When I went to the Bar as a very young man
(Said I to myself—said I),
I'll work on a new and original plan
(Said I to myself—said I),
I'll never assume that a rogue or a thief
Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief,
Because his attorney has sent me a brief
(Said I to myself—said I!)
I'll never throw dust in a juryman's eyes
(Said I to myself—said I),
Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise
(Said I to myself—said I),
Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force
In Exchequer, Queen's Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce,
Have perjured themselves as a matter of course
(Said I to myself—said I!)
Ere I go into court I will read my brief through
(Said I to myself—said I),
And I'll never take work I'm unable to do
(Said I to myself—said I).
My learned profession I'll never disgrace
By taking a fee with a grin on my face,
When I haven't been there to attend to the case
(Said I to myself—said I!)
In other professions in which men engage
(Said I to myself—said I),
The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage
(Said I to myself—said I),
Professional licence, if carried too far,
Your chance of promotion will certainly mar—
And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar
(Said I to myself—said I!)
ANNIE PROTHEROE
A LEGEND OF STRATFORD-LE-BOW
Oh! listen to the tale of little Annie Protheroe,
She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of Bow,
She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day—
A gentle executioner whose name was Gilbert Clay.
I think I hear you say, "A dreadful subject for your rhymes!"
O reader, do not shrink—he didn't live in modern times!
He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance)
That all his actions glitter with the limelight of Romance.
In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day—
"No doubt you mean his Cal-craft" you amusingly will say—
But, no—he didn't operate with common bits of string,
He was a Public Headsman, which is quite another thing.
And when his work was over, they would ramble o'er the lea,
And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree;
And Annie's simple prattle entertained him on his walk,
For public executions formed the subject of her talk.
And sometimes he'd explain to her, which charmed her very much,
How famous operators vary very much in touch,
And then, perhaps, he'd show how he himself performed the trick,
And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick.
Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look
At his favourable notices, all pasted in a book,
And then her cheek would flush—her swimming eyes would dance with joy
In a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy.
One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle Gilbert said
(As he helped his pretty Annie to a slice of collared head),
"This collared head reminds me that to-morrow is the day
When I decapitate your former lover, Peter Gray."
He saw his Annie tremble and he saw his Annie start,
Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart;
Young Gilbert's manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear,
And he said, "O gentle Annie, what's the meaning of this here?"
And Annie answered, blushing in an interesting way,
"You think, no doubt, I'm sighing for that felon Peter Gray:
That I was his young woman is unquestionably true,
But not since I began a-keeping company with you."
Then Gilbert, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore
He'd know the reason why if she refused to tell him more;
And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes),
"You mustn't ask no questions, and you won't be told no lies!
"Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you,
Of chopping off a rival's head and quartering him too!
Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!"
And Gilbert ground his molars as he answered her, "I will!"
Young Gilbert rose from table with a stern determined look,
And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook;
And Annie watched his movements with an interested air—
For the morrow—for the morrow he was going to prepare!
He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill,
He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until
This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law
Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.
And Annie said, "O Gilbert, dear, I do not understand
Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?"
He said, "It is intended for to lacerate and flay
The neck of that unmitigated villain Peter Gray!"
"Now, Gilbert," Annie answered, "wicked headsman just beware—
I won't have Peter tortured with that horrible affair;
If you attempt to flay him, you will surely rue the day."
But Gilbert said, "Oh, shall I?" which was just his nasty way.
He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart,
For Annie was a woman, and had pity in her heart!
She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare;
She only said, "Remember, for your Annie will be there!"
The morrow Gilbert boldly on the scaffold took his stand,
With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand,
And all the people noticed that the Engine of the Law
Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.
The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock,
And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block—
The hatchet was uplifted for to settle Peter Gray,
When Gilbert plainly heard a woman's voice exclaiming, "Stay!"
'Twas Annie, gentle Annie, as you'll easily believe—
"O Gilbert, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve,
It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago,
And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.
"I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, Gilbert Clay,
And having quite surrendered all idea of Peter Gray,
I quietly suppressed it, as you'll clearly understand,
For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.
"In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before)
To lacerate poor Peter Gray vindictively you swore;
I told you if you used that blunted axe you'd rue the day,
And so you will, you monster, for I'll marry Peter Gray!"
[And so she did.]
SORRY HER LOT
Sorry her lot who loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!
Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—
Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!
AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS
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."
The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer's clerk,
The bard deer-stealing, after dark.
"Go with me to a notary—seal me there
Your single bond."
—Merchant of Venice, Act I., sc. 3.
"And there she shall, at Friar Lawrence' cell,
Be shrived and married."
—Romeo and Juliet, Act II., sc. 4.
"And give their fasting horses provender."
—Henry the Fifth, Act IV., sc. 2.
The bard a skilled musician[8] too—
Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though with all my skill I try,
Yet even I can barely mock
The glimmer of his wondrous eye!
One morning as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard;
"My gracious goodness," I exclaimed,
"How very like my dear old bard!
"Oh, what a model he would make!"
I rushed outside—impulsive me!—
"Forgive the liberty I take,
But you're so very"—"Stop!" said he.
"You needn't waste your breath or time,—
I know what you are going to say,—
That you're an artist, and that I'm
Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh?
"Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares."
—Troilus and Cressida, Act I., sc. 3.
"Then must the Jew be merciful."
—Merchant of Venice, Act IV., sc. 1.
"The spring, the summer,
The childing autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries."
—Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II., sc. 1.
"In the county of Glo'ster, justice of the peace and coram."
—Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I., sc. 1.
"What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?"
—King John, Act V., sc. 2.
"And I'll provide his executioner."
—Henry the Sixth (Second Part), Act III., sc. 1.
"The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled."
—As You Like It, Act IV., sc. 3.
"You wish that I would sit to you?"
I clasped him madly round the waist,
And breathlessly replied, "I do!"
"All right," said he, "but please make haste."
I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,—
There never was a nobler face!
"Oh, sir," I said, "a fortune grand
Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—
To sport his brow at second-hand,
To wear his cast-off countenance!
"To rub his eyes whene'er they ache—
To wear his baldness ere you're old—
To clean his teeth when you awake—
To blow his nose when you've a cold!"
His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—
I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;
"Bravo!" I said, "I recognise
The phrensy of your prototype!"
His scanty hair he wildly tore:
"That's right," said I, "it shows your breed."
He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—
"Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"
"Sir," said the grand Shakespearian boy
(Continuing to blaze away),
"You think my face a source of joy;
That shows you know not what you say.
"Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps,
I'm always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
This wretched man congratulate.
"For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—
This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,
Have always been the origin
Of all the woes I ever knew!
"If to the play my way I find,
To see a grand Shakespearian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
Until the author's puppets cease!
"Men nudge each other—thus—and say,
'This certainly is Shakespeare's son,'
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry 'Author!' when the piece is done.
"In church the people stare at me,
Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.
"And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with Brown's insipid smile,
Or Tomkins's unmannered frown,
"Yet boldly make my face their own,
When (oh, presumption!) they require
To animate a paving-stone
With Shakespeare's intellectual fire.
"At parties where young ladies gaze,
And I attempt to speak my joy,
'Hush, pray,' some lovely creature says,
'The fond illusion don't destroy!'
"Whene'er I speak my soul is wrung
With these or some such whisperings;
''Tis pity that a Shakespeare's tongue
Should say such un-Shakespearian things!'
"I should not thus be criticised
Had I a face of common wont:
Don't envy me—now, be advised!"
And, now I think of it, I don't!
THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY
When all night long a chap remains
On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
That is, assuming that he's got any.
Though never nurtured in the lap
Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
And think of things that would astonish you.
I often think it's comical
How Nature always does contrive
That every boy and every gal,
That's born into the world alive,
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!
When in that house M.P.'s divide,
If they've a brain and cerebellum, too,
They've got to leave that brain outside,
And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to.
But then the prospect of a lot
Of statesmen, all in close proximity,
A-thinking for themselves, is what
No man can face with equanimity.
Then let's rejoice with loud Fal lal
That Nature wisely does contrive
That every boy and every gal,
That's born into the world alive,
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!
GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.
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 PHILOSOPHIC PILL
I've wisdom from the East and from the West,
That's subject to no academic rule;
You may find it in the jeering of a jest,
Or distil it from the folly of a fool.
I can teach you with a quip, if I've a mind;
I can trick you into learning with a laugh;
Oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll find
A grain or two of truth among the chaff!
I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,
The upstart I can wither with a whim;
He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,
But his laughter has an echo that is grim.
When they're offered to the world in merry guise,
Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—
For he who'd make his fellow-creatures wise
Should always gild the philosophic pill!
THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM
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 the 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
At Canoodle-Dum 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
('Twas all that they had to darn).
They "hoisted their slacks," adjusting
Garments of plantain-leaves
With nautical twitches (as if they wore—stitches.
Instead of a dress like Eve's!)
They shivered their timbers proudly,
At a phantom fore-lock 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 Civilisation's train).
But Fortune, who loves a bathos,
A terrible ending planned,
For Admiral D. Chickabiddy, C.B.,
Placed foot on Canoodle land!
That officer 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
That Admiral slowly sailed.
Calamity said (with folly)
"Hum! nebber want him again—
Him civilise all of us, golly!
Calamity suck him brain!"
The people, however, were pained when
They saw him aboard the ship,
But none of them wept for their Freddy, except
Hum Pickity Wimple Tip.
BLUE BLOOD
Spurn not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well connected.
High rank involves no shame—
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
When virtuous love is sought,
Thy power is naught,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
Spare us the bitter pain
Of stern denials,
Nor with low-born disdain
Augment our trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
Of what avail art thou
To serve me now?
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!