A DERBY LEGEND
Emily Jane was a nursery maid—
James was a bold Life Guard,
And John was a constable, poorly paid
(And I am a doggerel bard).
A very good girl was Emily Jane,
Jimmy was good and true,
And John was a very good man in the main
(And I am a good man, too).
Rivals for Emmie were Johnny and James,
Though Emily liked them both;
She couldn't tell which had the strongest claims
(And I couldn't take my oath).
But sooner or later you're certain to find
Your sentiments can't lie hid—
Jane thought it was time that she made up her mind
(And I think it was time she did).
Said Jane, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
"I'll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!"
(Which I would have done, with joy.)
From Johnny escaped an expression of pain,
But Jimmy said, "Done with you!
I'll take you with pleasure, my Emily Jane"
(And I would have said so too).
John lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
(For Johnny was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
(Which I often do, when vexed).
For John was on duty next day with the Force,
To punish all Epsom crimes;
Some people will cross, when they're clearing the course
(I do it myself, sometimes).
The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads
(For I, with my harp, was there).
And Jimmy went down with his Jane that day,
And John by the collar or nape
Seized everybody who came in his way
(And I had a narrow escape).
He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim,
And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered "Oh, dim!"
(I often say "dim!" myself.)
John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves:
For his sergeant he told, aside,
That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves
(And I think he was justified).
But James wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork,
And Jenny would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
(A bottle I think fair game).
But, ah! there's another more serious crime!
They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
(I pointed them out to John).
The crusher came down on the pair in a crack—
And then, with a demon smile,
Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back
(I played on my harp the while).
Stern Johnny their agony loud derides
With a very triumphant sneer—
They weep and they wail from the opposite sides
(And I shed a silent tear).
And Jenny is crying away like mad,
And Jimmy is swearing hard;
And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad
(And I am a doggerel bard).
But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again
The scenes of our Isthmian Games—
John caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
(I felt very much for James).
John led him away with a victor's hand,
And Jimmy was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
(As many a time I've been).
And Jimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,
Though Emily pleaded hard;
And Johnny had Emily Jane to wife
(And I am a doggerel bard).
[THE USHER'S CHARGE]
Now, Jurymen, hear my advice—
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern judicial frame of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:
Observe the features of her face—
The broken-hearted bride!
Condole with her distress of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks,
The ruffianly defendant speaks—
Upon the other side;
What he may say you need not mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
[THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY]
Old Peter led a wretched life—
Old Peter had a furious wife;
Old Peter, too, was truly stout,
He measured several yards about.
The little fairy Picklekin
One summer afternoon looked in,
And said, "Old Peter, how-de-do?
Can I do anything for you?
"I have three gifts—the first will give
Unbounded riches while you live;
The second, health where'er you be;
The third, invisibility."
"O, little fairy Picklekin,"
Old Peter answered, with a grin,
"To hesitate would be absurd,—
Undoubtedly I choose the third."
"'Tis yours," the fairy said; "be quite
Invisible to mortal sight
Whene'er you please. Remember me
Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P."
Old Mrs. Peter overheard
Wee Picklekin's concluding word,
And, jealous of her girlhood's choice,
Said, "That was some young woman's voice!"
Old Peter let her scold and swear—
Old Peter, bless him, didn't care.
"My dear, your rage is wasted quite—
Observe, I disappear from sight!"
A well-bred fairy (so I've heard)
Is always faithful to her word:
Old Peter vanished like a shot,
But then—his suit of clothes did not.
For when conferred the fairy slim
Invisibility on him,
She popped away on fairy wings,
Without referring to his "things."
So there remained a coat of blue,
A vest and double eyeglass too,
His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,
His pair of—no, I must not tell.
Old Mrs. Peter soon began
To see the failure of his plan,
And then resolved (I quote the bard)
To "hoist him with his own petard."
Old Peter woke next day and dressed,
Put on his coat and shoes and vest,
His shirt and stock—but could not find
His only pair of—never mind!
Old Peter was a decent man,
And though he twigged his lady's plan,
Yet, hearing her approaching, he
Resumed invisibility.
"Dear Mrs. P., my only joy,"
Exclaimed the horrified old boy;
"Now give them up, I beg of you—
You know what I'm referring to!"
But no; the cross old lady swore
She'd keep his—what I said before—
To make him publicly absurd;
And Mrs. Peter kept her word.
The poor old fellow had no rest;
His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest,
Were all that now met mortal eye—
The rest, invisibility!
"Now, madam, give them up, I beg—
I've bad rheumatics in my leg;
Besides, until you do, it's plain
I cannot come to sight again!
"For though some mirth it might afford
To see my clothes without their lord,
Yet there would rise indignant oaths
If he were seen without his clothes!"
But no; resolved to have her quiz,
The lady held her own—and his—
And Peter left his humble cot
To find a pair of—you know what.
But—here's the worst of this affair—-
Whene'er he came across a pair
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!
So he resolved at once to train,
And walked and walked with all his main;
For years he paced this mortal earth,
To bring himself to decent girth.
At night, when all around is still,
You'll find him pounding up a hill;
And shrieking peasants whom he meets,
Fall down in terror on the peats!
Old Peter walks through wind and rain
Resolved to train, and train, and train,
Until he weighs twelve stone or so—
And when he does, I'll let you know.
[THE GREAT OAK TREE]
There grew a little flower
'Neath a great oak tree:
When the tempest 'gan to lower
Little heeded she:
No need had she to cower,
For she dreaded not its power—
She was happy in the bower
Of her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
When she found that he was fickle,
Was that great oak tree,
She was in a pretty pickle,
As she well might be—
But his gallantries were mickle,
For Death followed with his sickle,
And her tears began to trickle
For her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Said she, "He loved me never,
Did that great oak tree,
But I'm neither rich nor clever,
And so why should he?
But though fate our fortunes sever,
To be constant I'll endeavour,
Ay, for ever and for ever,
To my great oak tree!"
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
[OLD PAUL AND OLD TIM]
When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There's something or other may often be said,
Why he should be pitched upon rather than him.
This wasn't the case with Old Paul and Old Tim.
No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying Timothy rather than Paul;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either—or marrying both.
They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes—
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.
Had I been young Emily, I should have said,
"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon";
But I wasn't young Emily. Let us get on.
No coward's blood ran in young Emily's veins,
Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;
At the rumours of battles all over the globe
He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."
He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise—
Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,
Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee—
For an eminent army-contractor was he.
So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,
Implored her between them at once to decide,
She told them she'd marry whichever might bring
Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.
They both went away with a qualified joy:
That coward, Old Paul, chose a very small boy,
And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,
He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.
The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old Paul didn't care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.
Old Tim knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
"I'll cover myself with cheap glory—I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!
"The German invader is ravaging France
With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,
And beautiful Paris is fighting her best
To shake herself free from her terrible guest.
"The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,
Have all run away from the summons to arms;
They haven't the pluck of a pigeon—I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!"
Old Timothy tried it and found it succeed:
That day he caused many French noses to bleed;
Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,
And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.
He took care to abstain from employing his fist
On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;
A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,
But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.
Old Tim and Old Paul, with the list of their foes,
Prostrated themselves at their Emily's toes:
"Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?"
And Emily answered and Emily said:
"Old Tim has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores
Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;
Old Paul has made little chaps' noses to bleed—
Old Paul has accomplished the pluckier deed!"
[KING GOODHEART]
There lived a King, as I've been told
In the wonder-working days of old,
When hearts were twice as good as gold,
And twenty times as mellow.
Good temper triumphed in his face,
And in his heart he found a place
For all the erring human race
And every wretched fellow.
When he had Rhenish wine to drink
It made him very sad to think
That some, at junket or at jink,
Must be content with toddy:
He wished all men as rich as he
(And he was rich as rich could be),
So to the top of every tree
Promoted everybody.
Ambassadors cropped up like hay,
Prime Ministers and such as they
Grew like asparagus in May,
And Dukes were three a penny:
Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,
And Bishops in their shovel hats
Were plentiful as tabby cats—
If possible, too many.
On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,
Small beer were Lords-Lieutenant deemed,
With Admirals the ocean teemed,
All round his wide dominions;
And Party Leaders you might meet
In twos and threes in every street
Maintaining, with no little heat,
Their various opinions.
That King, although no one denies,
His heart was of abnormal size,
Yet he'd have acted otherwise
If he had been acuter.
The end is easily foretold,
When every blessed thing you hold
Is made of silver, or of gold,
You long for simple pewter.
When you have nothing else to wear
But cloth of gold and satins rare,
For cloth of gold you cease to care—
Up goes the price of shoddy:
In short, whoever you may be,
To this conclusion you'll agree,
When every one is somebody,
Then no one's anybody!
[THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE]
Perhaps already you may know
Sir Blennerhasset Portico?
A Captain in the Navy, he—
A Baronet and K.C.B.
You do? I thought so!
It was that captain's favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That Rodney was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
He had been taught so.
"Benbow? Cornwallis? Hood?—Belay!
Compared with Rodney"—he would say—
"No other tar is worth a rap;
The great Lord Rodney was the chap
The French to polish!
"Though, mind you, I respect Lord Hood;
Cornwallis, too, was rather good;
Benbow could enemies repel;
Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—
That is, tol-lol-ish!"
Sir Blennerhasset spent his days
In learning Rodney's little ways,
And closely imitated, too,
His mode of talking to his crew—
His port and paces.
An ancient tar he tried to catch
Who'd served in Rodney's famous batch;
But since his time long years have fled,
And Rodney's tars are mostly dead:
Eheu fugaces!
But after searching near and far,
At last he found an ancient tar
Who served with Rodney and his crew
Against the French in 'eighty-two
(That gained the peerage)
He gave him fifty pounds a year,
His rum, his baccy, and his beer;
And had a comfortable den
Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,
Is called the steerage.
"Now, Jasper"—'twas that sailor's name—
"Don't fear that you'll incur my blame
By saying, when it seems to you,
That there is anything I do
That Rodney wouldn't."
The ancient sailor turned his quid,
Prepared to do as he was bid:
"Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,
You've done away with 'swifting in'—
Well, sir, you shouldn't!
"Upon your spars I see you've clapped
Peak-halliard blocks, all iron-capped;
I would not christen that a crime,
But 'twas not done in Rodney's time.
It looks half-witted!
Upon your maintop-stay, I see,
You always clap a selvagee;
Your stays, I see, are equalised—
No vessel, such as Rodney prized,
Would thus be fitted.
"And Rodney, honoured sir, would grin
To see you turning deadeyes in,
Not up, as in the ancient way,
But downwards, like a cutter's stay—
You didn't oughter!
Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,
Breast backstays you have quite ignored;
Great Rodney kept unto the last
Breast backstays on topgallant mast—
They make it tauter."
Sir Blennerhasset "swifted in,"
Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin
To strip (as told by Jasper Knox)
The iron capping from his blocks,
Where there was any.
Sir Blennerhasset does away
With selvagees from maintop-stay;
And though it makes his sailors stare,
He rigs breast backstays everywhere—
In fact, too many.
One morning, when the saucy craft
Lay calmed, old Jasper toddled aft.
"My mind misgives me, sir, that we
Were wrong about that selvagee—
I should restore it."
"Good," said the captain, and that day
Restored it to the maintop-stay.
Well-practised sailors often make
A much more serious mistake,
And then ignore it.
Next day old Jasper came once more.
"I think, sir, I was right before."
Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,
The selvagee was soon unshipped,
And all were merry.
Again a day, and Jasper came:
"I p'raps deserve your honour's blame,
I can't make up my mind," said he,
"About that cursed selvagee—
It's foolish—very.
"On Monday night I could have sworn
That maintop-stay it should adorn,
On Tuesday morning I could swear
That selvagee should not be there.
The knot's a rasper!"
"Oh, you be hanged!" said Captain P.,
"Here, go ashore at Caribbee,
Get out—good-bye—shove off—all right!"
Old Jasper soon was out of sight—
Farewell, old Jasper!
[SLEEP ON!]
Fear no unlicensed entry,
Heed no bombastic talk,
While guards the British Sentry
Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.
Let European thunders
Occasion no alarms,
Though diplomatic blunders
May cause a cry "To arms!"
Sleep on, ye pale civilians;
All thunder-clouds defy:
On Europe's countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!
Should foreign-born rapscallions
In London dare to show
Their overgrown battalions,
Be sure I'll let you know.
Should Russians or Norwegians
Pollute our favoured clime
With rough barbaric legions,
I'll mention it in time.
So sleep in peace, civilians,
The Continent defy;
While on its countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!
[THE CUNNING WOMAN]
On all Arcadia's sunny plain,
On all Arcadia's hill,
None were so blithe as Bill and Jane,
So blithe as Jane and Bill.
No social earthquake e'er occurred
To rack their common mind:
To them a Panic was a word—
A Crisis, empty wind.
No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad
With overwhelming shocks—
Bill ploughed with all the shares he had,
Jane planted all her stocks.
And learn in what a simple way
Their pleasures they enhanced—
Jane danced like any lamb all day,
Bill piped as well as danced.
Surrounded by a twittling crew,
Of linnet, lark, and thrush,
Bill treated his young lady to
This sentimental gush:
"Oh, Jane, how true I am to you!
How true you are to me!
And how we woo, and how we coo!
So fond a pair are we!
"To think, dear Jane, that anyways,
Your chiefest end and aim
Is, one of these fine summer days,
To bear my humble name!"
Quoth Jane, "Well, as you put the case,
I'm true enough, no doubt,
But then, you see, in this here place
There's none to cut you out.
"But, oh! if anybody came—
A Lord or any such—
I do not think your humble name
Would fascinate me much.
"For though your mates, you often boast
You distance out-and-out;
Still, in the abstract, you're a most
Uncompromising lout!"
Poor Bill, he gave a heavy sigh,
He tried in vain to speak—
A fat tear started to each eye
And coursed adown each cheek.
For, oh! right well in truth he knew
That very self-same day,
The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo
Was coming there to stay!
The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo
All proper maidens shun—
He loves all women, it is true,
But never marries one.
Now Jane, with all her mad self-will,
Was no coquette—oh no!
She really loved her faithful Bill,
And thus she tuned her woe:
"Oh, willow, willow, o'er the lea!
And willow once again!
The Peer will fall in love with me!
Why wasn't I made plain?"
A cunning woman lived hard by,
A sorceressing dame,
MacCatacomb de Salmon-Eye
Was her uncommon name.
To her good Jane, with kindly yearn
For Bill's increasing pain,
Repaired in secrecy to learn
How best to make her plain.
"Oh, Jane," the worthy woman said,
"This mystic phial keep,
And rub its liquor in your head
Before you go to sleep.
"When you awake next day, I trow,
You'll look in form and hue
To others just as you do now—But
not to Pillaloo!
"When you approach him, you will find
He'll think you coarse—unkempt—
And rudely bid you get behind,
With undisguised contempt."
The Lord de Pillaloo arrived
With his expensive train,
And when in state serenely hived,
He sent for Bill and Jane.
"Oh, spare her, Lord of Pillaloo!
(Said Bill) if wed you be,
There's anything I'd rather do
Than flirt with Lady P."
The Lord he gazed in Jenny's eyes,
He looked her through and through:
The cunning woman's prophecies
Were clearly coming true.
Lord Pillaloo, the Rustic's Bane
(Bad person he, and proud),
He laughed Ha! ha! at pretty Jane,
And sneered at her aloud!
He bade her get behind him then,
And seek her mother's stye—
Yet to her native countrymen
She was as fair as aye!
MacCatacomb, continue green!
Grow, Salmon-Eye, in might,
Except for you, there might have been
The deuce's own delight!
[THE LOVE-SICK BOY]
When first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy!
No terms seemed too extravagant
Upon her to employ—
I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,
Just like a love-sick boy!
But joy incessant palls the sense;
And love unchanged will cloy,
And she became a bore intense
Unto her love-sick boy?
With fitful glimmer burnt my flame.
And I grew cold and coy,
At last, one morning, I became
Another's love-sick boy!
[PHRENOLOGY]
"Come, collar this bad man—
Around the throat he knotted me
Till I to choke began—
In point of fact, garrotted me!"
So spake Sir Herbert White
To James, Policeman Thirty-two—
All ruffled with his fight
Sir Herbert was, and dirty too.
Policeman nothing said
(Though he had much to say on it),
But from the bad man's head
He took the cap that lay on it.
"No, great Sir Herbert White—
Impossible to take him up.
This man is honest quite—
Wherever did you rake him up?
"For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,
Indeed I'm no apologist;
But I, some years ago,
Assisted a Phrenologist.
"Observe his various bumps,
His head as I uncover it;
His morals lie in lumps
All round about and over it."
"Now take him," said Sir White,
"Or you will soon be rueing it;
Bless me! I must be right,—
I caught the fellow doing it!"
Policeman calmly smiled,
"Indeed you are mistaken, sir,
You're agitated—riled—
And very badly shaken, sir.
"Sit down, and I'll explain
My system of Phrenology,
A second, please, remain"—
(A second is horology).
Policeman left his beat—
(The Bart., no longer furious,
Sat down upon a seat,
Observing, "This is curious!")
"Oh, surely here are signs
Should soften your rigidity,
This gentleman combines
Politeness with timidity.
"Of Shyness here's a lump—
A hole for Animosity—
And like my fist his bump
Of Generenerosity.
"Just here the bump appears
Of Innocent Hilarity,
And just behind his ear
Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.
"He of true Christian ways
As bright example sent us is—
This maxim he obeys,
'Sorte tuâ contentus sis.'
"There, let him go his ways,
He needs no stern admonishing."
The Bart., in blank amaze,
Exclaimed, "This is astonishing!
"I must have made a mull,
This matter I've been blind in it:
Examine, please, my skull,
And tell me what you find in it."
Policeman looked, and said,
With unimpaired urbanity,
"Sir Herbert, you've a head
That teems with inhumanity.
"Here's Murder, Envy, Strife
(Propensity to kill any),
And Lies as large as life,
And heaps of Social Villainy:
"Here's Love of Bran New Clothes,
Embezzling—Arson—Deism—
A taste for Slang and Oaths,
And Fraudulent Trusteeism.
"Here's Love of Groundless Charge—
Here's Malice, too, and Trickery,
Unusually large
Your bump of Pocket-Pickery——"
"Stop!" said the Bart., "my cup
Is full—I'm worse than him in all—
Policeman, take me up—
No doubt I am some criminal!"
That Policeman's scorn grew large
(Phrenology had nettled it),
He took that Bart. in charge—
I don't know how they settled it.
[POETRY EVERYWHERE]
What time the poet hath hymned
The writhing maid, lithe-limbed,
Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,
How can he paint her woes,
Knowing, as well he knows,
That all can be set right with calomel?
When from the poet's plinth
The amorous colocynth
Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,
How can he hymn their throes
Knowing, as well he knows,
That they are only uncompounded pills?
Is it, and can it be,
Nature hath this decree,
Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?
Or that in all her works
Something poetic lurks,
Even in colocynth and calomel?
[THE FAIRY CURATE]
Once a fairy
Light and airy
Married with a mortal;
Men, however,
Never, never
Pass the fairy portal.
Slyly stealing,
She to Ealing
Made a daily journey;
There she found him,
Clients round him
(He was an attorney).
Long they tarried,
Then they married.
When the ceremony
Once was ended,
Off they wended
On their moon of honey.
Twelvemonth, maybe,
Saw a baby
(Friends performed an orgie)
Much they prized him,
And baptized him
By the name of Georgie.
Georgie grew up;
Then he flew up
To his fairy mother.
Happy meeting
Pleasant greeting—
Kissing one another.
"Choose a calling
Most enthralling,
I sincerely urge ye."
"Mother," said he
(Rev'rence made he),
"I would join the clergy"
"Give permission
In addition—
Pa will let me do it:
There's a living
In his giving,
He'll appoint me to it.
Dreams of coff'ring
Easter off'ring,
Tithe and rent and pew-rate,
So inflame me
(Do not blame me),
That I'll be a curate."
She, with pleasure,
Said, "My treasure,
Tis my wish precisely.
Do your duty,
There's a beauty;
You have chosen wisely.
Tell your father
I would rather
As a churchman rank you.
You, in clover,
I'll watch over."
Georgie said, "Oh, thank you!"
Georgie scudded,
Went and studied,
Made all preparations,
And with credit
(Though he said it)
Passed examinations.
(Do not quarrel)
With him, moral
Scrupulous digestions—
But his mother,
And no other,
Answered all the questions.
Time proceeded;
Little needed
Georgie admonition:
He, elated,
Vindicated
Clergyman's position.
People round him
Always found him
Plain and unpretending;
Kindly teaching,
Plainly preaching—
All his money lending.
So the fairy,
Wise and wary,
Felt no sorrow rising—
No occasion
For persuasion,
Warning, or advising.
He, resuming
Fairy pluming
(That's not English, is it?)
Oft would fly up,
To the sky up,
Pay mamma a visit.
Time progressing,
Georgie's blessing
Grew more Ritualistic—
Popish scandals,
Tonsures—sandals—
Genuflections mystic;
Gushing meetings—
Bosom-beatings—
Heavenly ecstatics—
Broidered spencers—
Copes and censers—
Rochets and dalmatics.
This quandary
Vexed the fairy—
Flew she down to Ealing.
"Georgie, stop it!
Pray you, drop it;
Hark to my appealing:
To this foolish
Papal rule-ish
Twaddle put an ending;
This a swerve is
From our Service
Plain and unpretending."
He, replying,
Answered, sighing,
Hawing, hemming, humming,
"It's a pity—
They're so pritty;
Yet in mode becoming,
Mother tender,
I'll surrender—
I'll be unaffected—"
Then his Bishop
Into his shop
Entered unexpected:
"Who is this, sir,—
Ballet miss, sir?"
Said the Bishop coldly.
"'Tis my mother,
And no other,"
Georgie answered boldly.
"Go along, sir!
You are wrong, sir,
You have years in plenty;
While this hussy
(Gracious mussy!)
Isn't two-and-twenty!"
(Fairies clever
Never, never
Grow in visage older;
And the fairy,
All unwary,
Leant upon his shoulder!)
Bishop grieved him,
Disbelieved him,
George the point grew warm on;
Changed religion,
Like a pigeon,[11]
And became a Mormon.
[11] "Like a Bird."
[HE LOVES!]
He loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!
He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!
[THE WAY OF WOOING]
A maiden sat at her window wide,
Pretty enough for a prince's bride,
Yet nobody came to claim her.
She sat like a beautiful picture there,
With pretty bluebells and roses fair,
And jasmine leaves to frame her.
And why she sat there nobody knows;
But thus she sang as she plucked a rose,
The leaves around her strewing:
"I've time to lose and power to choose;
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
A lover came riding by awhile,
A wealthy lover was he, whose smile
Some maids would value greatly—
A formal lover, who bowed and bent,
With many a high-flown compliment,
And cold demeanour stately.
"You've still," said she to her suitor stern,
"The 'prentice-work of your craft to learn.
If thus you come a-cooing.
I've time to lose and power to choose;
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
A second lover came ambling by—
A timid lad with a frightened eye
And a colour mantling highly.
He muttered the errand on which he'd come,
Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,
And simpered, simpered shyly.
"No," said the maiden, "go your way,
You dare but think what a man would say,
Yet dare come a-suing!
I've time to lose and power to choose;
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
A third rode up at a startling pace—
A suitor poor, with a homely face—
No doubts appeared to bind him.
He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,
And off he rode with the maiden, placed
On a pillion safe behind him.
And she heard the suitor bold confide
This golden hint to the priest who tied
The knot there's no undoing:
"With pretty young maidens who can choose
"Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"
[TRUE DIFFIDENCE]
My boy, you may take it from me,
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man's saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature's the worst.
Though clever as clever can be—
A Crichton of early romance—
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.
Now take, for example, my case:
I've a bright intellectual brain—-
In all London city
There's no one so witty—
I've thought so again and again.
I've a highly intelligent face—
My features can not be denied—
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in—and why, sir?
I'm modesty personified!
As a poet, I'm tender and quaint—
I've passion and fervour and grace—
From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as I
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I'm diffident, modest, and shy!
