot!

Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!"

The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,

I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad.

I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,

And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear—

And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear—

It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;

But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind;

Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:

We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—

Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six"

"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep,

You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—

Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;

But oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,—

I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies;

He passes by it every day as certain as can be—

I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"

"For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word

This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.

Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand

To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!

They are the most remunerative customers I know;

For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors,

I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

"The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood

Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;

And if you marry any one respectable at all,

Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,

And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown;

To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,

Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well,

He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;

I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,

And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two;

Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do,

A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall

When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;

He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware;

He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,

And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,

She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,

Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand

On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

A man who would woo a fair maid

Should 'prentice himself to the trade;

And study all day,

In methodical way,

How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.

He should 'prentice himself at fourteen,

And practise from morning to e'en;

And when he's of age,

If he will, I'll engage,

He may capture the heart of a queen!

It is purely a matter of skill,

Which all may attain if they will:

But every Jack

He must study the knack

If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

If he's made the best use of his time,

His twig he'll so carefully lime

That every bird

Will come down at his word.

Whatever its plumage or clime.

He must learn that the thrill of a touch

May mean little, or nothing, or much;

It's an instrument rare,

To be handled with care,

And ought to be treated as such.

It is purely a matter of skill,

Which all may attain if they will:

But every Jack,

He must study the knack

If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

Then a glance may be timid or free;

It will vary in mighty degree,

From an impudent stare

To a look of despair

That no maid without pity can see.

And a glance of despair is no guide—

It may have its ridiculous side;

It may draw you a tear

Or a box on the ear;

You can never be sure till you've tried.

It is purely a matter of skill,

Which all may attain if they will:

But every Jack

He must study the knack

If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells—

I'm a dealer in magic and spells,

In blessings and curses,

And ever-filled purses,

In prophecies, witches, and knells!

If you want a proud foe to "make tracks"—

If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax—

You've but to look in

On our resident Djinn,

Number seventy, Simmery Axe.

We've a first-class assortment of magic;

And for raising a posthumous shade

With effects that are comic or tragic,

There's no cheaper house in the trade.

Love-philtre—we've quantities of it;

And for knowledge if any one burns,

We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet

Who brings us unbounded returns:

For he can prophesy

With a wink of his eye,

Peep with security

Into futurity,

Sum up your history,

Clear up a mystery,

Humour proclivity

For a nativity.

With mirrors so magical,

Tetrapods tragical,

Bogies spectacular,

Answers oracular,

Facts astronomical,

Solemn or comical,

And, if you want it, he

Makes a reduction on taking a quantity!

Oh!

If any one anything lacks,

He'll find it all ready in stacks,

If he'll only look in

On the resident Djinn,

Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

He can raise you hosts

Of ghosts,

And that without reflectors;

And creepy things

With wings,

And gaunt and grisly spectres!

He can fill you crowds

Of shrouds,

And horrify you vastly;

He can rack your brains

With chains,

And gibberings grim and ghastly.

Then, if you plan it, he

Changes organity

With an urbanity

Full of Satanity,

Vexes humanity

With an inanity

Fatal to vanity—

Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.

Barring tautology,

In demonology,

'Lectro-biology,

Mystic nosology,

Spirit philology,

High-class astrology,

Such is his knowledge, he

Isn't the man to require an apology!

Oh!

My name is John Wellington Wells,
I'm a dealer in magic and spells,

In blessings and curses,

And ever-filled purses—

In prophecies, witches, and knells.
If any one anything lacks,
He'll find it all ready in stacks,

If he'll only look in

On the resident Djinn,

Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

I'm old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief,

My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief!

For terrible sights I've seen, and dangers great I've run—

I'm nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done!

Ah! I've been young in my time, and I've played the deuce with men!

I'm speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then:

My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet,

Poll Pineapple's eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet!

A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships

With apples and cakes, and fowls and beer, and halfpenny dips,

And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights,

And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites.

Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay,

By far the sweetest of all was kind Lieutenant Belaye.

Lieutenant Belaye commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun,

She was seven and seventy feet in length, and she carried a gun.

With the laudable view of enhancing his country's naval pride,

When people inquired her size, Lieutenant Belaye replied,

"Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Twenty-ones!"

Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns.

Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below,

"Come down, Little Buttercup, come" (for he loved to call me so),

And he'd tell of the fights at sea in which he'd taken a part,

And so Lieutenant Belaye won poor Poll Pineapple's heart!

But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he,

"I'm ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea."

And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day,

For every Portsmouth maid loved good Lieutenant Belaye.

And I went to a back back street, with plenty of cheap cheap shops,

And I bought an oilskin hat, and a second-hand suit of slops,

And I went to Lieutenant Belaye (and he never suspected me!)

And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea.

We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one,—

Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun.

I'm sorry to say that I've heard that sailors sometimes swear,

But I never yet heard a Bun say anything wrong, I declare.

When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a "Messmate, ho! What cheer?"

But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was "How do you do, my dear?"

When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big D—

But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild "Dear me!"

Yet, though they were all well bred, you could scarcely call them slick:

Whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick;

And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair,

They spent more time than a sailor should on his back back hair.

They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run,

And they screamed when Lieutenant Belaye discharged his only gun.

And as he was proud of his gun—such pride is hardly wrong—

The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long.

They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said

That Bill had a way of his own of making his lips look red—

That Joe looked quite his age—or somebody might declare

That Barnacle's long pig-tail was never his own own hair.

Belaye would admit that his men were of no great use to him,

"But then," he would say, "there is little to do on a gunboat trim.

I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too—

And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew."

I saw him every day! How the happy moments sped!

Reef topsails! Make all taut! There's dirty weather ahead!

(I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun:

In that case, I don't know whatever we should have done!)

After a fortnight's cruise we put into port one day,

And off on leave for a week went kind Lieutenant Belaye,

And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life),

Lieutenant Belaye returned to his ship with a fair young wife!

He up, and he says, says he, "Oh, crew of the Hot Cross Bun,

Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!"

And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits,

And all fell down in so many separate fainting fits.

And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be,

And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me,

Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor's blue array,

To follow the shifting fate of kind Lieutenant Belaye!

It's strange to think that I should ever have loved young men,

But I'm speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then;

And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow!

And poor Poll Pineapple's eyes have lost their lustre now!

Sighing softly to the river

Comes the loving breeze,

Setting nature all a-quiver,

Rustling through the trees!

And the brook in rippling measure

Laughs for very love,

While the poplars, in their pleasure,

Wave their arms above!

River, river, little river,

May thy loving prosper ever.

Heaven speed thee, poplar tree.

May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover,

When he wings away,

Brook and poplar mourn a lover!

Sighing well-a-day!

Ah, the doing and undoing

That the rogue could tell!

When the breeze is out a-wooing,

Who can woo so well?

Pretty brook, thy dream is over

For thy love is but a rover!

Sad the lot of poplar trees,

Courted by the fickle breeze!

Good children, list, if you're inclined,

And wicked children too—

This pretty ballad is designed

Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold—

Each traits distinctive had:

The younger was as good as gold,

The elder was as bad.

A wicked, disobedient son

Was James M'Alpine, and

A contrast to the elder one,

Good Applebody Bland.

M'Alpine—brutes like him are few—

In greediness delights,

A melancholy victim to

Unchastened appetites.

Good, well-bred children every day

He ravenously ate,—

All boys were fish who found their way

Into M'Alpine's net:

Boys whose good breeding is innate,

Whose sums are always right;

And boys who don't expostulate

When sent to bed at night,

And kindly boys who never search

The nests of birds of song;

And serious boys for whom, in church,

No sermon is too long.

Contrast with James's greedy haste

And comprehensive hand,

The nice discriminating taste

Of Applebody Bland.

Bland only eats bad boys, who swear—

Who can behave, but don't—

Disgraceful lads who say "don't care,"

And "shan't," and "can't," and "won't."

Who wet their shoes and learn to box,

And say what isn't true,

Who bite their nails and jam their frocks,

And make long noses too;

Who kick a nurse's aged shin,

And sit in sulky mopes;

And boys who twirl poor kittens in

Distracting zoëtropes.

But James, when he was quite a youth,

Had often been to school,

And though so bad, to tell the truth,

He wasn't quite a fool.

At logic few with him could vie;

To his peculiar sect

He could propose a fallacy

With singular effect.

So, when his Mentors said, "Expound—

Why eat good children—why?"

Upon his Mentors he would round

With this absurd reply:

"I have been taught to love the good—

The pure—the unalloyed—

And wicked boys, I've understood,

I always should avoid.

"Why do I eat good children—why?

Because I love them so!"

(But this was empty sophistry,

As your Papa can show.)

Now, though the learning of his friends

Was truly not immense,

They had a way of fitting ends

By rule of common sense.

"Away, away!" his Mentors cried,

"Thou uncongenial pest!

A quirk's a thing we can't abide,

A quibble we detest!

"A fallacy in your reply

Our intellect descries,

Although we don't pretend to spy

Exactly where it lies.

"In misery and penal woes

Must end a glutton's joys;

And learn how ogres punish those

Who dare to eat good boys.

"Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain,

And gagged securely—so—

You shall be placed in Drury Lane,

Where only good lads go.

"Surrounded there by virtuous boys,

You'll suffer torture wus

Than that which constantly annoys

Disgraceful Tantalus.

("If you would learn the woes that vex

Poor Tantalus, down there,

Pray borrow of Papa an ex-

Purgated Lempriere.)

"But as for Bland who, as it seems,

Eats only naughty boys,

We've planned a recompense that teems

With gastronomic joys.

"Where wicked youths in crowds are stowed

He shall unquestioned rule,

And have the run of Hackney Road

Reformatory School!"

When I was a lad I served a term

As office boy to an Attorney's firm;

I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,

And I polished up the handle of the big front door.

I polished up that handle so successfullee,

That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

As office boy I made such a mark

That they gave me the post of a junior clerk;

I served the writs with a smile so bland,

And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.

I copied all the letters in a hand so free,

That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

In serving writs I made such a name

That an articled clerk I soon became;

I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit

For the Pass Examination at the Institute:

And that Pass Examination did so well for me,

That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip

That they took me into the partnership,

And that junior partnership, I ween,

Was the only ship that I ever had seen:

But that kind of ship so suited me,

That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

I grew so rich that I was sent

By a pocket borough into Parliament;

I always voted at my Party's call,

And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.

I thought so little, they rewarded me,

By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be,

If you want to rise to the top of the tree—

If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,

Be careful to be guided by this golden rule—

Stick close to your desks and never go to sea,

And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navee!

Earl Joyce he was a kind old party

Whom nothing ever could put out,

Though eighty-two, he still was hearty,

Excepting as regarded gout.

He had one unexampled daughter,

The Lady Minnie-haha Joyce,

Fair Minnie-haha, "Laughing Water,"

So called from her melodious voice.

By Nature planned for lover-capture,

Her beauty every heart assailed;

The good old nobleman with rapture

Observed how widely she prevailed.

Aloof from all the lordly flockings

Of titled swells who worshipped her,

There stood, in pumps and cotton stockings,

One humble lover—Oliver.

He was no peer by Fortune petted,

His name recalled no bygone age;

He was no lordling coronetted—

Alas! he was a simple page!

With vain appeals he never bored her,

But stood in silent sorrow by—

He knew how fondly he adored her,

And knew, alas! how hopelessly!

Well grounded by a village tutor

In languages alive and past,

He'd say unto himself, "Knee-suitor,

Oh, do not go beyond your last!"

But though his name could boast no handle,

He could not every hope resign;

As moths will hover round a candle,

So hovered he about her shrine.

The brilliant candle dazed the moth well:

One day she sang to her Papa

The air that Marie sings with Bothwell

In Niedermeyer's opera.

(Therein a stable boy, it's stated,

Devoutly loved a noble dame,

Who ardently reciprocated

His rather injudicious flame.)

And then, before the piano closing

(He listened coyly at the door),

She sang a song of her composing—

I give one verse from half a score:

Why, pretty page, art ever sighing?

Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying?

Come, set a-ringing

Thy laugh entrancing,

And ever singing

And ever dancing.

Ever singing, Tra! la! la!

Ever dancing, Tra! la! la!

Ever singing, ever dancing,

Ever singing, Tra! la! la!

He skipped for joy like little muttons,

He danced like Esmeralda's kid.

(She did not mean a boy in buttons,

Although he fancied that she did.)

Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her,

He wore out many pairs of soles;

He danced when taking down the dinner—

He danced when bringing up the coals.

He danced and sang (however laden)

With his incessant "Tra! la! la!"

Which much surprised the noble maiden,

And puzzled even her Papa.

He nourished now his flame and fanned it,

He even danced at work below.

The upper servants wouldn't stand it,

And Bowles the butler told him so.

At length on impulse acting blindly,

His love he laid completely bare;

The gentle Earl received him kindly

And told the lad to take a chair.

"Oh, sir," the suitor uttered sadly,

"Don't give your indignation vent;

I fear you think I'm acting madly,

Perhaps you think me insolent?"

The kindly Earl repelled the notion;

His noble bosom heaved a sigh,

His fingers trembled with emotion,

A tear stood in his mild blue eye:

For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly

The half-forgotten time when he,

A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly

A governess of forty-three!

"My boy," he said, in tone consoling,

"Give up this idle fancy—do—

The song you heard my daughter trolling

Did not, indeed, refer to you.

"I feel for you, poor boy, acutely;

I would not wish to give you pain;

Your pangs I estimate minutely,—

I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.

"But still your humble rank and station

For Minnie surely are not meet"—

He said much more in conversation

Which it were needless to repeat.

Now I'm prepared to bet a guinea,

Were this a mere dramatic case,

The page would have eloped with Minnie.

But, no—he only left his place.

The simple Truth is my detective,

With me Sensation can't abide;

The Likely beats the mere Effective,

And Nature is my only guide.

Oh, listen to the tale of Mister William, if you please,

Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas.

He forged a party's will, which caused anxiety and strife,

Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.

He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone,

Instead of taking others' gold, to give away his own.

But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike—

To plan one little wickedness—to see what it was like.

He argued with himself, and said, "A spotless man am I;

I can't be more respectable, however hard I try;

For six and thirty years I've always been as good as gold,

And now for half-an-hour I'll deal in infamy untold!

"A baby who is wicked at the early age of one,

And then reforms—and dies at thirty-six a spotless son,

Is never, never saddled with his babyhood's defect,

But earns from worthy men consideration and respect.

"So one who never revelled in discreditable tricks

Until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six,

Is free for half-an-hour to perpetrate a deed of shame,

Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.

"That babies don't commit such crimes as forgery is true,

But little sins develop, if you leave 'em to accrue;

And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll,

Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.

"The common sin of babyhood—objecting to be drest—

If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest,

For anything you know, may represent, if you're alive,

A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.

"Still, I wouldn't take advantage of this fact, but be content

With some pardonable folly—it's a mere experiment.

The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin;

So with something that's particularly tempting I'll begin.

"I would not steal a penny, for my income's very fair—

I do not want a penny—I have pennies and to spare—

And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till,

The sin would be enormous—the temptation being nil.

"But if I broke asunder all such pettifogging bounds,

And forged a party's Will for (say) Five Hundred Thousand Pounds,

With such an irresistible temptation to a haul,

Of course the sin must be infinitesimally small.

"There's Wilson who is dying—he has wealth from Stock and rent—

If I divert his riches from their natural descent,

I'm placed in a position to indulge each little whim."

So he diverted them—and they, in turn, diverted him.

Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw,

Temptation isn't recognised by Britain's Common Law;

Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch,

And William got a "lifer," which annoyed him very much.

For ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol,

He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale;

He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him so,

That his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low.

And sympathetic gaolers would remark, "It's very true,

He ain't been brought up common, like the likes of me and you."

So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops,

And chocolate, and arrowroot, and buns, and malt and hops.

Kind clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate,

Affected by the details of his pitiable state.

They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall,

Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call.

"Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case:

A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace;

It's telling on young William, who's reduced to skin and bone—

Remember he's a gentleman, with money of his own.

"He had an ample income, and of course he stands in need

Of sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed;

No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips—

He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips.

"He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude;

He says he cannot relish the disgusting prison food,

For when a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad,

And other educational advantages he's had.

"A burglar or garrotter, or, indeed, a common thief

Is very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef,

Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,—

A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward.

"But beef and mutton-broth don't seem to suit our William's whim,

A boon to other prisoners—a punishment to him:

It never was intended that the discipline of gaol

Should dash a convict's spirits, sir, or make him thin or pale."

"Good Gracious Me!" that sympathetic Secretary cried,

"Suppose in prison fetters Mister William should have died!

Dear me, of course! Imprisonment for Life his sentence saith:

I'm very glad you mentioned it—it might have been For Death!

"Release him with a ticket—he'll be better then, no doubt,

And tell him I apologise." So Mister William's out.

I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I'm sure,

And not begin experimentalising any more.

Would you know the kind of maid

Sets my heart a flame-a?

Eyes must be downcast and staid,

Cheeks must flush for shame-a!

She may neither dance nor sing,

But, demure in everything,

Hang her head in modest way

With pouting lips that seem to say,

"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,

Though I die of shame-a!"

Please you, that's the kind of maid

Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay

With a tongue goes clang-a,

Flaunting it in brave array,

Maiden may go hang-a!

Sunflower gay and hollyhock

Never shall my garden stock;

Mine the blushing rose of May,

With pouting lips that seem to say

"Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,

Though I die for shame-a!"

Please you, that's the kind of maid

Sets my heart a flame-a!

A proud Pasha was Bailey Ben,

His wives were three, his tails were ten;

His form was dignified, but stout,

Men called him "Little Roundabout."

His Importance

Pale Pilgrims came from o'er the sea

To wait on Pasha Bailey B.,

All bearing presents in a crowd,

For B. was poor as well as proud.

His Presents

They brought him onions strung on ropes,

And cold boiled beef, and telescopes,

And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns,

And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns.

More of them

They brought him white kid gloves, and pails,

And candlesticks, and potted quails,

And capstan-bars, and scales and weights,

And ornaments for empty grates.

Why I mention these

My tale is not of these—oh no!

I only mention them to show

The divers gifts that divers men

Brought o'er the sea to Bailey Ben.

His Confidant

A confidant had Bailey B.,

A gay Mongolian dog was he;

I am not good at Turkish names,

And so I call him Simple James.

His Confidant's Countenance

A dreadful legend you might trace

In Simple James's honest face,

For there you read, in Nature's print,

"A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint."

His Character

A deed of blood, or fire, or flames,

Was meat and drink to Simple James:

To hide his guilt he did not plan,

But owned himself a bad young man.

The Author to his Reader

And why on earth good Bailey Ben

(The wisest, noblest, best of men)

Made Simple James his right-hand man

Is quite beyond my mental span.

The same, continued

But there—enough of gruesome deeds!

My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds;

And so let Simple James take wing,—

'Tis not of him I'm going to sing.

The Pasha's Clerk

Good Pasha Bailey kept a clerk

(For Bailey only made his mark),

His name was Matthew Wycombe Coo,

A man of nearly forty-two.

His Accomplishments

No person that I ever knew

Could "yödel" half as well as Coo,

And Highlanders exclaimed, "Eh, weel!"

When Coo began to dance a reel.

His Kindness to the Pasha's Wives

He used to dance and sing and play

In such an unaffected way,

He cheered the unexciting lives

Of Pasha Bailey's lovely wives.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I encumber you

With histories of Matthew Coo?

Let Matthew Coo at once take wing.—

'Tis not of Coo I'm going to sing.

The Author's Muse

Let me recall my wandering Muse

She shall be steady if I choose—

She roves, instead of helping me

To tell the deeds of Bailey B.

The Pasha's Visitor

One morning knocked, at half-past eight,

A tall Red Indian at his gate.

In Turkey, as you're p'raps aware,

Red Indians are extremely rare.

The Visitor's Outfit

Mocassins decked his graceful legs,

His eyes were black, and round as eggs,

And on his neck, instead of beads,

Hung several Catawampous seeds.

What the Visitor said

"Ho, ho!" he said, "thou pale-faced one,

Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,

You've never seen the Red Man skip

Upon the banks of Mississip!"

The Author's Moderation

To say that Bailey oped his eyes

Would feebly paint his great surprise—

To say it almost made him die

Would be to paint it much too high.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I ransack my head

To tell you all that Indian said;

We'll let the Indian man take wing,—

'Tis not of him I'm going to sing.

The Reader to the Author

Come, come, I say, that's quite enough

Of this absurd disjointed stuff;

Now let's get on to that affair

About Lieutenant-Colonel Flare.

The earth has armies plenty,

And semi-warlike bands,

I dare say there are twenty

In European lands;

But, oh! in no direction

You'd find one to compare

In brotherly affection

With that of Colonel Flare.

His soldiers might be rated

As military Pearls:

As unsophisticated

As pretty little girls!

They never smoked or ratted,

Or talked of Sues or Polls;

The Sergeant-Major tatted,

The others nursed their dolls.

He spent his days in teaching

These truly solemn facts;

There's little use in preaching,

Or circulating tracts.

(The vainest plan invented

For stifling other creeds,

Unless it's supplemented

With charitable deeds.)

He taught his soldiers kindly

To give at Hunger's call:

"Oh, better far give blindly

Than never give at all!

Though sympathy be kindled

By Imposition's game,

Oh, better far be swindled

Than smother up its flame!"

His means were far from ample

For pleasure or for dress,

Yet note this bright example

Of single-heartedness:

Though ranking as a Colonel,

His pay was but a groat,

While their reward diurnal

Was—each a five-pound note.

Moreover,—this evinces

His kindness, you'll allow,—

He fed them all like princes,

And lived himself on cow.

He set them all regaling

On curious wines, and dear,

While he would sit pale-ale-ing,

Or quaffing ginger-beer.

Then at his instigation

(A pretty fancy this)

Their daily pay and ration

He'd take in change for his;

They brought it to him weekly,

And he without a groan

Would take it from them meekly

And give them all his own!

Though not exactly knighted

As knights, of course, should be,

Yet no one so delighted

In harmless chivalry.

If peasant girl or ladye

Beneath misfortunes sank,

Whate'er distinctions made he,

They were not those of rank.

No maiden young and comely

Who wanted good advice

(However poor or homely)

Need ask him for it twice.

He'd wipe away the blindness

That comes of teary dew;

His sympathetic kindness

No sort of limit knew.

He always hated dealing

With men who schemed or planned;

A person harsh—unfeeling—

The Colonel could not stand.

He hated cold, suspecting,

Official men in blue,

Who pass their lives detecting

The crimes that others do.

For men who'd shoot a sparrow,

Or immolate a worm

Beneath a farmer's harrow,

He could not find a term.

Humanely, ay, and knightly

He dealt with such an one;

He took and tied him tightly,

And blew him from a gun.

The earth has armies plenty,

And semi-warlike bands,

I'm certain there are twenty

In European lands;

But, oh! in no direction

You'd find one to compare

In brotherly affection

With that of Colonel Flare.

Comes a train of little ladies

From scholastic trammels free,

Each a little bit afraid is,

Wondering what the world can be!

Is it but a world of trouble—

Sadness set to song?

Is its beauty but a bubble

Bound to break ere long?

Are its palaces and pleasures

Fantasies that fade?

And the glory of its treasures

Shadow of a shade?

Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under,

From scholastic trammels free,

And we wonder—how we wonder!—

What on earth the world can be!

When maiden loves, she sits and sighs

She wanders to and fro;

Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,

And to all questions she replies

With a sad heigho!

'Tis but a little word—"heigho!"

So soft, 'tis scarcely heard—"heigho!

An idle breath—

Yet life and death

May hang upon a maid's "heigho!"

When maiden loves, she mopes apart,

As owl mopes on a tree;

Although she keenly feels the smart,

She cannot tell what ails her heart,

With its sad "Ah me!"

'Tis but a foolish sigh—"Ah me!"

Born but to droop and die—"Ah me!"

Yet all the sense

Of eloquence

Lies hidden in a maid's "Ah me!"

Mr. Blake was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner,

Who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak:

He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking

a glass of grog on Sunday after dinner,

And seldom thought of going to church more than twice

(or if Good Friday or Christmas Day happened to

come in it) three times a week.

He was quite indifferent as to the particular kinds of dresses

That the clergyman wore at the church where he used

to go to pray,

And whatever he did in the way of relieving a chap's

distresses,

He always did in a nasty, sneaking, underhanded, hole-

and-corner sort of way.

I have known him indulge in profane, ungentlemanly

emphatics,

When the Protestant Church has been divided on the

subject of the width of a chasuble's hem;

I have even known him to sneer at albs—and as for

dalmatics,

Words can't convey an idea of the contempt he expressed

for them.

He didn't believe in persons who, not being well off them-

selves, are obliged to confine their charitable exertions

to collecting money from wealthier people,

And looked upon individuals of the former class as

ecclesiastical hawks;

He used to say that he would no more think of interfering

with his priest's robes than with his church or his

steeple,

And that he did not consider his soul imperilled because

somebody over whom he had no influence whatever,

chose to dress himself up like an ecclesiastical

Guy Fawkes.

This shocking old vagabond was so unutterably shameless

That he actually went a-courting a very respectable and

pious middle-aged sister, by the name of Biggs:

She was a rather attractive widow whose life, as such, had

always been particularly blameless;

Her first husband had left her a secure but moderate

competence owing to some fortunate speculations in

the matter of figs.

She was an excellent person in every way—and won the

respect even of Mrs. Grundy,

She was a good housewife, too, and wouldn't have wasted

a penny if she had owned the Koh-i-noor;

She was just as strict as he was lax in her observance of

Sunday,

And being a good economist, and charitable besides, she

took all the bones and cold potatoes and broken

pie-crusts and candle-ends (when she had quite done

with them), and made them into an excellent soup

for the deserving poor.

I am sorry to say that she rather took to Blake—that outcast

of society;

And when respectable brothers who were fond of her

began to look dubious and to cough,

She would say, "Oh, my friends, it's because I hope to

bring this poor benighted soul back to virtue and

propriety"

(And besides, the poor benighted soul, with all his faults,

was uncommonly well off).

And when Mr. Blake's dissipated friends called his attention

to the frown or the pout of her,

Whenever he did anything which appeared to her to

savour of an unmentionable place,

He would say she would be a very decent old girl when all

that nonsense was knocked out of her—

And his method of knocking it out of her is one that

covered him with disgrace.

She was fond of going to church services four times every

Sunday, and four or five times in the week, and never

seemed to pall of them,

So he hunted out all the churches within a convenient

distance that had services at different hours, so to

speak;

And when he had married her he positively insisted upon

their going to all of them,

So they contrived to do about twelve churches every

Sunday, and, if they had luck, from twenty-two to

twenty-three in the course of the week.

She was fond of dropping his sovereigns ostentatiously into

the plate, and she liked to see them stand out rather

conspicuously against the commonplace half-crowns

and shillings,

So he took her to all the charity sermons, and if by any

extraordinary chance there wasn't a charity sermon

anywhere, he would drop a couple of sovereigns (one

for him and one for her) into the poor-box at the

door;

And as he always deducted the sums thus given in charity

from the housekeeping money, and the money he

allowed her for her bonnets and frillings,

She soon began to find that even charity, if you allow it

to interfere with your personal luxuries, becomes an

intolerable bore.

On Sundays she was always melancholy and anything but

good society,

For that day in her household was a day of sighings and

sobbings and wringing of hands and shaking of heads:

She wouldn't hear of a button being sewn on a glove,

because it was a work neither of necessity nor of

piety,

And strictly prohibited her servants from amusing themselves,

or indeed doing anything at all except dusting

the drawing-rooms, cleaning the boots and shoes,

cooking the dinner, waiting generally on the family,

and making the beds.

But Blake even went farther than that, and said that, on

Sundays, people should do their own works of necessity,

and not delegate them to persons in a menial situation,

So he wouldn't allow his servants to do so much as

even answer a bell.

Here he is making his wife carry up the water for her bath

to the second floor, much against her inclination,—

And why in the world the gentleman who illustrates

these ballads has put him into a cocked hat is more

than I can tell.

After about three months of this sort of thing, taking the

smooth with the rough of it

(Blacking her own boots and peeling her own potatoes

was not her notion of connubial bliss),

Mrs. Blake began to find that she had pretty nearly had

enough of it,

And came, in course of time, to think that Blake's own

original line of conduct wasn't so much amiss.

And now that wicked person—that detestable sinner

("Belial Blake" his friends and well-wishers call

him for his atrocities),

And his poor deluded victim whom all her Christian

brothers dislike and pity so,

Go to the parish church only on Sunday morning and

afternoon and occasionally on a week-day, and spend

their evenings in connubial fondlings and affectionate

reciprocities,

And I should like to know where in the world (or rather,

out of it) they expect to go!

In enterprise of martial kind,

When there was any fighting,

He led his regiment from behind

(He found it less exciting).

But when away his regiment ran,

His place was at the fore, O-

That celebrated,

Cultivated,

Underrated

Nobleman,

The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!

You always found that knight, ha, ha!

That celebrated,

Cultivated,

Underrated

Nobleman,

The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When, to evade Destruction's hand,

To hide they all proceeded,

No soldier in that gallant band

Hid half as well as he did.

He lay concealed throughout the war,

And so preserved his gore, O!

That unaffected,

Undetected,

Well connected

Warrior,

The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

In every doughty deed, ha, ha!

He always took the lead, ha, ha!

That unaffected,

Undetected,

Well connected

Warrior,

The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When told that they would all be shot

Unless they left the service,

That hero hesitated not,

So marvellous his nerve is.

He sent his resignation in,

The first of all his corps, O!

That very knowing,

Overflowing,

Easy-going

Paladin,

The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!

He always showed the way, ha, ha!

That very knowing,

Overflowing,

Easy-going

Paladin,

The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

Weary at heart and extremely ill

Was Paley Vollaire of Bromptonville,

In a dirty lodging, with fever down,

Close to the Polygon, Somers Town.

Paley Vollaire was an only son

(For why? His mother had had but one),

And Paley herited gold and grounds

Worth several hundred thousand pounds.

But he, like many a rich young man,

Through this magnificent fortune ran,

And nothing was left for his daily needs

But duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds.

Shabby and sorry and sorely sick,

He slept, and dreamt that the clock's "tick, tick"

Was one of the Fates, with a long sharp knife,

Snicking off bits of his shortened life.

He woke and counted the pips on the walls,

The outdoor passengers' loud footfalls,

And reckoned all over, and reckoned again,

The little white tufts on his counterpane.

A medical man to his bedside came

(I can't remember that doctor's name),

And said, "You'll die in a very short while

If you don't set sail for Madeira's isle."

"Go to Madeira? goodness me!

I haven't the money to pay your fee!"

"Then, Paley Vollaire," said the leech, "good-bye;

I'll come no more, for you're sure to die."

He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast;

"Oh, send," said he, "for Frederick West,

Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim:

I've a terrible tale to whisper him!"

Poor was Frederick's lot in life,—

A dustman he with a fair young wife,

A worthy man with a hard-earned store,

A hundred and seventy pounds—or more.

Frederick came, and he said, "Maybe

You'll say what you happen to want with me?"

"Wronged boy," said Paley Vollaire, "I will,

But don't you fidget yourself—sit still.

"'Tis now some thirty-seven years ago

Since first began the plot that I'm revealing.

A fine young woman, wed ten years or so,

Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing,

Herself by means of mangling reimbursing,

And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.

"Two little babes dwelt in her humble cot:

One was her own—the other only lent to her:

Her own she slighted. Tempted by a lot

Of gold and silver regularly sent to her,

She ministered unto the little other

In the capacity of foster-mother.

"I was her own. Oh! how I lay and sobbed

In my poor cradle—deeply, deeply cursing

The rich man's pampered bantling, who had robbed

My only birthright—an attentive nursing!

Sometimes, in hatred of my foster-brother,

I gnashed my gums—which terrified my mother.

One darksome day (I should have mentioned that

We were alike in dress and baby feature)

I in MY cradle having placed the brat,

Crept into his—the pampered little creature!

It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe,

For, oh! I was a bad, black-hearted baby!

"So rare a luxury was food, I think

There was no wickedness I wouldn't try for it.

Now if I wanted anything to drink

At any time, I only had to cry for it!

Once, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking,

My blubbering involved a serious smacking!

"We grew up in the usual way—my friend,

My foster-brother, daily growing thinner,

While gradually I began to mend,

And thrived amazingly on double dinner.

And every one, besides my foster-mother,

Believed that either of us was the other.

"I came into his wealth—I bore his name,

I bear it still—his property I squandered—

I mortgaged everything—and now (oh, shame!)

Into a Somers Town shake-down I've wandered!

I am no Paley—no Vollaire—it's true, my boy!

The only rightful Paley V. is you, my boy!

"And all I have is yours—and yours is mine.

I still may place you in your true position:

Give me the pounds you've saved, and I'll resign

My noble name, my rank, and my condition.

So for my sin in fraudulently owning

Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!"

Frederick he was a simple soul,

He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll,

And gave to Paley his hard-earned store,

A hundred and seventy pounds or more

Paley Vollaire, with many a groan,

Gave Frederick all that he'd called his own,—

Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean,

A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane.

And Fred (entitled to all things there)

He took the fever from Mr. Vollaire,

Which killed poor Frederick West. Meanwhile

Vollaire sailed off to Madeira's isle.

If you're anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as

a man of culture rare,

You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms,

and plant them everywhere.

You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in

novel phrases of your complicated state of mind

(The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a

transcendental kind).

And every one will say,

As you walk your mystic way,

"If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep

for me,

Why, what a very singularly deep

young man this deep young man must be!"

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have

long since passed away,

And convince 'em, if you can, that the reign of good

Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day.

Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new,

and declare it's crude and mean,

And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the

Empress Josephine.

And every one will say,

As you walk your mystic way,

"If that's not good enough for him which is good enough

for me,

Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of

youth must be!"

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion

must excite your languid spleen,

An attachment à la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a

not-too-French French bean.

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an

apostle in the high æsthetic band,

If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your

mediæval hand.

And every one will say,

As you walk your flowery way,

"If he's content with a vegetable love which would

certainly not suit me,

Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure

young man must be!"

I sing a legend of the sea,

So hard-a-port upon your lee!

A ship on starboard tack!

She's bound upon a private cruise—

(This is the kind of spice I use

To give a salt-sea smack).

Behold, on every afternoon

(Save in a gale or strong monsoon)

Great Captain Capel Cleggs

(Great morally, though rather short)

Sat at an open weather-port

And aired his shapely legs.

And Mermaids hung around in flocks,

On cable chains and distant rocks,

To gaze upon those limbs;

For legs like his, of flesh and bone,

Are things "not generally known"

To any Merman Timbs.

But Mermen didn't seem to care

Much time (as far as I'm aware)

With Cleggs's legs to spend;

Though Mermaids swam around all day

And gazed, exclaiming, "That's the way

A gentleman should end!

"A pair of legs with well-cut knees

And calves and ankles such as these

Which we in rapture hail,

Are far more eloquent, it's clear,

When clothed in silk and kerseymere,

Than any nasty tail."

And Cleggs—a worthy kind old boy—

Rejoiced to add to others' joy,

And, though he scarce knew why

(Perhaps to please the lookers-on),

He sat there every day—though con-

Stitutionally shy.

At first the Mermen sneered pooh-pooh,

But finally they jealous grew,

And sounded loud recalls;

But vainly. So these fishy males

Declared they too would clothe their tails

In silken hose and smalls.

They set to work, these water-men,

And made their nether robes—but when

They drew with dainty touch

The kerseymere upon their tails,

They found it scraped against their scales,

And hurt them very much.

The silk, besides, with which they chose

To deck their tails, by way of hose

(They never thought of shoon),

For such a use was much too thin,—

It tore against the caudal fin

And "went in ladders" soon.

So they designed another plan:

They sent their most seductive man

This note to Cleggs to show—

"Our Monarch sends to Captain Cleggs

His humble compliments, and begs

He'll join him down below;

"We've pleasant homes below the sea—

Besides, if Captain Cleggs should be

(As our advices say)

A judge of Mermaids, he will find

Our lady-fish of every kind

Inspection will repay."

Good Capel sent a kind reply,

For Capel thought he could descry

An admirable plan

To study all their ways and laws—

(But not their lady-fish, because

He was a married man).

The Merman sank—the Captain too

Jumped overboard, and dropped from view

Like stone from catapult;

And when he reached the Merman's lair

He certainly was welcomed there,

But, ah! with what result?

They didn't let him learn their law,

Or make a note of what he saw,

Or interesting mem.:

The lady-fish he couldn't find,

But that, of course, he didn't mind—

He didn't come for them.

For though when Captain Capel sank

The Mermen drawn in double rank

Gave him a hearty hail;

Yet when secure of Captain Cleggs,

They cut off both his lovely legs,

And gave him such a tail!

When Captain Cleggs returned aboard,

His blithesome crew convulsive roar'd,

To see him altered so.

The Admiralty did insist

That he upon the Half-pay list

Immediately should go.

In vain declared the poor old salt,

"It's my misfortune—not my fault,"

With tear and trembling lip—

In vain poor Capel begged and begged—

"A man must be completely legged

Who rules a British ship."

So spake the stern First Lord aloud—

He was a wag, though very proud,

And much rejoiced to say,

"You're only half a captain now—

And so, my worthy friend, I vow

You'll only get half-pay."

When I went to the Bar as a very young man

(Said I to myself—said I),

I'll work on a new and original plan

(Said I to myself—said I),

I'll never assume that a rogue or a thief

Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief,

Because his attorney has sent me a brief

(Said I to myself—said I!)

I'll never throw dust in a juryman's eyes

(Said I to myself—said I),

Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise

(Said I to myself—said I),

Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force

In Exchequer, Queen's Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce,

Have perjured themselves as a matter of course

(Said I to myself—said I!)

Ere I go into court I will read my brief through

(Said I to myself—said I),

And I'll never take work I'm unable to do

(Said I to myself—said I).

My learned profession I'll never disgrace

By taking a fee with a grin on my face,

When I haven't been there to attend to the case

(Said I to myself—said I!)

In other professions in which men engage

(Said I to myself—said I),

The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage

(Said I to myself—said I),

Professional licence, if carried too far,

Your chance of promotion will certainly mar—

And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar

(Said I to myself—said I!)

Oh! listen to the tale of little Annie Protheroe,

She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of Bow,

She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day—

A gentle executioner whose name was Gilbert Clay.

I think I hear you say, "A dreadful subject for your rhymes!"

O reader, do not shrink—he didn't live in modern times!

He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance)

That all his actions glitter with the limelight of Romance.

In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day—

"No doubt you mean his Cal-craft" you amusingly will say—

But, no—he didn't operate with common bits of string,

He was a Public Headsman, which is quite another thing.

And when his work was over, they would ramble o'er the lea,

And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree;

And Annie's simple prattle entertained him on his walk,

For public executions formed the subject of her talk.

And sometimes he'd explain to her, which charmed her very much,

How famous operators vary very much in touch,

And then, perhaps, he'd show how he himself performed the trick,

And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick.

Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look

At his favourable notices, all pasted in a book,

And then her cheek would flush—her swimming eyes would dance with joy

In a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy.

One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle Gilbert said

(As he helped his pretty Annie to a slice of collared head),

"This collared head reminds me that to-morrow is the day

When I decapitate your former lover, Peter Gray."

He saw his Annie tremble and he saw his Annie start,

Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart;

Young Gilbert's manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear,

And he said, "O gentle Annie, what's the meaning of this here?"

And Annie answered, blushing in an interesting way,

"You think, no doubt, I'm sighing for that felon Peter Gray:

That I was his young woman is unquestionably true,

But not since I began a-keeping company with you."

Then Gilbert, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore

He'd know the reason why if she refused to tell him more;

And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes),

"You mustn't ask no questions, and you won't be told no lies!

"Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you,

Of chopping off a rival's head and quartering him too!

Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!"

And Gilbert ground his molars as he answered her, "I will!"

Young Gilbert rose from table with a stern determined look,

And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook;

And Annie watched his movements with an interested air—

For the morrow—for the morrow he was going to prepare!

He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill,

He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until

This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law

Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

And Annie said, "O Gilbert, dear, I do not understand

Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?"

He said, "It is intended for to lacerate and flay

The neck of that unmitigated villain Peter Gray!"

"Now, Gilbert," Annie answered, "wicked headsman just beware—

I won't have Peter tortured with that horrible affair;

If you attempt to flay him, you will surely rue the day."

But Gilbert said, "Oh, shall I?" which was just his nasty way.

He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart,

For Annie was a woman, and had pity in her heart!

She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare;

She only said, "Remember, for your Annie will be there!"

The morrow Gilbert boldly on the scaffold took his stand,

With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand,

And all the people noticed that the Engine of the Law

Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock,

And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block—

The hatchet was uplifted for to settle Peter Gray,

When Gilbert plainly heard a woman's voice exclaiming, "Stay!"

'Twas Annie, gentle Annie, as you'll easily believe—

"O Gilbert, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve,

It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago,

And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.

"I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, Gilbert Clay,

And having quite surrendered all idea of Peter Gray,

I quietly suppressed it, as you'll clearly understand,

For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.

"In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before)

To lacerate poor Peter Gray vindictively you swore;

I told you if you used that blunted axe you'd rue the day,

And so you will, you monster, for I'll marry Peter Gray!"

[And so she did.]

Sorry her lot who loves too well,

Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,

Sad are the sighs that own the spell

Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;

Heavy the sorrow that bows the head

When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—

Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters,

When to the ark the wearied one

Flies from the empty waste of waters!

Heavy the sorrow that bows the head

When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

I've painted Shakespeare all my life—

"An infant" (even then at play),

"A boy," with stage-ambition rife,

Then "Married to Ann Hathaway."

"The bard's first ticket night" (or "ben.")

His "First appearance on the stage,"

His "Call before the curtain"—then

"Rejoicings when he came of age."

The bard play-writing in his room,

The bard a humble lawyer's clerk,

The bard a lawyer [1]—parson [2]—groom [3]—

The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

[1]

"Go with me to a notary—seal me there

Your single bond."

—Merchant of Venice, Act I., sc. 3.

[2]

"And there she shall, at Friar Lawrence' cell,

Be shrived and married."

—Romeo and Juliet, Act II., sc. 4.

[3]

"And give their fasting horses provender."

—Henry the Fifth, Act IV., sc. 2.

The bard a tradesman [4]—and a Jew [5]—

The bard a botanist [6]—a beak [7]—

The bard a skilled musician [8] too—

A sheriff [9] and a surgeon [10] eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock)

That, though with all my skill I try,

Yet even I can barely mock

The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning as a work I framed,

There passed a person, walking hard;

"My gracious goodness," I exclaimed,

"How very like my dear old bard!

"Oh, what a model he would make!"

I rushed outside—impulsive me!—

"Forgive the liberty I take,

But you're so very"—"Stop!" said he.

"You needn't waste your breath or time,—

I know what you are going to say,—

That you're an artist, and that I'm

Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh?

[4]

"Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares."

—Troilus and Cressida, Act I., sc. 3.

[5]

"Then must the Jew be merciful."

—Merchant of Venice, Act IV., sc. 1.

[6]

"The spring, the summer,

The childing autumn, angry winter, change

Their wonted liveries."

—Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II., sc. 1.

[7]

"In the county of Glo'ster, justice of the peace and coram."

—Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I., sc. 1.

[8]

"What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?"

—King John, Act V., sc. 2.

[9]

"And I'll provide his executioner."

—Henry the Sixth (Second Part), Act III., sc. 1.

[10]

"The lioness had torn some flesh away,

Which all this while had bled."

—As You Like It, Act IV., sc. 3.

"You wish that I would sit to you?"

I clasped him madly round the waist,

And breathlessly replied, "I do!"

"All right," said he, "but please make haste."

I led him by his hallowed sleeve,

And worked away at him apace,

I painted him till dewy eve,—

There never was a nobler face!

"Oh, sir," I said, "a fortune grand

Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—

To sport his brow at second-hand,

To wear his cast-off countenance!

"To rub his eyes whene'er they ache—

To wear his baldness ere you're old—

To clean his teeth when you awake—

To blow his nose when you've a cold!"

His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—

I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;

"Bravo!" I said, "I recognise

The phrensy of your prototype!"

His scanty hair he wildly tore:

"That's right," said I, "it shows your breed."

He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—

"Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"

"Sir," said the grand Shakespearian boy

(Continuing to blaze away),

"You think my face a source of joy;

That shows you know not what you say.

"Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps,

I'm always thrown in some such state

When on his face well-meaning chaps

This wretched man congratulate.

"For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—

This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,

Have always been the origin

Of all the woes I ever knew!

"If to the play my way I find,

To see a grand Shakespearian piece,

I have no rest, no ease of mind

Until the author's puppets cease!

"Men nudge each other—thus—and say,

'This certainly is Shakespeare's son,'

And merry wags (of course in play)

Cry 'Author!' when the piece is done.

"In church the people stare at me,

Their soul the sermon never binds;

I catch them looking round to see,

And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.

"And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,

Who find it difficult to crown

A bust with Brown's insipid smile,

Or Tomkins's unmannered frown,

"Yet boldly make my face their own,

When (oh, presumption!) they require

To animate a paving-stone

With Shakespeare's intellectual fire.

"At parties where young ladies gaze,

And I attempt to speak my joy,

'Hush, pray,' some lovely creature says,

'The fond illusion don't destroy!'

"Whene'er I speak my soul is wrung

With these or some such whisperings;

''Tis pity that a Shakespeare's tongue

Should say such un-Shakespearian things!'

"I should not thus be criticised

Had I a face of common wont:

Don't envy me—now, be advised!"

And, now I think of it, I don't!

When all night long a chap remains

On sentry-go, to chase monotony

He exercises of his brains,

That is, assuming that he's got any.

Though never nurtured in the lap

Of luxury, yet I admonish you,

I am an intellectual chap,

And think of things that would astonish you.

I often think it's comical

How Nature always does contrive

That every boy and every gal,

That's born into the world alive,

Is either a little Liberal,

Or else a little Conservative!

Fal lal la!

When in that house M.P.'s divide,

If they've a brain and cerebellum, too,

They've got to leave that brain outside,

And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to.

But then the prospect of a lot

Of statesmen, all in close proximity,

A-thinking for themselves, is what

No man can face with equanimity.

Then let's rejoice with loud Fal lal

That Nature wisely does contrive

That every boy and every gal,

That's born into the world alive,

Is either a little Liberal,

Or else a little Conservative!

Fal lal la!

A leafy cot, where no dry rot

Had ever been by tenant seen,

Where ivy clung and wopses stung,

Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,

Where treeses grew and breezes blew—

A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,

Where countless herds of dicky-birds

Built twiggy beds to lay their heads

(My mother begs I'll make it "eggs,"

But though it's true that dickies do

Construct a nest with chirpy noise,

With view to rest their eggy joys,

'Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,

As I explain to her in vain

Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes).

'Neath such a cot, built on a plot

Of freehold land, dwelt Mary and

Her worthy father, named by me

Gregory Parable, LL.D.

He knew no guile, this simple man,

No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,

Except that plot of freehold land

That held the cot, and Mary, and

Her worthy father, named by me

Gregory Parable, LL.D.

A grave and learned scholar he,

Yet simple as a child could be.

He'd shirk his meal to sit and cram

A goodish deal of Eton Gram.

No man alive could him nonplus

With vocative of filius;

No man alive more fully knew

The passive of a verb or two;

None better knew the worth than he

Of words that end in b, d, t.

Upon his green in early spring

He might be seen endeavouring

To understand the hooks and crooks

Of Henry and his Latin books;

Or calling for his "Cæsar on

The Gallic War," like any don;

Or, p'raps, expounding unto all

How mythic Balbus built a wall.

So lived the sage who's named by me

Gregory Parable, LL.D.

To him one autumn day there came

A lovely youth of mystic name:

He took a lodging in the house,

And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse,

For, oh! that mild scholastic one

Let shooting for a single gun.

By three or four, when sport was o'er,

The Mystic One laid by his gun,

And made sheep's eyes of giant size,

Till after tea, at Mary P.

And Mary P. (so kind was she),

She, too, made eyes of giant size,

Whose every dart right through the heart

Appeared to run that Mystic One.

The Doctor's whim engrossing him,

He did not know they flirted so.

For, save at tea, "musa musæ,"

As I'm advised, monopolised

And rendered blind his giant mind.

But looking up above his cup

One afternoon, he saw them spoon.

"Aha!" quoth he, "you naughty lass!

As quaint old Ovid says, 'Amas!'"

The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,

And, claiming ruth, he said, "In sooth

I love your daughter, aged man:

Refuse to join us if you can.

Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn,

I'm wealthy though I'm lowly born."

"Young sir," the aged scholar said,

"I never thought you meant to wed:

Engrossed completely with my books,

I little noticed lovers' looks.

I've lived so long away from man,

I do not know of any plan

By which to test a lover's worth,

Except, perhaps, the test of birth.

I've half forgotten in this wild

A father's duty to his child.

It is his place, I think it's said,

To see his daughters richly wed

To dignitaries of the earth—

If possible, of noble birth.

If noble birth is not at hand,

A father may, I understand

(And this affords a chance for you),

Be satisfied to wed her to

A Boucicault or Baring—which

Means any one who's very rich.

Now, there's an Earl who lives hard by,—

My child and I will go and try

If he will make the maid his bride—

If not, to you she shall be tied."

They sought the Earl that very day;

The Sage began to say his say.

The Earl (a very wicked man,

Whose face bore Vice's blackest ban)

Cut short the scholar's simple tale,

And said in voice to make them quail,

"Pooh! go along! you're drunk, no doubt—

Here, Peters, turn these people out!"

The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,

Returning, met the Mystic Youth.

"My darling boy," the Scholar said,

"Take Mary—blessings on your head!"

The Mystic Boy undid his vest,

And took a parchment from his breast,

And said, "Now, by that noble brow,

I ne'er knew father such as thou!

The sterling rule of common sense

Now reaps its proper recompense.

Rejoice, my soul's unequalled Queen,

For I am Duke of Gretna Green!"

I've wisdom from the East and from the West,

That's subject to no academic rule;

You may find it in the jeering of a jest,

Or distil it from the folly of a fool.

I can teach you with a quip, if I've a mind;

I can trick you into learning with a laugh;

Oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll find

A grain or two of truth among the chaff!

I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,

The upstart I can wither with a whim;

He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,

But his laughter has an echo that is grim.

When they're offered to the world in merry guise,

Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—

For he who'd make his fellow-creatures wise

Should always gild the philosophic pill!

The story of Frederick Gowler,

A mariner of the sea,

Who quitted his ship, the Howler,

A-sailing in Caribbee.

For many a day he wandered,

Till he met, in a state of rum,

Calamity Pop Von Peppermint Drop.

The King of Canoodle-Dum.

That monarch addressed him gaily,

"Hum! Golly de do to-day?

Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee"—

(You notice his playful way?)—

"What dickens you doin' here, sar?

Why debbil you want to come?

Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn't no sea

In City Canoodle-Dum!"

And Gowler he answered sadly,

"Oh, mine is a doleful tale!

They've treated me werry badly

In Lunnon, from where I hail.

I'm one of the Family Royal—

No common Jack Tar you see;

I'm William the Fourth, far up in the North,

A King in my own countree!"

Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered!

Bang-bang! How they thumped the gongs!

Bang-bang! How the people wondered!

Bang-bang! At it, hammer and tongs!

Alliance with Kings of Europe

Is an honour Canoodlers seek;

Her monarchs don't stop with Peppermint Drop

Every day in the week!

Fred told them that he was undone,

For his people all went insane,

And fired the Tower of London,

And Grinnidge's Naval Fane.

And some of them racked St. James's,

And vented their rage upon

The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers' Hall,

And the "Angel" at Islington.

Calamity Pop implored him

At Canoodle-Dum to remain

Till those people of his restored him

To power and rank again.

Calamity Pop he made him

A Prince of Canoodle-Dum,

With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves,

And the run of the royal rum.

Pop gave him his only daughter,

Hum Pickety Wimple Tip:

Fred vowed that if over the water

He went, in an English ship,

He'd make her his Queen,—though truly,

It is an unusual thing

For a Caribbee brat who's as black as your hat

To be wife of an English King.

And all the Canoodle-Dummers

They copied his rolling walk,

His method of draining rummers,

His emblematical talk.

For his dress and his graceful breeding,

His delicate taste in rum,

And his nautical way, were the talk of the day

In the Court of Canoodle-Dum.

Calamity Pop most wisely

Determined in everything

To model his Court precisely

On that of the English King;

And ordered that every lady

And every lady's lord

Should masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy)

And scatter its juice abroad.

They signified wonder roundly

At any astounding yarn,

By darning their dear eyes roundly

('Twas all that they had to darn).

They "hoisted their slacks," adjusting

Garments of plantain-leaves

With nautical twitches (as if they wore—stitches.

Instead of a dress like Eve's!)

They shivered their timbers proudly,

At a phantom fore-lock dragged,

And called for a hornpipe loudly

Whenever amusement flagged.

"Hum! Golly! him Pop resemble,

Him Britisher sov'reign, hum!

Calamity Pop Von Peppermint Drop,

De King of Canoodle-Dum!"

The mariner's lively "Hollo!"

Enlivened Canoodle's plain

(For blessings unnumbered follow

In Civilisation's train).

But Fortune, who loves a bathos,

A terrible ending planned,

For Admiral D. Chickabiddy, C.B.,

Placed foot on Canoodle land!

That officer seized King Gowler;

He threatened his royal brains,

And put him aboard the Howler,

And fastened him down with chains.

The Howler she weighed her anchor,

With Frederick nicely nailed,

And off to the North with William the Fourth

That Admiral slowly sailed.

Calamity said (with folly)

"Hum! nebber want him again—

Him civilise all of us, golly!

Calamity suck him brain!"

The people, however, were pained when

They saw him aboard the ship,

But none of them wept for their Freddy, except

Hum Pickity Wimple Tip.

Spurn not the nobly born

With love affected,

Nor treat with virtuous scorn

The well connected.

High rank involves no shame—

We boast an equal claim

With him of humble name

To be respected!

Blue blood! Blue blood!

When virtuous love is sought,

Thy power is naught,

Though dating from the Flood,

Blue blood!

Spare us the bitter pain

Of stern denials,

Nor with low-born disdain

Augment our trials.

Hearts just as pure and fair

May beat in Belgrave Square

As in the lowly air

Of Seven Dials!

Blue blood! Blue blood!

Of what avail art thou

To serve me now?

Though dating from the Flood,

Blue blood!

A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,

The Reverend Bernard Powles,

And in his church there weekly knelt

At least a hundred souls.

There little Ellen you might see,

The modest rustic belle;

In maidenly simplicity,

She loved her Bernard well.

Though Ellen wore a plain silk gown

Untrimmed with lace or fur,

Yet not a husband in the town

But wished his wife like her.

Though sterner memories might fade.

You never could forget

The child-form of that baby-maid,

The Village Violet!

A simple frightened loveliness,

Whose sacred spirit-part

Shrank timidly from worldly stress,

And nestled in your heart.

Powles woo'd with every well-worn plan

And all the usual wiles

With which a well-schooled gentleman

A simple heart beguiles.

The hackneyed compliments that bore

World-folks like you and me,

Appeared to her as if they wore

The crown of Poesy.

His winking eyelid sang a song

Her heart could understand,

Eternity seemed scarce too long

When Bernard squeezed her hand.

He ordered down the martial crew

Of Godfrey's Grenadiers,

And Coote conspired with Tinney to

Ecstaticise her ears.

Beneath her window, veiled from eye,

They nightly took their stand;

On birthdays supplemented by

The Covent Garden band.

And little Ellen, all alone,

Enraptured sat above,

And thought how blest she was to own

The wealth of Powles's love.

I often, often wonder what

Poor Ellen saw in him;

For calculated he was not

To please a woman's whim.

He wasn't good, despite the air

An M.B. waistcoat gives;

Indeed, his dearest friends declare

No greater humbug lives.

No kind of virtue decked this priest,

He'd nothing to allure;

He wasn't handsome in the least,—

He wasn't even poor.

No—he was cursed with acres fat

(A Christian's direst ban),

And gold—yet, notwithstanding that,

Poor Ellen loved the man.

As unlike Bernard as could be

Was poor old Aaron Wood

(Disgraceful Bernard's curate he):

He was extremely good.

A Bayard in his moral pluck

Without reproach or fear,

A quiet venerable duck

With fifty pounds a year.

No fault had he—no fad, except

A tendency to strum,

In mode at which you would have wept,

A dull harmonium.

He had no gold with which to hire

The minstrels who could best

Convey a notion of the fire

That raged within his breast.

And so, when Coote and Tinney's Own

Had tootled all they knew,

And when the Guards, completely blown,

Exhaustedly withdrew,

And Nell began to sleepy feel,

Poor Aaron then would come,

And underneath her window wheel

His plain harmonium.

He woke her every morn at two,

And having gained her ear,

In vivid colours Aaron drew

The sluggard's grim career.

He warbled Apiarian praise,

And taught her in his chant

To shun the dog's pugnacious ways,

And imitate the ant.

Still Nell seemed not, how much he played,

To love him out and out,

Although the admirable maid

Respected him, no doubt.

She told him of her early vow,

And said as Bernard's wife

It might be hers to show him how

To rectify his life.

"You are so pure, so kind, so true,

Your goodness shines so bright,

What use would Ellen be to you?

Believe me, you're all right."

She wished him happiness and health

And flew on lightning wings

To Bernard with his dangerous wealth

And all the woes it brings.

When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,

I'd an appetite fresh and hearty,

But I was, as many young barristers are,

An impecunious party.

I'd a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—

A brief which was brought by a booby—

A couple of shirts and a collar or two,

And a ring that looked like a ruby!

In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,

Like a semi-despondent fury;

For I thought I should never hit on a chance

Of addressing a British Jury—

But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,

And dinners of bread and water;

So I fell in love with a rich attorney's

Elderly, ugly daughter.

The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,

And replied to my fond professions:

"You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,

At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.

You'll soon get used to her looks," said he,

"And a very nice girl you'll find her—

She may very well pass for forty-three

In the dusk, with a light behind her!"

The rich attorney was as good as his word:

The briefs came trooping gaily,

And every day my voice was heard

At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.

All thieves who could my fees afford

Relied on my orations,

And many a burglar I've restored

To his friends and his relations.

At length I became as rich as the Gurneys—

An incubus then I thought her,

So I threw over that rich attorney's

Elderly, ugly daughter.

The rich attorney my character high

Tried vainly to disparage—

And now, if you please, I'm ready to try

This Breach of Promise of Marriage!

Oh, big was the bosom of brave Alum Bey,

And also the region that under it lay,

In safety and peril remarkably cool,

And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.

Each morning he went to his garden, to cull

A bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul,

And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom,

To Backsheesh, the daughter of Rahat Lakoum.

No maiden like Backsheesh could tastily cook

A kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk,

As Alum, brave fellow! sat pensively by,

With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye.

Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day—

(A ship's supercargo was brave Alum Bey)—

To pretty young Backsheesh he made a salaam,

And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam.

"O Alum," said she, "think again, ere you go—

Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow;

You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!"

But Alum embraced her and spoke to her thus:

"Cease weeping, fair Backsheesh! I willingly swear

Cork jackets and trousers I always will wear,

And I also throw in a large number of oaths

That I never—no, never—will take off my clothes!"

They left Madagascar away on their right,

And made Clapham Common the following night,

Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two,

Becalmed in the ocean of Honolulu.

One day Alum saw, with alarm in his breast,

A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west;

The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream,

For they knew it—they knew it!—the dreaded Hareem!!

The mast it went over, and so did the sails,

Brave Alum threw over his casks and his bales;

The billows arose as the weather grew thick,

And all except Alum were terribly sick.

The crew were but three, but they holloa'd for nine,

They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine:

The skipper he fainted away in the fore,

For he hadn't the heart for to skip any more.

"Ho, coward!" said Alum, "with heart of a child!

Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled!

Is Alum in terror? is Alum afeard?

Ho! ho! If you had one I'd laugh at your beard."

His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke;

He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke;

He daringly felt for the corks on his chest,

And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast.

For he knew, the brave Alum, that, happen what might,

With belts and cork-jacketing, he was all right;

Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,—

No Hareem whatever had terrors for him!

They begged him to spare from his personal store

A single cork garment—they asked for no more;

But he couldn't, because of the number of oaths

That he never—no, never!—would take off his clothes.

The billows dash o'er them and topple around,

They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned.

A terrible wave o'er the quarter-deck breaks,

And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes!

The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow,

Expends all its strength in a minute or so;

When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed,

The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed.

One seized on a cork with a yelling "Ha! ha!"

(Its bottle had 'prisoned a pint of Pacha)—

Another a toothpick—another a tray—

"Alas! it is useless!" said brave Alum Bey.

"To holloa and kick is a very bad plan:

Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can;

You'd better lay hold of a good lump of lead,

And cling to it tightly until you are dead.

"Just raise your hands over your pretty heads—so—

Right down to the bottom you're certain to go.

Ta! ta! I'm afraid we shall not meet again"—

For the truly courageous are truly humane.

Brave Alum was picked up the very next day—

A man-o'-war sighted him smoking away;

With hunger and cold he was ready to drop,

So they sent him below and they gave him a chop.

O reader, or readress, whichever you be,

You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea?

O reader, or readress, read farther, and dry

The bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye.

That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,—

It's lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes!

They haul it aboard with a British "heave-ho!"

And what it has fished up the drawing will show.

There was Wilson, and Parker, and Tomlinson, too—

(The first was the captain, the others the crew)—

As lively and spry as a Malabar ape,

Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape.

And Alum, brave fellow, who stood in the fore,

And never expected to look on them more,

Was really delighted to see them again,

For the truly courageous are truly humane.

When I first put this uniform on,

I said, as I looked in the glass,

"It's one to a million

That any civilian

My figure and form will surpass.

Gold lace has a charm for the fair,

And I've plenty of that, and to spare.

While a lover's professions,

When uttered in Hessians,

Are eloquent everywhere!"

A fact that I counted upon,

When I first put this uniform on!

I said, when I first put it on,

"It is plain to the veriest dunce

That every beauty

Will feel it her duty

To yield to its glamour at once.

They will see that I'm freely gold-laced

In a uniform handsome and chaste"—

But the peripatetics

Of long-haired æsthetics,

Are very much more to their taste—

Which I never counted upon

When I first put this uniform on.

This is Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo

Last of a noble race,

Barnaby Bampton, coming to woo,

All at a deuce of a pace.

Barnaby Bampton Boo,

Here is a health to you:

Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck—

Barnaby Bampton Boo!

The excellent women of Tuptonvee

Knew Sir Barnaby Boo;

One of them surely his bride would be,

But dickens a soul knew who.

Women of Tuptonvee,

Here is a health to ye:

For a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears,

Women of Tuptonvee!

Here are old Mr. and Mrs. de Plow

(Peter his Christian name),

They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow—

Farming it was their game.

Worthy old Peter de Plow,

Here is a health to thou:

Your race isn't run, though you're seventy-one,

Worthy old Peter de Plow!

To excellent Mr. and Mrs. de Plow

Came Sir Barnaby Boo,

He asked for their daughter, and told 'em as how

He was as rich as a Jew.

Barnaby Bampton's wealth,

Here is your jolly good health:

I'd never repine if you came to be mine,

Barnaby Bampton's wealth!

"O great Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo"

(Said Plow to that titled swell),

"My missus has given me daughters two—

Amelia and Volatile Nell!"

Amelia and Volatile Nell,

I hope you're uncommonly well:

You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls—

Amelia and Volatile Nell!

"Amelia is passable only, in face,

But, oh! she's a worthy girl;

Superior morals like hers would grace

The home of a belted Earl."

Morality, heavenly link!

To you I'll eternally drink:

I'm awfully fond of that heavenly bond,

Morality, heavenly link!

"Now Nelly's the prettier, p'raps, of my gals,

But, oh! she's a wayward chit;

She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals,

And doesn't read Tupper a bit!"

O Tupper, philosopher true,

How do you happen to do?

A publisher looks with respect on your books,

For they do sell, philosopher true!

The Bart. (I'll be hanged if I drink him again,

Or care if he's ill or well),

He sneered at the goodness of Milly the Plain,

And cottoned to Volatile Nell!

O Volatile Nelly de P.!

Be hanged if I'll empty to thee:

I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades,

Volatile Nelly de P.!

They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear,

And Milly was left to pout;

For years they've got on very well, as I hear,

But soon he will rue it, no doubt.

O excellent Milly de Plow,

I really can't drink to you now;

My head isn't strong, and the song has been long,

Excellent Milly de Plow!

Comes the broken flower—

Comes the cheated maid—

Though the tempest lower,

Rain and cloud will fade!

Take, O maid, these posies:

Though thy beauty rare

Shame the blushing roses,

They are passing fair!

Wear the flowers till they fade;

Happy be thy life, O maid!

O'er the season vernal,

Time may cast a shade;

Sunshine, if eternal,

Makes the roses fade:

Time may do his duty;

Let the thief alone—

Winter hath a beauty

That is all his own.

Fairest days are sun and shade:

Happy be thy life, O maid!

When man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye,

I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy.

I'm also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns,

For modesty's a quality that womankind adorns.

Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid,

My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid;

I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red,

For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred.

But still in all these matters, as in other things below,

There is a proper medium, as I'm about to show.

I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try

To carry on as Peter carried on with Sarah Bligh.

Betrothed they were when very young—before they'd learnt to speak

(For Sarah was but six days old, and Peter was a week);

Though little more than babies at those early ages, yet

They bashfully would faint when they occasionally met.

They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of nine,

When Peter's good papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine)

Determined to endeavour some sound argument to find

To bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind.

He told them that as Sarah was to be his Peter's bride,

They might at least consent to sit at table side by side;

He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was hoarse,

Which Sarah thought indelicate, and Peter very coarse.

And Peter in a tremble to the blushing maid would say,

"You must excuse papa, Miss Bligh,—it is his mountain way."

Says Sarah, "His behaviour I'll endeavour to forget,

But your papa's the coarsest person that I ever met.

"He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young,

Before we had begun articulating with the tongue.

His underbred suggestions fill your Sarah with alarm;

Why, gracious me! he'll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!"

At length when Sarah reached the legal age of twenty-one,

The Baron he determined to unite her to his son;

And Sarah in a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay,

And Peter blushed so hard you might have heard him miles away.

And when the time arrived for taking Sarah to his heart,

They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart

(Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff),

And the service was conducted by electric telegraph.

And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say,

Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away,

They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn,

For he waited in the attic, and she waited on the lawn.

At length, when four o'clock arrived, and it was time to go,

The carriage was announced, but decent Sarah answered "No!

Upon my word, I'd rather sleep my everlasting nap,

Than go and ride alone with Mr. Peter in a trap."

And Peter's over-sensitive and highly-polished mind

Wouldn't suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind;

And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocks

At the bare idea of having any coachman on the box.

So Peter into one turn-out incontinently rushed,

While Sarah in a second trap sat modestly and blushed;

And Mr. Newman's coachman, on authority I've heard,

Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third.

Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the car

Were very likely carrying a principle too far,

I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in them

Than that of Peter's brother with Miss Sarah's sister Em.

Alphonso, who in cool assurance all creation licks,

He up and said to Emmie (who had impudence for six),

"Miss Emily, I love you—will you marry? Say the word!"

And Emily said, "Certainly, Alphonso, like a bird!"

I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try

To carry on as Peter carried on with Sarah Bligh,

But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in them

Than that of Peter's brother with Miss Sarah's sister Em.

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and

repose is taboo'd by anxiety,

I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge

in without impropriety;

For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual

slumber to plunder you:

First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet

slips demurely from under you;

Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles,

so terribly sharp is the pricking,

And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss

till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.

Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and

you pick 'em all up in a tangle;

Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at

its usual angle!

Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot

eyeballs and head ever aching,

But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that

you'd very much better be waking;

For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing

about in a steamer from Harwich,

Which is something between a large bathing-machine and

a very small second-class carriage;

And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a

party of friends and relations—

They're a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at

Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.

And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who

started that morning from Devon);

He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised when

he tells you he's only eleven.

Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad (by the

bye the ship's now a four-wheeler),

And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad

names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";

But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand, and

you find you're as cold as an icicle,

In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold

clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:

And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they've

somehow or other invested in—

And he's telling the tars all the particulars of a company

he's interested in—

It's a scheme of devices to get at low prices all goods

from cough mixtures to cables

(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers as though

they were all vegetables—

You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman

(first take off his boots with a boot-tree),

And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and

they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree—

From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea,

cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,

While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple

puffs, and three-corners, and banberries—

The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by

Rothschild and Baring,

And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a

shudder despairing—

You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no

wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor, and

you've needles and pins from your soles to your

shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's

asleep, and you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on

your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish

tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and a general sense

that you haven't been sleeping in clover;

But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and

the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and

thank goodness they're both of them over!

Some time ago, in simple verse,

I sang the story true

Of Captain Reece, The Mantelpiece,

And all her happy crew.

I showed how any captain may

Attach his men to him,

If he but heeds their smallest needs,

And studies every whim.

Now mark how, by Draconic rule

And hauteur ill-advised,

The noblest crew upon the blue

May be demoralised.

When his ungrateful country placed

Kind Reece upon half-pay,

Without much claim Sir Berkely came,

And took command one day.

Sir Berkely was a martinet—

A stern unyielding soul—

Who ruled his ship by dint of whip

And horrible black-hole.

A sailor who was overcome

From having freely dined,

And chanced to reel when at the wheel,

He instantly confined!

And tars who, when an action raged,

Appeared alarmed or scared,

And those below who wished to go,

He very seldom spared.

E'en he who smote his officer

For punishment was booked,

And mutinies upon the seas

He rarely overlooked.

In short, the happy Mantelpiece

Where all had gone so well,

Beneath that fool Sir Berkely's rule

Became a floating hell.

When first Sir Berkely came aboard

He read a speech to all,

And told them how he'd made a vow

To act on duty's call.

Then William Lee, he up and said

(The captain's coxswain he):

"We've heard the speech your honour's made,

And werry pleased we be.

"We won't pretend, my lad, as how

We're glad to lose our Reece;

Urbane, polite, he suited quite

The saucy Mantelpiece.

"But if your honour gives your mind

To study all our ways,

With dance and song we'll jog along

As in those happy days.

"I like your honour's looks, and feel

You're worthy of your sword.

Your hand, my lad—I'm doosid glad

To welcome you aboard!"

Sir Berkely looked amazed, as though

He did not understand.

"Don't shake your head," good William said,

"It is an honest hand.

"It's grasped a better hand than yourn—

Come, gov'nor, I insist!"

The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—

The hand became a fist!

"Down, upstart!" said the hardy salt;

But Berkely dodged his aim,

And made him go in chains below:

The seamen murmured "Shame!"

He stopped all songs at 12 P.M.,

Stopped hornpipes when at sea,

And swore his cot (or bunk) should not

Be used by aught than he.

He never joined their daily mess,

Nor asked them to his own,

But chaffed in gay and social way

The officers alone.

His First Lieutenant, Peter, was

As useless as could be,

A helpless stick, and always sick

When there was any sea.

This First Lieutenant proved to be

His foster-sister May,

Who went to sea for love of he,

In masculine array.

And when he learnt the curious fact

Did he emotion show,

Or dry her tears, or end her fears

By marrying her? No!

Or did he even try to soothe

This maiden in her teens?

Oh no!—instead he made her wed

The Sergeant of Marines!

Of course such Spartan discipline

Would make an angel fret.

They drew a lot, and straightway shot

This fearful martinet.

The Admiralty saw how ill

They'd treated Captain Reece;

He was restored once more aboard

The saucy Mantelpiece.

Now, Marco, dear,

My wishes hear:

While you're away

It's understood

You will be good,

And not too gay.

To every trace

Of maiden grace

You will be blind.

And will not glance

By any chance

On womankind!

If you are wise,

You'll shut your eyes

Till we arrive,

And not address

A lady less

Than forty-five;

You'll please to frown

On every gown

That you may see;

And O, my pet,

You won't forget

You've married me!

O, my darling, O, my pet,

Whatever else you may forget,

In yonder isle beyond the sea,

O, don't forget you've married me!

You'll lay your head

Upon your bed

At set of sun.

You will not sing

Of anything

To any one:

You'll sit and mope

All day, I hope,

And shed a tear

Upon the life

Your little wife

Is passing here!

And if so be

You think of me,

Please tell the moon;

I'll read it all

In rays that fall

On the lagoon:

You'll be so kind

As tell the wind

How you may be,

And send me words

By little birds

To comfort me!

And O, my darling, O, my pet,

Whatever else you may forget,

In yonder isle beyond the sea,

O, don't forget you've married me!

I go away, this blessed day,

To sail across the sea, Matilda!

My vessel sails for various parts

At twenty after three, Matilda;

I hardly know where we may go,

Or if it's near or far, Matilda,

For Captain Hyde does not confide

In any 'fore-mast tar, Matilda!

Beneath my ban that mystic man

Shall suffer, coûte que coûte, Matilda!

What right has he to keep from me

The Admiralty route, Matilda?

Because, forsooth! I am a youth

Of common sailors' lot, Matilda!

Am I a man on human plan

Designed, or am I not, Matilda?

But there, my lass, we'll let that pass!

With anxious love I burn, Matilda.

I want to know if we shall go

To church when I return, Matilda?

Your eyes are red, you bow your head;

It's pretty clear you thirst, Matilda,

To name the day—What's that you say?—

"You'll see me further first," Matilda?

I can't mistake the signs you make,

Although you barely speak, Matilda;

Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue

Right in your pretty cheek, Matilda!

My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—

I do—I'm sure I do, Matilda—

With simple grace you make a face,

Ejaculating, "Ugh!" Matilda.

Oh, pause to think before you drink

The dregs of Lethe's cup, Matilda!

Remember, do, what I've gone through,

Before you give me up, Matilda!

Recall again the mental pain

Of what I've had to do, Matilda!

And be assured that I've endured

It, all along of you, Matilda!

Do you forget, my blithesome pet,

How once with jealous rage, Matilda,

I watched you walk and gaily talk

With some one thrice your age, Matilda?

You squatted free upon his knee,

A sight that made me sad, Matilda?

You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,

Which almost drove me mad, Matilda!

I knew him not, but thought to spot

Some man you wished to wed, Matilda!

I took a gun, my darling one,

And shot him through the head, Matilda!

I'm made of stuff that's rough and gruff

Enough, I own; but, ah, Matilda!

It did annoy your poor old boy

To find it was your pa, Matilda!

I've passed a life of toil and strife,

And disappointments deep, Matilda;

I've lain awake with dental ache

Until I fell asleep, Matilda;

At times again I've missed a train,

Or p'raps run short of tin, Matilda,

And worn a boot on corns that shoot,

Or, shaving, cut my chin, Matilda!

But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—

Believe me when I say, Matilda,

No corns that shoot—no pinching boot

Upon a summer day, Matilda—

It's my belief, could cause such grief

As that I've suffered for, Matilda,

My having shot in vital spot

Your old progenitor, Matilda!

Bethink you how I've kept the vow

I made one winter day, Matilda—

That, come what could, I never would

Remain too long away, Matilda.

And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,

I've charged my gentle mind, Matilda,

To keep the vow I made—and now

You treat me so unkind, Matilda!

For when at sea off Caribbee,

I felt my passion burn, Matilda;

By impulse egged, I went and begged

The captain to return, Matilda;

And when, my pet, I couldn't get

That captain to agree, Matilda,

Right through a sort of open port

I pitched him in the sea, Matilda!

Remember, too, how all the crew,

With indignation blind, Matilda,

Distinctly swore they ne'er before

Had thought me so unkind, Matilda;

And how they'd shun me one by one—

An unforgiving group, Matilda—

I stopped their howls and sulky scowls

By pizening their soup, Matilda!

So pause to think, before you drink

The dregs of Lethe's cup, Matilda;

Remember, do, what I've gone through,

Before you give me up, Matilda.

Recall again the mental pain

Of what I've had to do, Matilda,

And be assured that I've endured

It, all along of you, Matilda!

On a tree by a river a little tomtit

Sang "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit

Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow'?

Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried,

"Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"

With a shake of his poor little head he replied,

"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,

Singing "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,

Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!

He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,

Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,

And an echo arose from the suicide's grave—

"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name

Isn't Willow, titwillow, titwillow,

That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,

"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

And if you remain callous and obdurate, I

Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,

Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,

"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

A rich advowson, highly prized,

For private sale was advertised;

And many a parson made a bid;

The Reverend Simon Magus did.

He sought the agent's: "Agent, I

Have come prepared at once to buy

(If your demand is not too big)

The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge."

"Ah!" said the agent, "there's a berth—

The snuggest vicarage on earth;

No sort of duty (so I hear),

And fifteen hundred pounds a year!

"If on the price we should agree,

The living soon will vacant be:

The good incumbent's ninety-five,

And cannot very long survive.

"See—here's his photograph—you see,

He's in his dotage." "Ah, dear me!

Poor soul!" said Simon. "His decease

Would be a merciful release!"

The agent laughed—the agent blinked—

The agent blew his nose and winked

And poked the parson's ribs in play—

It was that agent's vulgar way.

The Reverend Simon frowned: "I grieve

This light demeanour to perceive;

It's scarcely comme il faut, I think:

Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.

"Don't dig my waistcoat into holes—

Your mission is to sell the souls

Of human sheep and human kids

To that divine who highest bids.

"Do well in this, and on your head

Unnumbered honours will be shed."

The agent said, "Well, truth to tell,

I have been doing pretty well."

"You should," said Simon, "at your age;

But now about the parsonage.

How many rooms does it contain?

Show me the photograph again.

"A poor apostle's humble house

Must not be too luxurious;

No stately halls with oaken floor—

It should be decent and no more.

"No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—

No croquet-grounds or pineries."

"Ah!" sighed the agent, "very true:

This property won't do for you.

"All these about the house you'll find"—

"Well," said the parson, "never mind;

I'll manage to submit to these

Luxurious superfluities.

"A clergyman who does not shirk

The various calls of Christian work,

Will have no leisure to employ

These 'common forms' of worldly joy.

"To preach three times on Sabbath days—

To wean the lost from wicked ways—

The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—

The poor to feed with meat and bread;

"These are the various wholesome ways

In which I'll spend my nights and days:

My zeal will have no time to cool

At croquet, archery, or pool."

The agent said, "From what I hear,

This living will not suit, I fear—

There are no poor, no sick at all;

For services there is no call."

The reverend gent looked grave. "Dear me!

Then there is no 'society'?—

I mean, of course, no sinners there

Whose souls will be my special care?"

The cunning agent shook his head,

"No, none—except"—(the agent said)—

"The Duke of A., the Earl of B.,

The Marquis C., and Viscount D.

"But you will not be quite alone,

For, though they've chaplains of their own,

Of course this noble well-bred clan

Receive the parish clergyman."

"Oh, silence, sir!" said Simon M.,

"Dukes—earls! What should I care for them?

These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!"

"Of course," the agent said, "no doubt."

"Yet I might show these men of birth

The hollowness of rank on earth."

The agent answered, "Very true—

But I should not, if I were you."

"Who sells this rich advowson, pray?"

The agent winked—it was his way—

"His name is Hart; 'twixt me and you,

He is, I'm griev'd to say, a Jew!"

"A Jew?" said Simon, "happy find!

I purchase this advowson, mind.

My life shall be devoted to

Converting that unhappy Jew!"

He. I know a youth who loves a little maid—

(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)

Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid—

(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)

She. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth—

(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)

She cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth—

(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)

Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,

What in the world should the poor soul do?

He. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—

(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)

Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—

(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)

She. She's very thin and she's very pale—

(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)

Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—

(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)

Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,

What in the world should the poor soul do?

She. If I were the youth I should offer her my name—

(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)

He. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—

(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)

She. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—

(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)

He. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—

(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)

Both. I thank you much for your counsel true;

I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

Two better friends you wouldn't pass

Throughout a summer's day,

Than Damon and his Pythias,—

Two merchant princes they.

At school together they contrived

All sorts of boyish larks;

And, later on, together thrived

As merry merchants' clerks.

And then, when many years had flown,

They rose together till

They bought a business of their own—

And they conduct it still.

They loved each other all their lives,

Dissent they never knew,

And, stranger still, their very wives

Were rather friendly too.

Perhaps you think, to serve my ends,

These statements I refute,

When I admit that these dear friends

Were parties to a suit?

But 'twas a friendly action, for

Good Pythias, as you see,

Fought merely as executor,

And Damon as trustee.

They laughed to think, as through the throng

Of suitors sad they passed,

That they, who'd lived and loved so long,

Should go to law at last.

The junior briefs they kindly let

Two sucking counsel hold;

These learned persons never yet

Had fingered suitors' gold.

But though the happy suitors two

Were friendly as could be,

Not so the junior counsel who

Were earning maiden fee.

They too, till then, were friends. At school

They'd done each other's sums,

And under Oxford's gentle rule

Had been the closest chums.

But now they met with scowl and grin

In every public place,

And often snapped their fingers in

Each other's learned face.

It almost ended in a fight

When they on path or stair

Met face to face. They made it quite

A personal affair.

And when at length the case was called

(It came on rather late),

Spectators really were appalled

To see their deadly hate.

One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,

And swollen frontal veins:

To all his powers of eloquence

He gave the fullest reins.

His argument was novel—for

A verdict he relied

On blackening the junior

Upon the other side.

"Oh," said the Judge, in robe and fur,

"The matter in dispute

To arbitration pray refer—

This is a friendly suit."

And Pythias, in merry mood,

Digged Damon in the side;

And Damon, tickled with the feud,

With other digs replied.

But oh! those deadly counsel twain,

Who were such friends before,

Were never reconciled again——

They quarrelled more and more.

At length it happened that they met

On Alpine heights one day,

And thus they paid each one his debt,

Their fury had its way—

They seized each other in a trice,

With scorn and hatred filled,

And, falling from a precipice,

They, both of them, were killed.

Come, mighty Must!

Inevitable Shall!

In thee I trust.

Time weaves my coronal!

Go, mocking Is!

Go, disappointing Was!

That I am this

Ye are the cursed cause!

Yet humble Second shall be First,

I ween;

And dead and buried be the curst

Has Been!

Oh, weak Might Be!

Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should!

How powerless ye

For evil or for good!

In every sense

Your moods I cheerless call,

Whate'er your tense

Ye are Imperfect, all!

Ye have deceived the trust I've shown

In ye!

Away! The Mighty Must alone

Shall be!

The other night, from cares exempt,

I slept—and what d'you think I dreamt?

I dreamt that somehow I had come

To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom!—

Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:

Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:

Where right is wrong and wrong is right—

Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise,

Are born astonishingly wise;

With every Science on their lips,

And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them,

They crow binomial theorem,

With views (it seems absurd to us)

On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said,

Is born with learning in his head,

He must forget it, if he can,

Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here,

Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;

The wisdom we so highly prize

Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way,

Must learn some nonsense every day;

And cut, to carry out this view,

His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils,

Intent on giant-killers' toils;

And sages close their aged eyes

To other sages' lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound,

Commit all robbers who are found;

But there the beaks (so people said)

Commit all robberies instead.

Our judges, pure and wise in tone,

Know crime from theory alone.

And glean the motives of a thief

From books and popular belief.

But there, a judge who wants to prime

His mind with true ideas of crime,

Derives them from the common sense

Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away

Who practise virtue every day—

Of course, I mean to say, you know,

What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do

What we consider just and true,

And only good men do, in fact,

What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls,

The girls are boys—the boys are girls!

The men are women, too—but then

Per contra, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings

This seems an awkward state of things,

But if to think it out you try,

It doesn't really signify.

With them, as surely as can be,

A sailor should be sick at sea,

And not a passenger may sail

Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck)

Is always shot for showing pluck—

That is, if others can be found

With pluck enough to fire a round.

"How strange," I said to one I saw,

"You quite upset our every law.

However can you get along

So systematically wrong?"

"Dear me," my mad informant said,

"Have you no eyes within your head?

You sneer when you your hat should doff:

Why, we begin where you leave off!

"Your wisest men are very far

Less learned than our babies are!"

I mused awhile—and then, oh me!

I framed this brilliant repartee:

"Although your babes are wiser far

Than our most valued sages are,

Your sages, with their toys and cots,

Are duller than our idiots!"

But this remark, I grieve to state,

Came just a little bit too late;

For as I framed it in my head,

I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, 'stead of here,

My lot were in that favoured sphere!—

Where greatest fools bear off the bell

I ought to do extremely well.

Were I thy bride,

Then the whole world beside

Were not too wide

To hold my wealth of love—

Were I thy bride!

Upon thy breast

My loving head would rest,

As on her nest

The tender turtle-dove—

Were I thy bride!

This heart of mine

Would be one heart with thine,

And in that shrine

Our happiness would dwell—

Were I thy bride!

And all day long

Our lives should be a song:

No grief, no wrong

Should make my heart rebel—

Were I thy bride!

The silvery flute,

The melancholy lute,

Were night-owl's hoot

To my low-whispered coo—

Were I thy bride!

The skylark's trill

Were but discordance shrill

To the soft thrill

Of wooing as I'd woo—

Were I thy bride!

The rose's sigh

Were as a carrion's cry

To lullaby

Such as I'd sing to thee—

Were I thy bride!

A feather's press

Were leaden heaviness

To my caress.

But then, unhappily,

I'm not thy bride!

I often wonder whether you

Think sometimes of that Bishop, who

From black but balmy Rum-ti-foo

Last summer twelvemonth came.

Unto your mind I p'raps may bring

Remembrance of the man I sing

To-day, by simply mentioning

That Peter was his name.

Remember now that holy man

Came with the great Colonial clan

To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;

And kindly recollect

How, having crossed the ocean wide,

To please his flock all means he tried

Consistent with a proper pride

And manly self-respect.

He only, of the reverend pack

Who minister to Christians black,

Brought any useful knowledge back

To his Colonial fold.

In consequence a place I claim

For "Peter" on the scroll of Fame

(For Peter was that Bishop's name,

As I've already told).

He carried Art, he often said,

To places where that timid maid

(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)

Could never hope to roam.

The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught

As he had learnt it; for he thought

The choicest fruits of Progress ought

To bless the Negro's home.

And he had other work to do,

For, while he tossed upon the blue,

The islanders of Rum-ti-foo

Forgot their kindly friend.

Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—

They learnt to say, "I do not care,"

Though they, of course, were well aware

How folks, who say so, end.

Some sailors whom he did not know,

Had landed there not long ago,

And taught them "Bother!" also "Blow!"

(Of wickedness the germs.)

No need to use a casuist's pen

To prove that they were merchantmen;

No sailor of the Royal N.

Would use such awful terms.

And so, when Bishop Peter came

(That was the kindly Bishop's name),

He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,

And chid their want of dress.

(Except a shell—a bangle rare—

A feather here—a feather there—

The South Pacific negroes wear

Their native nothingness.)

He taught them that a Bishop loathes

To listen to unseemly oaths,

He gave them all his left-off clothes—

They bent them to his will.

The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;

In Peter's left-off clothes they bound

(His three-and-twenty suits they found

In fair condition still).

The Bishop's eyes with water fill,

Quite overjoyed to find them still

Obedient to his sovereign will,

And said, "Good Rum-ti-foo!

Half-way to meet you I'll prepare:

I'll dress myself in cowries rare,

And fasten feathers in my hair,

And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo'!"

And to conciliate his see

He married Piccadillillee,

The youngest of his twenty-three,

Tall—neither fat nor thin.

(And though the dress he made her don

Looks awkwardly a girl upon,

It was a great improvement on

The one he found her in.)

The Bishop in his gay canoe

(His wife, of course, went with him too),

To some adjacent island flew,

To spend his honeymoon.

Some day in sunny Rum-ti-foo

A little Peter'll be on view;

And that (if people tell me true)

Is like to happen soon.

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,

And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—

When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay the moon,

Then is the spectres' holiday—then is the ghosts' high noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen,

From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men,

And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon,

For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight,

With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good night";

Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune,

And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high noon!

I love a man who'll smile and joke

When with misfortune crowned;

Who'll pun beneath a pauper's yoke,

And as he breaks his daily toke,

Conundrums gay propound.

Just such a man was Bernard Jupp,

He scoffed at Fortune's frown;

He gaily drained his bitter cup—

Though Fortune often threw him up,

It never cast him down.

Though years their share of sorrow bring,

We know that far above

All other griefs, are griefs that spring

From some misfortune happening

To those we really love.

E'en sorrow for another's woe

Our Bernard failed to quell;

Though by this special form of blow

No person ever suffered so,

Or bore his grief so well.

His father, wealthy and well clad,

And owning house and park.

Lost every halfpenny he had,

And then became (extremely sad!)

A poor attorney's clerk.

All sons it surely would appal,

Except the passing meek,

To see a father lose his all,

And from an independence fall

To one pound ten a week!

But Jupp shook off this sorrow's weight

And, like a Christian son,

Proved Poverty a happy fate—

Proved Wealth to be a devil's bait,

To lure poor sinners on.

With other sorrows Bernard coped,

For sorrows came in packs;

His cousins with their housemaids sloped—

His uncles forged—his aunts eloped—

His sisters married blacks.

But Bernard, far from murmuring

(Exemplar, friends, to us),

Determined to his faith to cling,—

He made the best of everything,

And argued softly thus:

"'Twere harsh my uncles' forging knack

Too rudely to condemn—

My aunts, repentant, may come back,

And blacks are nothing like as black

As people colour them!"

Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,

Maintained relentless fight:

His grandmamma next lost her life,

Then died the mother of his wife,

But still he seemed all right.

His brother fond (the only link

To life that bound him now)

One morning, overcome by drink,

He broke his leg (the right, I think)

In some disgraceful row.

But did my Bernard swear and curse?

Oh no—to murmur loth,

He only said, "Go, get a nurse:

Be thankful that it isn't worse;

You might have broken both!"

But worms who watch without concern

The cockchafer on thorns,

Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn

If, walking through the slippery fern,

You tread upon their corns.

One night as Bernard made his track

Through Brompton home to bed,

A footpad, with a vizor black,

Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack

On Bernard's saint-like head.

It was too much—his spirit rose,

He looked extremely cross.

Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,

But no—he bowed to countless blows,

But kicked against this loss.

He finally made up his mind

Upon his friends to call;

Subscription lists were largely signed,

For men were really glad to find

Him mortal, after all!

A more humane Mikado never

Did in Japan exist;

To nobody second,

I'm certainly reckoned

A true philanthropist.

It is my very humane endeavour

To make, to some extent,

Each evil liver

A running river

Of harmless merriment.

My object all sublime

I shall achieve in time—

To let the punishment fit the crime—

The punishment fit the crime:

And make each prisoner pent

Unwillingly represent

A source of innocent merriment—

Of innocent merriment!

All prosy dull society sinners,

Who chatter and bleat and bore,

Are sent to hear sermons

From mystical Germans

Who preach from ten to four:

The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies

All desire to shirk,

Shall, during off-hours,

Exhibit his powers

To Madame Tussaud's waxwork:

The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,

Or stains her grey hair puce,

Or pinches her figger,

Is painted with vigour

And permanent walnut juice:

The idiot who, in railway carriages,

Scribbles on window panes,

We only suffer

To ride on a buffer

In Parliamentary trains.

My object all sublime

I shall achieve in time—

To let the punishment fit the crime—

The punishment fit the crime;

And make each prisoner pent

Unwillingly represent

A source of innocent merriment—

Of innocent merriment!

The advertising quack who wearies

With tales of countless cures,

His teeth, I've enacted,

Shall all be extracted

By terrified amateurs:

The music-hall singer attends a series

Of masses and fugues and "ops"

By Bach, interwoven

With Spohr and Beethoven,

At classical Monday Pops:

The billiard sharp whom any one catches,

His doom's extremely hard—

He's made to dwell

In a dungeon cell

On a spot that's always barred;

And there he plays extravagant matches

In fitless finger-stalls,

On a cloth untrue,

With a twisted cue

And elliptical billiard balls!

My object all sublime

I shall achieve in time—

To let the punishment fit the crime—

The punishment fit the crime;

And make each prisoner pent

Unwillingly represent

A source of innocent merriment,

Of innocent merriment!

An actor—Gibbs, of Drury Lane—

Of very decent station,

Once happened in a part to gain

Excessive approbation;

It sometimes turns a fellow's brain

And makes him singularly vain

When he believes that he receives

Tremendous approbation.

His great success half drove him mad,

But no one seemed to mind him;

Well, in another piece he had

Another part assigned him.

This part was smaller, by a bit,

Than that in which he made a hit.

So, much ill-used, he straight refused

To play the part assigned him.

That night that actor slept, and I'll attempt

To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt:

In fighting with a robber band

(A thing he loved sincerely)

A sword struck Gibbs upon the hand

And wounded it severely.

At first he didn't heed it much,

He thought it was a simple touch,

But soon he found the weapon's bound

Had wounded him severely.

To Surgeon Cobb he made a trip,

Who'd just effected featly

An amputation at the hip

Particularly neatly.

A rising man was Surgeon Cobb,

But this extremely ticklish job

He had achieved (as he believed)

Particularly neatly.

The actor rang the surgeon's bell.

"Observe my wounded finger:

Be good enough to strap it well,

And prithee do not linger,

That I, dear sir, may fill again

The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane

This very night I have to fight—

So prithee do not linger."

"I don't strap fingers up for doles,"

Replied the haughty surgeon;

"To use your cant, I don't play rôles

'Utility' that verge on.

'First amputation'—nothing less—

That is my line of business:

We surgeon nobs despise all jobs

Utility that verge on.

"When in your hip there lurks disease"

(So dreamt this lively dreamer),

"Or devastating caries

In humerus or femur,

If you can pay a handsome fee,

Oh, then you may remember me,

With joy elate I'll amputate

Your humerus or femur."

The disconcerted actor ceased

The haughty leech to pester,

But when the wound in size increased,

And then began to fester,

He sought a learned Counsel's lair,

And told that Counsel, then and there,

How Cobb's neglect of his defect

Had made his finger fester.

"Oh, bring my action, if you please,

The case I pray you urge on,

And win me thumping damages

From Cobb, that haughty surgeon.

He culpably neglected me

Although I proffered him his fee,

So pray come down, in wig and gown,

On Cobb that haughty surgeon!"

That Counsel, learned in the laws,

With passion almost trembled,

He just had gained a mighty cause

Before the Peers assembled!

Said he, "How dare you have the face

To come with Common Jury case

To one who wings rhetoric flings

Before the Peers assembled?"

Dispirited became our friend—

Depressed his moral pecker—

"But stay! a thought! I'll gain my end,

And save my poor exchequer.

I won't be placed upon the shelf,

I'll take it into Court myself,

And legal lore display before

The Court of the Exchequer."

He found a Baron—one of those

Who with our laws supply us—

In wig and silken gown and hose,

As if at Nisi Prius.

But he'd just given, off the reel,

A famous judgment on Appeal:

It scarce became his heightened fame

To sit at Nisi Prius.

Our friend began, with easy wit,

That half concealed his terror:

"Pooh!" said the Judge, "I only sit

In Banco or in Error.

Can you suppose, my man, that I'd

O'er Nisi Prius Courts preside,

Or condescend my time to spend

On anything but Error?"

"Too bad," said Gibbs, "my case to shirk!

You must be bad innately,

To save your skill for mighty work

Because it's valued greatly!"

But here he woke, with sudden start.

He wrote to say he'd play the part.

I've but to tell he played it well—

The author's words—his native wit

Combined, achieved a perfect "hit"—

The papers praised him greatly.

He.Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true

(Hey, but I'm doleful, willow, willow waly!)

Have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you?

Hey, willow waly O!

I would fain discover

If you have a lover?

Hey, willow waly O!

She.Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—

(Hey, but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!)

Nobody I care for comes a-courting me—

Hey, willow waly O!

Nobody I care for

Comes a-courting—therefore,

Hey, willow waly O!

He.Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?

(Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!)

I may say, at once, I'm a man of propertee—

Hey, willow waly O!

Money, I despise it,

But many people prize it,

Hey, willow waly O!

She.Gentle sir, although to marry I design—

(Hey, but he's hopeful, willow, willow waly!)

As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.

Hey, willow waly O!

To other maidens go you—

As yet I do not know you,

Hey, willow waly O!

An excellent soldier who's worthy the name,

Loves officers dashing and strict:

When good, he's content with escaping all blame,

When naughty, he likes to be licked.

He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,

Or imprisoned for several days;

And hates, for a duty correctly performed,

To be slavered with sickening praise.

No officer sickened with praises his corps

So little as Major La Guerre—

No officers swore at his warriors more

Than Major Makredi Prepere.

Their soldiers adored them, and every grade

Delighted to hear them abuse;

Though whenever these officers came on parade,

They shivered and shook in their shoes.

"No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—

Go on—you're conferring a boon;

We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave

Than praised by a wretched poltroon!"

Makredi would say that in battle's fierce rage

True happiness only was met:

Poor Major Makredi, though fifty his age,

Had never known happiness yet!

La Guerre would declare, "With the blood of a foe

No tipple is worthy to clink."

Poor fellow! he hadn't, though sixty or so,

Yet tasted his favourite drink!

They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—

They agreed in the choice of their "set,"

And they also agreed in adoring, alas!

The Vivandière, pretty Fillette.

Agreement, we know, may be carried too far,

And after agreeing all round

For years—in this soldierly "maid of the bar,"

A bone of contention they found.

"On the day that you marry her," muttered Prepere

(With a pistol he quietly played),

"I'll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,

All over the stony parade!"

"I cannot do that to you," answered La Guerre,

"Whatever events may befall;

But this I can do—if you wed her, mon cher!

I'll eat you, moustachios and all!

The rivals, although they would never engage,

Yet quarrelled whenever they met;

They met in a fury and left in a rage,

But neither took pretty Fillette.

"I am not afraid," thought Makredi Prepere:

"For my country I'm ready to fall;

But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,

To be eaten, moustachios and all!

"Besides, though La Guerre has his faults, I'll allow

He's one of the bravest of men:

My goodness! if I disagree with him now,

I might disagree with him then!"

"No coward am I," said La Guerre, "as you guess—

I sneer at an enemy's blade;

But I don't want Prepere to get into a mess

For splashing the stony parade!"

One day on parade to Prepere and La Guerre

Came Corporal Jacot Debette,

And, trembling all over, he prayed of them there

To give him the pretty Fillette.

"You see, I am willing to marry my bride

Until you've arranged this affair;

I will blow out my brains when your honours decide

Which marries the sweet Vivandière!"

"Well, take her," said both of them in a duet

(A favourite form of reply),

"But when I am ready to marry Fillette,

Remember you've promised to die!"

He married her then: from the flowery plains

Of existence the roses they cull:

He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains

Are reposing in peace in his skull.

When the buds are blossoming,

Smiling welcome to the spring,

Lovers choose a wedding day—

Life is love in merry May!

Spring is green—Fal lal la!

Summer's rose—Fal lal la!

It is sad when Summer goes,

Fal la!

Autumn's gold—Fal lal la!

Winter's grey—Fal lal la!

Winter still is far away—

Fal la!

Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;

Winter is the end of all.

Spring and summer teem with glee:

Spring and summer, then, for me!

Fal la!

In the Spring-time seed is sown:

In the Summer grass is mown:

In the Autumn you may reap:

Winter is the time for sleep.

Spring is hope—Fal lal la!

Summer's joy—Fal lal la!

Spring and Summer never cloy,

Fal la!

Autumn, toil—Fal lal la!

Winter, rest—Fal lal la!

Winter, after all, is best—

Fal la!

Spring and summer pleasure you,

Autumn, ay, and winter, too—

Every season has its cheer;

Life is lovely all the year!

Fal la!

Emily Jane was a nursery maid—

James was a bold Life Guard,

And John was a constable, poorly paid

(And I am a doggerel bard).

A very good girl was Emily Jane,

Jimmy was good and true,

And John was a very good man in the main

(And I am a good man, too).

Rivals for Emmie were Johnny and James,

Though Emily liked them both;

She couldn't tell which had the strongest claims

(And I couldn't take my oath).

But sooner or later you're certain to find

Your sentiments can't lie hid—

Jane thought it was time that she made up her mind

(And I think it was time she did).

Said Jane, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,

"I'll promise to wed the boy

Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!"

(Which I would have done, with joy.)

From Johnny escaped an expression of pain,

But Jimmy said, "Done with you!

I'll take you with pleasure, my Emily Jane"

(And I would have said so too).

John lay on the ground, and he roared like mad

(For Johnny was sore perplexed),

And he kicked very hard at a very small lad

(Which I often do, when vexed).

For John was on duty next day with the Force,

To punish all Epsom crimes;

Some people will cross, when they're clearing the course

(I do it myself, sometimes).

The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,

On maidens with gamboge hair,

On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads

(For I, with my harp, was there).

And Jimmy went down with his Jane that day,

And John by the collar or nape

Seized everybody who came in his way

(And I had a narrow escape).

He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim,

And envied the well-made elf;

And people remarked that he muttered "Oh, dim!"

(I often say "dim!" myself.)

John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves:

For his sergeant he told, aside,

That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves

(And I think he was justified).

But James wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork,

And Jenny would blush with shame

At stealing so much as a bottle or cork

(A bottle I think fair game).

But, ah! there's another more serious crime!

They wickedly strayed upon

The course, at a critical moment of time

(I pointed them out to John).

The crusher came down on the pair in a crack—

And then, with a demon smile,

Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back

(I played on my harp the while).

Stern Johnny their agony loud derides

With a very triumphant sneer—

They weep and they wail from the opposite sides

(And I shed a silent tear).

And Jenny is crying away like mad,

And Jimmy is swearing hard;

And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad

(And I am a doggerel bard).

But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again

The scenes of our Isthmian Games—

John caught him, and collared him, giving him pain

(I felt very much for James).

John led him away with a victor's hand,

And Jimmy was shortly seen

In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand

(As many a time I've been).

And Jimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,

Though Emily pleaded hard;

And Johnny had Emily Jane to wife

(And I am a doggerel bard).

Now, Jurymen, hear my advice—

All kinds of vulgar prejudice

I pray you set aside:

With stern judicial frame of mind—

From bias free of every kind,

This trial must be tried!

Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:

Observe the features of her face—

The broken-hearted bride!

Condole with her distress of mind—

From bias free of every kind,

This trial must be tried!

And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks,

The ruffianly defendant speaks—

Upon the other side;

What he may say you need not mind—

From bias free of every kind,

This trial must be tried!

Old Peter led a wretched life—

Old Peter had a furious wife;

Old Peter, too, was truly stout,

He measured several yards about.

The little fairy Picklekin

One summer afternoon looked in,

And said, "Old Peter, how-de-do?

Can I do anything for you?

"I have three gifts—the first will give

Unbounded riches while you live;

The second, health where'er you be;

The third, invisibility."

"O, little fairy Picklekin,"

Old Peter answered, with a grin,

"To hesitate would be absurd,—

Undoubtedly I choose the third."

"'Tis yours," the fairy said; "be quite

Invisible to mortal sight

Whene'er you please. Remember me

Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P."

Old Mrs. Peter overheard

Wee Picklekin's concluding word,

And, jealous of her girlhood's choice,

Said, "That was some young woman's voice!"

Old Peter let her scold and swear—

Old Peter, bless him, didn't care.

"My dear, your rage is wasted quite—

Observe, I disappear from sight!"

A well-bred fairy (so I've heard)

Is always faithful to her word:

Old Peter vanished like a shot,

But then—his suit of clothes did not.

For when conferred the fairy slim

Invisibility on him,

She popped away on fairy wings,

Without referring to his "things."

So there remained a coat of blue,

A vest and double eyeglass too,

His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,

His pair of—no, I must not tell.

Old Mrs. Peter soon began

To see the failure of his plan,

And then resolved (I quote the bard)

To "hoist him with his own petard."

Old Peter woke next day and dressed,

Put on his coat and shoes and vest,

His shirt and stock—but could not find

His only pair of—never mind!

Old Peter was a decent man,

And though he twigged his lady's plan,

Yet, hearing her approaching, he

Resumed invisibility.

"Dear Mrs. P., my only joy,"

Exclaimed the horrified old boy;

"Now give them up, I beg of you—

You know what I'm referring to!"

But no; the cross old lady swore

She'd keep his—what I said before—

To make him publicly absurd;

And Mrs. Peter kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest;

His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest,

Were all that now met mortal eye—

The rest, invisibility!

"Now, madam, give them up, I beg—

I've bad rheumatics in my leg;

Besides, until you do, it's plain

I cannot come to sight again!

"For though some mirth it might afford

To see my clothes without their lord,

Yet there would rise indignant oaths

If he were seen without his clothes!"

But no; resolved to have her quiz,

The lady held her own—and his—

And Peter left his humble cot

To find a pair of—you know what.

But—here's the worst of this affair—-

Whene'er he came across a pair

Already placed for him to don,

He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train,

And walked and walked with all his main;

For years he paced this mortal earth,

To bring himself to decent girth.

At night, when all around is still,

You'll find him pounding up a hill;

And shrieking peasants whom he meets,

Fall down in terror on the peats!

Old Peter walks through wind and rain

Resolved to train, and train, and train,

Until he weighs twelve stone or so—

And when he does, I'll let you know.

There grew a little flower

'Neath a great oak tree:

When the tempest 'gan to lower

Little heeded she:

No need had she to cower,

For she dreaded not its power—

She was happy in the bower

Of her great oak tree!

Sing hey,

Lackaday!

Let the tears fall free

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

When she found that he was fickle,

Was that great oak tree,

She was in a pretty pickle,

As she well might be—

But his gallantries were mickle,

For Death followed with his sickle,

And her tears began to trickle

For her great oak tree!

Sing hey,

Lackaday!

Let the tears fall free

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

Said she, "He loved me never,

Did that great oak tree,

But I'm neither rich nor clever,

And so why should he?

But though fate our fortunes sever,

To be constant I'll endeavour,

Ay, for ever and for ever,

To my great oak tree!"

Sing hey,

Lackaday!

Let the tears fall free

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

When rival adorers come courting a maid,

There's something or other may often be said,

Why he should be pitched upon rather than him.

This wasn't the case with Old Paul and Old Tim.

No soul could discover a reason at all

For marrying Timothy rather than Paul;

Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,

Against marrying either—or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,

They were equally timid and equally bold;

They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes—

Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young Emily, I should have said,

"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,

Threescore at the least you are verging upon";

But I wasn't young Emily. Let us get on.

No coward's blood ran in young Emily's veins,

Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;

At the rumours of battles all over the globe

He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise—

Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,

Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee—

For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,

Implored her between them at once to decide,

She told them she'd marry whichever might bring

Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy:

That coward, Old Paul, chose a very small boy,

And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,

He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,

But the lion was roused, and Old Paul didn't care;

He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked

Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old Tim knew a trick worth a dozen of that,

So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.

"I'll cover myself with cheap glory—I'll go

And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

"The German invader is ravaging France

With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,

And beautiful Paris is fighting her best

To shake herself free from her terrible guest.

"The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,

Have all run away from the summons to arms;

They haven't the pluck of a pigeon—I'll go

And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!"

Old Timothy tried it and found it succeed:

That day he caused many French noses to bleed;

Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,

And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.

He took care to abstain from employing his fist

On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;

A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,

But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.

Old Tim and Old Paul, with the list of their foes,

Prostrated themselves at their Emily's toes:

"Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?"

And Emily answered and Emily said:

"Old Tim has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores

Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;

Old Paul has made little chaps' noses to bleed—

Old Paul has accomplished the pluckier deed!"

There lived a King, as I've been told

In the wonder-working days of old,

When hearts were twice as good as gold,

And twenty times as mellow.

Good temper triumphed in his face,

And in his heart he found a place

For all the erring human race

And every wretched fellow.

When he had Rhenish wine to drink

It made him very sad to think

That some, at junket or at jink,

Must be content with toddy:

He wished all men as rich as he

(And he was rich as rich could be),

So to the top of every tree

Promoted everybody.

Ambassadors cropped up like hay,

Prime Ministers and such as they

Grew like asparagus in May,

And Dukes were three a penny:

Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,

And Bishops in their shovel hats

Were plentiful as tabby cats—

If possible, too many.

On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,

Small beer were Lords-Lieutenant deemed,

With Admirals the ocean teemed,

All round his wide dominions;

And Party Leaders you might meet

In twos and threes in every street

Maintaining, with no little heat,

Their various opinions.

That King, although no one denies,

His heart was of abnormal size,

Yet he'd have acted otherwise

If he had been acuter.

The end is easily foretold,

When every blessed thing you hold

Is made of silver, or of gold,

You long for simple pewter.

When you have nothing else to wear

But cloth of gold and satins rare,

For cloth of gold you cease to care—

Up goes the price of shoddy:

In short, whoever you may be,

To this conclusion you'll agree,

When every one is somebody,

Then no one's anybody!

Perhaps already you may know

Sir Blennerhasset Portico?

A Captain in the Navy, he—

A Baronet and K.C.B.

You do? I thought so!

It was that captain's favourite whim

(A notion not confined to him)

That Rodney was the greatest tar

Who ever wielded capstan-bar.

He had been taught so.

"Benbow? Cornwallis? Hood?—Belay!

Compared with Rodney"—he would say—

"No other tar is worth a rap;

The great Lord Rodney was the chap

The French to polish!

"Though, mind you, I respect Lord Hood;

Cornwallis, too, was rather good;

Benbow could enemies repel;

Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—

That is, tol-lol-ish!"

Sir Blennerhasset spent his days

In learning Rodney's little ways,

And closely imitated, too,

His mode of talking to his crew—

His port and paces.

An ancient tar he tried to catch

Who'd served in Rodney's famous batch;

But since his time long years have fled,

And Rodney's tars are mostly dead:

Eheu fugaces!

But after searching near and far,

At last he found an ancient tar

Who served with Rodney and his crew

Against the French in 'eighty-two

(That gained the peerage)

He gave him fifty pounds a year,

His rum, his baccy, and his beer;

And had a comfortable den

Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,

Is called the steerage.

"Now, Jasper"—'twas that sailor's name—

"Don't fear that you'll incur my blame

By saying, when it seems to you,

That there is anything I do

That Rodney wouldn't."

The ancient sailor turned his quid,

Prepared to do as he was bid:

"Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,

You've done away with 'swifting in'—

Well, sir, you shouldn't!

"Upon your spars I see you've clapped

Peak-halliard blocks, all iron-capped;

I would not christen that a crime,

But 'twas not done in Rodney's time.

It looks half-witted!

Upon your maintop-stay, I see,

You always clap a selvagee;

Your stays, I see, are equalised—

No vessel, such as Rodney prized,

Would thus be fitted.

"And Rodney, honoured sir, would grin

To see you turning deadeyes in,

Not up, as in the ancient way,

But downwards, like a cutter's stay—

You didn't oughter!

Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,

Breast backstays you have quite ignored;

Great Rodney kept unto the last

Breast backstays on topgallant mast—

They make it tauter."

Sir Blennerhasset "swifted in,"

Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin

To strip (as told by Jasper Knox)

The iron capping from his blocks,

Where there was any.

Sir Blennerhasset does away

With selvagees from maintop-stay;

And though it makes his sailors stare,

He rigs breast backstays everywhere—

In fact, too many.

One morning, when the saucy craft

Lay calmed, old Jasper toddled aft.

"My mind misgives me, sir, that we

Were wrong about that selvagee—

I should restore it."

"Good," said the captain, and that day

Restored it to the maintop-stay.

Well-practised sailors often make

A much more serious mistake,

And then ignore it.

Next day old Jasper came once more.

"I think, sir, I was right before."

Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,

The selvagee was soon unshipped,

And all were merry.

Again a day, and Jasper came:

"I p'raps deserve your honour's blame,

I can't make up my mind," said he,

"About that cursed selvagee—

It's foolish—very.

"On Monday night I could have sworn

That maintop-stay it should adorn,

On Tuesday morning I could swear

That selvagee should not be there.

The knot's a rasper!"

"Oh, you be hanged!" said Captain P.,

"Here, go ashore at Caribbee,

Get out—good-bye—shove off—all right!"

Old Jasper soon was out of sight—

Farewell, old Jasper!

Fear no unlicensed entry,

Heed no bombastic talk,

While guards the British Sentry

Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.

Let European thunders

Occasion no alarms,

Though diplomatic blunders

May cause a cry "To arms!"

Sleep on, ye pale civilians;

All thunder-clouds defy:

On Europe's countless millions

The Sentry keeps his eye!

Should foreign-born rapscallions

In London dare to show

Their overgrown battalions,

Be sure I'll let you know.

Should Russians or Norwegians

Pollute our favoured clime

With rough barbaric legions,

I'll mention it in time.

So sleep in peace, civilians,

The Continent defy;

While on its countless millions

The Sentry keeps his eye!

On all Arcadia's sunny plain,

On all Arcadia's hill,

None were so blithe as Bill and Jane,

So blithe as Jane and Bill.

No social earthquake e'er occurred

To rack their common mind:

To them a Panic was a word—

A Crisis, empty wind.

No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad

With overwhelming shocks—

Bill ploughed with all the shares he had,

Jane planted all her stocks.

And learn in what a simple way

Their pleasures they enhanced—

Jane danced like any lamb all day,

Bill piped as well as danced.

Surrounded by a twittling crew,

Of linnet, lark, and thrush,

Bill treated his young lady to

This sentimental gush:

"Oh, Jane, how true I am to you!

How true you are to me!

And how we woo, and how we coo!

So fond a pair are we!

"To think, dear Jane, that anyways,

Your chiefest end and aim

Is, one of these fine summer days,

To bear my humble name!"

Quoth Jane, "Well, as you put the case,

I'm true enough, no doubt,

But then, you see, in this here place

There's none to cut you out.

"But, oh! if anybody came—

A Lord or any such—

I do not think your humble name

Would fascinate me much.

"For though your mates, you often boast

You distance out-and-out;

Still, in the abstract, you're a most

Uncompromising lout!"

Poor Bill, he gave a heavy sigh,

He tried in vain to speak—

A fat tear started to each eye

And coursed adown each cheek.

For, oh! right well in truth he knew

That very self-same day,

The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo

Was coming there to stay!

The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo

All proper maidens shun—

He loves all women, it is true,

But never marries one.

Now Jane, with all her mad self-will,

Was no coquette—oh no!

She really loved her faithful Bill,

And thus she tuned her woe:

"Oh, willow, willow, o'er the lea!

And willow once again!

The Peer will fall in love with me!

Why wasn't I made plain?"

A cunning woman lived hard by,

A sorceressing dame,

MacCatacomb de Salmon-Eye

Was her uncommon name.

To her good Jane, with kindly yearn

For Bill's increasing pain,

Repaired in secrecy to learn

How best to make her plain.

"Oh, Jane," the worthy woman said,

"This mystic phial keep,

And rub its liquor in your head

Before you go to sleep.

"When you awake next day, I trow,

You'll look in form and hue

To others just as you do now—But

not to Pillaloo!

"When you approach him, you will find

He'll think you coarse—unkempt—

And rudely bid you get behind,

With undisguised contempt."

The Lord de Pillaloo arrived

With his expensive train,

And when in state serenely hived,

He sent for Bill and Jane.

"Oh, spare her, Lord of Pillaloo!

(Said Bill) if wed you be,

There's anything I'd rather do

Than flirt with Lady P."

The Lord he gazed in Jenny's eyes,

He looked her through and through:

The cunning woman's prophecies

Were clearly coming true.

Lord Pillaloo, the Rustic's Bane

(Bad person he, and proud),

He laughed Ha! ha! at pretty Jane,

And sneered at her aloud!

He bade her get behind him then,

And seek her mother's stye—

Yet to her native countrymen

She was as fair as aye!

MacCatacomb, continue green!

Grow, Salmon-Eye, in might,

Except for you, there might have been

The deuce's own delight!

When first my old, old love I knew,

My bosom welled with joy;

My riches at her feet I threw;

I was a love-sick boy!

No terms seemed too extravagant

Upon her to employ—

I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,

Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense;

And love unchanged will cloy,

And she became a bore intense

Unto her love-sick boy?

With fitful glimmer burnt my flame.

And I grew cold and coy,

At last, one morning, I became

Another's love-sick boy!

"Come, collar this bad man—

Around the throat he knotted me

Till I to choke began—

In point of fact, garrotted me!"

So spake Sir Herbert White

To James, Policeman Thirty-two—

All ruffled with his fight

Sir Herbert was, and dirty too.

Policeman nothing said

(Though he had much to say on it),

But from the bad man's head

He took the cap that lay on it.

"No, great Sir Herbert White—

Impossible to take him up.

This man is honest quite—

Wherever did you rake him up?

"For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,

Indeed I'm no apologist;

But I, some years ago,

Assisted a Phrenologist.

"Observe his various bumps,

His head as I uncover it;

His morals lie in lumps

All round about and over it."

"Now take him," said Sir White,

"Or you will soon be rueing it;

Bless me! I must be right,—

I caught the fellow doing it!"

Policeman calmly smiled,

"Indeed you are mistaken, sir,

You're agitated—riled—

And very badly shaken, sir.

"Sit down, and I'll explain

My system of Phrenology,

A second, please, remain"—

(A second is horology).

Policeman left his beat—

(The Bart., no longer furious,

Sat down upon a seat,

Observing, "This is curious!")

"Oh, surely here are signs

Should soften your rigidity,

This gentleman combines

Politeness with timidity.

"Of Shyness here's a lump—

A hole for Animosity—

And like my fist his bump

Of Generenerosity.

"Just here the bump appears

Of Innocent Hilarity,

And just behind his ear

Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.

"He of true Christian ways

As bright example sent us is—

This maxim he obeys,

'Sorte tuâ contentus sis.'

"There, let him go his ways,

He needs no stern admonishing."

The Bart., in blank amaze,

Exclaimed, "This is astonishing!

"I must have made a mull,

This matter I've been blind in it:

Examine, please, my skull,

And tell me what you find in it."

Policeman looked, and said,

With unimpaired urbanity,

"Sir Herbert, you've a head

That teems with inhumanity.

"Here's Murder, Envy, Strife

(Propensity to kill any),

And Lies as large as life,

And heaps of Social Villainy:

"Here's Love of Bran New Clothes,

Embezzling—Arson—Deism—

A taste for Slang and Oaths,

And Fraudulent Trusteeism.

"Here's Love of Groundless Charge—

Here's Malice, too, and Trickery,

Unusually large

Your bump of Pocket-Pickery——"

"Stop!" said the Bart., "my cup

Is full—I'm worse than him in all—

Policeman, take me up—

No doubt I am some criminal!"

That Policeman's scorn grew large

(Phrenology had nettled it),

He took that Bart. in charge—

I don't know how they settled it.

What time the poet hath hymned

The writhing maid, lithe-limbed,

Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,

How can he paint her woes,

Knowing, as well he knows,

That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet's plinth

The amorous colocynth

Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,

How can he hymn their throes

Knowing, as well he knows,

That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be,

Nature hath this decree,

Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?

Or that in all her works

Something poetic lurks,

Even in colocynth and calomel?

Once a fairy

Light and airy

Married with a mortal;

Men, however,

Never, never

Pass the fairy portal.

Slyly stealing,

She to Ealing

Made a daily journey;

There she found him,

Clients round him

(He was an attorney).

Long they tarried,

Then they married.

When the ceremony

Once was ended,

Off they wended

On their moon of honey.

Twelvemonth, maybe,

Saw a baby

(Friends performed an orgie)

Much they prized him,

And baptized him

By the name of Georgie.

Georgie grew up;

Then he flew up

To his fairy mother.

Happy meeting

Pleasant greeting—

Kissing one another.

"Choose a calling

Most enthralling,

I sincerely urge ye."

"Mother," said he

(Rev'rence made he),

"I would join the clergy"

"Give permission

In addition—

Pa will let me do it:

There's a living

In his giving,

He'll appoint me to it.

Dreams of coff'ring

Easter off'ring,

Tithe and rent and pew-rate,

So inflame me

(Do not blame me),

That I'll be a curate."

She, with pleasure,

Said, "My treasure,

Tis my wish precisely.

Do your duty,

There's a beauty;

You have chosen wisely.

Tell your father

I would rather

As a churchman rank you.

You, in clover,

I'll watch over."

Georgie said, "Oh, thank you!"

Georgie scudded,

Went and studied,

Made all preparations,

And with credit

(Though he said it)

Passed examinations.

(Do not quarrel)

With him, moral

Scrupulous digestions—

But his mother,

And no other,

Answered all the questions.

Time proceeded;

Little needed

Georgie admonition:

He, elated,

Vindicated

Clergyman's position.

People round him

Always found him

Plain and unpretending;

Kindly teaching,

Plainly preaching—

All his money lending.

So the fairy,

Wise and wary,

Felt no sorrow rising—

No occasion

For persuasion,

Warning, or advising.

He, resuming

Fairy pluming

(That's not English, is it?)

Oft would fly up,

To the sky up,

Pay mamma a visit.

Time progressing,

Georgie's blessing

Grew more Ritualistic—

Popish scandals,

Tonsures—sandals—

Genuflections mystic;

Gushing meetings—

Bosom-beatings—

Heavenly ecstatics—

Broidered spencers—

Copes and censers—

Rochets and dalmatics.

This quandary

Vexed the fairy—

Flew she down to Ealing.

"Georgie, stop it!

Pray you, drop it;

Hark to my appealing:

To this foolish

Papal rule-ish

Twaddle put an ending;

This a swerve is

From our Service

Plain and unpretending."

He, replying,

Answered, sighing,

Hawing, hemming, humming,

"It's a pity—

They're so pritty;

Yet in mode becoming,

Mother tender,

I'll surrender—

I'll be unaffected—"

Then his Bishop

Into his shop

Entered unexpected:

"Who is this, sir,—

Ballet miss, sir?"

Said the Bishop coldly.

"'Tis my mother,

And no other,"

Georgie answered boldly.

"Go along, sir!

You are wrong, sir,

You have years in plenty;

While this hussy

(Gracious mussy!)

Isn't two-and-twenty!"

(Fairies clever

Never, never

Grow in visage older;

And the fairy,

All unwary,

Leant upon his shoulder!)

Bishop grieved him,

Disbelieved him,

George the point grew warm on;

Changed religion,

Like a pigeon,[11]

And became a Mormon.

[11] "Like a Bird."

He loves! If in the bygone years

Thine eyes have ever shed

Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,

For one untimely dead—

If in the eventide of life

Sad thoughts of her arise,

Then let the memory of thy wife

Plead for my boy—he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside

In some old cabinet,

Memorials of thy long-dead bride

Lie, dearly treasured yet,

Then let her hallowed bridal dress—

Her little dainty gloves—

Her withered flowers—her faded tress—

Plead for my boy—he loves!

A maiden sat at her window wide,

Pretty enough for a prince's bride,

Yet nobody came to claim her.

She sat like a beautiful picture there,

With pretty bluebells and roses fair,

And jasmine leaves to frame her.

And why she sat there nobody knows;

But thus she sang as she plucked a rose,

The leaves around her strewing:

"I've time to lose and power to choose;

'Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant's way of wooing!"

A lover came riding by awhile,

A wealthy lover was he, whose smile

Some maids would value greatly—

A formal lover, who bowed and bent,

With many a high-flown compliment,

And cold demeanour stately.

"You've still," said she to her suitor stern,

"The 'prentice-work of your craft to learn.

If thus you come a-cooing.

I've time to lose and power to choose;

'Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant's way of wooing!"

A second lover came ambling by—

A timid lad with a frightened eye

And a colour mantling highly.

He muttered the errand on which he'd come,

Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,

And simpered, simpered shyly.

"No," said the maiden, "go your way,

You dare but think what a man would say,

Yet dare come a-suing!

I've time to lose and power to choose;

'Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant's way of wooing!"

A third rode up at a startling pace—

A suitor poor, with a homely face—

No doubts appeared to bind him.

He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,

And off he rode with the maiden, placed

On a pillion safe behind him.

And she heard the suitor bold confide

This golden hint to the priest who tied

The knot there's no undoing:

"With pretty young maidens who can choose

"Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant's way of wooing!"

My boy, you may take it from me,

That of all the afflictions accurst

With which a man's saddled

And hampered and addled,

A diffident nature's the worst.

Though clever as clever can be—

A Crichton of early romance—

You must stir it and stump it,

And blow your own trumpet,

Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.

Now take, for example, my case:

I've a bright intellectual brain—-

In all London city

There's no one so witty—

I've thought so again and again.

I've a highly intelligent face—

My features can not be denied—

But, whatever I try, sir,

I fail in—and why, sir?

I'm modesty personified!

As a poet, I'm tender and quaint—

I've passion and fervour and grace—

From Ovid and Horace

To Swinburne and Morris,

They all of them take a back place.

Then I sing and I play and I paint;

Though none are accomplished as I

To say so were treason:

You ask me the reason?

I'm diffident, modest, and shy!

The sun was setting in its wonted west,

When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

Met Mahry Daubigny, the Village Rose,

Under the Wizard's Oak—old trysting-place

Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.

They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not

For Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

Found in Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc

A rival, envious and unscrupulous,

Who thought it not foul scorn to dog his steps,

And listen, unperceived, to all that passed

Between the simple little Village Rose

And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

A clumsy barrack-bully was Dubosc,

Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact

That actuates a proper gentleman

In dealing with a girl of humble rank.

You'll understand his coarseness when I say

He would have married Mahry Daubigny,

And dragged the unsophisticated girl

Into the whirl of fashionable life,

For which her singularly rustic ways,

Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude),

Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical),

Would absolutely have unfitted her.

No such intention lurked within the breast

Of Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores!

Contemporary with the incident

Related in our opening paragraph,

Was that sad war 'twixt Gallia and ourselves

That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;

And so Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc

(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)

And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

Were sent by Charles of France against the lines

Of our Sixth Henry (Fourteen twenty-nine),

To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.

When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

Returned (suspecting nothing) to his camp,

After his meeting with the Village Rose,

He found inside his barrack letter-box

A note from the commanding-officer,

Requiring his attendance at headquarters.

He went, and found Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles.

"Young Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

This night we shall attack the English camp:

Be the 'forlorn hope' yours—you'll lead it sir,

And lead it too with credit, I've no doubt"

(These last words with a cruelly obvious sneer).

"As every soul must certainly be killed

(For you are twenty 'gainst two thousand men),

It is not likely that you will return;

But what of that? you'll have the benefit

Of knowing that you die a soldier's death."

Obedience was young Hongree's strongest point,

But he imagined that he only owed

Allegiance to his Mahry and his King.

"If Mahry bade me lead these fated men,

I'd lead them—but I do not think she would.

If Charles, my King, said, 'Go, my son, and die,'

I'd go, of course—my duty would be clear.

But Mahry is in bed asleep (I hope),

And Charles, my King, a hundred leagues from this,

As for Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc,

How know I that our monarch would approve

The order he has given me to-night?

My King I've sworn in all things to obey—

I'll only take my orders from my King!"

Thus Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

Interpreted the terms of his commission.

And Hongree, who was wise as he was good,

Disguised himself that night in ample cloak,

Round flapping hat, and visor mask of black,

And made, unnoticed, for the English camp.

He passed the unsuspecting sentinels

(Who little thought a man in this disguise

Could be a proper object of suspicion),

And ere the curfew-bell had boomed "lights out,"

He found in audience Bedford's haughty Duke.

"Your Grace," he said, "start not—be not alarmed,

Although a Frenchman stands before your eyes.

I'm Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

My colonel will attack your camp to-night,

And orders me to lead the hope forlorn.

Now I am sure our excellent King Charles

Would not approve of this; but he's away

A hundred leagues, and rather more than that.

So, utterly devoted to my King,

Blinded by my attachment to the throne,

And having but its interest at heart,

I feel it is my duty to disclose

All schemes that emanate from Colonel Jooles,

If I believe that they are not the kind

Of schemes that our good monarch could approve."

"But how," said Bedford's Duke, "do you propose

That we should overthrow your colonel's scheme?"

And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,

Replied at once with never-failing tact:

"Oh, sir, I know this cursed country well.

Entrust yourself and all your host to me;

I'll lead you safely by a secret path

Into the heart of Colonel Jooles' array,

And you can then attack them unprepared,

And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed."

The thing was done. The Duke of Bedford gave

The order, and two thousand fighting-men

Crept silently into the Gallic camp,

And killed the Frenchmen as they lay asleep;

And Bedford's haughty Duke slew Colonel Jooles,

And married Mahry, pride of Aquitaine,

To Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

Try we life-long, we can never

Straighten out life's tangled skein,

Why should we, in vain endeavour,

Guess and guess and guess again?

Life's a pudding full of plums,

Care's a canker that benumbs,

Wherefore waste our elocution

On impossible solution?

Life's a pleasant institution,

Let us take it as it comes!

Set aside the dull enigma,

We shall guess it all too soon;

Failure brings no kind of stigma—

Dance we to another tune!

String the lyre and fill the cup,

Lest on sorrow we should sup;

Hop and skip to Fancy's fiddle,

Hands across and down the middle—

Life's perhaps the only riddle

That we shrink from giving up!

The, Reverend Micah Sowls,

He shouts and yells and howls,

He screams, he mouths, he bumps,

He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage

The regulation war against the Stage;

And warns his congregation all to shun

"The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One."

The subject's sad enough

To make him rant and puff,

And fortunately, too,

His Bishop's in a pew.

So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam,

His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,

He is as energetic as can be,

For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it's o'er,

Goes through the vestry door,

Where Micah, very red,

Is mopping of his head.

"Pardon, my Lord, your Sowls' excessive zeal,

It is a theme on which I strongly feel."

(The sermon somebody had sent him down

From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)

The Bishop bowed his head,

And, acquiescing, said,

"I've heard your well-meant rage

Against the Modern Stage.

"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,

Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may;

But let me ask you, my respected son,

Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"

"My Lord," said Micah, "no!

I never, never go!

What! Go and see a play?

My goodness gracious, nay!"

The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt

The Stage may be the place you make it out;

But if, my Reverend Sowls, you never go,

I don't quite understand how you're to know."

"Well, really," Micah said,

"I've often heard and read,

But never go—do you?"

The Bishop said, "I do."

"That proves me wrong," said Micah, in a trice;

"I thought it all frivolity and vice."

The Bishop handed him a printed card;

"Go to a theatre where they play our Bard."

The Bishop took his leave,

Rejoicing in his sleeve.

The next ensuing day

Sowls went and heard a play.

He saw a dreary person on the stage,

Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,

Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,

And spoke an English Sowls had never heard.

For "gaunt" was spoken "garnt,"

And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"

And "wrath" pronounced as "rath,"

And "death" was changed to "dath."

For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,

And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,

Till lethargy upon the parson crept,

And sleepy Micah Sowls serenely slept.

He slept away until

The farce that closed the bill

Had warned him not to stay,

And then he went away.

"I thought my gait ridiculous," said he—

"My elocution faulty as could be;

I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan—

I had not seen our great Tragedian!

"Forgive me, if you can,

O great Tragedian!

I own it with a sigh—

You're drearier than I!"

Bedecked in fashion trim,

With every curl a-quiver;

Or leaping, light of limb,

O'er rivulet and river;

Or skipping o'er the lea

On daffodil and daisy;

Or stretched beneath a tree,

All languishing and lazy;

Whatever be her mood—

Be she demurely prude

Or languishingly lazy—

My lady drives me crazy!

In vain her heart is wooed,

Whatever be her mood!

What profit should I gain

Suppose she loved me dearly?

Her coldness turns my brain

To verge of madness merely.

Her kiss—though, Heaven knows,

To dream of it were treason—

Would tend, as I suppose,

To utter loss of reason!

My state is not amiss;

I would not have a kiss

Which, in or out of season,

Might tend to loss of reason:

What profit in such bliss?

A fig for such a kiss!

It's my opinion—though I own

In thinking so I'm quite alone—

In some respects I'm but a fright.

You like my features, I suppose?

I'm disappointed with my nose:

Some rave about it—perhaps they're right.

My figure just sets off a fit;

But when they say it's exquisite

(And they do say so), that's too strong.

I hope I'm not what people call

Opinionated! After all,

I'm but a goose, and may be wrong!

When charms enthral

There's some excuse

For measures strong;

And after all

I'm but a goose,

And may be wrong!

My teeth are very neat, no doubt;

But after all they may fall out:

I think they will—some think they won't.

My hands are small, as you may see,

But not as small as they might be,

At least, I think so—others don't.

But there, a girl may preach and prate

From morning six to evening eight,

And never stop to dine,

When all the world, although misled,

Is quite agreed on any head—

And it is quite agreed on mine!

All said and done,

It's little I

Against a throng.

I'm only one,

And possibly

I may be wrong!

Lord B. was a nobleman bold

Who came of illustrious stocks,

He was thirty or forty years old,

And several feet in his socks.

To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea

This elegant nobleman went,

For that was a borough that he

Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.

At local assemblies he danced

Until he felt thoroughly ill;

He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,

And threaded the mazy quadrille.

The maidens of Turniptopville

Were simple—ingenuous—pure—

And they all worked away with a will

The nobleman's heart to secure.

Two maidens all others beyond

Endeavoured his cares to dispel—

The one was the lively Ann Pond,

The other sad Mary Morell.

Ann Pond had determined to try

And carry the Earl with a rush;

Her principal feature was eye,

Her greatest accomplishment—gush.

And Mary chose this for her play:

Whenever he looked in her eye

She'd blush and turn quickly away,

And flitter, and flutter, and sigh.

It was noticed he constantly sighed

As she worked out the scheme she had planned,

A fact he endeavoured to hide

With his aristocratical hand.

Old Pond was a farmer, they say,

And so was old Tommy Morell.

In a humble and pottering way

They were doing exceedingly well.

They both of them carried by vote

The Earl was a dangerous man;

So nervously clearing his throat,

One morning old Tommy began:

"My darter's no pratty young doll—

I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—

Now what do 'ee mean by my Poll,

And what do 'ee mean by his Ann?"

Said B., "I will give you my bond

I mean them uncommonly well,

Believe me, my excellent Pond,

And credit me, worthy Morell.

"It's quite indisputable, for

I'll prove it with singular ease,—

You shall have it in 'Barbara' or

'Celarent'—whichever you please.

'You see, when an anchorite bows

To the yoke of intentional sin,

If the state of the country allows,

Homogeny always steps in—

"It's a highly æsthetical bond,

As any mere ploughboy can tell——"

"Of course," replied puzzled old Pond.

"I see," said old Tommy Morell.

"Very good, then," continued the lord;

"When it's fooled to the top of its bent,

With a sweep of a Damocles sword

The web of intention is rent.

"That's patent to all of us here,

As any mere schoolboy can tell."

Pond answered, "Of course it's quite clear";

And so did that humbug Morell.

"Its tone's esoteric in force—

I trust that I make myself clear?"

Morell only answered, "Of course,"

While Pond slowly muttered, "Hear, hear."

"Volition—celestial prize,

Pellucid as porphyry cell—

Is based on a principle wise."

"Quite so," exclaimed Pond and Morell.

"From what I have said you will see

That I couldn't wed either—in fine,

By Nature's unchanging decree

Your daughters could never be mine.

"Go home to your pigs and your ricks,

My hands of the matter I've rinsed."

So they take up their hats and their sticks,

And exeunt ambo, convinced.

If my action's stiff and crude,

Do not laugh, because it's rude.

If my gestures promise larks,

Do not make unkind remarks.

Clockwork figures may be found

Everywhere and all around.

Ten to one, if I but knew,

You are clockwork figures too.

And the motto of the lot,

"Put a penny in the slot!"

Usurer, for money lent,

Making out his cent per cent—

Widow plump or maiden rare,

Deaf and dumb to suitor's prayer—

Tax collectors, whom in vain

You implore to "call again"—

Cautious voter, whom you find

Slow in making up his mind—

If you'd move them on the spot,

Put a penny in the slot!

Bland reporters in the courts,

Who suppress police reports—

Sheriff's yeoman, pen in fist,

Making out a jury list—

Stern policemen, tall and spare,

Acting all "upon the square"—

(Which in words that plainer fall,

Means that you can square them all)—

If you want to move the lot,

Put a penny in the slot!

Although of native maids the cream,

We're brought up on the English scheme—

The best of all

For great and small

Who modesty adore.

For English girls are good as gold,

Extremely modest (so we're told),

Demurely coy—divinely cold—

And we are that—and more.

To please papa, who argues thus—

All girls should mould themselves on us,

Because we are,

By furlongs far,

The best of all the bunch;

We show ourselves to loud applause

From ten to four without a pause—

Which is an awkward time because

It cuts into our lunch.

Oh, maids of high and low degree,

Whose social code is rather free,

Please look at us and you will see

What good young ladies ought to be!

And as we stand, like clockwork toys,

A lecturer papa employs

To puff and praise

Our modest ways

And guileless character—

Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes—

Our famous look of mild surprise

(Which competition still defies)—

Our celebrated "Sir!!!"

Then all the crowd take down our looks

In pocket memorandum books.

To diagnose

Our modest pose

The kodaks do their best:

If evidence you would possess

Of what is maiden bashfulness,

You only need a button press—

And we do all the rest.

A bishop once—I will not name his see—

Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;

From pulpit shackles never set them free,

And found a sin where sin was unintentional.

All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—

That Bishop was so terribly particular.

Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,

He sought to make of human pleasures clearances,

And form his priests on that much-lauded plan

Which pays undue attention to appearances.

He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em,

Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em.

Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,

Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,

He sought by open censure to enhance

Their dread of joining harmless social jollity;

Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)

The ordinary pleasures of society.

One evening, sitting at a pantomime

(Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him),

Roaring at jokes sans metre, sense, or rhyme,

He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him—

His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it—

A curate, also heartily enjoying it.

Again, 'twas Christmas Eve, and to enhance

His children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking,

He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;

When something checked the current of his frolicking:

That curate, with a maid he treated loverly,

Stood up and figured with him in the "Coverley"!

Once, yielding to an universal choice

(The company's demand was an emphatic one,

For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),

In a quartet he joined—an operatic one—

Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of grace in it;

When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!

One day, when passing through a quiet street,

He stopped awhile and joined a Punch's gathering,

And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet

To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;

And heard, as Punch was being treated penally,

That phantom curate laughing all hyænally!

Now at a picnic, 'mid fair golden curls,

Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly,

A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls,

And he, consenting, speaks of croquet praisingly;

But suddenly declines to play at all in it—

The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!

Next, when at quiet seaside village, freed

From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,

He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,

In manner anything but hierarchical—

He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—

That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it!

At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:

"Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may.

To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd;

What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may."

He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,

The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.

First you're born—and I'll be bound you

Find a dozen strangers round you.

"Hallo," cries the new-born baby,

"Where's my parents? which may they be?"

Awkward silence—no reply—

Puzzled baby wonders why!

Father rises, bows politely—

Mother smiles (but not too brightly)—

Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing—

Nurse is busy mixing something.—

Every symptom tends to show

You're decidedly de trop—

Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

Time's teetotum,

If you spin it,

Give its quotum

Once a minute:

I'll go bail

You hit the nail,

And if you fail

The deuce is in it!

You grow up, and you discover

What it is to be a lover.

Some young lady is selected—

Poor, perhaps, but well-connected,

Whom you hail (for Love is blind)

As the Queen of Fairy-kind.

Though she's plain—perhaps unsightly,

Makes her face up—laces tightly,

In her form your fancy traces

All the gifts of all the graces.

Rivals none the maiden woo,

So you take her and she takes you!

Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

Joke beginning,

Never ceases,

Till your inning

Time releases;

On your way

You blindly stray,

And day by day

The joke increases!

Ten years later—Time progresses—

Sours your temper—thins your tresses;

Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;

Rates are facts and so are taxes.

Fairy Queen's no longer young—

Fairy Queen has such a tongue!

Twins have probably intruded—

Quite unbidden—just as you did;

They're a source of care and trouble—

Just as you were—only double.

Comes at last the final stroke—

Time has had his little joke!

Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

Daily driven

(Wife as drover)

Ill you've thriven—

Ne'er in clover:

Lastly, when

Threescore and ten

(And not till then),

The joke is over!

Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!

Then—and then

The joke is over!

Some seven men form an Association

(If possible, all Peers and Baronets),

They start off with a public declaration

To what extent they mean to pay their debts.

That's called their Capital: if they are wary

They will not quote it at a sum immense.

The figure's immaterial—it may vary

From eighteen million down to eighteenpence.

I should put it rather low;

The good sense of doing so

Will be evident at once to any debtor.

When it's left to you to say

What amount you mean to pay,

Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.

They then proceed to trade with all who'll trust 'em,

Quite irrespective of their capital

(It's shady, but it's sanctified by custom);

Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal.

You can't embark on trading too tremendous—

It's strictly fair, and based on common sense—

If you succeed, your profits are stupendous—

And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence.

Make the money-spinner spin!

For you only stand to win,

And you'll never with dishonesty be twitted.

For nobody can know,

To a million or so,

To what extent your capital's committed!

If you come to grief, and creditors are craving

(For nothing that is planned by mortal head

Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow—saving

That one's Liability is Limited),—

Do you suppose that signifies perdition?

If so you're but a monetary dunce—

You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,

And start another Company at once!

Though a Rothschild you may be

In your own capacity,

As a Company you've come to utter sorrow—

But the Liquidators say,

"Never mind—you needn't pay,"

So you start another Company to-morrow!

No nobler captain ever trod

Than Captain Parklebury Todd,

So good—so wise—so brave, he!

But still, as all his friends would own,

He had one folly—one alone—

This Captain in the Navy.

I do not think I ever knew

A man so wholly given to

Creating a sensation;

Or p'raps I should in justice say—

To what in an Adelphi play

Is known as "situation."

He passed his time designing traps

To flurry unsuspicious chaps—

The taste was his innately;

He couldn't walk into a room

Without ejaculating "Boom!"

Which startled ladies greatly.

He'd wear a mask and muffling cloak,

Not, you will understand, in joke,

As some assume disguises;

He did it, actuated by

A simple love of mystery

And fondness for surprises.

I need not say he loved a maid—

His eloquence threw into shade

All others who adored her.

The maid, though pleased at first, I know,

Found, after several years or so,

Her startling lover bored her.

So, when his orders came to sail,

She did not faint or scream or wail,

Or with her tears anoint him:

She shook his hand, and said "Good-bye,"

With laughter dancing in her eye—

Which seemed to disappoint him.

But ere he went aboard his boat,

He placed around her little throat

A ribbon, blue and yellow,

On which he hung a double tooth—

A simple token this, in sooth—

'Twas all he had, poor fellow!

"I often wonder," he would say,

When very, very far away,

"If Angelina wears it?

A plan has entered in my head:

I will pretend that I am dead,

And see how Angy bears it."

The news he made a messmate tell.

His Angelina bore it well,

No sign gave she of crazing;

But, steady as the Inchcape Rock,

His Angelina stood the shock

With fortitude amazing.

She said, "Some one I must elect

Poor Angelina to protect

From all who wish to harm her—

Since worthy Captain Todd is dead,

I rather feel inclined to wed

A comfortable farmer."

A comfortable farmer came

(Bassanio Tyler was his name),

Who had no end of treasure.

He said, "My noble gal, be mine!"

The noble gal did not decline,

But simply said. "With pleasure."

When this was told to Captain Todd,

At first he thought it rather odd,

And felt some perturbation;

But very long he did not grieve,

He thought he could a way perceive

To such a situation!

"I'll not reveal myself," said he,

"Till they are both in the

Ecclesiastical arena;

Then suddenly I will appear,

And paralysing them with fear,

Demand my Angelina!"

At length arrived the wedding day;

Accoutred in the usual way

Appeared the bridal body;

The worthy clergyman began,

When in the gallant Captain ran

And cried, "Behold your Toddy!"

The bridegroom, p'raps, was terrified,

And also possibly the bride—

The bridesmaids were affrighted;

But Angelina, noble soul,

Contrived her feelings to control,

And really seemed delighted.

"My bride!" said gallant Captain Todd,

"She's mine, uninteresting clod!

My own, my darling charmer!"

"Oh dear," said she, "you're just too late—

I'm married to, I beg to state,

This comfortable farmer!"

"Indeed," the farmer said, "she's mine;

You've been and cut it far too fine!"

"I see," said Todd, "I'm beaten."

And so he went to sea once more,

"Sensation" he for aye forswore,

And married on her native shore

A lady whom he'd met before—

A lovely Otaheitan.

Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,

Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.

(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)

No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;

For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.

(That's a maxim that is prevalent in England.)

No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes

Who wouldn't be accepted by the lower-middle classes;

Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.

In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!

It really is surprising

What a thorough Anglicising

We've brought about—Utopia's quite another land;

In her enterprising movements,

She is England—with improvements,

Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our city we have beautified—we've done it willy-nilly—

And all that isn't Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.

(They haven't any slummeries in England.)

We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,

So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished—

(They are going to abolish it in England.)

The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,

Of "risky" situation and indelicate suggestion;

No piece is tolerated if it's costumed indiscreetly—

In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!

It really is surprising

What a thorough Anglicising

We've brought about—Utopia's quite another land;

In her enterprising movements,

She is England—with improvements,

Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our Peerage we've remodelled on an intellectual basis,

Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races—

(They are going to remodel it in England.)

The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek admission,

And Literary Merit meets with proper recognition—

(As Literary Merit does in England!)

Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens

Like them an Earl of Thackeray and p'raps a Duke of Dickens—

Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we'll welcome sweetly—

And then, this happy country will be Anglicised completely!

It really is surprising

What a thorough Anglicising

We've brought about—Utopia's quite another land;

In her enterprising movements,

She is England—with improvements,

Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,

In her magnificent comeliness,

Is an English girl of eleven stone two,

And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!

She follows the hounds, and on she pounds—

The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish—

Over the hedges and brooks she bounds—

Straight as a crow, from find to finish.

At cricket, her kin will lose or win—

She and her maids, on grass and clover,

Eleven maids out—eleven maids in—

(And perhaps an occasional "maiden over").

Go search the world and search the sea,

Then come you home and sing with me

There's no such gold and no such pearl

As a bright and beautiful English girl!

With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,

She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims—

She plays, she sings, she dances, too,

From ten or eleven till all is blue!

At ball or drum, till small hours come

(Chaperon's fan conceals her yawning),

She'll waltz away like a teetotum,

And never go home till daylight's dawning.

Lawn tennis may share her favours fair—

Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing—

Down comes her hair, but what does she care?

It's all her own and it's worth the showing!

Go search the world and search the sea,

Then come you home and sing with me

There's no such gold and no such pearl

As a bright and beautiful English girl!

Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,

For prudery knows no haven there;

To find mock-modesty, please apply

To the conscious blush and the downcast eye.

Rich in the things contentment brings,

In every pure enjoyment wealthy,

Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings,

For body and mind are hale and healthy.

Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill—

Her heart is light as a floating feather—

As pure and bright as the mountain rill

That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!

Go search the world and search the sea,

Then come you home and sing with me

There's no such gold and no such pearl

As a bright and beautiful English girl!

Letters, letters, letters, letters!

Some that please and some that bore,

Some that threaten prison fetters

(Metaphorically, fetters

Such as bind insolvent debtors)—

Invitations by the score.

One from Cogson, Wiles, and Railer,

My attorneys, off the Strand;

One from Copperblock, my tailor—

My unreasonable tailor—

One in Flagg's disgusting hand.

One from Ephraim and Moses,

Wanting coin without a doubt,

I should like to pull their noses—

Their uncompromising noses;

One from Alice with the roses—-

Ah, I know what that's about!

Time was when I waited, waited

For the missives that she wrote,

Humble postmen execrated—

Loudly, deeply execrated—

When I heard I wasn't fated

To be gladdened with a note!

Time was when I'd not have bartered

Of her little pen a dip

For a peerage duly gartered—

For a peerage starred and gartered—

With a palace-office chartered,

Or a Secretaryship.

But the time for that is over,

And I wish we'd never met.

I'm afraid I've proved a rover—

I'm afraid a heartless rover—

Quarters in a place like Dover

Tend to make a man forget.

Bills for carriages and horses,

Bills for wine and light cigar,

Matters that concern the Forces—

News that may affect the Forces—

News affecting my resources,

Much more interesting are!

And the tiny little paper,

With the words that seem to run

From her little fingers taper

(They are very small and taper),

By the tailor and the draper

Are in interest outdone.

And unopened it's remaining!

I can read her gentle hope—

Her entreaties, uncomplaining

(She was always uncomplaining),

Her devotion never waning—

Through the little envelope!

Were I a king in very truth,

And had a son—a guileless youth—

In probable succession;

To teach him patience, teach him tact,

How promptly in a fix to act,

He should adopt, in point of fact,

A manager's profession.

To that condition he should stoop

(Despite a too fond mother),

With eight or ten "stars" in his troupe,

All jealous of each other!

Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,

Each member a genius (and some of them two),

And manage to humour them, little and great,

Can govern a tuppenny-ha'penny State!

Both A and B rehearsal slight—

They say they'll be "all right at night"

(They've both to go to school yet);

C in each act must change her dress,

D will attempt to "square the press";

E won't play Romeo unless

His grandmother plays Juliet;

F claims all hoydens as her rights

(She's played them thirty seasons);

And G must show herself in tights

For two convincing reasons—

Two very well-shaped reasons!

Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team,

With wheelers and leaders in order supreme,

Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin,

All Europe and Asia—with Ireland thrown in!

When you find you're a broken-down critter,

Who is all of a trimmle and twitter,

With your palate unpleasantly bitter,

As if you'd just bitten a pill—

When your legs are as thin as dividers,

And you're plagued with unruly insiders,

And your spine is all creepy with spiders,

And you're highly gamboge in the gill—

When you've got a beehive in your head,

And a sewing machine in each ear,

And you feel that you've eaten your bed,

And you've got a bad headache down here—

When such facts are about,

And these symptoms you find

In your body or crown—

Well, it's time to look out,

You may make up your mind

You had better lie down!

When your lips are all smeary—like tallow,

And your tongue is decidedly yallow,

With a pint of warm oil in your swallow,

And a pound of tin-tacks in your chest—

When you're down in the mouth with the vapours,

And all over your new Morris papers

Black-beetles are cutting their capers,

And crawly things never at rest—

When you doubt if your head is your own,

And you jump when an open door slams—

Then you've got to a state which is known

To the medical world as "jim-jams."

If such symptoms you find

In your body or head,

They're not easy to quell—

You may make up your mind

You are better in bed,

For you're not at all well!

An actor sits in doubtful gloom,

His stock-in-trade unfurled,

In a damp funereal dressing-room

In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-time

And braves its icy breath,

To play in that favourite pantomime.

Harlequin Life and Death.

A hoary flowing wig his weird,

Unearthly cranium caps;

He hangs a long benevolent beard

On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features down

The actor's art he cribs;

A long and a flowing padded gown

Bedecks his rattling ribs.

He cries, "Go on—begin, begin!

Turn on the light of lime;

I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas in

A favourite pantomime!"

The curtain's up—the stage all black—

Time and the Year nigh sped—

(Time as an advertising quack)

The Old Year nearly dead.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo!

Revealed Old Christmas stands,

And little children chuckle and crow,

And laugh and clap their hands.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens up

At the death of the Olden Year,

And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,

And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King—

No thought can make them sad;

Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.

They clap and crow like mad!

They only see in the humbug old

A holiday every year,

And handsome gifts, and joys untold,

And unaccustomed cheer.

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,

Their breasts in anguish beat—

They've seen him seventy times before,

How well they know the cheat!

They've seen that ghastly pantomime,

They've felt its blighting breath,

They know that rollicking Christmas-time

Meant cold and want and death—

Starvation—Poor Law Union fare,

And deadly cramps and chills,

And illness—illness everywhere—

And crime, and Christmas bills.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween,

Those men of ripened age;

They've often, often, often seen

That actor off the stage.

They see in his gay rotundity

A clumsy stuffed-out dress;

They see in the cup he waves on high

A tinselled emptiness.

Those aged men so lean and wan,

They've seen it all before;

They know they'll see the charlatan

But twice or three times more.

And so they bear with dance and song,

And crimson foil and green;

They wearily sit, and grimly long

For the Transformation Scene.

Bold-faced ranger

(Perfect stranger)

Meets two well-behaved young ladies.

He's attractive,

Young and active—

Each a little bit afraid is.

Youth advances,

At his glances

To their danger they awaken;

They repel him

As they tell him

He is very much mistaken.

Though they speak to him politely,

Please observe they're sneering slightly,

Just to show he's acting vainly.

This is Virtue saying plainly,

"Go away, young bachelor,

We are not what you take us for!"

(When addressed impertinently,

English ladies answer gently,

"Go away, young bachelor,

We are not what you take us for!")

As he gazes,

Hat he raises,

Enters into conversation.

Makes excuses—

This produces

Interesting agitation.

He, with daring,

Undespairing,

Gives his card—his rank discloses—

Little heeding

This proceeding,

They turn up their little noses.

Pray observe this lesson vital—

When a man of rank and title

His position first discloses,

Always cock your little noses.

When at home, let all the class

Try this in the looking-glass.

(English girls of well-bred notions

Shun all unrehearsed emotions,

English girls of highest class

Practise them before the glass.)

His intentions

Then he mentions,

Something definite to go on—

Makes recitals

Of his titles,

Hints at settlements, and so on.

Smiling sweetly,

They, discreetly,

Ask for further evidences:

Thus invited,

He, delighted,

Gives the usual references.

This is business. Each is fluttered

When the offer's fairly uttered.

"Which of them has his affection?"

He declines to make selection.

Do they quarrel for his dross?

Not a bit of it—they toss!

Please observe this cogent moral—

English ladies never quarrel.

When a doubt they come across,

English ladies always toss.

At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention

To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,

For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,

And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.

We've a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)

Who respond to the choreutae of that cultivated age,

And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster

Would accept as the choregus of the early Attic stage.

This return to classic ages is considered in their wages,

Which are always calculated by the day or by the week—

And I'll pay 'em (if they'll back me) all in oboloi and drachmae,

Which they'll get (if they prefer it) at the Kalends that are Greek!

(At this juncture I may mention

That this erudition sham

Is but classical pretension,

The result of steady "cram.":

Periphrastic methods spurning,

To my readers all discerning

I admit this show of learning

Is the fruit of steady "cram."!)

In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic

(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind),

There they'd satisfy their twist on a recherché cold ἄριστον,

Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined.

As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι πρὸς τὸν πότον

(Which is Attic for a steady and a conscientious drink).

But they mixed their wine with water—which I'm sure they didn't oughter—

And we Anglo-Saxons know a trick worth two of that, I think!

Then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances)

Which would shock that worthy gentleman, the Licenser of Plays,

Corybantian maniac kick—Dionysiac or Bacchic—

And the Dithyrambic revels of those indecorous days.

(And perhaps I'd better mention

Lest alarming you I am,

That it isn't our intention

To perform a Dithyramb—

It displays a lot of stocking,

Which is always very shocking,

And of course I'm only mocking

At the prevalence of "cram.")

Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation

Which are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day,

And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify,

Or Mrs. Grundy, p'r'aps, may have a word or two to say:

For they hadn't macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes—

And a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce,

And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing,

For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn't know the use.

They wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or no-thing—

And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent in design—

Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the "altogether."

And it's there, I rather fancy, I shall have to draw the line!

(And again I wish to mention)

That this erudition sham

Is but classical pretension,

The result of steady "cram."

Yet my classic lore aggressive,

If you'll pardon the possessive,

Is exceedingly impressive

When you're passing an exam.

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!

Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!

Let the piano's martial blast

Rouse the echoes of the past,

For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,

Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:

His gentle spirit rolls

In the melody of souls—

Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,

Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.

He would diligently play

On the Zoetrope all day,

And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter—I am shaky in my dates—

Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;

Oh, Allah be obeyed,

How infernally they played!

I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,

I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,

Photographically lined

On the tablet of my mind,

When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in;

Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin

And when (as snobs would say)

They had "put it all away,"

He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,

I will tell you what I never told before—

The consequences true

Of that awful interview,

For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

They played him a sonata—let me see!

"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.

Then they began to sing

That extremely lovely thing,

"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count,

Scent from a most ingenious little fount,

More beer in little kegs,

Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,

And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,

And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;

For even at this day,

Though its sting has passed away,

When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,

All-overish it made me for to feel.

"O Prince," he says, says he,

"If a Prince indeed you be,

I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,

To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:

No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,

As you fancy that we be,

For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"

Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,

I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"

Beth gave a dreadful shriek—

But before he'd time to speak

I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,

They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.

On my face extended flat,

I was walloped with a cat,

For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!

(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)

For a week from ten to four

I was fastened to the floor,

While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,

And they left me in an hospital to heal;

And, upon my solemn word,

I have never, never heard

What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,

I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,

Photographically lined

On the tablet of my mind,

When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Oh what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes.

What keen enjoyment springs

From cheap and simple things!

What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,

That pain and trouble brew

For every one but you!

Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,

Its unexpected flash

Burns eyebrows and moustache;

When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,

But common sense suggests

You keep it for your guests—

Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,

And much amusement bides

In common butter-slides:

And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.

Coal scuttles, recollect,

Produce the same effect.

A man possessed

Of common sense

Need not invest

At great expense—

It does not call

For pocket deep,

These jokes are all

Extremely cheap.

If you commence with eighteenpence (it's all you'll have to pay),

You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.

A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets,

And turnip-heads on posts

Make very decent ghosts:

Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets—

Burnt cork and walnut juice

Are not without their use.

No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles—

Live shrimps their patience tax

When put down people's backs—

Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles—

And treacle on a chair

Will make a Quaker swear!

Then sharp tin tacks

And pocket squirts—

And cobblers' wax

For ladies' skirts—

And slimy slugs

On bedroom floors—

And water jugs

On open doors—

Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,

Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!

A monarch is pestered with cares,

Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them;

But one comes in a shape he can never escape—

The implacable National Anthem!

Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,

It pursues him at every turn—

No chance of forsaking

Its rococo numbers;

They haunt him when waking—

They poison his slumbers—

Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,

He's cursed with its music wherever he goes!

Though its words but imperfectly rhyme,

And the devil himself couldn't scan them;

With composure polite he endures day and night

That illiterate National Anthem!

It serves a good purpose, I own:

Its strains are devout and impressive—

Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats

As we burn with devotion excessive:

But the King, who's been bored by that song

From his cradle—each day—all day long—

Who's heard it loud-shouted

By throats operatic,

And loyally spouted

By courtiers emphatic—

By soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife—

Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life!

While his subjects sing loudly and long,

Their King—who would willingly ban them—

Sits, worry disguising, anathematising

That Bogie, the National Anthem!

A tar, but poorly prized,

Long, shambling, and unsightly,

Thrashed, bullied, and despised,

Was wretched Joe Golightly.

He bore a workhouse brand;

No Pa or Ma had claimed him,

The Beadle found him, and

The Board of Guardians named him.

P'r'aps some Princess's son—

A beggar p'r'aps his mother.

He rather thought the one,

I rather think the other.

He liked his ship at sea,

He loved the salt sea-water,

He worshipped junk, and he

Adored the First Lord's daughter.

The First Lord's daughter, proud,

Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly;

She sneered at Barts, aloud,

And spurned poor Joe Golightly.

Whene'er he sailed afar

Upon a Channel cruise, he

Unpacked his light guitar

And sang this ballad (Boosey):

Ballad

The moon is on the sea,

Willow!

The wind blows towards the lee,

Willow!

But though I sigh and sob and cry,

No Lady Jane for me,

Willow!

She says, "'Twere folly quite,

Willow!

For me to wed a wight,

Willow!

Whose lot is cast before the mast";

And possibly she's right,

Willow!

His skipper (Captain Joyce),

He gave him many a rating,

And almost lost his voice

From thus expostulating:

"Lay aft, you lubber, do!

What's come to that young man, Joe?

Belay!—'vast heaving! you!

Do kindly stop that banjo!

"I wish, I do—O lor'!—

You'd shipped aboard a trader:

Are you a sailor or

A negro serenader?"

But still the stricken lad,

Aloft or on his pillow,

Howled forth in accents sad

His aggravating "Willow!"

Stern love of duty had

Been Joyce's chiefest beauty;

Says he, "I love that lad,

But duty, damme! duty!

"Twelve months' black-hole, I say,

Where daylight never flashes;

And always twice a day

A good six dozen lashes!"

But Joseph had a mate,

A sailor stout and lusty,

A man of low estate,

But singularly trusty.

Says he, "Cheer hup, young Joe!

I'll tell you what I'm arter—

To that Fust Lord I'll go

And ax him for his darter.

"To that Fust Lord I'll go

And say you love her dearly."

And Joe said (weeping low),

"I wish you would, sincerely!"

That sailor to that Lord

Went, soon as he had landed,

And of his own accord

An interview demanded.

Says he, with seaman's roll,

"My Captain (wot's a Tartar)

Guv Joe twelve months' black-hole,

For lovering your darter.

"He loves Miss Lady Jane

(I own she is his betters),

But if you'll jine them twain,

They'll free him from his fetters.

"And if so be as how

You'll let her come aboard ship,

I'll take her with me now."

"Get out!" remarked his Lordship.

That honest tar repaired

To Joe upon the billow,

And told him how he'd fared.

Joe only whispered, "Willow!"

And for that dreadful crime

(Young sailors, learn to shun it)

He's working out his time;

In six months he'll have done it.

My wedded life

Must every pleasure bring

On scale extensive!

If I'm your wife

I must have everything

That's most expensive—

A lady's-maid—

(My hair alone to do

I am not able)—

And I'm afraid

I've been accustomed to

A first-rate table.

These things one must consider when one marries—

And everything I wear must come from Paris!

Oh, think of that!

I can't wear anything that's not from Paris!

From top to toes

Quite Frenchified I am,

If you examine.

And then—who knows?—

Perhaps some day a fam—

Perhaps a famine!

My argument's correct, if you examine,

What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!

Though in green pea

Yourself you needn't stint

In July sunny,

In Januaree

It really costs a mint—

A mint of money!

No lamb for us—

House lamb at Christmas sells

At prices handsome:

Asparagus,

In winter, parallels

A Monarch's ransom:

When purse to bread and butter barely reaches,

What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?

Ah! tell me that!

What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?

Your heart and hand

Though at my feet you lay,

All others scorning!

As matters stand,

There's nothing now to say

Except—good morning!

Though virtue be a husband's best adorning,

That won't pay rates and taxes—so, good morning!

A hive of bees, as I've heard say,

Said to their Queen one sultry day,

"Please your Majesty's high position,

The hive is full and the weather is warm,

We rather think, with a due submission,

The time has come when we ought to swarm."

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Up spake their Queen and thus spake she—

"This is a matter that rests with me,

Who dares opinions thus to form?

I'll tell you when it is time to swarm!"

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Her Majesty wore an angry frown,

In fact, her Majesty's foot was down—

Her Majesty sulked—declined to sup—

In short, her Majesty's back was up.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Her foot was down and her back was up!

That hive contained one obstinate bee

(His name was Peter), and thus spake he—

"Though every bee has shown white feather,

To bow to tyranny I'm not prone—

Why should a hive swarm all together?

Surely a bee can swarm alone?"

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Upside down and inside out,

Backwards, forwards, round about,

Twirling here and twisting there,

Topsy-turvily everywhere—

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Pitiful sight it was to see

Respectable elderly high-class bee,

Who kicked the beam at sixteen stone,

Trying his best to swarm alone!

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Trying his best to swarm alone!

The hive were shocked to see their chum

(A strict teetotaller) teetotum—

The Queen exclaimed, "How terrible, very!

It's perfectly clear to all the throng

Peter's been at the old brown sherry.

Old brown sherry is much too strong—

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Of all who thus themselves degrade,

A stern example must be made,

To Coventry go, you tipsy bee!"

So off to Coventry town went he.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

There, classed with all who misbehave,

Both plausible rogue and noisome knave.

In dismal dumps he lived to own

The folly of trying to swarm alone!

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

All came of trying to swarm alone.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!

Through pathless realms of Space

Roll on!

What though I'm in a sorry case?

What though I cannot meet my bills?

What though I suffer toothache's ills?

What though I swallow countless pills?

Never you mind!

Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!

Through seas of inky air

Roll on!

It's true I have no shirts to wear;

It's true my butcher's bill is due;

It's true my prospects all look blue—

But don't let that unsettle you:

Never you mind!

Roll on!

[It rolls on.

The Ballyshannon foundered off the coast of Cariboo,

And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;

Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured:

Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,

The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:

Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,

And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.

[12] Reprinted from the Graphic, by permission of the proprietors.

These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,

Upon a desert island were eventually cast.

They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used,

But they couldn't chat together—they had not been introduced.

For Peter Gray, and Somers too, though certainly in trade,

Were properly particular about the friends they made;

And somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth—

That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.

On Peter's portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare,

But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn't bear.

On Somers' side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,

Which Somers couldn't eat, because it always made him sick.

Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store

Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore:

The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,

For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,

For the thought of Peter's oysters brought the water to his mouth.

He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:

He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had

When on board the Ballyshannon! And it drove them nearly mad

To think how very friendly with each other they might get,

If it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for the mus ridiculus,

Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:

"I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,

M'Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?"

These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be,

Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he!

He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red,

Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:

"I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold,

But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.

You spoke aloud of Robinson—I happened to be by—

You know him?" "Yes, extremely well." "Allow me—so do I!"

It was enough: they felt they could more sociably get on,

For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!

And Mr. Somers' turtle was at Peter's service quite,

And Mr. Somers punished Peter's oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs:

They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;

They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;

On several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,

And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;

Each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon,

And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,

And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.

At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,

They saw a vessel anchored in the offing of the bay!

To Peter an idea occurred. "Suppose we cross the main?

So good an opportunity may not occur again."

And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, "Done!

I wonder how my business in the City's getting on?"

"But stay," said Mr. Peter: "when in England, as you know,

I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,

I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!"

"Then come with me," said Somers, "and taste indigo instead."

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found

The vessel was a convict ship from Portland, outward bound!

When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,

To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,

They recognised an unattractive fellow pulling stroke:

'Twas Robinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock!

Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash

In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;

And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon

In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

At first they didn't quarrel very openly, I've heard;

They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:

The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,

And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,

And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;

And Peter has the oysters, which he loathes with horror grim,

And Somers has the turtle—turtle disagrees with him.

A tenor, all singers above

(This doesn't admit of a question),

Should keep himself quiet,

Attend to his diet,

And carefully nurse his digestion.

But when he is madly in love,

It's certain to tell on his singing—

You can't do chromatics

With proper emphatics

When anguish your bosom is wringing!

When distracted with worries in plenty,

And his pulse is a hundred and twenty,

And his fluttering bosom the slave of mistrust is,

A tenor can't do himself justice.

Now observe—(sings a high note)—

You see, I can't do myself justice!

I could sing, if my fervour were mock,

It's easy enough if you're acting;

But when one's emotion

Is born of devotion,

You mustn't be over-exacting.

One ought to be firm as a rock

To venture a shake in vibrato;

When fervour's expected,

Keep cool and collected,

Or never attempt agitato.

But, of course, when his tongue is of leather.

And his lips appear pasted together,

And his sensitive palate as dry as a crust is,

A tenor can't do himself justice.

Now observe—(sings a cadence)—

It's no use—I can't do myself justice!

I once did know a Turkish man

Whom I upon a two-pair-back met,

His name it was Effendi Khan

Backsheesh Pasha Ben Allah Achmet.

A Doctor Brown I also knew—

I've often eaten of his bounty;

The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,

In Sussex, that delightful county!

I knew a nice young lady there,

Her name was Emily Macpherson,

And though she wore another's hair,

She was an interesting person.

The Turk adored the maid of Hooe

(Although his harem would have shocked her).

But Brown adored that maiden too:

He was a most seductive doctor.

They'd follow her where'er she'd go—

A course of action most improper;

She neither knew by sight, and so

For neither of them cared a copper.

Brown did not know that Turkish male,

He might have been his sainted mother:

The people in this simple tale

Are total strangers to each other.

One day that Turk he sickened sore,

And suffered agonies oppressive;

He threw himself upon the floor

And rolled about in pain excessive.

It made him moan, it made him groan,

And almost wore him to a mummy.

Why should I hesitate to own

That pain was in his little tummy?

At length a doctor came, and rung

(As Allah Achmet had desired),

Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,

And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired:

"Where is the pain that long has preyed

Upon you in so sad a way, sir?"

The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said:

"I don't exactly like to say, sir."

"Come, nonsense!" said good Doctor Brown.

"So this is Turkish coyness, is it?

You must contrive to fight it down—

Come, come, sir, please to be explicit."

The Turk he shyly bit his thumb,

And coyly blushed like one half-witted,

"The pain is in my little tum,"

He, whispering, at length admitted.

"Then take you this, and take you that—

Your blood flows sluggish in its channel—

You must get rid of all this fat,

And wear my medicated flannel.

"You'll send for me when you're in need—

My name is Brown—your life I've saved it.

"My rival!" shrieked the invalid,

And drew a mighty sword and waved it:

"This to thy weazand, Christian pest!"

Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it,

And drove right through the doctor's chest

The sabre and the hand that held it.

The blow was a decisive one,

And Doctor Brown grew deadly pasty,

"Now see the mischief that you've done—

You Turks are so extremely hasty.

"There are two Doctor Browns in Hooe—

He's short and stout, I'm tall and wizen;

You've been and run the wrong one through,

That's how the error has arisen."

The accident was thus explained,

Apologies were only heard now:

"At my mistake I'm really pained—

I am, indeed—upon my word now.

"With me, sir, you shall be interred,

A mausoleum grand awaits me."

"Oh, pray don't say another word,

I'm sure that more than compensates me.

"But p'r'aps, kind Turk, you're full inside?"

"There's room," said he, "for any number,"

And so they laid them down and died.

In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber.

Quixotic is his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is,

Who seeks for jocularities that haven't yet been said.

The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,

And every joke that's possible has long ago been made.

I started as a humorist with lots of mental fizziness,

But humour is a drug which it's the fashion to abuse;

For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the business

No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.

And if anybody choose

He may circulate the news

That no reasonable offer I'm likely to refuse.

Oh happy was that humorist—the first that made a pun at all—

Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean,

Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all—

How popular at dinners must that humorist have been!

Oh the days when some stepfather for the query held a handle out,

The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far?

And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron blew the candle out,

And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar!

But your modern hearers are

In their tastes particular,

And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a-jar!

In search of quip and quiddity, I've sat all day, alone, apart—

And all that I could hit on as a problem was—to find

Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part,

Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind:

For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity—

It's not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout—

And I've come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity.

In present Anno Domini, is worked completely out!

Though the notion you may scout,

I can prove beyond a doubt

That my mine of jocularity is utterly worked out!

INDEX TO FIRST LINES

	Page
A Bishop once—I will not name his see,	484
A British tar is a soaring soul,	204
A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,	309
A gentleman of City fame,	138
A hive of bees, as I've heard say,	536
A lady fair, of lineage high,	123
A leafy cot, where no dry rot,	294
Although of native maids the cream,	482
A magnet hung in a hardware shop,	153
A maiden sat at her window wide,	454
A man who would woo a fair maid,	209
A monarch is pestered with cares,	526
A more humane Mikado never,	388
An actor—Gibbs, of Drury Lane,	391
An actor sits in doubtful gloom,	508
An elderly person—a prophet by trade,	114
An excellent soldier who's worthy the name,	399
A proud Pasha was Bailey Ben,	242
A rich advowson, highly prized,	356
As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,	99
At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper,	58
A tar, but poorly prized,	528
A tenor, all singers above,	547
A Troubadour he played,	51
At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention,	515
A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,	499
[Pg 556]
Babette she was a fisher gal,	76
Bedecked in fashion trim,	471
Bob Polter was a navvy, and,	176
Bold-faced ranger,	512
Braid the raven hair,	113
Brightly dawns our wedding day,	81
Come, collar this bad man,	440
Come mighty Must!,	367
Come with me, little maid!,	24
Comes a train of little ladies,	254
Comes the broken flower,	329
Dalilah de Dardy adored,	64
Dr. Belville was regarded as the Crichton of his age,	146
Earl Joyce he was a kind old party,	229
Emily Jane was a nursery maid,	405
Fear no unlicensed entry,	431
First you're born—and I'll be bound you,	487
From east and south the holy clan,	108
Gentle, modest, little flower,	122
Good children, list, if you're inclined,	221
Haunted? Ay, in a social way,	39
He is an Englishman!,	13
He loves! If in the bygone years,	453
I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,	42
I cannot tell what this love may be,	169
If my action's stiff and crude,	480
If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am,	16
If you're anxious to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare,	271
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,	49
I go away, this blessed day,	348
I have a song to sing, O!	182
[Pg 557]
I knew a boor—a clownish card,	87
I know a youth who loves a little maid,	361
I love a man who'll smile and joke,	383
I'm old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief,	214
In all the towns and cities fair,	131
In enterprise of martial kind,	262
I often wonder whether you,	376
I once did know a Turkish man,	549
I shipped, d'ye see, in a Revenue sloop,	6
I sing a legend of the sea,	273
Is life a boon?	38
I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,	26
It's my opinion—though I own,	473
It was a Bishop bold,	44
It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown,	205
I've often thought that headstrong youths,	164
I've painted Shakespeare all my life,	287
I've wisdom from the East and from the West,	299
John courted lovely Mary Ann,	28
King Borria Bungalee Boo,	155
Letters, letters, letters, letters!	501
List while the poet trolls,	8
Lord B. was a nobleman bold,	475
Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan,	185
Mr. Blake was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner,	256
My boy, you may take it from me,	458
My wedded life,	534
No nobler captain ever trod,	492
Now, Jurymen, hear my advice,	411
Now, Marco, dear,	345
O'er unreclaimed suburban clays,	148
Of all the good attorneys who,	125
[Pg 558]
Of all the ships upon the blue,	1
Of all the youths I ever saw,	94
Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,	161
Oh, big was the bosom of brave Alum Bey,	317
Oh, foolish fay,	32
Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray,	136
Oh! is there not one maiden breast,	143
Oh! listen to the tale of little Annie Protheroe,	280
Oh, listen to the tale of Mister William, if you please,	235
Oh, list to this incredible tale,	171
Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name),	82
Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells,	211
Oh, that my soul its gods could see,	71
Oh, what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes!	523
Old Peter led a wretched life,	413
On all Arcadia's sunny plain,	433
On a tree by a river a little tomtit,	354
Once a fairy,	446
Only a dancing girl,	14
Perhaps already you may know,	426
Policeman Peter Forth I drag,	193
Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true,	397
Quixotic is his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is	553
Rising early in the morning,	119
Roll on, thou ball, roll on!	539
Sad is that woman's lot who, year by year,	22
Sighing softly to the river,	219
Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,	34
Small titles and orders,	84
Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,	497
Some seven men form an Association,	490
Some time ago, in simple verse,	338
Sorry her lot who loves too well,	286
Spurn not the nobly born,	307
Strike the concertina's melancholy string,	518
[Pg 559]
Take a pair of sparkling eyes,	175
The air is charged with amatory numbers,	92
The Ballyshannon foundered off the coast of Cariboo,	541
The bravest names for fire and flames,	18
The earth has armies plenty,	248
The law is the true embodiment,	191
The other night, from cares exempt,	368
There grew a little flower,	418
There lived a King, as I've been told,	424
The Reverend Micah Sowls,	467
There were three niggers of Chickeraboo,	200
The story of Frederick Gowler,	301
The sun was setting in its wonted west,	460
The Sun, whose rays,	56
They intend to send a wire,	106
This is Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo,	324
To a garden full of posies,	130
Try we life-long, we can never,	466
'Twas on the shores that round our coast,	101
Two better friends you wouldn't pass,	363
Vast, empty shell!	144
Weary at heart and extremely ill,	265
Were I a king in very truth,	504
Were I thy bride,	374
What time the poet hath hymned,	445
When a felon's not engaged in his employment,	63
When all night long a chap remains,	292
When a merry maiden marries,	198
When Britain really ruled the waves,	74
Whene'er I poke sarcastic joke,	69
When first my old, old love I knew,	439
When I first put this uniform on,	322
When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,	315
When I was a lad I served a term,	227
When I went to the Bar as a very young man,	278
When maiden loves, she sits and sighs,	255
When man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye,	330
[Pg 560]
When rival adorers come courting a maid,	420
When the buds are blossoming,	403
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowl, and the bat in the moonlight flies,	381
When you find you're a broken-down critter,	506
When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,	335
Would you know the kind of maid,	240

ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO TITLES

	Page
Æsthete, The,	271
Ah Me!,	255
Anglicised Utopia,	497
Annie Protheroe,	280
Ape and the Lady, The,	123
Appeal, An,	143
At a Pantomime,	508
A Worm will Turn,	383
Babette's Love,	76
Baby's Vengeance, The,	265
Baffled Grumbler, The,	69
Baines Carew, Gentleman,	125
Ben Allah Achmet; or, the Fatal Tum,	549
Bishop and the 'Busman, The,	44
Bishop of Rum-ti-Foo, The,	108
Bishop of Rum-ti-Foo Again, The,	376
Blue Blood,	307
Bob Polter,	176
Braid the Raven Hair,	113
Brave Alum Bey,	317
British Tar, The,	204
Bumboat Woman's Story, The,	214
Captain and the Mermaids, The,	273
Captain Reece,	1
Classical Revival, A,	505
Coming By-and-By, The,	22
Contemplative Sentry, The,	292
Cunning Woman, The,	433
Damon v. Pythias,	363
Darned Mounseer, The,	6
Disagreeable Man, The,	16
Disconcerted Tenor, The,	547
Discontented Sugar Broker, A,	138
Disillusioned,	71
Don't Forget!,	345
Duke and the Duchess, The,	84
Duke of Plaza-Toro, The,	262
Eheu Fugaces—!,	92
Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen,	185
[Pg 562]
Emily, John, James, and I,	405
English Girl, An,	499
Englishman, The,	13
Etiquette,	541
Fairy Curate, The,	446
Fairy Queen's Song, The,	32
Family Fool, The,	161
Ferdinando and Elvira; or, the Gentle Pieman,	58
Fickle Breeze, The,	219
First Lord's Song, The,	227
First Love,	299
Folly of "Brown, The,	87
Force of Argument, The,	475
General John,	18
Gentle Alice Brown,	205
Ghosts' High Noon, The,	381
Ghost, the Gallant, the Gael, and the Goblin, The,	148
Girl Graduates,	106
Good Little Girls,	482
Great Oak Tree, The,	418
Gregory Parable, LL.D.	294
Haughty Actor, The,	391
Haunted,	39
He and She,	361
Heavy Dragoon, The,	49
He Loves!	453
Her Terms,	534
Highly Respectable Gondolier, The,	26
Hongree and Mahry,	460
House of Peers, The,	74
How it's Done,	512
Humane Mikado, The,	388
Independent Bee, The,	536
Is Life a Boon?	38
Joe Golightly; or, the First Lord's Daughter,	528
John and Freddy,	28
Judge's Song, The,	315
King Borria Bungalee Boo,	155
King Goodheart,	424
King of Canoodle-dum, The,	301
Lieutenant-Colonel Flare,	248
Life,	487
Life is Lovely all the Year,	403
Limited Liability,	490
Little Oliver,	229
Lorenzo de Lardy,	64
Lost Mr. Blake,	256
Love-sick Boy, The,	439
Magnet and the Churn, The,	153
Manager's Perplexities, A,	504
Man who would Woo a Fair Maid, A,	209
Martinet, The,	338
Merry Madrigal, A,	81
Merryman and his Maid, The,	182
[Pg 563]
Mighty Must, The,	367
Mirage, A,	374
Mister William,	235
Modern Major-General, The,	42
Modest Couple, The,	330
My Dream,	368
My Lady,	471
Mystic Selvagee, The,	426
National Anthem, The,	526
Nightmare, A,	335
Old Paul and Old Tim,	420
One against the World,	473
Only a Dancing Girl,	14
Only Roses,	130
Out of Sorts,	506
Pantomime "Super" to his Mask, The,	144
Pasha Bailey Ben,	242
Perils of Invisibility, The,	413
Periwinkle Girl, The,	164
Peter the Wag,	193
Phantom Curate, The,	484
Philosophic Pill, The,	299
Phrenology,	440
Played-out Humorist, The,	553
Poetry Everywhere,	445
Policeman's Lot, The,	63
Practical Joker, The,	523
Precocious Baby, The,	114
Proper Pride,	56
Put a Penny in the Slot,	280
Recipe, A,	175
Reverend Micah Sowls, The,	467
Reverend Simon Magus, The,	356
Reward of Merit, The,	146
Rival Curates, The,	8
Rover's Apology, The,	136
Said I to Myself, Said I,	278
Sailor Boy to his Lass, The,	348
Sans Souci,	169
Sensation Captain, The,	492
Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo,	324
Sir Guy the Crusader,	34
Sir Macklin,	94
Sleep on!	431
Solatium,	329
Sorcerer's Song, The,	211
Sorry her Lot,	286
Speculation,	254
Story of Prince Agib, The,	518
Suicide's Grave, The,	354
Susceptible Chancellor, The,	191
Tangled Skein, The,	466
Tempora Mutantur,	501
They'll None of 'em be Missed,	99
Thomas Winterbottom Hance,	131
Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,	171
Three Kings of Chickeraboo, The,	200
[Pg 564]
To a Little Maid,	24
To my Bride,	82
To Ph[oe]be,	122
To the Terrestrial Globe,	539
Troubadour, The,	51
True Diffidence,	458
Two Majors, The,	399
Two Ogres, The,	221
Unfortunate Likeness, An,	287
Usher's Charge, The,	411
Way of Wooing, The,	454
When a Merry Maiden Marries,	198
When I First Put this Uniform On,	322
Willow Waly!	397
Working Monarch, The,	119
Would you Know?	240
Yarn of the "Nancy Bell," The,	101

THE END.

Transcriber's Notes

1.Simple typographical errors were silently corrected.

2.Some illustrations have been moved from their original position
as they appear in the source publication.