The “Bab Ballads” appeared originally in the columns of “Fun,” when that periodical was under the editorship of the late Tom Hood.  They were subsequently republished in two volumes, one called “The Bab Ballads,” the other “More Bab Ballads.”  The period during which they were written extended over some three or four years; many, however, were composed hastily, and under the discomforting necessity of having to turn out a quantity of lively verse by a certain day in every week.  As it seemed to me (and to others) that the volumes were disfigured by the presence of these hastily written impostors, I thought it better to withdraw from both volumes such Ballads as seemed to show evidence of carelessness or undue haste, and to publish the remainder in the compact form under which they are now presented to the reader.

It may interest some to know that the first of the series, “The Yarn of the Nancy Bell,” was originally offered to “Punch,”—to which I was, at that time, an occasional contributor.  It was, however, declined by the then Editor, on the ground that it was “too cannibalistic for his readers’ tastes.”

W. S. GILBERT.

24 The Boltons, South Kensington,
         August, 1876.

Of all the ships upon the blue,
No ship contained a better crew
Than that of worthy Captain Reece,
Commanding of The Mantelpiece.

If ever they were dull or sad,
Their captain danced to them like mad,
Or told, to make the time pass by,
Droll legends of his infancy.

A feather bed had every man,
Warm slippers and hot-water can,
Brown windsor from the captain’s store,
A valet, too, to every four.

Did they with thirst in summer burn,
Lo, seltzogenes at every turn,
And on all very sultry days
Cream ices handed round on trays.

Then currant wine and ginger pops
Stood handily on all the “tops;”
And also, with amusement rife,
A “Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life.”

New volumes came across the sea
From Mister Mudie’s libraree;
The Times and Saturday Review
Beguiled the leisure of the crew.

Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N.,
Was quite devoted to his men;
In point of fact, good Captain Reece
Beatified The Mantelpiece.

“By any reasonable plan
I’ll make you happy if I can;
My own convenience count as nil:
It is my duty, and I will.”

Then up and answered William Lee
(The kindly captain’s coxswain he,
A nervous, shy, low-spoken man),
He cleared his throat and thus began:

“You have a daughter, Captain Reece,
Ten female cousins and a niece,
A Ma, if what I’m told is true,
Six sisters, and an aunt or two.

“Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,
More friendly-like we all should be,
If you united of ’em to
Unmarried members of the crew.

“If you’d ameliorate our life,
Let each select from them a wife;
And as for nervous me, old pal,
Give me your own enchanting gal!”

Good Captain Reece, that worthy man,
Debated on his coxswain’s plan:
“I quite agree,” he said, “O Bill;
It is my duty, and I will.

“But what are dukes and viscounts to
The happiness of all my crew?
The word I gave you I’ll fulfil;
It is my duty, and I will.

“As you desire it shall befall,
I’ll settle thousands on you all,
And I shall be, despite my hoard,
The only bachelor on board.”

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece,
He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece:
“I beg your honour’s leave,” he said;
“If you would wish to go and wed,

The Captain saw the dame that day—
Addressed her in his playful way—
“And did it want a wedding ring?
It was a tempting ickle sing!

“Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,
We’ll all be married this day week
At yonder church upon the hill;
It is my duty, and I will!”

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,
And widowed Ma of Captain Reece,
Attended there as they were bid;
It was their duty, and they did.

List while the poet trolls
   Of Mr. Clayton Hooper,
Who had a cure of souls
   At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.

He lived on curds and whey,
   And daily sang their praises,
And then he’d go and play
   With buttercups and daisies.

Wild croquêt Hooper banned,
   And all the sports of Mammon,
He warred with cribbage, and
   He exorcised backgammon.

His helmet was a glance
   That spoke of holy gladness;
A saintly smile his lance;
   His shield a tear of sadness.

His Vicar smiled to see
   This armour on him buckled:
With pardonable glee
   He blessed himself and chuckled.

And Hooper, disinclined
   His trumpet to be blowing,
Yet didn’t think you’d find
   A milder curate going.

A friend arrived one day
   At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,
And in this shameful way
   He spoke to Mr. Hooper:

“You think your famous name
   For mildness can’t be shaken,
That none can blot your fame—
   But, Hooper, you’re mistaken!

“He plays the airy flute,
   And looks depressed and blighted,
Doves round about him ‘toot,’
   And lambkins dance delighted.

“He labours more than you
   At worsted work, and frames it;
In old maids’ albums, too,
   Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!”

The tempter said his say,
   Which pierced him like a needle—
He summoned straight away
   His sexton and his beadle.

“To Hopley Porter go,
   Your fare I will afford you—
Deal him a deadly blow,
   And blessings shall reward you.

“But stay—I do not like
   Undue assassination,
And so before you strike,
   Make this communication:

“I’ll give him this one chance—
   If he’ll more gaily bear him,
Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,
   I willingly will spare him.”

“What?” said that reverend gent,
   “Dance through my hours of leisure?
Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—
   Play croquêt?  Oh, with pleasure!

“Wear all my hair in curl?
   Stand at my door and wink—so—
At every passing girl?
   My brothers, I should think so!

“For years I’ve longed for some
   Excuse for this revulsion:
Now that excuse has come—
   I do it on compulsion!!!”

And Hooper holds his ground,
   In mildness daily growing—
They think him, all around,
   The mildest curate going.

Only a dancing girl,
   With an unromantic style,
With borrowed colour and curl,
   With fixed mechanical smile,
   With many a hackneyed wile,
With ungrammatical lips,
And corns that mar her trips.

No airy fairy she,
   As she hangs in arsenic green
From a highly impossible tree
   In a highly impossible scene
   (Herself not over-clean).
For fays don’t suffer, I’m told,
From bunions, coughs, or cold.

And stately dames that bring
   Their daughters there to see,
Pronounce the “dancing thing”
   No better than she should be,
   With her skirt at her shameful knee,
And her painted, tainted phiz:
Ah, matron, which of us is?

(And, in sooth, it oft occurs
   That while these matrons sigh,
Their dresses are lower than hers,
   And sometimes half as high;
   And their hair is hair they buy,
And they use their glasses, too,
In a way she’d blush to do.)

Come with me, little maid,
Nay, shrink not, thus afraid—
   I’ll harm thee not!
Fly not, my love, from me—
I have a home for thee—
   A fairy grot,
         Where mortal eye
         Can rarely pry,
There shall thy dwelling be!

List to me, while I tell
The pleasures of that cell,
   Oh, little maid!
What though its couch be rude,
Homely the only food
   Within its shade?
         No thought of care
         Can enter there,
No vulgar swain intrude!

Come with me, little maid,
Come to the rocky shade
   I love to sing;
Live with us, maiden rare—
Come, for we “want” thee there,
   Thou elfin thing,
         To work thy spell,
         In some cool cell
In stately Pentonville!

A troubadour he played
   Without a castle wall,
Within, a hapless maid
   Responded to his call.

“Oh, willow, woe is me!
   Alack and well-a-day!
If I were only free
   I’d hie me far away!”

A hapless woman lay
   Within that dungeon grim—
That fact, I’ve heard him say,
   Was quite enough for him.

“I will not sit or lie,
   Or eat or drink, I vow,
Till thou art free as I,
   Or I as pent as thou.”

Her tears then ceased to flow,
   Her wails no longer rang,
And tuneful in her woe
   The prisoned maiden sang:

“Oh, stranger, as you play,
   I recognize your touch;
And all that I can say
   Is, thank you very much.”

He seized his clarion straight,
   And blew thereat, until
A warden oped the gate.
   “Oh, what might be your will?”

“I’ve come, Sir Knave, to see
   The master of these halls:
A maid unwillingly
   Lies prisoned in their walls.”’

He stayed to hear no more,
   But pushed that porter by,
And shortly stood before
   Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye.

Sir Hugh he darkly frowned,
   “What would you, sir, with me?”
The troubadour he downed
   Upon his bended knee.

“I’ve come, de Peckham Rye,
   To do a Christian task;
You ask me what would I?
   It is not much I ask.

“Release these maidens, sir,
   Whom you dominion o’er—
Particularly her
   Upon the second floor.

Sir Hugh he called—and ran
   The warden from the gate:
“Go, show this gentleman
   The maid in Forty-eight.”

By many a cell they past,
   And stopped at length before
A portal, bolted fast:
   The man unlocked the door.

He called inside the gate
   With coarse and brutal shout,
“Come, step it, Forty-eight!”
   And Forty-eight stepped out.

“Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,”
   The troubadour exclaimed—
“If I may make so free,
   How is this castle named?”

The warden’s eyelids fill,
   And sighing, he replied,
“Of gloomy Pentonville
   This is the female side!”

The minstrel did not wait
   The Warden stout to thank,
But recollected straight
   He’d business at the Bank.

PART I.

At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper
One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of love and Tupper,

Mr. Tupper and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing,
For I’ve always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,
And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.

Then she whispered, “To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;
If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking.”

There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,
There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.

Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing,
Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,
Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.

But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,
And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me,
And she whispered, “Ferdinando, do you really, really love me?”

“Love you?” said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—
For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly.

“Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,
On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell or my Glaisher!

“Tell me whither I may hie me—tell me, dear one, that I may know—
Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?”

But she said, “It isn’t polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes:
Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!”

PART II.

“Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred Poet Close, or Mister Tupper,
Do you write the bon bon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?”

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honour;
And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me;
And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me:

“A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,”—
Which I know was very clever; but I didn’t understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,
Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,
So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,
And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty—
He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, “O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?
Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?”

But he answered, “I’m so happy—no profession could be dearer—
If I am not humming ‘Tra! la! la!’ I’m singing ‘Tirer, lirer!’

“First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies,
Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is;

“Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers;
Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers.”—

And I shouted and I danced until he’d quite a crowd around him—
And I rushed away exclaiming, “I have found him!  I have found him!”

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,
“‘Tira, lira!’ stop him, stop him!  ‘Tra! la! la!’ the soup’s a shilling!”

But until I reached Elvira’s home, I never, never waited,
And Elvira to her Ferdinand’s irrevocably mated!

Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name
   Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
   (As one of these must be your present portion)
      Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
      And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.

You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain—
   A bachelor of circa two and thirty:
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
   And when you’re intimate, you’ll call him “Bertie.”
      Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified
      As hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified.

You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar,
   After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far,
   A brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions;
      A pound or two from whist and backing horses,
      And, say three hundred from his own resources.

Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!
   Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,
I’ve told your fortune; solved the gravest care
   With which your mind has hitherto been laden.
      I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it;
      Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!

You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will,
   To whom I’m destined shortly to be mated,
Will she run up a heavy modiste’s bill?
   If so, I want to hear her income stated
      (This is a point which interests me greatly).
      To quote the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?”

Say, must I wait till husband number one
   Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?
How is her hair most usually done?
   And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?
      The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:
      Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all attention.

Of all the youths I ever saw
   None were so wicked, vain, or silly,
So lost to shame and Sabbath law,
   As worldly Tom, and Bob, and Billy.

For every Sabbath day they walked
   (Such was their gay and thoughtless natur)
In parks or gardens, where they talked
   From three to six, or even later.

Sir Macklin was a priest severe
   In conduct and in conversation,
It did a sinner good to hear
   Him deal in ratiocination.

He could in every action show
   Some sin, and nobody could doubt him.
He argued high, he argued low,
   He also argued round about him.

“Oh, youths,” said he, “I grieve to find
   The course of life you’ve been and hit on—
Sit down,” said he, “and never mind
   The pennies for the chairs you sit on.

“My opening head is ‘Kensington,’
   How walking there the sinner hardens,
Which when I have enlarged upon,
   I go to ‘Secondly’—its ‘Gardens.’

“My ‘Thirdly’ comprehendeth ‘Hyde,’
   Of Secresy the guilts and shameses;
My ‘Fourthly’—‘Park’—its verdure wide—
   My ‘Fifthly’ comprehends ‘St. James’s.’

“Then I shall demonstrate to you,
   According to the rules of Whately,
That what is true of all, is true
   Of each, considered separately.”

In lavish stream his accents flow,
   Tom, Bob, and Billy dare not flout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
   He also argued round about him.

“Ha, ha!” he said, “you loathe your ways,
   You writhe at these my words of warning,
In agony your hands you raise.”
   (And so they did, for they were yawning.)

“Ho, ho!” he cries, “you bow your crests—
   My eloquence has set you weeping;
In shame you bend upon your breasts!”
   (And so they did, for they were sleeping.)

He proved them this—he proved them that—
   This good but wearisome ascetic;
He jumped and thumped upon his hat,
   He was so very energetic.

His Bishop at this moment chanced
   To pass, and found the road encumbered;
He noticed how the Churchman danced,
   And how his congregation slumbered.

“At once a cook, and a captain bold,
   And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
   And the crew of the captain’s gig.”

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
   Is a trick all seamen larn,
And having got rid of a thumping quid,
   He spun this painful yarn:

“’Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
   That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
   Which has often occurred to me.

“And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
   (There was seventy-seven o’ soul),
And only ten of the Nancy’s men
   Said ‘Here!’ to the muster-roll.

“There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
   And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And the bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
   And the crew of the captain’s gig.

“For a month we’d neither wittles nor drink,
   Till a-hungry we did feel,
So we drawed a lot, and, accordin’ shot
   The captain for our meal.

“And then we murdered the bo’sun tight,
   And he much resembled pig;
Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
   On the crew of the captain’s gig.

“Then only the cook and me was left,
   And the delicate question, ‘Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?’ arose,
   And we argued it out as sich.

“For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
   And the cook he worshipped me;
But we’d both be blowed if we’d either be stowed
   In the other chap’s hold, you see.

“‘I’ll be eat if you dines off me,’ says Tom;
   ‘Yes, that,’ says I, ‘you’ll be,—
‘I’m boiled if I die, my friend,’ quoth I;
   And ‘Exactly so,’ quoth he.

“Says he, ‘Dear James, to murder me
   Were a foolish thing to do,
For don’t you see that you can’t cook me,
   While I can—and will—cook you!’

“So he boils the water, and takes the salt
   And the pepper in portions true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.
   And some sage and parsley too.

“And he stirred it round and round and round,
   And he sniffed at the foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals
   In the scum of the boiling broth.

“And I eat that cook in a week or less,
   And—as I eating be
The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,
   For a wessel in sight I see!

* * * *

“And I never larf, and I never smile,
   And I never lark nor play,
But sit and croak, and a single joke
   I have—which is to say:

“Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
   And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo’sun tight, and a midshipmite,
   And the crew of the captain’s gig!’”

From east and south the holy clan
Of Bishops gathered to a man;
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,
   In flocking crowds they came.
Among them was a Bishop, who
Had lately been appointed to
The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,
   And Peter was his name.

His flock, I’ve often heard him tell,
(His name was Peter) loved him well,
And, summoned by the sound of bell,
   In crowds together came.
“Oh, massa, why you go away?
Oh, Massa Peter, please to stay.”
(They called him Peter, people say,
   Because it was his name.)

He told them all good boys to be,
And sailed away across the sea,
At London Bridge that Bishop he
   Arrived one Tuesday night;
And as that night he homeward strode
To his Pan-Anglican abode,
He passed along the Borough Road,
   And saw a gruesome sight.

He saw a crowd assembled round
A person dancing on the ground,
Who straight began to leap and bound
   With all his might and main.
To see that dancing man he stopped,
Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,
Then down incontinently dropped,
   And then sprang up again.

The dancing man he worked away,
And taught the Bishop every day—
The dancer skipped like any fay—
   Good Peter did the same.
The Bishop buckled to his task,
With battements, and pas de basque.
(I’ll tell you, if you care to ask,
   That Peter was his name.)

“We now proceed to something new—
Dance as the Paynes and Lauris do,
Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two.”
   The Bishop, never proud,
But in an overwhelming heat
(His name was Peter, I repeat)
Performed the Payne and Lauri feat,
   And puffed his thanks aloud.

“No,” said the worthy Bishop, “no;
That is a length to which, I trow,
Colonial Bishops cannot go.
   You may express surprise
At finding Bishops deal in pride—
But if that trick I ever tried,
I should appear undignified
   In Rum-ti-Foozle’s eyes.

(To be sung to the Air of the “Whistling Oyster.”)

An elderly person—a prophet by trade—
         With his quips and tips
         On withered old lips,
He married a young and a beautiful maid;
         The cunning old blade!
         Though rather decayed,
He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.

Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad)
         With their loud high jinks
         And underbred winks,
None thought they’d a family have—but they had;
         A dear little lad
         Who drove ’em half mad,
For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.

For when he was born he astonished all by,
         With their “Law, dear me!”
         “Did ever you see?”
He’d a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye,
         A hat all awry—
         An octagon tie—
And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye.

He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,
         With his “Oh, dear, oh!”
         And his “Hang it! ’oo know!”
And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap—
         “My friends, it’s a tap
         Dat is not worf a rap.”
(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)

His father, a simple old gentleman, he
         With nursery rhyme
         And “Once on a time,”
Would tell him the story of “Little Bo-P,”
         “So pretty was she,
         So pretty and wee,
As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be.”

The name of his father he’d couple and pair
         (With his ill-bred laugh,
         And insolent chaff)
With those of the nursery heroines rare—
         Virginia the Fair,
         Or Good Goldenhair,
Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.

“There’s Jill and White Cat” (said the bold little brat,
         With his loud, “Ha, ha!”)
         “’Oo sly ickle Pa!
Wiz ’oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and ’oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!
         I’ve noticed ’oo pat
         My pretty White Cat—
I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!”

He early determined to marry and wive,
         For better or worse
         With his elderly nurse—
Which the poor little boy didn’t live to contrive:
         His hearth didn’t thrive—
         No longer alive,
He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!

Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew,
         With wrinkled hose
         And spectacled nose,
Don’t marry at all—you may take it as true
         If ever you do
         The step you will rue,
For your babes will be elderly—elderly too.