THE SONG OF DROP O' WATHER.
INTRODUCTION.
YE who love the haunts of Town-Life,
Love the kennel and the gutter,
Love the doorway of the gin-shop,
Love the mud about the kerb-stones,
And the drippings from the houses,
And the splashing of the rain-spouts
Through their palisade of gratings,
And the thunder of the coaches,
Whose innumerable echoes,
Roar like sea-waves on the shingle;—
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!
Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to stop and listen,
Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are hummed or shouted;—
Listen to this London Legend,
To this song of Drop o' Wather!
I.
DROP O' WATHER'S CHILDHOOD.
Downward through the darkening twilight,
In the days long time ago, now,
In the last of drunken stages,
By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah,
On the pavement fell poor Norah,
Just about to be a mother.
She'd been tippling with some women,
Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door,
When her Gossip, out of mischief,
Partly idle, partly spiteful,
Pushed the swing-door from behind her,
Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap,
And poor Norah tumbled backward,
Downward through the darkening twilight,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
On the gangway foul with mud-stains.
"See! a wench falls!" cried the people;
Look, a tipsy wench is falling!"
There amidst the gaping starers,
There amidst the idle passers,
On the gangway foul, the pavement,
In the murky darkened twilight,
Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe.
Thus was born young Drop o' Wather,
Thus was born the child of squalor.
He was named, by those who knew him,
Out of joke, and fun, and larking,
For what's called an Irish reason,
Or, by folks who sport the Classics,
A lucus a non lucendo,
Like, for all it is so unlike,
Hold a thing to be another,
For the sake of contradiction,
Or the sake of droll connection;
So the folks who knew our hero,
Gave his nickname for this reason,—
'Cause his mother never touched a
Drop of Water in her lifetime.
At the door on fine spring evenings,
Played the little Drop o' Wather;
Heard the cry of "Buy my inguns!"
Heard the cry "Young raddyshees, yere"
Calls of cadger, costermonger;
"Bilin'-apples!" said the huckster;
"Pies-all 'ot!" still said the pieman.
Saw the pot-boy, Wall-eyed Tommy,
Trudging through the dusk of evening,
With the shrillness of his whistle
Piercing all the courts and alleys.
And he sang the song of street-boys.
Sang the song the pot-boy taught him;—
"Wall-eyed Tommy, he's the cove, boys!
He's the ranting, roaring blade, boys!
He's the lad, the daring fellow!
He's the chap, to carry ale-cans,
Pots of beer, and all them 'ere boys!"
Saw the balls at the pawnbroker's,
Balls alike, and three in number,
Saw the gold and burnish on them,
Bawled, "What are those? I say, mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"Once a cricketer, when angry,
Seized his ball, and bowling, threw it
Up against the shop times threefold,
Right against the shop he threw it;
'Tis its tri-ghost that you see there."
Saw the gallows near the prison,
In the morning sky, the gallows;
Bawled, "What is that? I say mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"'Tis the gallows-tree, the gibbet;
All the naughty boys of London,
All the wicked ones and careless,
When in town they steal and pilfer,
Hang on that 'ere tree above us."
When he heard the thieves at midnight,
Hooting, laughing in the alley,
"What is that?" he cried half frightened;
"What is that? Now tell me, mother!"
And the fuddled Norah answered,
"That's the thieves and prigs together,
Talking in their own cant language,
Hoaxing, chaffing one another."
Then the little Drop o' Wather
Learned of all the thieves their language;
Learned their slang and learned their by-words,
Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings,
Where they hid themselves from justice;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies."
Of all prigs he learned the language,
Learned their gag, and all their secrets.
Found out all their haunts and dodges,
Picked up where they hid their booty,
How they packed the swag so closely,
Why they fought so shy and wary;
Talked with them whene'er he met them,
Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers."
II.
DROP O' WATHER AND PUDGY-WHEEZY.
Out of childhood into manhood
Now had grown young Drop o' Wather,
Skilled in all the craft of filchers,
Learned in all the slang of robbers,
In all ways and means of cribbing,
In all knowing arts and dodges.
Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather;
He could pitch a pebble from him,
And run forward with such fleetness,
That the pebble fell behind him!
Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather;
He could fling ten pebbles upward,
Fling them with such strength and swiftness,
That the tenth had left his fingers
Ere the first to ground had fallen.
He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun,
Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood;
When into his hand he took it,
He could smite a fellow's head off,
He could knock him into next week.
He had ankle-boots so jemmy,
Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin;
When he put them on his trotters,
When he laced them up so tightly,
At each step three feet he measured.
From his lair went Drop o' Wather
Dressed for roving, armed for plunder;
Dressed in shooting-jacket natty,
Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons;
On his head a spick-and-span tile,
Round his waist a vest of scarlet;
In his mouth a sprig of shamrock,
In his breast a dashing brooch-pin,
Gold mosaic, set with sham stones;
With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun,
With his ankle-boots so jemmy.
Warning said old fuddled Norah,
"Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather,
To the quarter of the West-End,
To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair,
Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street),
Lest they clap you into prison."
But the daring Drop o' Wather
Heeded not her woman's warning;
Forth he went along the alley,
At each step three feet he measured;
Tempting looked the shops about him,
Tempting looked the things within them;
Bright and fine the showy jewels,
Smart and gay the newest fashions,
Brown and smooth cigars in boxes,
All that set his heart a-longing,
Longing with the wish to crib them.
* * * *
XIII.
DROP O' WATHER'S DEPARTURE.
Now remains for me to tell of
How he ended, Drop o' Wather;
What befell him, after all his
Knowing doings in the course of
His career, his life in London.
He had run his rigs so clever,
He had risked so very closely,
He had just avoided Newgate,
He had narrowly 'scaped hanging;
And a dream he had one midnight,
Brought him to a sense of danger.
Thus he dreamed; 'twas really awful.
Not far off from Bedford Bury,
By the muddy Big-Thame-Water,
At the doorway of his lodging,
Thought he stood one rainy morning,
Thought he stood there, lounging idly,
Watching fall the sooty raindrops
From the eaves and roofs of houses,
Watching fill the dirty puddles,
Splashed and speckled with the drizzle;
Flowed in filthy streams the gutters,
Flowed the spouts as they ran over;
Pouring, pelting, came the shower.
* * * *
Through the alley, sudden, briskly,
Something in the hazy distance,
Something in the misty morning,
Came along the dripping pavement,
Now seemed hurrying, now seemed hasting,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer.
Was it Dingledong, the dustman?
Was it Twopenny, the postman?
Or the cobbler, Shoe-shoe-mender,
Or the milkman, Water-well-it,
With the raindrops dripping, dashing
Profitably in the milk-cans?
It was neither milkman, dustman,
Cobbler, postman, none of those men,
Coming on that misty morning;
But a set of sturdy fellows,
Fast advancing up the alley,
Striding, splashing through the raindrops,
Come with warrant strictly formal,
From the distant Police-office,
From Marlborough Street that morning,
Come with magistrate's command to
Apprehend and promptly take up
Drop o' Wather for his trial.
Then he thought he dreamed the scene of
His conviction, condemnation;
How he saw the Court dense crowded,
Crowded with indignant faces;
How he saw the dock, where he stood,
How he saw the Bench, where Judge sat,
How he saw the box for jury,
Where the twelve sat looking fateful;
Saw the Judge rise up and cover
With black cap his hair of silver;
Heard the word of solemn verdict,—
"Guilty!" Words of fearful sentence,—
"Hanged by neck," and "dead, dead, dead," last.
Thought he fainted quite away there,
And was carried straight to Newgate;
In the dreary cell of felon,
In condemned cell chained with fetters,
There to 'wait the time appointed
For his final execution.
Dreamed he saw the black-robed Chaplain
Come to speak of consolation;
Dreamed he heard the words of comfort
Sounding strangely (Ah, how strangely!—
Sad to think how very strangely
Come those words to ear of culprit,
Never taught to seek their lessons,
Never taught to know their meaning!)
Dreamed he saw the fatal gibbet,
Dreamed he saw the upturned faces
Of the multitude below him;
Dreamed he felt Jack Ketch's fingers
Busy round his neck, adjusting
Noose of rope that was to hang him
Like a dog, not human creature!
Dreamed that in that awful moment,
Came a shout, a cry, a calling;
Dreamed he heard "Reprieve!" loud shouted.
Dreamed he heard of transportation
Being his commuted sentence.
This last thought possessed him wholly
When he woke, and found he'd dreamed all.
Grave he pondered, till it struck him,
That he'd carry out the substance
Of that portion of his dreaming,
Where he felt relieved from terror.
He resolved to seek his fortune
In a fresh new scene of action;
He determined on the scheme of
Nothing less than transportation,
Voluntary transportation,
Willing, prompt, self-transportation,
Most transporting transportation,—
In words other,—emigration.
And he said to mother Norah,
To his wife his Minnie Wather,
Better half, his Frisky-Whisky,
"I've made up my mind to try and
Live a new life, life more dacent;
So let's go and try what turns up
In the New World over yonder."
On the deck stood Drop o' Wather,
Turned and waved his hat at parting;
On the deck of the good vessel,
Outward bound for the long voyage,
Stood and waved his hat at parting
From the dear old Mother Country.
* * * * * *
Then a pause; and then he shouted,
Shouted loudly Drop o' Wather:
"Southward! Southward! now then, Southward!"
And the ship went sailing forward
On her way of trust and promise,
Southward, southward; Drop o' Wather
Looking steadfastly before him,
As confronting firm the future.
And his people gave a loud cheer,
Just to cheer him up at parting,
As the ship sailed southward, southward;
And they cried, "Good-bye, my boy, then!
Good bye, Norah! Good-bye, Minnie!
Take good care of yourselves, darlints!
Let us know how you all get on!
Best of all good luck go wid' ye!
So God bless ye! and God speed ye!"
Thus departed Drop o' Wather,
Drop o' Wather, the fine fellow,
With his trust of doing better,
With, at least, that firm intention.
To the regions of the New World,
Of the Bay entitled Bot'ny,
To the Island of New Holland,
To another "New" New South Wales,
To the land of hope, Australia!
This clever parody is followed by amusing burlesque notes, the first of which thus explains the origin of The Song of Drop o' Wather.
"This London Legend—if it may be so called—has been suggested by an interesting Indian tradition, given to the world in the form of a beautiful poem. The picturesque scenery, vivid description, and glowing imagery to be found in that production, are fully felt; while their charm is no more disparaged by the present sportive trifle, than the sublimity of Shakespeare has been lessened by the burlesques and parodies that have been made from time to time upon his great dramas. The tragedy of Hamlet is exalted, not lowered, by Mr. Poole's admirably clever travestie. The mere fact of burlesquing a work avouches its excellence—certainly its popularity."
It is much to be regretted that the author of this amusing work should remain unknown.
Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's Puck on Pegasus (Chatto and Windus) has gone through so many editions, and is such a favourite book, that his imitation of Hiawatha is familiar to most people. The author has recently somewhat modified its opening lines. As thus altered it will shortly appear in a selection of Mr. H. C. Pennell's poems, and he has kindly allowed me to include it in this collection.
The original poem in Puck on Pegasus commenced thus:—