It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about
And zealous as could be.
It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney 'bus—
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.
His name was Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon—-
This 'bus-directing Jew.
The Bishop said, said he,
"I'll see what I can do
To Christianise and make you wise,
You poor benighted Jew."
So every blessed day
That 'bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:
"His name is Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon—
This 'bus-directing Jew."
At first the 'busman smiled,
And rather liked the fun—
He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,
And said, "Eccentric one!"
And gay young dogs would wait
To see the 'bus go by
(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),
To hear the Bishop cry:
"Observe his grisly beard,
His race it clearly shows,
He sticks no fork in ham or pork—
Observe, my friends, his nose.
"His name is Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon—
This 'bus-directing Jew."
But though at first amused,
Yet after seven years,
This Hebrew child got rather riled,
And melted into tears.
He really almost feared
To leave his poor abode,
His nose, and name, and beard became
A byword on that road.
At length he swore an oath,
The reason he would know—
"I'll call and see why ever he
Does persecute me so!"
The good old Bishop sat
On his ancestral chair,
The 'busman came, sent up his name,
And laid his grievance bare.
"Benighted Jew," he said
(The good old Bishop did),
"Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—
Become a Christian kid!
"I'll ne'er annoy you more."
"Indeed?" replied the Jew;
"Shall I be freed?" "You will, indeed!"
Then "Done!" said he, "with you!"
The organ which, in man,
Between the eyebrows grows,
Fell from his face, and in its place
He found a Christian nose.
His tangled Hebrew beard,
Which to his waist came down.
Was now a pair of whiskers fair—
His name Adolphus Brown!
He wedded in a year
That prelate's daughter Jane,
He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—
His wife is far from plain.
THE HEAVY DRAGOON
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
Rattle them off to a popular tune!
The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—
Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;
The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—
Coolness of Paget about to trepan—
The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico—
Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—
The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—
Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—
The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery—
Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—
Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—
Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—
Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot!
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,
Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—
Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—
A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—
Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—
The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—
Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—
The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal—
Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibal—
Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—
Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—
Beadle of Burlington—Richardson's show—
Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!
Take of these elements all that is fusible—
Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible—
Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
THE TROUBADOUR
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!"
Unknown her face and name,
But this he knew right well,
The maiden's wailing came
From out a dungeon cell.
A hapless woman lay
Within that prison 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 recognise your touch;
And all that I can say,
Is thank you very much!"
He seized his clarion straight,
And blew thereat, until
A warder 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."
With barely stifled sigh
That porter drooped his head,
With teardrops in his eye,
"A many, sir," he said.
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!
"And if you don't, my lord"—
He here stood bolt upright.
And tapped a tailor's sword—
"Come out at once and fight!"
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 passed
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.
"They gets it pretty hot,
The maidens wot we cotch—
Two years this lady's got
For collaring a wotch."
"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.
PROPER PRIDE
The Sun, whose rays
Are all ablaze
With ever-living glory,
Will not deny
His majesty—
He scorns to tell a story:
He won't exclaim,
"I blush for shame,
So kindly be indulgent,"
But, fierce and bold,
In fiery gold,
He glories all effulgent!
I mean to rule the earth,
As he the sky—
We really know our worth,
The Sun and I!
Observe his flame,
That placid dame,
The Moon's Celestial Highness;
There's not a trace
Upon her face
Of diffidence or shyness:
She borrows light
That, through the night,
Mankind may all acclaim her!
And, truth to tell,
She lights up well,
So I, for one, don't blame her!
Ah, pray make no mistake,
We are not shy;
We're very wide awake,
The Moon and I!
FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN
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.
So I whispered, "Dear Elvira, say—what can the matter be with you?
Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy, disagree with you?"
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 bonbon 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 Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";
But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.
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 think must have been clever, for 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, "Oh, 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 birdcage, 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"—
"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"
Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.
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!
THE POLICEMAN'S LOT
When a felon's not engaged in his employment,
Or maturing his felonious little plans,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man's.
Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When constabulary duty's to be done:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
A policeman's lot is not a happy one!
When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,
When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
And listen to the merry village chime.
When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,
He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
The policeman's lot is not a happy one!