More Bab Ballads

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.”

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 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 this 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
   In his capital 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
   (’T was all they had to darn).
They “hoisted their slacks,” adjusting
   Garments of plantain-leaves
With nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches,
   Instead of a dress like Eve’s!)

They shivered their timbers proudly,
   At a phantom forelock 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 Civilization’s train).
But Fortune, who loves a bathos,
   A terrible ending planned,
For Admiral D. Chickabiddy, C.B.,
   Placed foot on Canoodle land!

That rebel, he 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
   These horrible pirates sailed.

Calamity said (with folly),
   “Hum! nebber want him again—
Him civilize all of us, golly!
   Calamity suck him brain!”
The people, however, were pained when
   They saw him aboard his ship,
But none of them wept for their Freddy, except
   Hum Pickety Wimple Tip.

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.

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 Honololu.

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 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.

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!

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.

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 demoralized.

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 didn’t 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 William shot
   This fearful martinet.

The Admiralty saw how ill
   They’d treated Captain Reece;
He was restored once more aboard
   The saucy Mantelpiece.

I go away this blessed day,
   To sail across the sea, Matilda!
My vessel starts 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 qui 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 hoped to spot
   Some man you thought 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 sailor 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’rhaps 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 passion 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!

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 very 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 croquêt-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 grieved 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!”

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 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.