But the old chap kept bobbing about just the same,
Hippety hop—Flippety flop,
Till everyone thought he must make himself lame,
And not a soul ever could find out his aim,
In keeping up such a ridiculous game,
As his hippety-hoppety-plop.
Some said he was mad, tho’ as mild as a dove,
Hippety hop—Flippety flop,
And as the result of a push or a shove,
Was a little bit cracked in the storey above,
But I fancy myself the old boy was in love,
With his hippety-hoppety-plop.
“There! What do you think of it?” he asked when he had finished.
“i love but thee”
“Well, candidly, I’m afraid not very much,” I replied; “and what on earth do you call it an ode for?”
“Why, you see, ode went so well with the word toad. I was going to call it ‘Ode to a Toad,’ but it isn’t to a toad at all, though it’s about a toad. Ah! by the bye, I might call it ‘A Toad’s Ode,’ mightn’t I? I think that sounds very jolly.” He altered the title in pencil.
“I have another which I think you will say is very touching.” And after getting his handkerchief out in case he should be moved to tears, he began:
THE BALLADE OF A BUN.
Don’t talk to me of “Sally Lunn,”
Or toasted tea-cake nice and hot,
I do not care for either one
A single solitary jot;
My heart is fixed and changeth not,
In all the world—whate’er I see,
And rich or poor—whate’er my lot—
Oh! penny bun, I love but thee.