The Joyous Ballad of the Parson and the Badger
Henry Newbolt
Not far from Guildford town there lies
A house called Orange Grove,
And there his trade a Parson plies,
Whom all good people love.
Sing up, sing down, for Guildford town,
And sing for the Parson too!
I’ll wager a penny you’ll never find any
That’s more of a sportsman true.
A neighbour came in haste one day
With a piteous tale to tell,
But “A badger, a badger,” was all he could say,
When they answered the front door bell.
Sing in, sing out, there’s a badger about,
Send word to the County Police.
He’s playing the dickens with all the spring chickens,
And gobbling up the geese.
Forth to the fray the Parson goes
Beneath the midnight sky,
He threads the wood on the tip of his toes
And he climbs a fir-tree high.
Sing never a word, it’s quite absurd
To expect a badger to come
And sit to be shot like a bottle or pot
To the sound of an idiot’s hum!
The clock has struck both twelve and one,
His eyes are heavy as lead,
He heartily wishes the deed were done
And himself at home in bed.
Sing ho! Sing hey! the badger’s away,
The Parson’s up the tree:
It’s horribly damp and he’s got the cramp
And there’s nothing at all to see.
The clock struck two, and then half-past,
The day began to break;
The badger came back to his earth at last
And found our friend awake.
Sing boom and bang! the welkin rang,
The Parson, “Hurrah!” he cried:
The badger lay there with his legs in the air
And an ounce of shot inside.
Happy at heart, though in pitiful plight,
The victor crawled away;
He slept the sleep of the just all night
And half of the following day.
Sing loud and strong, sing all day long,
Sing Yoicks! and Hullabaloo!
But I’ve had enough of this doggerel stuff
And so, I should think, have you!
“HE CLIMBED A FIR-TREE HIGH”
To Enid
who acted the
Cat
in private Pantomime
G. K. Chesterton
Though cats and birds be hardly friends,
We doubt the Maeterlinckian word
That must dishonour the White Cat,
Even to honour the Blue Bird.
And if once more in later days
His baseless charge the Belgian brings,
Great ghosts shall rise to vindicate
The right of cats to look at kings.
The Lord of Carabas shall come
In gold and ermine, silk and furs,
To tell of that immortal cat
That wore its boots and won its spurs.
THE LORD OF CARABAS SHALL COME
IN GOLD AND ERMINE, SILK AND FURS,
TO TELL OF THAT IMMORTAL CAT
THAT WORE ITS BOOTS AND WON ITS SPURS
Great Whittington shall show again
The state that London lends her Lord,
Where the great golden griffins bear
The blazon of the Cross and Sword.
And hear the ancient bells anew,
And talk and not ignobly brag
What glorious fortunes followed when
He let the cat out of the bag.
And Gray shall leave the graves of Stoke
To weep over a gold-fish bowl—
Cowper, who, beaming at his cat,
Forgot the shadow on his soul.
Then shall I rise and name aloud
The nicest cat I ever knew,
And make the fairy fancies pale
With half a hundred tales of you:
Till Pasht upon his granite throne
Glare with green eyes to hear the news
Jealous; and even Puss in Boots
Will wish that he were in your shoes.
When I shall pledge in saucers full
Of milk, on which the kitten thrives,
Feline felicities to you
And nine extremely prosperous lives.