PYRAMUS AND THISBE
A TRAGIC BALLAD
I sing not now in joyous strain,
To suit these mirthful pages;
Mine is a tale of love and pain,
Black blood and by-gone ages.
Some people’s wit is small indeed—
But smaller still must his be,
Who’s never had the luck to read
Of Pyramus and Thisbe.
I do not write for such a dunce,
My task would be in vain;
Let those who’ve blubbered at it once,
Now read, and weep again.
Of all the beauties of the East,
Fair Thisbe was the star,
And Nature gave her—last not least—
A very cross mamma.
Next door there lived a “nice young man,”
One Pyramus by name;
And laughing Cupid soon began
To kindle up the flame.
Then came soft words and softer sighs,
And “hearts for ever true,”
And radiant eyes, like summer skies,
And little billets-doux.
Next Thisbe ’d ask to go and walk,
Upon some sly pretence,
And then they’d meet alone, and talk
Across the garden-fence.
At last her mother caught her out—
And scarlet grew her forehead.
“My stars! miss, what are you about?
Good gracious me, how horrid!”
She locked her up—our hero, too,
Was lectured by his father:
“Do that again, sir! just you do!
And won’t I whop you—rather!”
He begged and prayed: the governor
Still gave that answer gruff—
“Lord; what’s the good of lovin’ her?
A boy like you, sir! stuff!
“Come, get along! what’s all this fuss?
Let’s have no more, sir, pray!”
With broken heart poor Pyramus
Turn’d in despair away.
He moped all day, and talked to none,
Through dim and lone woods wending;
Men cried, “If this be lover’s fun,
Our hearts are worth defending!”
When day was done, the night again
Brought visions of his fairy:
Alas! how vain the tender pain,
“In statu pupillari.”
He cried, “Oh this is hard, indeed—
I mayn’t caress my love, nor
With blameless word win blameless meed—
O cruel, cruel guv’nor!”
I said, you know, some time ago,
Their houses stood contiguous;
Not dos-à-dos, but in a row—
I hate to be ambiguous.
Well, little Love, who’s up to snuff,
In pitying mood, one day,
Proposed a plan; and sure enough
They tried, and found it pay.
He whispered in the ear of each,
“Seek out some little hole in
Your wall, through which your lover’s speech
May echo most consoling.”
They searched above, they searched below,
To find affection’s keyhole;
Till—just when all appear’d “no go,”
They found a little wee hole.
A rotten brick had come in two—
They saw the cranny—nay, more.
They saw their love by peeping through,
Ah! “Quid non sentit amor?”
They poked the useless brick away
By digging out the mortar;
And there they passed the livelong day
In whispers and “soft sawder.”
Then, Thisbe ’d cry, “Oh dear, oh dear,
My eyes are full of dust, love;
You must come round and kiss me here,
Indeed, indeed, you must, love.”
And then, poor Pyramus would say,
“God bless me, how can this be?
I’ve kissed a dirty lump of clay,
And not my pretty Thisbe!
“Bad wall, bad wall! thy chink is small,
Thy big stones almost hide her:
Why leave the little hole at all
Unless a little wider?
“O will you meet me quite alone
To-morrow night, my dear,
Beyond brass-gated Babylon
Where walls can’t interfere.
“Let’s meet by nine, at Ninus’ tomb,
Under the mulberry-tree,
The moon that lights the sunless gloom
Shall light my love to me.”
’Tis night—the moon has flung her beam
Far down the glowing wave,
Where rolls Euphrates’ silent stream
Fast by the monarch’s grave:—
The night-wind bids the forest groan
And leafy branches reel;—
But, Lord! Who’s this—and all alone—
In such a déshabille.
’Tis Thisbe! hear it, wise mammas,
The lesson’s told concisely,—
Don’t bother Love by bolts and bars,
Or you’ll be diddled nicely!
For though her mother—cross old cat—
Had safely locked her in,
She knew a trick worth two of that,
And didn’t care a pin.
She soon escaped—no matter how—
And ere the bell tolled nine,
Sat trembling where the forest bough
Danced in the pale moonshine.
“INGENUAS DIDICISSE,” AND SO ON.
Urbane Foreigner. The—ah—contemplation of these—ah—relics of ancient art in the galleries of Europe, must be most int’r’sting to the—ah—educated American!
American Tourist. Wa’al, don’t seem to care much for these stone gals, somehow, stranger!
She sat and watched the waters roll,
And more impatient grew:—
At last she heard a horrid growl,—
“Oh, dear, what shall I do?”
“Speak, Pyramus! Where are you! Oh,
I hear that growl again!
How can you leave your Thisbe so?
You must—you must be slain!”
She’d hardly done, when trotting by,
A lion fresh from slaughter,
With black blood drenched, and savage eye,
Came from the woods to water.
Poor Thisbe shuddered at the sight,
Not relishing his “ivory”;
“Besides,—especially to-night—
It’s very hard to die—very!
“I’ll run and hide behind an oak,
My stars! just hear him swallow;
I’d better first throw off my cloak,
I wonder if he’ll follow!”
The lion on a hawthorn spray
Descried the mantle dangling,
She’d washed it out that very day,
He stopped—and did the mangling.
But ah! the brute was hardly gone
When Pyramus drew near—
“My Thisbe! Where’s my love—my own—
Good gracious me! what’s here?
“Oh, Thisbe, dearest, are you dead;
Can this orn robe say true?
All pawed and clawed and bloody red,—
My love, I’ll follow you!”
Then out he drew his shining blade,
“Grim Death—a friend art thou—
My folly’s slain earth’s fairest maid!
I’ll not survive—so now!”
With that, he gave a deadly dig,
Another, and one more,
Then kicked and hollo’d like a pig—
And his short life was o’er.
Poor Thisbe! fancy how she cried
To find her lover struck;—
“Great Gods! I’ll slumber by his side,
The darling, darling duck!”
She snatched the weapon from the wound,
And bared her snowy breast;
Once gazed in maddening grief around,
And then—we know the rest!
Punch, 1844.
AT THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1861.
Sarah Jane. Lawks! Why it’s hexact like our Hemmer!
POPULAR HISTORY.
Guide. That heffigy of them two halabaster habbots in ’elmets hare from a tomb in the Habby of St. Holive’s, founded by ’Enery the fust Tooder, fort’n ’undred ’n heighty-seven. Their mortal remains was haxumed by horder hof the R’yal Hantiquarian Serciety seventin heighty-three; their bodies was found himbammed, and henwelluped in jules! [Procession moves on.
CAPITAL PUNISHMENT!
“Mother” (at South Kensington). Executed in —— Tut-t-t-t! Lauk a mussy, ’Liza! what did them foreigners want to ’ang that poor innocent-lookin’ young creetur’ for!!?
A student, showing the Museum at Oxford to a party, produced, among many other curiosities, a rusty sword. “This,” said he, “is the sword with which Balaam was going to kill his ass.” One of the company observed that he thought Balaam had no sword, but only wished for one. “You are right,” replied the student, “and this is the very sword he wished for.”
A FLAGRANT ATTEMPT.
Jones prepares a little surprise for his Mary Ann, and has his equestrian portrait taken. He remarks, “’Ang it, you know, if I do have my carte done, I don’t see why I shouldn’t ’ave my ’orse!”