George R. Sims.
Mr. George R. Sims was born in London on September 2nd, 1847. He was educated first, at Hanwell College, and subsequently at Bonn.
In 1874 Mr. Sims joined the staff of Fun, and about the same time he also became connected with the Weekly Dispatch, to which he communicated the humorous papers, entitled: “Mary Jane’s Memoirs.”
Since 1877 he has written much in The Referee, over the pseudonym of “Dagonet,” and most of his Ballads, which have now a worldwide fame, first appeared in the columns of that journal.
As a dramatic author Mr. Sims has also been both prolific and successful. “Crutch and Toothpick,” “Mother-in-Law,” “The Member for Slocum,” “The Gay City,” “The Half-Way House,” “The Lights o’ London,” “The Romany Rye,” and “The Merry Duchess,” are titles well-known to every modern play-goer.
Judging by the vast amount of work in essays, dramas, and poems, produced by Mr. Sims, he must be possessed of extraordinary energy, powerful imagination, and of rapid composition. Some of his prose articles and ballads display an intimate knowledge of the inner life of the miserable, and the poor of London, such as could only have been acquired by one having keen powers of observation, after considerable time spent in the haunts of dirt, danger, and disease.
In short, since Dickens left us, no writer has been so successful in this difficult and trying branch of literature, and Dickens himself was never so popular, nor were his works so widely read by the people as are those of Mr. Sims.
Although there is much that is both droll and humorous in his prose writings, the principal feature in his Ballads is homely pathos, of which the following poem is one of the best known examples.
It is one of the Ballads of Babylon (London. John P. Fuller, 1880), and is given by Mr. Sims’s kind permission:—
OSTLER JOE.
I stood at eve, as the sun went down, by a grave where a woman lies,
Who lured men’s souls to the shores of sin with the light of her wanton eyes,
Who sang the song that the Siren sung on the treacherous Lurley height,
Whose face was as fair as a summer day, and whose heart was as black as night.
Yet a blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above her dust;
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life, where all was parched and hot.
* * * * *
In the summer, when the meadows were aglow with blue and red,
Joe, the ostler of the Magpie, and fair Annie Smith were wed.
Plump was Annie, plump and pretty, with a cheek as white as snow;
He was anything but handsome was the Magpie’s ostler, Joe.
But he won the winsome lassie. They’d a cottage and a cow,
And her matronhood sat lightly on the village beauty’s brow.
Sped the months and came a baby—such a blue-eyed baby boy!
Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy.
He was rubbing down the horses, and he gave them then and there
All a special feed of clover, just in honour of the heir:
It had been his great ambition, and he told the horses so,
That the Fates would send a baby who might bear the name of Joe.
Little Joe the child was christened, and, like babies, grew apace;
He’d his mother’s eyes of azure and his father’s honest face.
Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky;
Love was lord of that small cottage, and the tempests passed them by.
Passed them by for years, then swiftly burst in fury o’er their home.
Down the lane by Annie’s cottage chanced a gentleman to roam;
Thrice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her child,
And he nodded to the baby, and the baby laughed and smiled.
So at last it grew to know him—little Joe was nearly four;
He would call the “pretty gemplun” as he passed the open door;
And one day he ran and caught him, and in child’s play pulled him in,
And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother’s sin.
’Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung:
’Twas a woman weak and wanton and a villain’s tempting tongue;
’Twas a picture deftly painted for a silly creature’s eyes
Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies.
Annie listened and was tempted; she was tempted and she fell,
As the angels fell from heaven to the blackest depths of hell;
She was promised wealth and splendour and a life of guilty sloth,
Yellow gold for child and husband,—and the woman left them both.
Home one eve came Joe the Ostler with a cheery cry of “Wife!”
Finding that which blurred for ever all the story of his life
She had left a silly letter,—through the cruel scrawl he spelt;
Then he sought the lonely bed-room, joined his horny hands and knelt.
“Now, O Lord, O God, forgive her, for she ain’t to blame!” he cried;
“For I owt t’a seen her trouble, and ’a gone away and died.
Why, a wench like her—God bless her!—’twasn’t likely as her’d rest
With that bonny head for ever on a ostler’s ragged vest.
“It was kind o’ her to bear me all this long and happy time,
So for my sake please to bless her, though you count her deed a crime;
If so be I don’t pray proper, Lord, forgive me; for you see
I can talk all right to ’osses, but I’m nervous like with Thee.”
Ne’er a line came to the cottage from the woman who had flown;
Joe the baby died that winter, and the man was left alone.
Ne’er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod,
Saving what he told his horses, saving what he told his God.
Far away in mighty London rose the woman into fame,
For her beauty won men’s homage, and she prospered in her shame;
Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each prize she won,
And her rivals paled beside her, as the stars beside the sun.
Next she made the stage her market, and she dragged Art’s temple down
To the level of a show place for the outcasts of the town.
And the kisses she had given to poor Ostler Joe for nought
With their gold and costly jewels rich and titled lovers bought.
Went the years with flying footsteps while her star was at its height;
Then the darkness came on swiftly, and the gloaming turned to night.
Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her brow;
Of the thousands who had worshipped never one came near her now.
Broken down in health and fortune, men forgot her very name,
Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame;
And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an “actress” lay
Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day.
One there was who read the story in a far-off country place,
And that night the dying woman woke and looked upon his face.
Once again the strong arms clasped her that had clasped her long ago,
And the weary head lay pillowed on the breast of Ostler Joe.
All the past had he forgotten, all the sorrow and the shame;
He had found her sick and lonely, and his wife he now could claim.
Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk away,
He could clasp his long-lost darling, and no man would say him nay.
In his arms death found her lying, in his arms her spirit fled;
And his tears came down in torrents, as he knelt beside her dead.
Never once his love had faltered through her base unhallowed life;
And the stone above her ashes bears the honoured name of wife.
* * * * *
That’s the blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above her dust;
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust;
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green spot
In the arid desert of Phryne’s life, where all was parched and hot.
In 1886, Mrs. James Brown Potter recited this poem at a soirée given in the house of Mr. Secretary Whitney, in Washington, U.S.A., before a large company of ladies and gentlemen. During the recital some of the ladies rose and left the room; the New York papers spitefully remarked of those ladies who remained to hear the poem to the end, that, being in evening dress, they were observed to blush almost down to their waists.
The poem was severely criticised in several of the prudish American papers, and assigned by some of them to the pen of A. C. Swinburne, although as unlike his style as anything could well be.
The controversy that arose created a tremendous demand for the poem, and many thousands of copies were sold in a few days, from which however, the author derived no benefit whatever, owing to the disgraceful state of the international copyright, or want of copyright.
As Mrs. Kendal has recited the poem in public on several occasions, it may be taken for granted that it contains nothing indelicate, or objectionable, although the outcry raised in the States was so great that the principal newspapers took sides on the question, and debated the merits of the poem with almost as much heat as a Presidential Election. One well-known humorist attempted to ridicule “Ostler Joe” in the following ballad:—
Teamster Jim.
It ain’t jest the story, Parson, to tell in a crowd like this,
With the virtuous maiden a-frownin’ an’ chidin’ the giggling miss,
An’ the good old deacon a-noddin’, in time with his patient snores,
An’ the shocked elect of the Capital, stalkin’ away through the doors.
But then, it’s a story that happened, an’ every word of it’s true,
An’ sometimes we can’t help talkin’ of the things that we sometimes do.
An’ though good society coldly shuts its door on to Teamster Jim,
I’m thinkin’ ther’s lots worse people, that’s better known than him.
I mind the day he was married, an’ I danced at the weddin’ too;
An’ I kissed the bride, sweet Maggie, daughter of Ben McGrew.
I mind how they set up housekeepin’ two young, poor, happy fools,
When Jim’s only stock was a heavy truck an’ four Kaintucky mules.
Well, they lived along contented, with their little joys an’ cares,
An’ every year a baby came, an’ twice they came in pairs;
Till the house was full of children, with their shoutin’ and playin’ and squalls,
An’ their singin’ an’ laughin’ an’ cryin’ made Bedlam within its walls.
An’ Jim, he seemed to like it, an’ he spent all his evenin’s at home,
He said it was full of music, an’ light, an’ peace from pit to dome.
He joined the church, an’ he used to pray that his heart might be kept from sin—
The stumblin’est prayin’—but heads and hearts used to bow when he’d begin.
So, they lived along in that way, the same from day to day,
With plenty of time for drivin’ work, an’ a little time for play.
An’ growin’ around ’em the sweetest girls and the liveliest, manliest boys,
Till the old gray heads of the two old folks was crowned with the homeliest joys.
Eh? Come to my story? Well, that’s all. They’re livin’ just like I said,
Only two of the girls is married, an’ one of the boys is dead,
An’ they’re honest, an’ decent, an’ happy, an’ the very best Christians I know,
Though I reckon in brilliant comp’ny they’d be voted a leetle slow.
Oh! you’re pressed for time—excuse you? Sure, I’m sorry I kept you so long;
Good-bye! Now he looked kind o’ bored like, an’ I reckon that I was wrong
To tell such a commonplace story, of two such commonplace lives,
But we can’t all git drunk, an’ gamble, an’ fight, an’ run off with other men’s wives.
Robert T. Burdette.
“Ostler Joe” in the hands of a “Potter.”
She went into a soirée,
Where was many a spotter,
And she read of Ostler Joe,
—Naughty Mrs. Potter.
Ladies there “undressed by Worth,”
Scowled at the simple cotter
And his fickle wife, ha, ha!
—Wicked Mrs. Potter.
They might go to see Odette,
Or some play that’s hotter,
But Ostler Joe they wouldn’t stand,
—Horrid Mrs. Potter
Boston Courier.
Hustler Jim.
There warn’t nothin’ so blamed angelic
Nor saintish-like about him;
But, pard,—ef ever yer needed a friend—
Yer could “tie” to “Hustler Jim.”
Perhaps, if ther ’casion required it—
He would “cuss” a bit, now and then;
But a tenderer, kinder heart nor Jim’s
Haint frequently found in men.
There warn’t one parsimonious hair
In that grizzled old mop o’his,
There warn’t one deceitful line
In his wizened and humbly phiz.
His sympathies at a dog-fight
Allers backed up the smallest pup,
And his last chaw of plug terbacker
With er stranger he’d “divey” up.
Ef I wuz ter live fer er hundred years,
I shell never fergit the night
When he cleaned out “Plug” Kimberley’s bar room,
A mile or so west of Fort White.
Ef I wuz ter live fer er thousand years,
I kin never fergit the fun
The two of us had when we broke up Smith’s Place
Jest this side of Poverty Run.
If I wuz ter live fer er million years—
(Who was it remarked: “Git out.” Was it you?
Bartender? all right—I’ll “skip”—Dont shove please,
I’ll travel without!)
* * * * *
Out in the dark, damp, dreary night,
They ruthlessly “hustled” him,—
Ere he had a chance his sad tale to recite,
Ioncerning “Hustler Jim.”
Washington Hatchet, 1886.
——:o:——
BILLY’S ROSE.
(Inserted by Mr. Sims’s permission.)
Billy’s dead, and gone to glory, so is Billy’s sister Nell:
There’s a tale I know about them, were I poet I would tell;
Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air
Wafted down the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odours there.
In that vile and filthy alley, long ago, one winter’s day,
Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay,
While beside him sat his sister, in the garret’s dismal gloom,
Cheering with her gentle presence Billy’s pathway to the tomb.
Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child,
Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and his worn, wan features smiled:
Tales herself had heard hap-hazard, caught amid the Babel roar,
Lisped about by tiny gossips playing round their mother’s door.
Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told
How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold,
Where, when all the pain was over—where, when all the tears were shed—
He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.
Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour’s love,
How He’d built for little children great big playgrounds up above,
Where they sang and played at hop-scotch, and at horses all the day,
And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away.
This was Nell’s idea of Heaven—just a bit of what she’d heard,
With a little bit invented and a little bit inferred.
But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand,
For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the Promised Land.
“Yes,” he whispered, “I can see it—I can see it, sister Nell;
Oh, the children look so happy, and they’re all so strong and well;
I can see them there with Jesus—He is playing with them, too!
Let us run away and join them, if there’s room for me and you.”
She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent
In the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent;
Where a drunken father’s curses and a drunken mother’s blows
Drove her forth into the gutter from the day’s dawn to its close.
But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell the sinking boy,
“You must die before you’re able all these blessings to enjoy.
You must die,” she whispered, “Billy, and I am not even ill;
But I’ll come to you, dear brother—yes, I promise that I will.
“You are dying, little brother,—you are dying, oh, so fast;
I heard father say to mother that he knew you could’nt last.
They will put you in a coffin, then you’ll wake and be up there,
While I’m left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare.”
“Yes, I know it,” answered Billy. “Ah, but, sister, I don’t mind,
Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He’s not cruel or unkind.
But I can’t help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take away
Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day.
“In the summer you remember how the mission took us out
To a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about,
And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land,
Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother’s hand.
“Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those,
And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose.
I have never seen them since, dear—how I wish that I had one!
Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I’m up beyond the sun.”
Not a word said little Nelly; but at night when Billy slept,
On she flung her scanty garments, and then down the stairs she crept.
Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn,
Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.
When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away,
All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay.
She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet,
But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.
She had traced the road by asking—she had learnt the way to go;
She had found the famous meadow—it was wrapt in cruel snow;
Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade
Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed.
With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground,
And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found.
Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;
And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.
“Oh, a rose!” she moaned, “good Jesus—just a rose to take to Bill!”
And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill;
And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet;
As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly’s feet.
Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret,
And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet;
But the poor, half-blinded Nelly, thought it fallen from the skies,
And she murmured, “Thank you, Jesus!” as she clasped the dainty prize.
* * * * *
Lo that night from out the alley did a child’s soul pass away,
From dirt and sin and misery to where God’s children play.
Lo that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o’er the land,
And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand.
Billy’s dead, and gone to glory, so is Billy’s sister Nell;
I’m bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell:—
That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes,
And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, “Billy here’s your rose.”
G. R. Sims.
Billy’s Nose.
Listen to a striking story. Billy and his sister Nell
Were a pair of gutter youngsters, in an alley had to dwell
(I am not a noted poet, but to tell you I shall try,
Since it “comes with perfume laden”—as a moral—that is why.)
Simple toys had made them happy through a sultry summer day
(Two old boots and one dead kitten), then they quarrelled in their play,
’Mid the grime on Billy’s visage shone in streaks the angry red,
And he seized a handy brickbat, which he threw at Nellie’s head.
Little boys should love their sisters—here I might have had to paint
How the pretty, hapless maiden suddenly grew pale and faint;
How anon she drooped and faded, looking dove-like all the while,
Rending Billy’s little bosom with the sweetness of her smile!
But she didn’t. Nellie started—darted up each creaking stair
Till she reached their dismal garret, for she knew a stick was there;
This she held behind her slyly, meaning to avenge her woes,
Sought the unsuspecting Billy, and she hit him on the nose.
Billy’s missile missed its object, Nellie’s stick descended hard,
And the boy from all his pleasures was for three whole weeks debarred;
Could he hop-scotch in the alley—in the gutter take his place,
With that lattice work of plaster—very dirty—on his face?
Little boys should love their sisters—that’s the moral that I meant,
Seeing Billy’s nasal feature now, alas! is sadly bent;
And he has a secret sorrow, for whene’er his temper glows,
Nellie stands with lean arms folded, saying “Billy, how’s your nose?”
Fred Rawkins (Harold Wynn.)
The Weekly Dispatch, 25 June, 1882.
Another Parody of “Billy’s Rose” appeared in The Umpire (Manchester) 30 September, 1888. But it does not follow the original very closely, and is rather too coarse to be inserted.
——:o:——
“The Tricycle.”
A Parody upon “The Lifeboat,” by G. P. Sims.
Been out on the Tricycle often? Yes, sir, I ride a lot.
When it’s hotter than this? Lor’, bless you, this ain’t what we call hot.
It’s when the sun is a-shining with a heat like a furnace strong,
When the air is close and stifling, and when for a breeze you long,
When a drink seems life’s sole object, and parched and dry is the breath,
When the leader’s cry, “Spurt! Forward” sounds like a sentence of death.
That’s when we call it hot, sir; but if we can manage a day,
There is always enough crack riders ready to pedal away.
You’ve heard of Tunbridge Wells, sir, down in the valley of Kent?
Here are the fellows who rode there—gone is the money we spent.
The day that we went was reckoned the hottest this summer has seen,
And this was a year when summer was hot as Egypt, I ween.
The trip was planned by the others, and two of them volunteered—
I only heard of it after, and then I was well-nigh skeered—
For roasting that day seemed certain, and I thought of the skin on my nose;
I thought of the Bank in the City, the books I had to close.
We pedalled away in the heat, sir; the “Wells” was the goal in view,
And never a one but doubted if the riders could live it through.
Our Tricycles stood it bravely, and thirsty and hot and weak,
We drew in sight of the hopfields we had dared so much to seek;
And then we rested and turned, and homeward again we faced,
When one machine collapsed, sir, as down a hill we raced!
That was an awful moment, and the stoutest held his breath,
And watched the wreck on the road, sir, as if he looked on death.
The road was strewn with pieces, and, to tell you the truth, sir, then
I thought of the Bank in London I never might see again.
I thought of the manager’s look, sir, if vacant my seat were seen
On the morrow when I was due there—and all through a friend’s machine!
However, I thought I’d risk it; I couldn’t desert a friend,
So we set to work with a will, sir, the broken wheel to mend,
And after some skilful hammering our joy can well be guessed
When we saw the wheel go round again, though shaky at the best.
Well, we stopped at a neighbouring “public”—of the rest I know no more;
But I spent next day at the Bank, sir, with limbs both tired and sore,
And as I sat calm and quiet my memory clouded grew
As I thought of that awful journey, that ride I had just gone through.
Cassell’s Saturday Journal. May 1, 1886.
——:o:——
The Terror of Tadger’s Rents.
A “Dagonet Ballad” Gone Wrong.
Ain’t heard of Tadger’s Rents? My eye! where was you bred and born?
Such ignorance it do excite a feller-creature’s scorn.
The Rents is down the Dials way—a proper kind o’ lair,
Where happy dossers come each night, and doss upon the stair.
I’ve done it many times and oft;—but never mind ’bout me,
It’s of Bill Basher I would jaw this arternoon, d’ye see?
The “Terror o’ the Rents” he was, and well deserved the name,
And yet, I hold, his heart was soft and tender all the same.
He couldn’t bear no cant, poor Bill, and humbug driv him wild,
They made a savage of a chap as was by nature mild;
And so it came to pass as he would always have his knife
Into a cove as paid his way and lived a decent life.
Joe Tomkins, he was one o’ these—a mean and sneaking cuss,
Who for no sort o’ boose that’s brewed had ever been the wuss.
“Let’s have a wet,” said Bill one day. Said Joseph, “Not for Joe!”
No wonder Bill was riled at that—he would be, don’t you know.
So later on, when he’d got screwed, he made for Joseph’s room,
As sat at tea, all unprepared to meet his orful doom.
Bill landed him upon the nose a wunner, so he did,
And then perceeded for to kick Joe’s missis and his kid.
He jumped upon the three of them, and then he come away—
You can’t see where his heart was soft, I think I heard you say.
Hold on; don’t take a feller up so precious sharp as that—
Bill came away and didn’t hurt the Tomkins’ tabby cat.
I see that animile last week, a-looking sleek and well,
But Bill he’s picking of his hemp inside a prison cell.
A martyr’s crown? I guess you’re right, for his deserts is plain,
As does his best, when on the bust, to study the humane.
Funny Folks’ Annual.
——:o:——
Another “Bagonet” Ballad.
Told by the One-armed Man.
What? A “queer place” to look for a hero?
A Seven Dials pothouse? No fear!
I’ll find heroes, I’ll bet, just as good as you’ll get,
Though perhaps they may owe to their beer
A grain—just a grain—of the courage
That stamps them the bulldogs of war.
“But, lor, where’s the hurt in a pint or a quart?
And, blow you! whoever you are—
“If you rob a pore man of his lotion,
And go turning him out of his pubs,
Whilst, half Sunday, he sits on the kerbstone, and spits,
You’re a guzzlin’ champagne in your clubs.
“Go and ’ang yerself—d’yer—did ye ’ear me?
Why you ain’t fit to live with my moke!
Mr. Stead says the toffs is all cut-throats and toffs,
Go and bust yerself—go an’ eat coke!”
A hero has spoken, as valiant
A fellow as ever broke bread—
As fly as a cop. He could hammer a slop,
And then do his “month’s hard” on his head.
He’s a thorough-blown hero, I tell you
(Though I fear I’m not much at portraiture),
P’raps he’s rough in a tiff, but, good gracious me—if
There’s a “Mr. Hyde” side to his nature,
Sure it’s not to be wondered at greatly;
For Seven Dials air’s hardly otto
Of roses. And more—as he’s told you before—
You don’t uphold “Fair Play” as your motto.
But let him run loose. Over there, sir,
You see a man sit on the bench;
Not that one with the pot—he’s a terrible sot;
Nor that one that is kissing the wench;
But that grey-haired old chap, whose right sleeve, sir,
Is empty, and pinned to his breast;
And I’ll bet you he says that he’s seen better days.
I can see it. That fine manly chest
I’ll warrant has heaved ’neath the scarlet,
Those grey eyes, so earnest and grave,
That look full of scorn, ne’er in plebeian born;
He’s a soldier—or has been—and brave.
I wonder if, speaking politely,
I’m able to somewhat unmask him,
To learn ’bout his arm. He seems passive and calm,
There’s nothing like cheek—no—I’ll ask him.
* * * * *
“How did I lose my arm, sir?”
(The grey-headed veteran rose),
“Well, come, fill up my pot, I’d as lief tell as not,”
(And he fell in a “Bagonet” pose—
You know—stand at ease—right leg forward
The right arm—or sleeve—on the breast-ee’s,
The left hanging dead by the side. And the head
Thrown well back to give play to the chest-ee’s.)
“How did I lose my arm, sir?
Ah, that’s too long a story, I fear,
Though I don’t wish to brag, it was lost for the flag
Of the Queen—and for England so dear.
“It was lost, sir, upholding the honour
That means to an Englishman life.
In the thick of the battle, midst guns’ deathly rattle,
One last thought of home and of wife—”
Then he strikes. Hark, now “Up guards, and at ’em,
Bang! Victory! On Stanley, on!
Send a volley in there—on the point of the square,
So—another like that, and we’ve won.”
See your foemen and comrades all lying
On the blood-stained heath, gory and red,
Hear the groans and the prayers of the dying
And the agonised shrieks of the dead.
Poor Jack! What, a drink from my flask, son,
And leave you to die? Save myself?
You and I, who’ve been cronies together,
Have a pull at the brandy. A Guelph
Isn’t dearer to me at this moment—
My charger’s been shot in both flanks,
But we can both straddle somehow in the saddle,
And I’ll get you back to the ranks.
What’s this dark hull that looms up against us?
This great rush of steam, and this dash?
For the ones that we love all things earthly above
Great heavens! she’s on us! A crash—
Yes, we’re struck by the Bywell Castle.
She has cut us in two with her prow,
And our boat, The Princess, in five minutes, or less,
Will suck three hundred creatures below!
“Let the women get into the boats there,
Stand back-let the critters get in!”
But some great hulking tramps crowd the boat, and she swamps,
And loud o’er the engines dim,
From the waves of the murky Thames, sir,
Come the wails of the souls in the stream.
“Keep afloat for God’s sake—sure some effort she’ll make,
No—one last shriek—one horrible scream;”
As our vessel she takes a plunge, sir,
Ah! it sickens my heart with fears;
The life-belts are thrown, as the vessel goes down,
And the old man sits in tears!
He looks at the glowing embers,
He watches the straggling flame;
But never a word from his lips is heard
As he thinks of his daughter’s shame.
How her sunny face, in the village,
As a ray of sunshine was shown;
Beloved by them all, both great and small,
Till—till the gay young squire came down.
Ah, me, ’twas the same old story,
Of the trusting girl and the scamp,
The careless miner—the unlit pipe—
And the unclosed Davy Lamp!
A flash and a terrible rumbling,
As loud of smoke from the shaft,
Of wailing dread at the grim pit’s head,
But along the wires was waft
A word from the junction signals,
“The Flying Scotchman’s through!
Clear the line; she’s late.” And the 12.48
Is ten minutes overdue!
I’ve hardly a second for thought, sir,
The 12.48’s in sight.
“Put steam, on, men, run her through, and then
We may still pull ye through all right.”
They hear my shout on the engine,
And they run her through at a rate
That the company never had dreamed about,
But alas! for it’s all too late.
But one more second and they’d have gained
The siding. But down she swept,
And few in that fated house afire
That knew—for most sound they slept.
The firemen hammered the door down.
Is there life to be saved, and where?
They plunge in the haze of the house ablaze;
Their helmets lit up with the glare.
A window opens above us,
That’s on the second floor.
And a maiden we sight—in the raiment of night—
And she calls midst the flaming roar—
“Will nobody save my Father?”
We are turned near to stone at the shock.
We are glued to the street. I can hear my heart beat
Like a five-bob American clock.
A ladder is put to the window,
A young fellow pulls off his hat,
He springs up that ladder as lithe as an adder,
And climbs with the skill of a cat.
We sweep like a wave past the Red Post!
It’s now that the battle begins.
Ev’ry eye’s on the blue. In a second or two
They’ll be shouting out “Kissing Cup wins!”
We’ve got ’em all settled, I think, sir,
No! Here comes the Captain’s colt,
He’s us at five seven! He’ll beat us—Oh, heaven!
But no—he has shot his bolt.
I can see the face of a girl, sir,
A standing there in the ring,
She’s a maiden to meet—(out of Winchester Street),
And she’s “backed us like everyding.”
I must win this race For Her, sir,
For hereon there rests a name.
Her virgin caresses—her “Empire” dresses,
And Victoria Station’s shame.
The Aeronaut clings to the cord, sir,
And owns with too well shown fright
That he’s surely come to a chosen tomb
In the Channel’s billows so bright.
When we sailed from the Crystal Palace,
There was scarce a breath of air,
And the glitt’ring sun on our huge balloon
Made a picture divinely fair.
She looked like a golden ball, sir,
As she mounted into the skies.
Sailed from the crowds and sought the clouds
The cynosure of all eyes.
But two short hours have passed us,
And here we hang o’er the sea,
In a terrible plight—not a sail in sight,
And descending rapid-lee,
A few feet below us—The Ocean!
We are fully ten miles from the land.
Good God! see—she dies—not an inch can we rise
For we’ve thrown out the last bag of sand!
To recourse—ah, I had but an instant.
I leapt—with a cry—to the ground.
And, Heaven be praised for its mercy!
I stood with the girl safe and sound.
* * * * *
“And that’s how I lost my arm, sir.
If the thing don’t strike you as clear,
Put it down to a few o’ the trials I’ve gone through,
Or—perhaps it’s along o’ this beer.”
The Sporting Times. October 20, 1888.
——:o:——
THE LIGHTS OF LONDON TOWN.
The way was long and weary,
But gallantly they strode,
A country lad and lassie,
Along the heavy road.
The night was dark and stormy
But blithe of heart were they,
For shining in the distance
The Lights of London lay.
O gleaming lamps of London that gem the City’s crown,
What fortunes lie within you, O Lights of London Town.
* * * * *
George R. Sims.
See Ballads of Babylon. London. John P. Fuller. 1880.
Those Wights of London Town.
The Correct Version.
The way was long and dreary,
But jauntily they strode,
Bill Sikes and Jim the Leary
Along the frosty road.
The night was nice and dusky,
The sky was dark and grey;
And Bill, in accents husky,
Opined they’d fix the lay!
“O gleaming lamps of London! I’d like douse your glim,
What “crackings” lie within you when you are faint and dim!”
The hours passed on and found them
A-burgling of a “shop”
And scattered all around them,
They’d got a golden crop.
And from the office window,
That lonely moonless night
The “swag” they dropped, and grinn’d O!
It was a lovely sight!
“O sleepy slops of London, who crawl about the town,
I think you must be jolly green, for we have done you brown.”
With faces black with sorrow—
With words we dare not speak,
Upon the fateful morrow,
They stood before the beak.
The “slops” had watched their capers,
And soon their way had barred,
And, according to the papers,
They each got six months hard!
“Oh cruel lights of London, why do you shine so gay?
A-showing up poor burgulars, to steal their peace away.”
S. J. Adair Fitz-Gerald.
The Lights o’ Ascot Heath.
The way was long and dusty,
But joyfully they drove,
A London lad and lassie,
Along the Ascot road;
The day was hot and muggy,
But blithe of heart were they,
For shining in his pocket
Some twenty dollars lay.
Oh! gleaming heath of Ascot,
That gem of racing sights,
What fortunes you could tell of;
What sad and sorry flights.
With faces torn and beery,
That told a loser’s load,
That day a man and woman
Crept up the London road:
They sought their native alley,
“Regular broke” from the fray,
Yet shining still behind them
The heath of Ascot lay.
Oh! cruel heath of Ascot,
If D’s your race could win,
Your victims’ mouths would yell them,
To get their favourite in.
The Sporting Times. June 20, 1885.
——:o:——
The Ballad Monger.
It was a ballad monger,
Of the gruesome, morbid type,
And he told of cold and hunger,
“Little alls” sent “up the pipe.”
And he piled on high the agony,
As with sobs we gasped for breath,
When he sang us—à la Dagonet,
Of murder, want, and death.
Doth a child convert a burglar,
Or that burglar kill that child,
Then this sentimental gurgler,
“Airs his slush”—to put it mild.
He will tell you how it’s mother—
Yes, the child’s of course not Sykes’—
Was a relative of t’other,
By a natural son of “Mike’s!”
How this “Mike” was Sykes’ father,
And the father himself betwixt
A duke and an earl—or rather,
When the parentage got mixed.
And so on and yet so forth,
Will this “poet” meander on,
Till he proves my Lord of Beauforth,
Was undoubtedly Mike’s son.
And the child was Sykes’s daughter,
And the mother wife to he,
Though their grandma wasn’t sorter,
Everything that she might be.
Yet the moral indicated,
In this tale that is bedeckt,
Troubles not this addle-pated,
Jerry-plotting architect.
Should occasion demand a sonnet,
On a “starve” or on a “freeze,”
Then our ballad monger is “on it,”
With his dismal, doleful, wheeze,
And he’s safe upon this track, sir,
To his muse he ne’er resorts,
For his scenes are based on facts, sir,
Solid facts from police reports.
Oh, the unction of this whiner,
Of a tune pitched in a key,
Which the clef is B flat minor,
And as dirge-like as can be.
Not content with dying father,
Teething babe and wasting wife,
With his licensed poetic lather,
He must needs call in the knife.
Need I wade through scenes of torture,
To the climax strong and hot,
When the son, himself a “scorcher,”
Takes and massacres the lot.
No! I needn’t, for it’s certain.
That in sympathy you’d choke,
With emotion at the burden,
Bf this ballad-slinging bloke.
Heber K. Daniels.
From The South Western Star.
Truth for October 14th, 1886, contained half-a-dozen ballads written in the style of Mr. Sims’s poems. The three following may be quoted as interesting imitations, but it will be seen that they do not parody any particular poem:—
Little Flo.’
Tell you the tale o’ Flo, sir, and how she came to die?
’Twere a sad time in my life, tho’ it’s so long gone by.
I was a drunken brute then—never thought much o’ Flo;
Nearly al’ays in liquor—got jolly screwed, you know.
Yes, I treated her shockin’! life must ha’ been pretty bad,
She’d prom’sed her dyin’ mother al’ays to look after dad.
I used to laugh at her notions, she was but a gal o’ seven,
And ’ad got it fixed in her ’ead to bring me along to heaven.
“Dad!” she’d say to me sometimes, “it’s beau’ful bright in there;
Everyone’s al’ays ’appy, and got golden crowns to wear.”
How I laughed at the child then, to think o’ a crown on my head;
I told her to shut up cantin’, I didn’t want to be dead.
Still some’ow I wasn’t ’appy, for ’appen I’d got a fright,
And wondered whatever’ud’appen if I should die that night,
So to keep down her pleadin’s I off on a pretty good spree,
Down at the pub at the corner, along o’ my mates and me.
We was pretty gone on the wrong side, stagg’rin’ ’ome that night,
And there was Flo sittin’ and watchin’, with the room clean and bright.
With a curse at her for waitin’ I flung myself on the bed,
Catchin’ the lamp with my arm, and pullin’ it down on my ’ead.
Flo flung herself down upon me, and then I woke from my daze,
We smoth’rd the flames with a rug, but Flo was all a blaze.
I flung the blanket upon her, I seemed to go off my ’ead;
But when I got back to my senses, they told me that Flo was dead.
She’d given her life for her father, for such a wretch as me,
And mainly because she knew, sir, that I warn’t fit to die.
When I got better they told me the last words ’o little Flo
“They wouldn’t have ’im in ’eaven, if he was drunk, you know.”
On my word, sir, that fetched me, I never drank since that night;
And I prays as I’ll follow Flo up to her ’ome ’o light.
For as that child forgave me, I believes by and by
As He’ll forgive me too, sir, who came for sinners to die.
So little Flo’s life warn’t lost, she showed me the way to live;
She showed me what goodness meant, the way that a girl can forgive.
When I am tempted to drink, I thinks o’ the last words o’ Flo,
“He couldn’t be let into ’eaven if he was drunk, you know.”
Magnum Bonum.
The Coster’s Plea.
What ’ave I got to say, Mr. Beak, about the row last night,
When I knocked the peeler down twice? Well, it was just a fight
For liberty for me, sir—me an’ me old dawg Jack;
The bobby tried to cop ’im, and I put ’im on ’is back.
I tried to fight ’im fair, sir, but ’e pulled ’is trunchin out
To brain my dear old dawg with, an’ the people round about
Cried “Shame!” but it ony made him madder like, yer see,
And then ’twas a matter ’o fists for to set my old dawg free.
Why did I fight for a dawg so an’ try to injer the perlice?
Well, cos if they ’ad took ’im I’d ’ave never ’ad no peace.
Just cos that faithful dawg years ago did that for me
What I could’nt, sir, forget if a ’underd I should be.
Twelve years ago old Jack, ’e, when not much mor’n a pup,
One night lay in ’is corner—’e’d ’ad neither bit nor sup;
For times ’ad bin rare bad—’e lay down an’ shet ’is eyes,
’E was ’ungry, an’ wet, an’ tired, an’ ’ad ’ardly strength to rise.
The missus an’ me went off up ter bed ter try ’an sleep,
But when your stummick’s empty, its apt yer awake to keep;
But at last we went sound off, an’ dead beat as we ’ad bin,
A sleep as ’eavy as death, by-an’-bye, we both was in.
I suppose we’d been asleep nigh upon a couple o’ hour,
When Jack ’e woke me barkin’, an’ I see ’is tew eyes glower,
Then I looked an’ missed our kiddy from ’er bed on the floor,
But I spied ’er little bed things layin’ close again the door.
I turned ter Poll to wake ’er, when I see a awful glare
Cornin’ in the bedroom winder, an’ the ’eat was ’ard to bear,
The ’ouse was all ablaze, an’ we’d dropped out ter the ground
’Bout ten minits, when it fell in scatt’rin fire all around.
Jumpin’ out Jack broke ’is leg bad, and our kiddy’s life he’d saved;
’E ’ad took ’er out in safety, an’ ’ere on me ’earts engraved,
The deed o’ that there dawg, who come back through fire to us,
An’ can ye wonder now, sir, that last night I made a fuss?
’E braved a burnin’ staircase, an’ ’ed stayed till we had dropped,
An’, when my Poll, soon after, straight away to glory popped,
She said, “Jim, keep our Jack safe,” an’ I’ve allus’ kep’ me vow,
An’ you’ll let me off, sir, won’t you, so that I don’t break it now;
The kid ’as gone to her mother, wi’ the angels up above,
An’ if I should lose old Jack, why, I’d nothin’ ave ter love,
Ah! don’t be ’ard, sir, this time—don’t break a poor cove’s ’eart;
What, sir? I’m free! God bless yer! me dawg an’ me won’t part!
Aglaus.
Sally.
What’s the matter down the alley
Don’t yer know? I thought as ’ow
Every one ’ad ’eard of Sally—
Killed last week in a drunkin row.
Come aside, then, out of the mob, sir.
A drink? I don’t mind if I do.
I don’t like talkin’ of this job, sir;
But any ’ow I’ll tell it you.
Well, I think ’twas last December—
’Bout as near as I can tell—
Joe Hale, then a stiddy member,
Lost ’is wife an’ kid as well.
That upset ’im altogether,
Drove ’im nearly off ’is head;
Whether it was that, or whether
It was not, it’s what was said.
Fightin’ every night an’ boozin’,
Doin’ weeks an’ months in quod,
Sellin’ all ’is sticks, an’ losin’
All he ’ad, when on the cod;
An’ he’d leave pore little Sally
(Sally was ’is daughter, sir)
For days a starvin’ in the alley,
Givin’ not a thought to ’er.
This night Joe was fightin’ madly
In a gang of drunkin’ brutes,
Who, if things was goin’ badly,
’Ud down a man an’ use their boots;
An’ little Sally, screamin’ “Murder!”
With a face just like a sheet,
Rushed among the fightin’ herd, sir,
An’ fell down beneath their feet.
Trampled on, an’ crush’d, an’ moanin’,
They carried Sal out of the fight;
She lay a little while a groanin’,
An’ then she died the selfsame night.
An’ now they’re goin’ to bury Sally—
An’ Joe? Ah, Joe, too, ended bad,
For when he seed ’er dead in the alley,
He went stark, starin’ ravin’ mad.
Phil. Lascelles.
The pathetic ballads of Mr. Sims are frequently chosen for recitation, and good parodies of them are much sought after, as a relief to the overwrought feelings of the auditors.
There is a recitation written by Mr. Richard H. Douglass, which is often given by him with success, entitled “Christmas Day in the Beer-house.”
In its opening lines it somewhat resembles Mr. Sims’s “Christmas Day in the Workhouse,” but it does not follow that poem sufficiently to be styled a parody, and is, moreover, rather coarse in its style.
Every one remembers “The Manual for Young Reciters,” which appeared in Punch in 1887, and has since been issued in a small volume, entitled “Burglar Bill,” by J. Anstey, (London, Bradbury, Agnew & Co.) Two of the papers contained in this are imitations of Mr. Sims; Burglar Bill is one, but a far more amusing specimen is A Coster’s Conversion. A poor harmless costermonger relates how he
“Give a copper a doin’,
As ’ad said my barrer was blockin’ the way,
And they took me afore a beak,
And he see what I wanted was change o’ hair,
So he sent me to quod fur a week.”
Whilst he is away in durance vile some well meaning, but mistaken, philanthropist converts his wife to Æstheticism, and on his return to his humble roof, he is much amazed, and by no means pleased, with the alterations made in his home:—
“I’ll not ’ave none of it, Betsy,” I sez—and I chucked the lot of it out,
And I did’nt recover my self-respeck till I see it go up the spout!
For we all on us has our feelings, Sir, and my pride it was cruel ’urt,
To think as a swell could ha’ gone so fur as to rob a poor man of his dirt!
But I never ’anker for Culcher now, nor henvy no harristocrats,
For I’m cured fur life of the longing I ’ad fur a roomful of brick-a-bats.
Of spadgers and pea-green paint you’ll find in the attic ’ardly a trace,
And, when me and my old woman ’as words—there’s allus plenty o’ space!
* * * * *
This appeared originally in Punch, May 14, 1887.
Mr. Sims has recently published (London, Chatto and Windus) The Dagonet Reciter, which contains most of the poems which have been referred to in this Collection, “Ostler Joe,” “The Life-boat,” “Keeping Christmas” etc., as well as a selection of his humorous prose writings.
Before leaving this author, there remains a parody of his to be quoted, it should have appeared in Volume IV., which contained other parodies of “The Lost Chord.”
The Lost Cord.
Seated one day in a carriage,
I was frightened and ill at ease,
For a fellow, behaving wildly,
Was up to his drunken sprees.
I knew not if he was playing,
Or what I was doing then,
But I pulled the cord like winking,
While the lunatic shrieked “Amen.”
It rattled against the ceiling
As I clasped it in my palm,
Then it broke and fell on the cushion,
Where it lay in a holy calm.
It startled the next compartment,
On the lunatic’s nerves it jarred;
It reached the length of the carriage,
But it never reached the guard.
It may be a grand invention
At the distant guard to get;
But I’ve tried it in twenty cases,
And I’ve never succeeded yet.
George R. Sims.
From The Lifeboat, and other Poems. 1883.
The following Volunteer parody, of the same original, recently appeared in the First Lanark Gazette.—
The Lost Shot.
Shooting one day at the targets,
In a steady three-o’clock breeze,
I watched my score rise quickly—
I was making bulls’-eyes with ease.
I knew well what I was doing,
And what I was thinking then,
As I fired my one last bullet,
And awaited the signal again.
It sped thro’ the Golden Ether,
With the speed of an angel’s wing,
And it must have reached the target,
For I’m certain I heard the “ping.”
I waited with utmost confidence
For the signal that never came;
I challenged, and paid my sixpence,
But the marker ignored my claim!
I raged with perplexed feelings,
And swore like a big dragoon;
Then I fretted away into silence
O’er the loss of the silver spoon.
I have sought, and I still seek vainly
The value of that one last shot,
For which I claimed a bull’s-eye,
Only the scorer said it was not.
It may be that playful zephyrs
Wafted it over the plain;
It may be that only in dreamland
I shall find my last shot again.
Corporal.
