The Convict and the Australian Lady.
Thy skin is dark as jet, ladye,
Thy cheek is sharp and high,
And there’s a cruel leer, love,
Within thy rolling eye:
These tangled ebon tresses
No comb hath e’er gone through;
And thy forehead, it is furrowed by
The elegant tattoo!
I love thee,—oh, I love thee,
Thou strangely-feeding maid!
Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang,
I meant not to upbraid!
Come, let me taste those yellow lips
That ne’er were tasted yet,
Save when the shipwrecked mariner
Passed through them for a whet.
Nay, squeeze me not so tightly!
For I am gaunt and thin;
There’s little flesh to tempt thee
Beneath a convict’s skin.
I came not to be eaten;
I sought thee, love, to woo;
Besides, bethink thee, dearest,
Thou’st dined on cockatoo.
Thy father is a chieftain!
Why, that’s the very thing!
Within my native country
I too have been a king.
Behold this branded letter,
Which nothing can efface!
It is the royal emblem,
The token of my race!
But rebels rose against me,
And dared my power disown—
You’ve heard, love, of the judges?
They drove me from my throne.
And I have wandered hither,
Across the stormy sea,
In search of glorious freedom,—
In search, my sweet, of thee!
The bush is now my empire,
The knife my sceptre keen;
Come with me to the desert wild,
And be my dusky queen.
I cannot give thee jewels,
I have nor sheep nor cow,
Yet there are kangaroos, love,
And colonists enow.
We’ll meet the unwary settler,
As whistling home he goes,
And I’ll take tribute from him,
His money and his clothes.
Then on his bleeding carcass
Thou’lt lay thy pretty paw,
And lunch upon him roasted,
Or, if you like it, raw!
Then come with me, my princess,
My own Australian dear,
Within this grove of gum-trees
We’ll hold our bridal cheer!
Thy heart with love is beating,
I feel it through my side:—
Hurrah, then, for the noble pair,
The Convict and his Bride!
The Doleful Lay of the Honourable I. O. Uwins.
Come and listen, lords and ladies,
To a woeful lay of mine;
He whose tailor’s bill unpaid is,
Let him now his ear incline!
Let him hearken to my story,
How the noblest of the land
Pined in piteous purgatory,
’Neath a sponging Bailiff’s hand.
I. O. Uwins! I. O. Uwins!
Baron’s son although thou be,
Thou must pay for thy misdoings
In the country of the free!
None of all thy sire’s retainers
To thy rescue now may come;
And there lie some score detainers
With Abednego, the bum.
Little recked he of his prison
Whilst the sun was in the sky:
Only when the moon was risen
Did you hear the captive’s cry.
For till then, cigars and claret
Lulled him in oblivion sweet;
And he much preferred a garret,
For his drinking, to the street.
But the moonlight, pale and broken,
Pained at soul the baron’s son;
For he knew, by that soft token,
That the larking had begun;—
That the stout and valiant Marquis [97]
Then was leading forth his swells,
Milling some policeman’s carcass,
Or purloining private bells.
So he sat in grief and sorrow,
Rather drunk than otherwise,
Till the golden gush of morrow
Dawned once more upon his eyes:
Till the sponging Bailiff’s daughter,
Lightly tapping at the door,
Brought his draught of soda-water,
Brandy-bottomed as before.
“Sweet Rebecca! has your father,
Think you, made a deal of brass?”
And she answered—“Sir, I rather
Should imagine that he has.”
Uwins then, his whiskers scratching,
Leered upon the maiden’s face,
And, her hand with ardour catching,
Folded her in close embrace.
“La, Sir! let alone—you fright me!”
Said the daughter of the Jew:
“Dearest, how those eyes delight me!
Let me love thee, darling, do!”
“Vat is dish?” the Bailiff muttered,
Rushing in with fury wild;
“Ish your muffins so vell buttered,
Dat you darsh insult ma shild?”
“Honourable my intentions,
Good Abednego, I swear!
And I have some small pretensions,
For I am a Baron’s heir.
If you’ll only clear my credit,
And advance a thou [99] or so,
She’s a peeress—I have said it:
Don’t you twig, Abednego?”
“Datsh a very different matter,”
Said the Bailiff, with a leer;
“But you musht not cut it fatter
Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear!
If you seeksh ma approbation,
You musht quite give up your rigsh,
Alsho you musht join our nashun,
And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh.”
Fast as one of Fagin’s pupils,
I. O. Uwins did agree!
Little plagued with holy scruples
From the starting-post was he.
But at times a baleful vision
Rose before his shuddering view,
For he knew that circumcision
Was expected from a Jew.
At a meeting of the Rabbis,
Held about the Whitsuntide,
Was this thorough-paced Barabbas
Wedded to his Hebrew bride:
All his previous debts compounded,
From the sponging-house he came,
And his father’s feelings wounded
With reflections on the same.
But the sire his son accosted—
“Split my wig! if any more
Such a double-dyed apostate
Shall presume to cross my door!
Not a penny-piece to save ye
From the kennel or the spout;—
Dinner, John! the pig and gravy!—
Kick this dirty scoundrel out!”
Forth rushed I. O. Uwins, faster
Than all winking—much afraid
That the orders of the master
Would be punctually obeyed:
Sought his club, and then the sentence
Of expulsion first he saw;
No one dared to own acquaintance
With a Bailiff’s son-in-law.
Uselessly, down Bond Street strutting,
Did he greet his friends of yore:
Such a universal cutting
Never man received before:
Till at last his pride revolted—
Pale, and lean, and stern he grew;
And his wife Rebecca bolted
With a missionary Jew.
Ye who read this doleful ditty,
Ask ye where is Uwins now?
Wend your way through London city,
Climb to Holborn’s lofty brow;
Near the sign-post of the “Nigger,”
Near the baked-potato shed,
You may see a ghastly figure
With three hats upon his head.
When the evening shades are dusky,
Then the phantom form draws near,
And, with accents low and husky,
Pours effluvium in your ear;
Craving an immediate barter
Of your trousers or surtout;
And you know the Hebrew martyr,
Once the peerless I. O. U.
