More Bab Ballads

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’r’aps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
         That Peter was his name.

Remember how 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 disgraceful 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 I’ll meet you, I declare:
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.

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!

   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.

THE DREAM.

   In fighting with a robber band
      (A thing he loved sincerely)
   A sword struck Gibbs upon the hand,
      And wounded it severely.
   At first he didn’t heed it much,
   He thought it was a simple touch,
But soon he found the weapon’s bound
      Had wounded him severely.

   To Surgeon Cobb he made a trip,
      Who’d just effected featly
   An amputation at the hip
      Particularly neatly.
   A rising man was Surgeon Cobb
   But this extremely ticklish job
He had achieved (as he believed)
      Particularly neatly.

   The actor rang the surgeon’s bell.
      “Observe my wounded finger,
   Be good enough to strap it well,
      And prithee do not linger.
   That I, dear sir, may fill again
   The Theatre Royal Drury Lane:
This very night I have to fight—
      So prithee do not linger.”

   “I don’t strap fingers up for doles,”
      Replied the haughty surgeon;
   “To use your cant, I don’t play rôles
      Utility that verge on.
   First amputation—nothing less—
   That is my line of business:
We surgeon nobs despise all jobs
      Utility that verge on

   “When in your hip there lurks disease”
      (So dreamt this lively dreamer),
   “Or devastating caries
      In humerus or femur,
   If you can pay a handsome fee,
   Oh, then you may remember me—
With joy elate I’ll amputate
      Your humerus or femur.”

   The disconcerted actor ceased
      The haughty leech to pester,
   But when the wound in size increased,
      And then began to fester,
   He sought a learned Counsel’s lair,
   And told that Counsel, then and there,
How Cobb’s neglect of his defect
      Had made his finger fester.

   “Oh, bring my action, if you please,
      The case I pray you urge on,
   And win me thumping damages
      From Cobb, that haughty surgeon.
   He culpably neglected me
   Although I proffered him his fee,
So pray come down, in wig and gown,
      On Cobb, that haughty surgeon!”

   That Counsel learned in the laws,
      With passion almost trembled.
   He just had gained a mighty cause
      Before the Peers assembled!
   Said he, “How dare you have the face
   To come with Common Jury case
To one who wings rhetoric flings
      Before the Peers assembled?”

   Dispirited became our friend—
      Depressed his moral pecker—
   “But stay! a thought!—I’ll gain my end,
      And save my poor exchequer.
   I won’t be placed upon the shelf,
   I’ll take it into Court myself,
And legal lore display before
      The Court of the Exchequer.”

   He found a Baron—one of those
      Who with our laws supply us—
   In wig and silken gown and hose,
      As if at Nisi Prius.
   But he’d just given, off the reel,
   A famous judgment on Appeal:
It scarce became his heightened fame
      To sit at Nisi Prius.

   Our friend began, with easy wit,
      That half concealed his terror:
   “Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sit
      In Banco or in Error.
   Can you suppose, my man, that I’d
   O’er Nisi Prius Courts preside,
Or condescend my time to spend
      On anything but Error?”

   “Too bad,” said Gibbs, “my case to shirk!
      You must be bad innately,
   To save your skill for mighty work
      Because it’s valued greatly!”
   But here he woke, with sudden start.

* * * * * * * *

   He wrote to say he’d play the part.
I’ve but to tell he played it well—
   The author’s words—his native wit
   Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”—
         The papers praised him greatly.

An excellent soldier who’s worthy the name
   Loves officers dashing and strict:
When good, he’s content with escaping all blame,
   When naughty, he likes to be licked.

He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,
   Or imprisoned for several days,
And hates, for a duty correctly performed,
   To be slavered with sickening praise.

No officer sickened with praises his corps
   So little as Major La Guerre—
No officer swore at his warriors more
   Than Major Makredi Prepere.

Their soldiers adored them, and every grade
   Delighted to hear their abuse;
Though whenever these officers came on parade
   They shivered and shook in their shoes.

For, oh! if La Guerre could all praises withhold,
   Why, so could Makredi Prepere,
And, oh! if Makredi could bluster and scold,
   Why, so could the mighty La Guerre.

“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—
   Go on—you’re conferring a boon;
We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave,
   Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”

Makredi would say that in battle’s fierce rage
   True happiness only was met:
Poor Major Makredi, though fifty his age,
   Had never known happiness yet!

La Guerre would declare, “With the blood of a foe
   No tipple is worthy to clink.”
Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so,
   Yet tasted his favourite drink!

They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—
   They agreed in the choice of their “set,”
And they also agreed in adoring, alas!
   The Vivandière, pretty Fillette.

Agreement, you see, may be carried too far,
   And after agreeing all round
For years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,”
   A bone of contention they found!

It may seem improper to call such a pet—
   By a metaphor, even—a bone;
But though they agreed in adoring her, yet
   Each wanted to make her his own.

“On the day that you marry her,” muttered Prepere
   (With a pistol he quietly played),
“I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,
   All over the stony parade!”

“I cannot do that to you,” answered La Guerre,
   “Whatever events may befall;
But this I can do—if you wed her, mon cher!
   I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”

The rivals, although they would never engage,
   Yet quarrelled whenever they met;
They met in a fury and left in a rage,
   But neither took pretty Fillette.

“I am not afraid,” thought Makredi Prepere:
   “For country I’m ready to fall;
But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,
   To be eaten, moustachios and all!

“Besides, though La Guerre has his faults, I’ll allow
   He’s one of the bravest of men:
My goodness! if I disagree with him now,
   I might disagree with him then.”

“No coward am I,” said La Guerre, “as you guess—
   I sneer at an enemy’s blade;
But I don’t want Prepere to get into a mess
   For splashing the stony parade!”

One day on parade to Prepere and La Guerre
   Came Corporal Jacot Debette,
And trembling all over, he prayed of them there
   To give him the pretty Fillette.

“You see, I am willing to marry my bride
   Until you’ve arranged this affair;
I will blow out my brains when your honours decide
   Which marries the sweet Vivandière!”

“Well, take her,” said both of them in a duet
   (A favourite form of reply),
“But when I am ready to marry Fillette.
   Remember you’ve promised to die!”

He married her then: from the flowery plains
   Of existence the roses they cull:
He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains
   Are reposing in peace in his skull.

A DERBY LEGEND

Emily Jane was a nursery maid,
   James was a bold Life Guard,
John was a constable, poorly paid
   (And I am a doggerel bard).

A very good girl was Emily Jane,
   Jimmy was good and true,
John was a very good man in the main
   (And I am a good man too).

Rivals for Emmie were Johnny and James,
   Though Emily liked them both;
She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims
   (And I couldn’t take my oath).

But sooner or later you’re certain to find
   Your sentiments can’t lie hid—
Jane thought it was time that she made up her mind
   (And I think it was time she did).

Said Jane, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
   “I’ll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!”
   (Which I would have done, with joy).

From Johnny escaped an expression of pain,
   But Jimmy said, “Done with you!
I’ll take you with pleasure, my Emily Jane!”
   (And I would have said so too).

John lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
   (For Johnny was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
   (Which I often do, when vexed).

For John was on duty next day with the Force,
   To punish all Epsom crimes;
Young people will cross when they’re clearing the course
   (I do it myself, sometimes).

* * * * * * * *

The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
   On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads,
   (For I, with my harp, was there).

And Jimmy went down with his Jane that day,
   And John by the collar or nape
Seized everybody who came in his way
   (And I had a narrow escape).

He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim,
   And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!”
   (I often say “dim!” myself).

John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves;
   For his sergeant he told, aside,
That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves
   (And I think he was justified).

But James wouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork,
   And Jenny would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
   (A bottle I think fair game).

But, ah! there’s another more serious crime!
   They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
   (I pointed them out to John).

The constable fell on the pair in a crack—
   And then, with a demon smile,
Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back
   (I played on my harp the while).

Stern Johnny their agony loud derides
   With a very triumphant sneer—
They weep and they wail from the opposite sides
   (And I shed a silent tear).

And Jenny is crying away like mad,
   And Jimmy is swearing hard;
And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad
   (And I am a doggerel bard).

But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again
   The scenes of our Isthmian Games—
John caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
   (I felt very much for James).

John led him away with a victor’s hand,
   And Jimmy was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
   (As many a time I’ve been).

And Jimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,
   Though Emily pleaded hard;
And Johnny had Emily Jane to wife
   (And I am a doggerel bard).

Old Peter led a wretched life—
Old Peter had a furious wife;
Old Peter too was truly stout,
He measured several yards about.

The little fairy Picklekin
One summer afternoon looked in,
And said, “Old Peter, how de do?
Can I do anything for you?

“I have three gifts—the first will give
Unbounded riches while you live;
The second health where’er you be;
The third, invisibility.”

“O little fairy Picklekin,”
Old Peter answered with a grin,
“To hesitate would be absurd,—
Undoubtedly I choose the third.”

“’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quite
Invisible to mortal sight
Whene’er you please.  Remember me
Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P.”

Old Mrs. Peter overheard
Wee Picklekin’s concluding word,
And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice,
Said, “That was some young woman’s voice!”

Old Peter let her scold and swear—
Old Peter, bless him, didn’t care.
“My dear, your rage is wasted quite—
Observe, I disappear from sight!”

A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard)
Is always faithful to her word:
Old Peter vanished like a shot,
Put then—his suit of clothes did not!

For when conferred the fairy slim
Invisibility on him,
She popped away on fairy wings,
Without referring to his “things.”

So there remained a coat of blue,
A vest and double eyeglass too,
His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,
His pair of—no, I must not tell.

Old Mrs. Peter soon began
To see the failure of his plan,
And then resolved (I quote the Bard)
To “hoist him with his own petard.”

Old Peter woke next day and dressed,
Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest,
His shirt and stock; but could not find
His only pair of—never mind!

Old Peter was a decent man,
And though he twigged his lady’s plan,
Yet, hearing her approaching, he
Resumed invisibility.

“Dear Mrs. P., my only joy,”
Exclaimed the horrified old boy,
“Now, give them up, I beg of you—
You know what I’m referring to!”

But no; the cross old lady swore
She’d keep his—what I said before—
To make him publicly absurd;
And Mrs. Peter kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest;
His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest,
Were all that now met mortal eye—
The rest, invisibility!

“Now, madam, give them up, I beg—
I’ve had rheumatics in my leg;
Besides, until you do, it’s plain
I cannot come to sight again!

“For though some mirth it might afford
To see my clothes without their lord,
Yet there would rise indignant oaths
If he were seen without his clothes!”

But no; resolved to have her quiz,
The lady held her own—and his—
And Peter left his humble cot
To find a pair of—you know what.

But—here’s the worst of the affair—
Whene’er he came across a pair
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train,
And walked and walked with all his main;
For years he paced this mortal earth,
To bring himself to decent girth.

At night, when all around is still,
You’ll find him pounding up a hill;
And shrieking peasants whom he meets,
Fall down in terror on the peats!

Old Peter walks through wind and rain,
Resolved to train, and train, and train,
Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so—
And when he does, I’ll let you know.

When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There’s something or other may often be said,
Why he should be pitched upon rather than him.
This wasn’t the case with Old Paul and Old Tim.

No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying Timothy rather than Paul;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either—or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes—
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young Emily, I should have said,
“You’re both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon”;
But I wasn’t young Emily.  Let us get on.

No coward’s blood ran in young Emily’s veins,
Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;
At the rumours of battles all over the globe
He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in “Job.”

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise—
Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy’s spies,
Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee—
For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,
Implored her between them at once to decide,
She told them she’d marry whichever might bring
Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy:
That coward, Old Paul, chose a very small boy,
And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,
He set to work boxing that little boy’s ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old Paul didn’t care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old Tim knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
“I’ll cover myself with cheap glory—I’ll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

“The German invader is ravaging France
With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,
And beautiful Paris is fighting her best
To shake herself free from her terrible guest.

“The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,
Have all run away from the summons to arms;
They haven’t the pluck of a pigeon—I’ll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!”

Old Timothy tried it and found it succeed:
That day he caused many French noses to bleed;
Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,
And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.

He took care to abstain from employing his fist
On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;
A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,
But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.

Old Tim and Old Paul, with the list of their foes,
Prostrated themselves at their Emily’s toes:
“Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?”
And Emily answered and Emily said:

“Old Tim has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores,
Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;
Old Paul has made little chaps’ noses to bleed—
Old Paul has accomplished the pluckier deed!”

Perhaps already you may know
Sir Blennerhasset Portico?
A Captain in the Navy, he—
A Baronet and K.C.B.
                           You do?  I thought so!
It was that Captain’s favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That Rodney was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
                           He had been taught so.

“Benbow!  Cornwallis!  Hood!—Belay!
Compared with Rodney”—he would say—
“No other tar is worth a rap!
The great Lord Rodney was the chap
                           The French to polish!
Though, mind you, I respect Lord Hood;
Cornwallis, too, was rather good;
Benbow could enemies repel,
Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—
                           That is, tol-lol-ish!”

Sir Blennerhasset spent his days
In learning Rodney’s little ways,
And closely imitated, too,
His mode of talking to his crew—
                           His port and paces.
An ancient tar he tried to catch
Who’d served in Rodney’s famous batch;
But since his time long years have fled,
And Rodney’s tars are mostly dead:
                           Eheu fugaces!

But after searching near and far,
At last he found an ancient tar
Who served with Rodney and his crew
Against the French in ’Eighty-two,
                           (That gained the peerage).
He gave him fifty pounds a year,
His rum, his baccy, and his beer;
And had a comfortable den
Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,
                           Is called the steerage.

“Now, Jasper”—’t was that sailor’s name—
“Don’t fear that you’ll incur my blame
By saying, when it seems to you,
That there is anything I do
                           That Rodney wouldn’t.”
The ancient sailor turned his quid,
Prepared to do as he was bid:
“Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,
You’ve done away with ‘swifting in’—
                           Well, sir, you shouldn’t!

“Upon your spars I see you’ve clapped
Peak halliard blocks, all iron-capped.
I would not christen that a crime,
But ’twas not done in Rodney’s time.
                           It looks half-witted!
Upon your maintop-stay, I see,
You always clap a selvagee!
Your stays, I see, are equalized—
No vessel, such as Rodney prized,
                           Would thus be fitted!

“And Rodney, honoured sir, would grin
To see you turning deadeyes in,
Not up, as in the ancient way,
But downwards, like a cutter’s stay—
                           You didn’t oughter;
Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,
Breast backstays you have quite ignored;
Great Rodney kept unto the last
Breast backstays on topgallant mast—
                           They make it tauter.”

Sir Blennerhasset “swifted in,”
Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin
To strip (as told by Jasper Knox)
The iron capping from his blocks,
                           Where there was any.
Sir Blennerhasset does away,
With selvagees from maintop-stay;
And though it makes his sailors stare,
He rigs breast backstays everywhere—
                           In fact, too many.

One morning, when the saucy craft
Lay calmed, old Jasper toddled aft.
“My mind misgives me, sir, that we
Were wrong about that selvagee—
                           I should restore it.”
“Good,” said the Captain, and that day
Restored it to the maintop-stay.
Well-practised sailors often make
A much more serious mistake,
                           And then ignore it.

Next day old Jasper came once more:
“I think, sir, I was right before.”
Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,
The selvagee was soon unshipped,
                           And all were merry.
Again a day, and Jasper came:
“I p’r’aps deserve your honour’s blame,
I can’t make up my mind,” said he,
“About that cursed selvagee—
                           It’s foolish—very.

“On Monday night I could have sworn
That maintop-stay it should adorn,
On Tuesday morning I could swear
That selvagee should not be there.
                           The knot’s a rasper!”
“Oh, you be hanged,” said Captain P.,
“Here, go ashore at Caribbee.
Get out—good bye—shove off—all right!”
Old Jasper soon was out of sight—
                           Farewell, old Jasper!

On all Arcadia’s sunny plain,
   On all Arcadia’s hill,
None were so blithe as Bill and Jane,
   So blithe as Jane and Bill.

No social earthquake e’er occurred
   To rack their common mind:
To them a Panic was a word—
   A Crisis, empty wind.

No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad
   With overwhelming shocks—
Bill ploughed with all the shares he had,
   Jane planted all her stocks.

And learn in what a simple way
   Their pleasures they enhanced—
Jane danced like any lamb all day,
   Bill piped as well as danced.

Surrounded by a twittling crew,
   Of linnet, lark, and thrush,
Bill treated his young lady to
   This sentimental gush:

“Oh, Jane, how true I am to you!
   How true you are to me!
And how we woo, and how we coo!
   So fond a pair are we!

“To think, dear Jane, that anyways.
   Your chiefest end and aim
Is, one of these fine summer days,
   To bear my humble name!”

Quoth Jane, “Well, as you put the case,
   I’m true enough, no doubt,
But then, you see, in this here place
   There’s none to cut you out.

“But, oh! if anybody came—
   A Lord or any such—
I do not think your humble name
   Would fascinate me much.

“For though your mates, you often boast.
   You distance out-and-out;
Still, in the abstract, you’re a most
   Uncompromising lout!”

Poor Bill, he gave a heavy sigh,
   He tried in vain to speak—
A fat tear started to each eye
   And coursed adown each cheek.

For, oh! right well in truth he knew
   That very self-same day,
The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo
   Was coming there to stay!

The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo
   All proper maidens shun—
He loves all women, it is true,
   But never marries one.

Now Jane, with all her mad self-will,
   Was no coquette—oh no!
She really loved her faithful Bill,
   And thus she tuned her woe:

“Oh, willow, willow, o’er the lea!
   And willow once again!
The Peer will fall in love with me!
   Why wasn’t I made plain?”

* * * * *

A cunning woman lived hard by,
   A sorceressing dame,
MacCatacomb de Salmon-Eye
   Was her uncommon name.

To her good Jane, with kindly yearn
   For Bill’s increasing pain,
Repaired in secrecy to learn
   How best to make her plain.

“Oh, Jane,” the worthy woman said,
   “This mystic phial keep,
And rub its liquor in your head
   Before you go to sleep.

“When you awake next day, I trow,
   You’ll look in form and hue
To others just as you do now—
   But not to Pillaloo!

“When you approach him, you will find
   He’ll think you coarse—unkempt—
And rudely bid you get behind,
   With undisguised contempt.”

The Lord de Pillaloo arrived
   With his expensive train,
And when in state serenely hived,
   He sent for Bill and Jane.

“Oh, spare her, Lord of Pillaloo!
   (Said Bill) if wed you be,
There’s anything I’d rather do
   Than flirt with Lady P.”

The Lord he gazed in Jenny’s eyes,
   He looked her through and through:
The cunning woman’s prophecies
   Were clearly coming true.

Lord Pillaloo, the Rustic’s Bane
   (Bad person he, and proud),
He laughed Ha! ha! at pretty Jane,
   And sneered at her aloud!

He bade her get behind him then,
   And seek her mother’s stye—
Yet to her native countrymen
   She was as fair as aye!

MacCatacomb, continue green!
   Grow, Salmon-Eye, in might,
Except for you, there might have been
   The deuce’s own delight

“Come, collar this bad man—
   Around the throat he knotted me
Till I to choke began—
   In point of fact, garotted me!”

So spake Sir Herbert Write
   To James, Policeman Thirty-two—
All ruffled with his fight
   Sir Herbert was, and dirty too.

Policeman nothing said
   (Though he had much to say on it),
But from the bad man’s head
   He took the cap that lay on it.

“No, great Sir Herbert White—
   Impossible to take him up.
This man is honest quite—
   Wherever did you rake him up?

“For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,
   Indeed, I’m no apologist,
But I, some years ago,
   Assisted a Phrenologist.

“Observe his various bumps,
   His head as I uncover it:
His morals lie in lumps
   All round about and over it.”

“Now take him,” said Sir White,
   “Or you will soon be rueing it;
Bless me!  I must be right,—
   I caught the fellow doing it!”

Policeman calmly smiled,
   “Indeed you are mistaken, sir,
You’re agitated—riled—
   And very badly shaken, sir.

“Sit down, and I’ll explain
   My system of Phrenology,
A second, please, remain”—
   (A second is horology).

Policeman left his beat—
   (The Bart., no longer furious,
Sat down upon a seat,
   Observing, “This is curious!”)

“Oh, surely, here are signs
   Should soften your rigidity:
This gentleman combines
   Politeness with timidity.

“Of Shyness here’s a lump—
   A hole for Animosity—
And like my fist his bump
   Of Impecuniosity.

“Just here the bump appears
   Of Innocent Hilarity,
And just behind his ears
   Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.

“He of true Christian ways
   As bright example sent us is—
This maxim he obeys,
   ‘Sorte tuâ contentus sis.’

“There, let him go his ways,
   He needs no stern admonishing.”
The Bart., in blank amaze,
   Exclaimed, “This is astonishing!

“I must have made a mull,
   This matter I’ve been blind in it:
Examine, please, my skull,
   And tell me what you find in it.”

That Crusher looked, and said,
   With unimpaired urbanity,
“Sir Herbert, you’ve a head
   That teems with inhumanity.

“Here’s Murder, Envy, Strife
   (Propensity to kill any),
And Lies as large as life,
   And heaps of Social Villany.

“Here’s Love of Bran-New Clothes,
   Embezzling—Arson—Deism—
A taste for Slang and Oaths,
   And Fraudulent Trusteeism.

“Here’s Love of Groundless Charge—
   Here’s Malice, too, and Trickery,
Unusually large
   Your bump of Pocket-Pickery—”

“Stop!” said the Bart., “my cup
   Is full—I’m worse than him in all;
Policeman, take me up—
   No doubt I am some criminal!”

That Pleeceman’s scorn grew large
   (Phrenology had nettled it),
He took that Bart. in charge—
   I don’t know how they settled it.

   Once a fairy
   Light and airy
Married with a mortal;
   Men, however,
   Never, never
Pass the fairy portal.
   Slyly stealing,
   She to Ealing
Made a daily journey;
   There she found him,
   Clients round him
(He was an attorney).

   Long they tarried,
   Then they married.
When the ceremony
   Once was ended,
   Off they wended
On their moon of honey.
   Twelvemonth, maybe,
   Saw a baby
(Friends performed an orgie).
   Much they prized him,
   And baptized him
By the name of Georgie.

   Georgie grew up;
   Then he flew up
To his fairy mother.
   Happy meeting—
   Pleasant greeting—
Kissing one another.
   “Choose a calling
   Most enthralling,
I sincerely urge ye.”
   “Mother,” said he
   (Rev’rence made he),
“I would join the clergy.

   “Give permission
   In addition—
Pa will let me do it:
   There’s a living
   In his giving—
He’ll appoint me to it.
   Dreams of coff’ring,
   Easter off’ring,
Tithe and rent and pew-rate,
   So inflame me
   (Do not blame me),
That I’ll be a curate.”

   She, with pleasure,
   Said, “My treasure,
’T is my wish precisely.
   Do your duty,
   There’s a beauty;
You have chosen wisely.
   Tell your father
   I would rather
As a churchman rank you.
   You, in clover,
   I’ll watch over.”
Georgie said, “Oh, thank you!”

   Georgie scudded,
   Went and studied,
Made all preparations,
   And with credit
   (Though he said it)
Passed examinations.
   (Do not quarrel
   With him, moral,
Scrupulous digestions—
   ’Twas his mother,
   And no other,
Answered all the questions.)

   Time proceeded;
   Little needed
Georgie admonition:
   He, elated,
   Vindicated
Clergyman’s position.
   People round him
   Always found him
Plain and unpretending;
   Kindly teaching,
   Plainly preaching,
All his money lending.

   So the fairy,
   Wise and wary,
Felt no sorrow rising—
   No occasion
   For persuasion,
Warning, or advising.
   He, resuming
   Fairy pluming
(That’s not English, is it?)
   Oft would fly up,
   To the sky up,
Pay mamma a visit.

* * * * * * * *

   Time progressing,
   Georgie’s blessing
Grew more Ritualistic—
   Popish scandals,
   Tonsures—sandals—
Genuflections mystic;
   Gushing meetings—
   Bosom-beatings—
Heavenly ecstatics—
   Broidered spencers—
   Copes and censers—
Rochets and dalmatics.

   This quandary
   Vexed the fairy—
Flew she down to Ealing.
   “Georgie, stop it!
   Pray you, drop it;
Hark to my appealing:
   To this foolish
   Papal rule-ish
Twaddle put an ending;
   This a swerve is
   From our Service
Plain and unpretending.”

   He, replying,
   Answered, sighing,
Hawing, hemming, humming,
   “It’s a pity—
   They’re so pritty;
Yet in mode becoming,
   Mother tender,
   I’ll surrender—
I’ll be unaffected—”
   But his Bishop
   Into his shop
Entered unexpected!

   “Who is this, sir,—
   Ballet miss, sir?”
Said the Bishop coldly.
   “’T is my mother,
   And no other,”
Georgie answered boldly.
   “Go along, sir!
   You are wrong, sir;
You have years in plenty,
   While this hussy
   (Gracious mussy!)
Isn’t two and twenty!”

A maiden sat at her window wide,
Pretty enough for a Prince’s bride,
   Yet nobody came to claim her.
She sat like a beautiful picture there,
With pretty bluebells and roses fair,
   And jasmine-leaves to frame her.
And why she sat there nobody knows;
But this she sang as she plucked a rose,
   The leaves around her strewing:
“I’ve time to lose and power to choose;
’T is not so much the gallant who woos,
   But the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A lover came riding by awhile,
A wealthy lover was he, whose smile
   Some maids would value greatly—
A formal lover, who bowed and bent,
With many a high-flown compliment,
   And cold demeanour stately,
“You’ve still,” said she to her suitor stern,
“The ’prentice-work of your craft to learn,
   If thus you come a-cooing.
I’ve time to lose and power to choose;
’T is not so much the gallant who woos,
   As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A second lover came ambling by—
A timid lad with a frightened eye
   And a colour mantling highly.
He muttered the errand on which he’d come,
Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,
   And simpered, simpered shyly.
“No,” said the maiden, “go your way;
You dare but think what a man would say,
   Yet dare to come a-suing!
I’ve time to lose and power to choose;
’T is not so much the gallant who woos,
   As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A third rode up at a startling pace—
A suitor poor, with a homely face—
   No doubts appeared to bind him.
He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,
And off he rode with the maiden, placed
   On a pillion safe behind him.
And she heard the suitor bold confide
This golden hint to the priest who tied
   The knot there’s no undoing;
“With pretty young maidens who can choose,
’Tis not so much the gallant who woos,
   As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A RICHARDSON MELODRAMA

The sun was setting in its wonted west,
When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Met Mahry Daubigny, the Village Rose,
Under the Wizard’s Oak—old trysting-place
Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.

They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not;
For Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Found in Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc
A rival, envious and unscrupulous,
Who thought it not foul scorn to dodge his steps,
And listen, unperceived, to all that passed
Between the simple little Village Rose
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

A clumsy barrack-bully was Dubosc,
Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact
That animates a proper gentleman
In dealing with a girl of humble rank.
You’ll understand his coarseness when I say
He would have married Mahry Daubigny,
And dragged the unsophisticated girl
Into the whirl of fashionable life,
For which her singularly rustic ways,
Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude),
Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical),
Would absolutely have unfitted her.
How different to this unreflecting boor
Was Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

Contemporary with the incident
Related in our opening paragraph,
Was that sad war ’twixt Gallia and ourselves
That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;
And so Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc
(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Were sent by Charles of France against the lines
Of our Sixth Henry (Fourteen twenty-nine),
To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.

When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Returned, suspecting nothing, to his camp,
After his meeting with the Village Rose,
He found inside his barrack letter-box
A note from the commanding officer,
Requiring his attendance at head-quarters.
He went, and found Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles.

“Young Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
This night we shall attack the English camp:
Be the ‘forlorn hope’ yours—you’ll lead it, sir,
And lead it too with credit, I’ve no doubt.
As every man must certainly be killed
(For you are twenty ’gainst two thousand men),
It is not likely that you will return.
But what of that? you’ll have the benefit
Of knowing that you die a soldier’s death.”

Obedience was young Hongree’s strongest point,
But he imagined that he only owed
Allegiance to his Mahry and his King.
“If Mahry bade me lead these fated men,
I’d lead them—but I do not think she would.
If Charles, my King, said, ‘Go, my son, and die,’
I’d go, of course—my duty would be clear.
But Mahry is in bed asleep, I hope,
And Charles, my King, a hundred leagues from this.
As for Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc,
How know I that our monarch would approve
The order he has given me to-night?
My King I’ve sworn in all things to obey—
I’ll only take my orders from my King!”
Thus Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Interpreted the terms of his commission.

And Hongree, who was wise as he was good,
Disguised himself that night in ample cloak,
Round flapping hat, and vizor mask of black,
And made, unnoticed, for the English camp.
He passed the unsuspecting sentinels
(Who little thought a man in this disguise
Could be a proper object of suspicion),
And ere the curfew bell had boomed “lights out,”
He found in audience Bedford’s haughty Duke.

“Your Grace,” he said, “start not—be not alarmed,
Although a Frenchman stands before your eyes.
I’m Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
My Colonel will attack your camp to-night,
And orders me to lead the hope forlorn.
Now I am sure our excellent King Charles
Would not approve of this; but he’s away
A hundred leagues, and rather more than that.
So, utterly devoted to my King,
Blinded by my attachment to the throne,
And having but its interest at heart,
I feel it is my duty to disclose
All schemes that emanate from Colonel Jooles,
If I believe that they are not the kind
Of schemes that our good monarch would approve.”

“But how,” said Bedford’s Duke, “do you propose
That we should overthrow your Colonel’s scheme?”
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Replied at once with never-failing tact:
“Oh, sir, I know this cursed country well.
Entrust yourself and all your host to me;
I’ll lead you safely by a secret path
Into the heart of Colonel Jooles’ array,
And you can then attack them unprepared,
And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed.”

The thing was done.  The Duke of Bedford gave
The order, and two thousand fighting men
Crept silently into the Gallic camp,
And slew the Frenchmen as they lay asleep;
And Bedford’s haughty Duke slew Colonel Jooles,
And gave fair Mahry, pride of Aquitaine,
To Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.