A LEGEND OF STRATFORD-LE-BOW
Oh! listen to the tale of little Annie Protheroe,
She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of Bow,
She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day—
A gentle executioner whose name was Gilbert Clay.
I think I hear you say, "A dreadful subject for your rhymes!"
O reader, do not shrink—he didn't live in modern times!
He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance)
That all his actions glitter with the limelight of Romance.
In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day—
"No doubt you mean his Cal-craft" you amusingly will say—
But, no—he didn't operate with common bits of string,
He was a Public Headsman, which is quite another thing.
And when his work was over, they would ramble o'er the lea,
And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree;
And Annie's simple prattle entertained him on his walk,
For public executions formed the subject of her talk.
And sometimes he'd explain to her, which charmed her very much,
How famous operators vary very much in touch,
And then, perhaps, he'd show how he himself performed the trick,
And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick.
Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look
At his favourable notices, all pasted in a book,
And then her cheek would flush—her swimming eyes would dance with joy
In a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy.
One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle Gilbert said
(As he helped his pretty Annie to a slice of collared head),
"This collared head reminds me that to-morrow is the day
When I decapitate your former lover, Peter Gray."
He saw his Annie tremble and he saw his Annie start,
Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart;
Young Gilbert's manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear,
And he said, "O gentle Annie, what's the meaning of this here?"
And Annie answered, blushing in an interesting way,
"You think, no doubt, I'm sighing for that felon Peter Gray:
That I was his young woman is unquestionably true,
But not since I began a-keeping company with you."
Then Gilbert, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore
He'd know the reason why if she refused to tell him more;
And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes),
"You mustn't ask no questions, and you won't be told no lies!
"Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you,
Of chopping off a rival's head and quartering him too!
Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!"
And Gilbert ground his molars as he answered her, "I will!"
Young Gilbert rose from table with a stern determined look,
And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook;
And Annie watched his movements with an interested air—
For the morrow—for the morrow he was going to prepare!
He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill,
He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until
This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law
Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.
And Annie said, "O Gilbert, dear, I do not understand
Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?"
He said, "It is intended for to lacerate and flay
The neck of that unmitigated villain Peter Gray!"
"Now, Gilbert," Annie answered, "wicked headsman just beware—
I won't have Peter tortured with that horrible affair;
If you attempt to flay him, you will surely rue the day."
But Gilbert said, "Oh, shall I?" which was just his nasty way.
He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart,
For Annie was a woman, and had pity in her heart!
She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare;
She only said, "Remember, for your Annie will be there!"
The morrow Gilbert boldly on the scaffold took his stand,
With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand,
And all the people noticed that the Engine of the Law
Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.
The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock,
And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block—
The hatchet was uplifted for to settle Peter Gray,
When Gilbert plainly heard a woman's voice exclaiming, "Stay!"
'Twas Annie, gentle Annie, as you'll easily believe—
"O Gilbert, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve,
It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago,
And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.
"I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, Gilbert Clay,
And having quite surrendered all idea of Peter Gray,
I quietly suppressed it, as you'll clearly understand,
For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.
"In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before)
To lacerate poor Peter Gray vindictively you swore;
I told you if you used that blunted axe you'd rue the day,
And so you will, you monster, for I'll marry Peter Gray!"
[And so she did.]
[SORRY HER LOT]
Sorry her lot who loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!
Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—
Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!
[AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS]
I've painted Shakespeare all my life—
"An infant" (even then at play),
"A boy," with stage-ambition rife,
Then "Married to Ann Hathaway."
"The bard's first ticket night" (or "ben.")
His "First appearance on the stage,"
His "Call before the curtain"—then
"Rejoicings when he came of age."
The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer's clerk,
The bard a lawyer[1]—parson[2]—groom[3]—
The bard deer-stealing, after dark.
"Go with me to a notary—seal me there
Your single bond."
—Merchant of Venice, Act I., sc. 3.
"And there she shall, at Friar Lawrence' cell,
Be shrived and married."
—Romeo and Juliet, Act II., sc. 4.
"And give their fasting horses provender."
—Henry the Fifth, Act IV., sc. 2.
The bard a tradesman[4]—and a Jew[5]—
The bard a botanist[6]—a beak[7]—
The bard a skilled musician[8] too—
A sheriff[9] and a surgeon[10] eke!
Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though with all my skill I try,
Yet even I can barely mock
The glimmer of his wondrous eye!
One morning as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard;
"My gracious goodness," I exclaimed,
"How very like my dear old bard!
"Oh, what a model he would make!"
I rushed outside—impulsive me!—
"Forgive the liberty I take,
But you're so very"—"Stop!" said he.
"You needn't waste your breath or time,—
I know what you are going to say,—
That you're an artist, and that I'm
Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh?
"Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares."
—Troilus and Cressida, Act I., sc. 3.
"Then must the Jew be merciful."
—Merchant of Venice, Act IV., sc. 1.
"The spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries."
—Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II., sc. 1.
"In the county of Glo'ster, justice of the peace and coram."
—Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I., sc. 1.
"What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?"
—King John, Act V., sc. 2.
"And I'll provide his executioner."
—Henry the Sixth (Second Part), Act III., sc. 1.
"The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled."
—As You Like It, Act IV., sc. 3.
"You wish that I would sit to you?"
I clasped him madly round the waist,
And breathlessly replied, "I do!"
"All right," said he, "but please make haste."
I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,—
There never was a nobler face!
"Oh, sir," I said, "a fortune grand
Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—
To sport his brow at second-hand,
To wear his cast-off countenance!
"To rub his eyes whene'er they ache—
To wear his baldness ere you're old—
To clean his teeth when you awake—
To blow his nose when you've a cold!"
His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—
I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;
"Bravo!" I said, "I recognise
The phrensy of your prototype!"
His scanty hair he wildly tore:
"That's right," said I, "it shows your breed."
He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—
"Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"
"Sir," said the grand Shakespearian boy
(Continuing to blaze away),
"You think my face a source of joy;
That shows you know not what you say.
"Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps,
I'm always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
This wretched man congratulate.
"For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—
This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,
Have always been the origin
Of all the woes I ever knew!
"If to the play my way I find,
To see a grand Shakespearian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
Until the author's puppets cease!
"Men nudge each other—thus—and say,
'This certainly is Shakespeare's son,'
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry 'Author!' when the piece is done.
"In church the people stare at me,
Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.
"And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with Brown's insipid smile,
Or Tomkins's unmannered frown,
"Yet boldly make my face their own,
When (oh, presumption!) they require
To animate a paving-stone
With Shakespeare's intellectual fire.
"At parties where young ladies gaze,
And I attempt to speak my joy,
'Hush, pray,' some lovely creature says,
'The fond illusion don't destroy!'
"Whene'er I speak my soul is wrung
With these or some such whisperings;
''Tis pity that a Shakespeare's tongue
Should say such un-Shakespearian things!'
"I should not thus be criticised
Had I a face of common wont:
Don't envy me—now, be advised!"
And, now I think of it, I don't!
[THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY]
When all night long a chap remains
On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
That is, assuming that he's got any.
Though never nurtured in the lap
Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
And think of things that would astonish you.
I often think it's comical
How Nature always does contrive
That every boy and every gal,
That's born into the world alive,
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!
When in that house M.P.'s divide,
If they've a brain and cerebellum, too,
They've got to leave that brain outside,
And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to.
But then the prospect of a lot
Of statesmen, all in close proximity,
A-thinking for themselves, is what
No man can face with equanimity.
Then let's rejoice with loud Fal lal
That Nature wisely does contrive
That every boy and every gal,
That's born into the world alive,
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!
[GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.]
A leafy cot, where no dry rot
Had ever been by tenant seen,
Where ivy clung and wopses stung,
Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,
Where treeses grew and breezes blew—
A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,
Where countless herds of dicky-birds
Built twiggy beds to lay their heads
(My mother begs I'll make it "eggs,"
But though it's true that dickies do
Construct a nest with chirpy noise,
With view to rest their eggy joys,
'Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,
As I explain to her in vain
Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes).
'Neath such a cot, built on a plot
Of freehold land, dwelt Mary and
Her worthy father, named by me
Gregory Parable, LL.D.
He knew no guile, this simple man,
No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,
Except that plot of freehold land
That held the cot, and Mary, and
Her worthy father, named by me
Gregory Parable, LL.D.
A grave and learned scholar he,
Yet simple as a child could be.
He'd shirk his meal to sit and cram
A goodish deal of Eton Gram.
No man alive could him nonplus
With vocative of filius;
No man alive more fully knew
The passive of a verb or two;
None better knew the worth than he
Of words that end in b, d, t.
Upon his green in early spring
He might be seen endeavouring
To understand the hooks and crooks
Of Henry and his Latin books;
Or calling for his "Cæsar on
The Gallic War," like any don;
Or, p'raps, expounding unto all
How mythic Balbus built a wall.
So lived the sage who's named by me
Gregory Parable, LL.D.
To him one autumn day there came
A lovely youth of mystic name:
He took a lodging in the house,
And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse,
For, oh! that mild scholastic one
Let shooting for a single gun.
By three or four, when sport was o'er,
The Mystic One laid by his gun,
And made sheep's eyes of giant size,
Till after tea, at Mary P.
And Mary P. (so kind was she),
She, too, made eyes of giant size,
Whose every dart right through the heart
Appeared to run that Mystic One.
The Doctor's whim engrossing him,
He did not know they flirted so.
For, save at tea, "musa musæ,"
As I'm advised, monopolised
And rendered blind his giant mind.
But looking up above his cup
One afternoon, he saw them spoon.
"Aha!" quoth he, "you naughty lass!
As quaint old Ovid says, 'Amas!'"
The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,
And, claiming ruth, he said, "In sooth
I love your daughter, aged man:
Refuse to join us if you can.
Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn,
I'm wealthy though I'm lowly born."
"Young sir," the aged scholar said,
"I never thought you meant to wed:
Engrossed completely with my books,
I little noticed lovers' looks.
I've lived so long away from man,
I do not know of any plan
By which to test a lover's worth,
Except, perhaps, the test of birth.
I've half forgotten in this wild
A father's duty to his child.
It is his place, I think it's said,
To see his daughters richly wed
To dignitaries of the earth—
If possible, of noble birth.
If noble birth is not at hand,
A father may, I understand
(And this affords a chance for you),
Be satisfied to wed her to
A Boucicault or Baring—which
Means any one who's very rich.
Now, there's an Earl who lives hard by,—
My child and I will go and try
If he will make the maid his bride—
If not, to you she shall be tied."
They sought the Earl that very day;
The Sage began to say his say.
The Earl (a very wicked man,
Whose face bore Vice's blackest ban)
Cut short the scholar's simple tale,
And said in voice to make them quail,
"Pooh! go along! you're drunk, no doubt—
Here, Peters, turn these people out!"
The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,
Returning, met the Mystic Youth.
"My darling boy," the Scholar said,
"Take Mary—blessings on your head!"
The Mystic Boy undid his vest,
And took a parchment from his breast,
And said, "Now, by that noble brow,
I ne'er knew father such as thou!
The sterling rule of common sense
Now reaps its proper recompense.
Rejoice, my soul's unequalled Queen,
For I am Duke of Gretna Green!"
[THE PHILOSOPHIC PILL]
I've wisdom from the East and from the West,
That's subject to no academic rule;
You may find it in the jeering of a jest,
Or distil it from the folly of a fool.
I can teach you with a quip, if I've a mind;
I can trick you into learning with a laugh;
Oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll find
A grain or two of truth among the chaff!
I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,
The upstart I can wither with a whim;
He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,
But his laughter has an echo that is grim.
When they're offered to the world in merry guise,
Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—
For he who'd make his fellow-creatures wise
Should always gild the philosophic pill!
[THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM]
The story of Frederick Gowler,
A mariner of the sea,
Who quitted his ship, the Howler,
A-sailing in Caribbee.
For many a day he wandered,
Till he met, in a state of rum,
Calamity Pop Von Peppermint Drop.
The King of Canoodle-Dum.
That monarch addressed him gaily,
"Hum! Golly de do to-day?
Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee"—
(You notice his playful way?)—
"What dickens you doin' here, sar?
Why debbil you want to come?
Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn't no sea
In City Canoodle-Dum!"
And Gowler he answered sadly,
"Oh, mine is a doleful tale!
They've treated me werry badly
In Lunnon, from where I hail.
I'm one of the Family Royal—
No common Jack Tar you see;
I'm William the Fourth, far up in the North,
A King in my own countree!"
Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered!
Bang-bang! How they thumped the gongs!
Bang-bang! How the people wondered!
Bang-bang! At it, hammer and tongs!
Alliance with Kings of Europe
Is an honour Canoodlers seek;
Her monarchs don't stop with Peppermint Drop
Every day in the week!
Fred told them that he was undone,
For his people all went insane,
And fired the Tower of London,
And Grinnidge's Naval Fane.
And some of them racked St. James's,
And vented their rage upon
The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers' Hall,
And the "Angel" at Islington.
Calamity Pop implored him
At Canoodle-Dum to remain
Till those people of his restored him
To power and rank again.
Calamity Pop he made him
A Prince of Canoodle-Dum,
With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves,
And the run of the royal rum.
Pop gave him his only daughter,
Hum Pickety Wimple Tip:
Fred vowed that if over the water
He went, in an English ship,
He'd make her his Queen,—though truly,
It is an unusual thing
For a Caribbee brat who's as black as your hat
To be wife of an English King.
And all the Canoodle-Dummers
They copied his rolling walk,
His method of draining rummers,
His emblematical talk.
For his dress and his graceful breeding,
His delicate taste in rum,
And his nautical way, were the talk of the day
In the Court of Canoodle-Dum.
Calamity Pop most wisely
Determined in everything
To model his Court precisely
On that of the English King;
And ordered that every lady
And every lady's lord
Should masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy)
And scatter its juice abroad.
They signified wonder roundly
At any astounding yarn,
By darning their dear eyes roundly
('Twas all that they had to darn).
They "hoisted their slacks," adjusting
Garments of plantain-leaves
With nautical twitches (as if they wore—stitches.
Instead of a dress like Eve's!)
They shivered their timbers proudly,
At a phantom fore-lock dragged,
And called for a hornpipe loudly
Whenever amusement flagged.
"Hum! Golly! him Pop resemble,
Him Britisher sov'reign, hum!
Calamity Pop Von Peppermint Drop,
De King of Canoodle-Dum!"
The mariner's lively "Hollo!"
Enlivened Canoodle's plain
(For blessings unnumbered follow
In Civilisation's train).
But Fortune, who loves a bathos,
A terrible ending planned,
For Admiral D. Chickabiddy, C.B.,
Placed foot on Canoodle land!
That officer seized King Gowler;
He threatened his royal brains,
And put him aboard the Howler,
And fastened him down with chains.
The Howler she weighed her anchor,
With Frederick nicely nailed,
And off to the North with William the Fourth
That Admiral slowly sailed.
Calamity said (with folly)
"Hum! nebber want him again—
Him civilise all of us, golly!
Calamity suck him brain!"
The people, however, were pained when
They saw him aboard the ship,
But none of them wept for their Freddy, except
Hum Pickity Wimple Tip.
[BLUE BLOOD]
Spurn not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well connected.
High rank involves no shame—
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
When virtuous love is sought,
Thy power is naught,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
Spare us the bitter pain
Of stern denials,
Nor with low-born disdain
Augment our trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
Of what avail art thou
To serve me now?
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
[FIRST LOVE]
A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,
The Reverend Bernard Powles,
And in his church there weekly knelt
At least a hundred souls.
There little Ellen you might see,
The modest rustic belle;
In maidenly simplicity,
She loved her Bernard well.
Though Ellen wore a plain silk gown
Untrimmed with lace or fur,
Yet not a husband in the town
But wished his wife like her.
Though sterner memories might fade.
You never could forget
The child-form of that baby-maid,
The Village Violet!
A simple frightened loveliness,
Whose sacred spirit-part
Shrank timidly from worldly stress,
And nestled in your heart.
Powles woo'd with every well-worn plan
And all the usual wiles
With which a well-schooled gentleman
A simple heart beguiles.
The hackneyed compliments that bore
World-folks like you and me,
Appeared to her as if they wore
The crown of Poesy.
His winking eyelid sang a song
Her heart could understand,
Eternity seemed scarce too long
When Bernard squeezed her hand.
He ordered down the martial crew
Of Godfrey's Grenadiers,
And Coote conspired with Tinney to
Ecstaticise her ears.
Beneath her window, veiled from eye,
They nightly took their stand;
On birthdays supplemented by
The Covent Garden band.
And little Ellen, all alone,
Enraptured sat above,
And thought how blest she was to own
The wealth of Powles's love.
I often, often wonder what
Poor Ellen saw in him;
For calculated he was not
To please a woman's whim.
He wasn't good, despite the air
An M.B. waistcoat gives;
Indeed, his dearest friends declare
No greater humbug lives.
No kind of virtue decked this priest,
He'd nothing to allure;
He wasn't handsome in the least,—
He wasn't even poor.
No—he was cursed with acres fat
(A Christian's direst ban),
And gold—yet, notwithstanding that,
Poor Ellen loved the man.
As unlike Bernard as could be
Was poor old Aaron Wood
(Disgraceful Bernard's curate he):
He was extremely good.
A Bayard in his moral pluck
Without reproach or fear,
A quiet venerable duck
With fifty pounds a year.
No fault had he—no fad, except
A tendency to strum,
In mode at which you would have wept,
A dull harmonium.
He had no gold with which to hire
The minstrels who could best
Convey a notion of the fire
That raged within his breast.
And so, when Coote and Tinney's Own
Had tootled all they knew,
And when the Guards, completely blown,
Exhaustedly withdrew,
And Nell began to sleepy feel,
Poor Aaron then would come,
And underneath her window wheel
His plain harmonium.
He woke her every morn at two,
And having gained her ear,
In vivid colours Aaron drew
The sluggard's grim career.
He warbled Apiarian praise,
And taught her in his chant
To shun the dog's pugnacious ways,
And imitate the ant.
Still Nell seemed not, how much he played,
To love him out and out,
Although the admirable maid
Respected him, no doubt.
She told him of her early vow,
And said as Bernard's wife
It might be hers to show him how
To rectify his life.
"You are so pure, so kind, so true,
Your goodness shines so bright,
What use would Ellen be to you?
Believe me, you're all right."
She wished him happiness and health
And flew on lightning wings
To Bernard with his dangerous wealth
And all the woes it brings.
[THE JUDGE'S SONG]
When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,
I'd an appetite fresh and hearty,
But I was, as many young barristers are,
An impecunious party.
I'd a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—
A brief which was brought by a booby—
A couple of shirts and a collar or two,
And a ring that looked like a ruby!
In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,
Like a semi-despondent fury;
For I thought I should never hit on a chance
Of addressing a British Jury—
But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,
And dinners of bread and water;
So I fell in love with a rich attorney's
Elderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,
And replied to my fond professions:
"You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,
At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.
You'll soon get used to her looks," said he,
"And a very nice girl you'll find her—
She may very well pass for forty-three
In the dusk, with a light behind her!"
The rich attorney was as good as his word:
The briefs came trooping gaily,
And every day my voice was heard
At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.
All thieves who could my fees afford
Relied on my orations,
And many a burglar I've restored
To his friends and his relations.
At length I became as rich as the Gurneys—
An incubus then I thought her,
So I threw over that rich attorney's
Elderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney my character high
Tried vainly to disparage—
And now, if you please, I'm ready to try
This Breach of Promise of Marriage!
[BRAVE ALUM BEY]
Oh, big was the bosom of brave Alum Bey,
And also the region that under it lay,
In safety and peril remarkably cool,
And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.
Each morning he went to his garden, to cull
A bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul,
And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom,
To Backsheesh, the daughter of Rahat Lakoum.
No maiden like Backsheesh could tastily cook
A kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk,
As Alum, brave fellow! sat pensively by,
With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye.
Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day—
(A ship's supercargo was brave Alum Bey)—
To pretty young Backsheesh he made a salaam,
And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam.
"O Alum," said she, "think again, ere you go—
Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow;
You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!"
But Alum embraced her and spoke to her thus:
"Cease weeping, fair Backsheesh! I willingly swear
Cork jackets and trousers I always will wear,
And I also throw in a large number of oaths
That I never—no, never—will take off my clothes!"
They left Madagascar away on their right,
And made Clapham Common the following night,
Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two,
Becalmed in the ocean of Honolulu.
One day Alum saw, with alarm in his breast,
A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west;
The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream,
For they knew it—they knew it!—the dreaded Hareem!!
The mast it went over, and so did the sails,
Brave Alum threw over his casks and his bales;
The billows arose as the weather grew thick,
And all except Alum were terribly sick.
The crew were but three, but they holloa'd for nine,
They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine:
The skipper he fainted away in the fore,
For he hadn't the heart for to skip any more.
"Ho, coward!" said Alum, "with heart of a child!
Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled!
Is Alum in terror? is Alum afeard?
Ho! ho! If you had one I'd laugh at your beard."
His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke;
He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke;
He daringly felt for the corks on his chest,
And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast.
For he knew, the brave Alum, that, happen what might,
With belts and cork-jacketing, he was all right;
Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,—
No Hareem whatever had terrors for him!
They begged him to spare from his personal store
A single cork garment—they asked for no more;
But he couldn't, because of the number of oaths
That he never—no, never!—would take off his clothes.
The billows dash o'er them and topple around,
They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned.
A terrible wave o'er the quarter-deck breaks,
And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes!
The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow,
Expends all its strength in a minute or so;
When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed,
The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed.
One seized on a cork with a yelling "Ha! ha!"
(Its bottle had 'prisoned a pint of Pacha)—
Another a toothpick—another a tray—
"Alas! it is useless!" said brave Alum Bey.
"To holloa and kick is a very bad plan:
Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can;
You'd better lay hold of a good lump of lead,
And cling to it tightly until you are dead.
"Just raise your hands over your pretty heads—so—
Right down to the bottom you're certain to go.
Ta! ta! I'm afraid we shall not meet again"—
For the truly courageous are truly humane.
Brave Alum was picked up the very next day—
A man-o'-war sighted him smoking away;
With hunger and cold he was ready to drop,
So they sent him below and they gave him a chop.
O reader, or readress, whichever you be,
You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea?
O reader, or readress, read farther, and dry
The bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye.
That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,—
It's lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes!
They haul it aboard with a British "heave-ho!"
And what it has fished up the drawing will show.
There was Wilson, and Parker, and Tomlinson, too—
(The first was the captain, the others the crew)—
As lively and spry as a Malabar ape,
Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape.
And Alum, brave fellow, who stood in the fore,
And never expected to look on them more,
Was really delighted to see them again,
For the truly courageous are truly humane.
[WHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ON]
When I first put this uniform on,
I said, as I looked in the glass,
"It's one to a million
That any civilian
My figure and form will surpass.
Gold lace has a charm for the fair,
And I've plenty of that, and to spare.
While a lover's professions,
When uttered in Hessians,
Are eloquent everywhere!"
A fact that I counted upon,
When I first put this uniform on!
I said, when I first put it on,
"It is plain to the veriest dunce
That every beauty
Will feel it her duty
To yield to its glamour at once.
They will see that I'm freely gold-laced
In a uniform handsome and chaste"—
But the peripatetics
Of long-haired æsthetics,
Are very much more to their taste—
Which I never counted upon
When I first put this uniform on.
[SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO]
This is Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo
Last of a noble race,
Barnaby Bampton, coming to woo,
All at a deuce of a pace.
Barnaby Bampton Boo,
Here is a health to you:
Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck—
Barnaby Bampton Boo!
The excellent women of Tuptonvee
Knew Sir Barnaby Boo;
One of them surely his bride would be,
But dickens a soul knew who.
Women of Tuptonvee,
Here is a health to ye:
For a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears,
Women of Tuptonvee!
Here are old Mr. and Mrs. de Plow
(Peter his Christian name),
They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow—
Farming it was their game.
Worthy old Peter de Plow,
Here is a health to thou:
Your race isn't run, though you're seventy-one,
Worthy old Peter de Plow!
To excellent Mr. and Mrs. de Plow
Came Sir Barnaby Boo,
He asked for their daughter, and told 'em as how
He was as rich as a Jew.
Barnaby Bampton's wealth,
Here is your jolly good health:
I'd never repine if you came to be mine,
Barnaby Bampton's wealth!
"O great Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo"
(Said Plow to that titled swell),
"My missus has given me daughters two—
Amelia and Volatile Nell!"
Amelia and Volatile Nell,
I hope you're uncommonly well:
You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls—
Amelia and Volatile Nell!
"Amelia is passable only, in face,
But, oh! she's a worthy girl;
Superior morals like hers would grace
The home of a belted Earl."
Morality, heavenly link!
To you I'll eternally drink:
I'm awfully fond of that heavenly bond,
Morality, heavenly link!
"Now Nelly's the prettier, p'raps, of my gals,
But, oh! she's a wayward chit;
She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals,
And doesn't read Tupper a bit!"
O Tupper, philosopher true,
How do you happen to do?
A publisher looks with respect on your books,
For they do sell, philosopher true!
The Bart. (I'll be hanged if I drink him again,
Or care if he's ill or well),
He sneered at the goodness of Milly the Plain,
And cottoned to Volatile Nell!
O Volatile Nelly de P.!
Be hanged if I'll empty to thee:
I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades,
Volatile Nelly de P.!
They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear,
And Milly was left to pout;
For years they've got on very well, as I hear,
But soon he will rue it, no doubt.
O excellent Milly de Plow,
I really can't drink to you now;
My head isn't strong, and the song has been long,
Excellent Milly de Plow!
[SOLATIUM]
Comes the broken flower—
Comes the cheated maid—
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers till they fade;
Happy be thy life, O maid!
O'er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone—
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are sun and shade:
Happy be thy life, O maid!
[THE MODEST COUPLE]
When man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye,
I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy.
I'm also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns,
For modesty's a quality that womankind adorns.
Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid,
My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid;
I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red,
For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred.
But still in all these matters, as in other things below,
There is a proper medium, as I'm about to show.
I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try
To carry on as Peter carried on with Sarah Bligh.
Betrothed they were when very young—before they'd learnt to speak
(For Sarah was but six days old, and Peter was a week);
Though little more than babies at those early ages, yet
They bashfully would faint when they occasionally met.
They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of nine,
When Peter's good papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine)
Determined to endeavour some sound argument to find
To bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind.
He told them that as Sarah was to be his Peter's bride,
They might at least consent to sit at table side by side;
He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was hoarse,
Which Sarah thought indelicate, and Peter very coarse.
And Peter in a tremble to the blushing maid would say,
"You must excuse papa, Miss Bligh,—it is his mountain way."
Says Sarah, "His behaviour I'll endeavour to forget,
But your papa's the coarsest person that I ever met.
"He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young,
Before we had begun articulating with the tongue.
His underbred suggestions fill your Sarah with alarm;
Why, gracious me! he'll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!"
At length when Sarah reached the legal age of twenty-one,
The Baron he determined to unite her to his son;
And Sarah in a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay,
And Peter blushed so hard you might have heard him miles away.
And when the time arrived for taking Sarah to his heart,
They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart
(Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff),
And the service was conducted by electric telegraph.
And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say,
Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away,
They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn,
For he waited in the attic, and she waited on the lawn.
At length, when four o'clock arrived, and it was time to go,
The carriage was announced, but decent Sarah answered "No!
Upon my word, I'd rather sleep my everlasting nap,
Than go and ride alone with Mr. Peter in a trap."
And Peter's over-sensitive and highly-polished mind
Wouldn't suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind;
And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocks
At the bare idea of having any coachman on the box.
So Peter into one turn-out incontinently rushed,
While Sarah in a second trap sat modestly and blushed;
And Mr. Newman's coachman, on authority I've heard,
Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third.
Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the car
Were very likely carrying a principle too far,
I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in them
Than that of Peter's brother with Miss Sarah's sister Em.
Alphonso, who in cool assurance all creation licks,
He up and said to Emmie (who had impudence for six),
"Miss Emily, I love you—will you marry? Say the word!"
And Emily said, "Certainly, Alphonso, like a bird!"
I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try
To carry on as Peter carried on with Sarah Bligh,
But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in them
Than that of Peter's brother with Miss Sarah's sister Em.
[A NIGHTMARE]
When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and
repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge
in without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual
slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet
slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles,
so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss
till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and
you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at
its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot
eyeballs and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that
you'd very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing
about in a steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing-machine and
a very small second-class carriage;
And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a
party of friends and relations—
They're a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at
Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who
started that morning from Devon);
He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised when
he tells you he's only eleven.
Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad (by the
bye the ship's now a four-wheeler),
And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad
names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";
But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand, and
you find you're as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold
clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they've
somehow or other invested in—
And he's telling the tars all the particulars of a company
he's interested in—
It's a scheme of devices to get at low prices all goods
from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers as though
they were all vegetables—
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman
(first take off his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and
they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree—
From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea,
cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,
While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple
puffs, and three-corners, and banberries—
The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by
Rothschild and Baring,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a
shudder despairing—
You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no
wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor, and
you've needles and pins from your soles to your
shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's
asleep, and you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on
your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish
tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and a general sense
that you haven't been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and
the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and
thank goodness they're both of them over!
[THE MARTINET]
Some time ago, in simple verse,
I sang the story true
Of Captain Reece, The Mantelpiece,
And all her happy crew.
I showed how any captain may
Attach his men to him,
If he but heeds their smallest needs,
And studies every whim.
Now mark how, by Draconic rule
And hauteur ill-advised,
The noblest crew upon the blue
May be demoralised.
When his ungrateful country placed
Kind Reece upon half-pay,
Without much claim Sir Berkely came,
And took command one day.
Sir Berkely was a martinet—
A stern unyielding soul—
Who ruled his ship by dint of whip
And horrible black-hole.
A sailor who was overcome
From having freely dined,
And chanced to reel when at the wheel,
He instantly confined!
And tars who, when an action raged,
Appeared alarmed or scared,
And those below who wished to go,
He very seldom spared.
E'en he who smote his officer
For punishment was booked,
And mutinies upon the seas
He rarely overlooked.
In short, the happy Mantelpiece
Where all had gone so well,
Beneath that fool Sir Berkely's rule
Became a floating hell.
When first Sir Berkely came aboard
He read a speech to all,
And told them how he'd made a vow
To act on duty's call.
Then William Lee, he up and said
(The captain's coxswain he):
"We've heard the speech your honour's made,
And werry pleased we be.
"We won't pretend, my lad, as how
We're glad to lose our Reece;
Urbane, polite, he suited quite
The saucy Mantelpiece.
"But if your honour gives your mind
To study all our ways,
With dance and song we'll jog along
As in those happy days.
"I like your honour's looks, and feel
You're worthy of your sword.
Your hand, my lad—I'm doosid glad
To welcome you aboard!"
Sir Berkely looked amazed, as though
He did not understand.
"Don't shake your head," good William said,
"It is an honest hand.
"It's grasped a better hand than yourn—
Come, gov'nor, I insist!"
The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—
The hand became a fist!
"Down, upstart!" said the hardy salt;
But Berkely dodged his aim,
And made him go in chains below:
The seamen murmured "Shame!"
He stopped all songs at 12 P.M.,
Stopped hornpipes when at sea,
And swore his cot (or bunk) should not
Be used by aught than he.
He never joined their daily mess,
Nor asked them to his own,
But chaffed in gay and social way
The officers alone.
His First Lieutenant, Peter, was
As useless as could be,
A helpless stick, and always sick
When there was any sea.
This First Lieutenant proved to be
His foster-sister May,
Who went to sea for love of he,
In masculine array.
And when he learnt the curious fact
Did he emotion show,
Or dry her tears, or end her fears
By marrying her? No!
Or did he even try to soothe
This maiden in her teens?
Oh no!—instead he made her wed
The Sergeant of Marines!
Of course such Spartan discipline
Would make an angel fret.
They drew a lot, and straightway shot
This fearful martinet.
The Admiralty saw how ill
They'd treated Captain Reece;
He was restored once more aboard
The saucy Mantelpiece.
[DON'T FORGET!]
Now, Marco, dear,
My wishes hear:
While you're away
It's understood
You will be good,
And not too gay.
To every trace
Of maiden grace
You will be blind.
And will not glance
By any chance
On womankind!
If you are wise,
You'll shut your eyes
Till we arrive,
And not address
A lady less
Than forty-five;
You'll please to frown
On every gown
That you may see;
And O, my pet,
You won't forget
You've married me!
O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don't forget you've married me!
You'll lay your head
Upon your bed
At set of sun.
You will not sing
Of anything
To any one:
You'll sit and mope
All day, I hope,
And shed a tear
Upon the life
Your little wife
Is passing here!
And if so be
You think of me,
Please tell the moon;
I'll read it all
In rays that fall
On the lagoon:
You'll be so kind
As tell the wind
How you may be,
And send me words
By little birds
To comfort me!
And O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don't forget you've married me!
[THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS]
I go away, this blessed day,
To sail across the sea, Matilda!
My vessel sails for various parts
At twenty after three, Matilda;
I hardly know where we may go,
Or if it's near or far, Matilda,
For Captain Hyde does not confide
In any 'fore-mast tar, Matilda!
Beneath my ban that mystic man
Shall suffer, coûte que coûte, Matilda!
What right has he to keep from me
The Admiralty route, Matilda?
Because, forsooth! I am a youth
Of common sailors' lot, Matilda!
Am I a man on human plan
Designed, or am I not, Matilda?
But there, my lass, we'll let that pass!
With anxious love I burn, Matilda.
I want to know if we shall go
To church when I return, Matilda?
Your eyes are red, you bow your head;
It's pretty clear you thirst, Matilda,
To name the day—What's that you say?—
"You'll see me further first," Matilda?
I can't mistake the signs you make,
Although you barely speak, Matilda;
Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue
Right in your pretty cheek, Matilda!
My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—
I do—I'm sure I do, Matilda—
With simple grace you make a face,
Ejaculating, "Ugh!" Matilda.
Oh, pause to think before you drink
The dregs of Lethe's cup, Matilda!
Remember, do, what I've gone through,
Before you give me up, Matilda!
Recall again the mental pain
Of what I've had to do, Matilda!
And be assured that I've endured
It, all along of you, Matilda!
Do you forget, my blithesome pet,
How once with jealous rage, Matilda,
I watched you walk and gaily talk
With some one thrice your age, Matilda?
You squatted free upon his knee,
A sight that made me sad, Matilda?
You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,
Which almost drove me mad, Matilda!
I knew him not, but thought to spot
Some man you wished to wed, Matilda!
I took a gun, my darling one,
And shot him through the head, Matilda!
I'm made of stuff that's rough and gruff
Enough, I own; but, ah, Matilda!
It did annoy your poor old boy
To find it was your pa, Matilda!
I've passed a life of toil and strife,
And disappointments deep, Matilda;
I've lain awake with dental ache
Until I fell asleep, Matilda;
At times again I've missed a train,
Or p'raps run short of tin, Matilda,
And worn a boot on corns that shoot,
Or, shaving, cut my chin, Matilda!
But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—
Believe me when I say, Matilda,
No corns that shoot—no pinching boot
Upon a summer day, Matilda—
It's my belief, could cause such grief
As that I've suffered for, Matilda,
My having shot in vital spot
Your old progenitor, Matilda!
Bethink you how I've kept the vow
I made one winter day, Matilda—
That, come what could, I never would
Remain too long away, Matilda.
And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,
I've charged my gentle mind, Matilda,
To keep the vow I made—and now
You treat me so unkind, Matilda!
For when at sea off Caribbee,
I felt my passion burn, Matilda;
By impulse egged, I went and begged
The captain to return, Matilda;
And when, my pet, I couldn't get
That captain to agree, Matilda,
Right through a sort of open port
I pitched him in the sea, Matilda!
Remember, too, how all the crew,
With indignation blind, Matilda,
Distinctly swore they ne'er before
Had thought me so unkind, Matilda;
And how they'd shun me one by one—
An unforgiving group, Matilda—
I stopped their howls and sulky scowls
By pizening their soup, Matilda!
So pause to think, before you drink
The dregs of Lethe's cup, Matilda;
Remember, do, what I've gone through,
Before you give me up, Matilda.
Recall again the mental pain
Of what I've had to do, Matilda,
And be assured that I've endured
It, all along of you, Matilda!
[THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE]
On a tree by a river a little tomtit
Sang "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit
Singing 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow'?
Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried,
"Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"
With a shake of his poor little head he replied,
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,
Singing "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,
Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!
He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,
Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,
And an echo arose from the suicide's grave—
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name
Isn't Willow, titwillow, titwillow,
That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
And if you remain callous and obdurate, I
Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,
Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,
"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"
[THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS]
A rich advowson, highly prized,
For private sale was advertised;
And many a parson made a bid;
The Reverend Simon Magus did.
He sought the agent's: "Agent, I
Have come prepared at once to buy
(If your demand is not too big)
The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge."
"Ah!" said the agent, "there's a berth—
The snuggest vicarage on earth;
No sort of duty (so I hear),
And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
"If on the price we should agree,
The living soon will vacant be:
The good incumbent's ninety-five,
And cannot very long survive.
"See—here's his photograph—you see,
He's in his dotage." "Ah, dear me!
Poor soul!" said Simon. "His decease
Would be a merciful release!"
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—
The agent blew his nose and winked
And poked the parson's ribs in play—
It was that agent's vulgar way.
The Reverend Simon frowned: "I grieve
This light demeanour to perceive;
It's scarcely comme il faut, I think:
Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
"Don't dig my waistcoat into holes—
Your mission is to sell the souls
Of human sheep and human kids
To that divine who highest bids.
"Do well in this, and on your head
Unnumbered honours will be shed."
The agent said, "Well, truth to tell,
I have been doing pretty well."
"You should," said Simon, "at your age;
But now about the parsonage.
How many rooms does it contain?
Show me the photograph again.
"A poor apostle's humble house
Must not be too luxurious;
No stately halls with oaken floor—
It should be decent and no more.
"No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—
No croquet-grounds or pineries."
"Ah!" sighed the agent, "very true:
This property won't do for you.
"All these about the house you'll find"—
"Well," said the parson, "never mind;
I'll manage to submit to these
Luxurious superfluities.
"A clergyman who does not shirk
The various calls of Christian work,
Will have no leisure to employ
These 'common forms' of worldly joy.
"To preach three times on Sabbath days—
To wean the lost from wicked ways—
The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—
The poor to feed with meat and bread;
"These are the various wholesome ways
In which I'll spend my nights and days:
My zeal will have no time to cool
At croquet, archery, or pool."
The agent said, "From what I hear,
This living will not suit, I fear—
There are no poor, no sick at all;
For services there is no call."
The reverend gent looked grave. "Dear me!
Then there is no 'society'?—
I mean, of course, no sinners there
Whose souls will be my special care?"
The cunning agent shook his head,
"No, none—except"—(the agent said)—
"The Duke of A., the Earl of B.,
The Marquis C., and Viscount D.
"But you will not be quite alone,
For, though they've chaplains of their own,
Of course this noble well-bred clan
Receive the parish clergyman."
"Oh, silence, sir!" said Simon M.,
"Dukes—earls! What should I care for them?
These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!"
"Of course," the agent said, "no doubt."
"Yet I might show these men of birth
The hollowness of rank on earth."
The agent answered, "Very true—
But I should not, if I were you."
"Who sells this rich advowson, pray?"
The agent winked—it was his way—
"His name is Hart; 'twixt me and you,
He is, I'm griev'd to say, a Jew!"
"A Jew?" said Simon, "happy find!
I purchase this advowson, mind.
My life shall be devoted to
Converting that unhappy Jew!"
[HE AND SHE]
He. I know a youth who loves a little maid—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid—
(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)
She. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
She cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
He. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—
(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)
She. She's very thin and she's very pale—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
She. If I were the youth I should offer her my name—
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
He. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—
(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)
She. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
He. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
Both. I thank you much for your counsel true;
I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
[DAMON v. PYTHIAS]
Two better friends you wouldn't pass
Throughout a summer's day,
Than Damon and his Pythias,—
Two merchant princes they.
At school together they contrived
All sorts of boyish larks;
And, later on, together thrived
As merry merchants' clerks.
And then, when many years had flown,
They rose together till
They bought a business of their own—
And they conduct it still.
They loved each other all their lives,
Dissent they never knew,
And, stranger still, their very wives
Were rather friendly too.
Perhaps you think, to serve my ends,
These statements I refute,
When I admit that these dear friends
Were parties to a suit?
But 'twas a friendly action, for
Good Pythias, as you see,
Fought merely as executor,
And Damon as trustee.
They laughed to think, as through the throng
Of suitors sad they passed,
That they, who'd lived and loved so long,
Should go to law at last.
The junior briefs they kindly let
Two sucking counsel hold;
These learned persons never yet
Had fingered suitors' gold.
But though the happy suitors two
Were friendly as could be,
Not so the junior counsel who
Were earning maiden fee.
They too, till then, were friends. At school
They'd done each other's sums,
And under Oxford's gentle rule
Had been the closest chums.
But now they met with scowl and grin
In every public place,
And often snapped their fingers in
Each other's learned face.
It almost ended in a fight
When they on path or stair
Met face to face. They made it quite
A personal affair.
And when at length the case was called
(It came on rather late),
Spectators really were appalled
To see their deadly hate.
One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,
And swollen frontal veins:
To all his powers of eloquence
He gave the fullest reins.
His argument was novel—for
A verdict he relied
On blackening the junior
Upon the other side.
"Oh," said the Judge, in robe and fur,
"The matter in dispute
To arbitration pray refer—
This is a friendly suit."
And Pythias, in merry mood,
Digged Damon in the side;
And Damon, tickled with the feud,
With other digs replied.
But oh! those deadly counsel twain,
Who were such friends before,
Were never reconciled again——
They quarrelled more and more.
At length it happened that they met
On Alpine heights one day,
And thus they paid each one his debt,
Their fury had its way—
They seized each other in a trice,
With scorn and hatred filled,
And, falling from a precipice,
They, both of them, were killed.
[THE MIGHTY MUST]
Come, mighty Must!
Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
Time weaves my coronal!
Go, mocking Is!
Go, disappointing Was!
That I am this
Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble Second shall be First,
I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
Has Been!
Oh, weak Might Be!
Oh, May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
For evil or for good!
In every sense
Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate'er your tense
Ye are Imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I've shown
In ye!
Away! The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!
[MY DREAM]
The other night, from cares exempt,
I slept—and what d'you think I dreamt?
I dreamt that somehow I had come
To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom!—
Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:
Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:
Where right is wrong and wrong is right—
Where white is black and black is white.
Where babies, much to their surprise,
Are born astonishingly wise;
With every Science on their lips,
And Art at all their finger-tips.
For, as their nurses dandle them,
They crow binomial theorem,
With views (it seems absurd to us)
On differential calculus.
But though a babe, as I have said,
Is born with learning in his head,
He must forget it, if he can,
Before he calls himself a man.
For that which we call folly here,
Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;
The wisdom we so highly prize
Is blatant folly in their eyes.
A boy, if he would push his way,
Must learn some nonsense every day;
And cut, to carry out this view,
His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.
Historians burn their midnight oils,
Intent on giant-killers' toils;
And sages close their aged eyes
To other sages' lullabies.
Our magistrates, in duty bound,
Commit all robbers who are found;
But there the beaks (so people said)
Commit all robberies instead.
Our judges, pure and wise in tone,
Know crime from theory alone.
And glean the motives of a thief
From books and popular belief.
But there, a judge who wants to prime
His mind with true ideas of crime,
Derives them from the common sense
Of practical experience.
Policemen march all folks away
Who practise virtue every day—
Of course, I mean to say, you know,
What we call virtue here below.
For only scoundrels dare to do
What we consider just and true,
And only good men do, in fact,
What we should think a dirty act.
But strangest of these social twirls,
The girls are boys—the boys are girls!
The men are women, too—but then
Per contra, women all are men.
To one who to tradition clings
This seems an awkward state of things,
But if to think it out you try,
It doesn't really signify.
With them, as surely as can be,
A sailor should be sick at sea,
And not a passenger may sail
Who cannot smoke right through a gale.
A soldier (save by rarest luck)
Is always shot for showing pluck—
That is, if others can be found
With pluck enough to fire a round.
"How strange," I said to one I saw,
"You quite upset our every law.
However can you get along
So systematically wrong?"
"Dear me," my mad informant said,
"Have you no eyes within your head?
You sneer when you your hat should doff:
Why, we begin where you leave off!
"Your wisest men are very far
Less learned than our babies are!"
I mused awhile—and then, oh me!
I framed this brilliant repartee:
"Although your babes are wiser far
Than our most valued sages are,
Your sages, with their toys and cots,
Are duller than our idiots!"
But this remark, I grieve to state,
Came just a little bit too late;
For as I framed it in my head,
I woke and found myself in bed.
Still I could wish that, 'stead of here,
My lot were in that favoured sphere!—
Where greatest fools bear off the bell
I ought to do extremely well.
[A MIRAGE]
Were I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle-dove—
Were I thy bride!
This heart of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!
The silvery flute,
The melancholy lute,
Were night-owl's hoot
To my low-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
The skylark's trill
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I'd woo—
Were I thy bride!
The rose's sigh
Were as a carrion's cry
To lullaby
Such as I'd sing to thee—
Were I thy bride!
A feather's press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I'm not thy bride!
[THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN]
I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-foo
Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p'raps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
That Peter was his name.
Remember now that holy man
Came with the great Colonial clan
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;
And kindly recollect
How, having crossed the ocean wide,
To please his flock all means he tried
Consistent with a proper pride
And manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend pack
Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back
To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim
For "Peter" on the scroll of Fame
(For Peter was that Bishop's name,
As I've already told).
He carried Art, he often said,
To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)
Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught
As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought
To bless the Negro's home.
And he had other work to do,
For, while he tossed upon the blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-foo
Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—
They learnt to say, "I do not care,"
Though they, of course, were well aware
How folks, who say so, end.
Some sailors whom he did not know,
Had landed there not long ago,
And taught them "Bother!" also "Blow!"
(Of wickedness the germs.)
No need to use a casuist's pen
To prove that they were merchantmen;
No sailor of the Royal N.
Would use such awful terms.
And so, when Bishop Peter came
(That was the kindly Bishop's name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,
And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell—a bangle rare—
A feather here—a feather there—
The South Pacific negroes wear
Their native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathes
To listen to unseemly oaths,
He gave them all his left-off clothes—
They bent them to his will.
The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;
In Peter's left-off clothes they bound
(His three-and-twenty suits they found
In fair condition still).
The Bishop's eyes with water fill,
Quite overjoyed to find them still
Obedient to his sovereign will,
And said, "Good Rum-ti-foo!
Half-way to meet you I'll prepare:
I'll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fasten feathers in my hair,
And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo'!"
And to conciliate his see
He married Piccadillillee,
The youngest of his twenty-three,
Tall—neither fat nor thin.
(And though the dress he made her don
Looks awkwardly a girl upon,
It was a great improvement on
The one he found her in.)
The Bishop in his gay canoe
(His wife, of course, went with him too),
To some adjacent island flew,
To spend his honeymoon.
Some day in sunny Rum-ti-foo
A little Peter'll be on view;
And that (if people tell me true)
Is like to happen soon.
[THE GHOSTS' HIGH NOON]
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday—then is the ghosts' high noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen,
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good night";
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune,
And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high noon!
[A WORM WILL TURN]
I love a man who'll smile and joke
When with misfortune crowned;
Who'll pun beneath a pauper's yoke,
And as he breaks his daily toke,
Conundrums gay propound.
Just such a man was Bernard Jupp,
He scoffed at Fortune's frown;
He gaily drained his bitter cup—
Though Fortune often threw him up,
It never cast him down.
Though years their share of sorrow bring,
We know that far above
All other griefs, are griefs that spring
From some misfortune happening
To those we really love.
E'en sorrow for another's woe
Our Bernard failed to quell;
Though by this special form of blow
No person ever suffered so,
Or bore his grief so well.
His father, wealthy and well clad,
And owning house and park.
Lost every halfpenny he had,
And then became (extremely sad!)
A poor attorney's clerk.
All sons it surely would appal,
Except the passing meek,
To see a father lose his all,
And from an independence fall
To one pound ten a week!
But Jupp shook off this sorrow's weight
And, like a Christian son,
Proved Poverty a happy fate—
Proved Wealth to be a devil's bait,
To lure poor sinners on.
With other sorrows Bernard coped,
For sorrows came in packs;
His cousins with their housemaids sloped—
His uncles forged—his aunts eloped—
His sisters married blacks.
But Bernard, far from murmuring
(Exemplar, friends, to us),
Determined to his faith to cling,—
He made the best of everything,
And argued softly thus:
"'Twere harsh my uncles' forging knack
Too rudely to condemn—
My aunts, repentant, may come back,
And blacks are nothing like as black
As people colour them!"
Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,
Maintained relentless fight:
His grandmamma next lost her life,
Then died the mother of his wife,
But still he seemed all right.
His brother fond (the only link
To life that bound him now)
One morning, overcome by drink,
He broke his leg (the right, I think)
In some disgraceful row.
But did my Bernard swear and curse?
Oh no—to murmur loth,
He only said, "Go, get a nurse:
Be thankful that it isn't worse;
You might have broken both!"
But worms who watch without concern
The cockchafer on thorns,
Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn
If, walking through the slippery fern,
You tread upon their corns.
One night as Bernard made his track
Through Brompton home to bed,
A footpad, with a vizor black,
Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack
On Bernard's saint-like head.
It was too much—his spirit rose,
He looked extremely cross.
Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,
But no—he bowed to countless blows,
But kicked against this loss.
He finally made up his mind
Upon his friends to call;
Subscription lists were largely signed,
For men were really glad to find
Him mortal, after all!
[THE HUMANE MIKADO]
A more humane Mikado never
Did in Japan exist;
To nobody second,
I'm certainly reckoned
A true philanthropist.
It is my very humane endeavour
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime:
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
Of innocent merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners,
Who chatter and bleat and bore,
Are sent to hear sermons
From mystical Germans
Who preach from ten to four:
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies
All desire to shirk,
Shall, during off-hours,
Exhibit his powers
To Madame Tussaud's waxwork:
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
Or stains her grey hair puce,
Or pinches her figger,
Is painted with vigour
And permanent walnut juice:
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
Scribbles on window panes,
We only suffer
To ride on a buffer
In Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who wearies
With tales of countless cures,
His teeth, I've enacted,
Shall all be extracted
By terrified amateurs:
The music-hall singer attends a series
Of masses and fugues and "ops"
By Bach, interwoven
With Spohr and Beethoven,
At classical Monday Pops:
The billiard sharp whom any one catches,
His doom's extremely hard—
He's made to dwell
In a dungeon cell
On a spot that's always barred;
And there he plays extravagant matches
In fitless finger-stalls,
On a cloth untrue,
With a twisted cue
And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
[THE HAUGHTY ACTOR]
An actor—Gibbs, of Drury Lane—
Of very decent station,
Once happened in a part to gain
Excessive approbation;
It sometimes turns a fellow's brain
And makes him singularly vain
When he believes that he receives
Tremendous approbation.
His great success half drove him mad,
But no one seemed to mind him;
Well, in another piece he had
Another part assigned him.
This part was smaller, by a bit,
Than that in which he made a hit.
So, much ill-used, he straight refused
To play the part assigned him.
That night that actor slept, and I'll attempt
To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt: