The Bab Ballads

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

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

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

Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,
   His faults are not particularly shady,
You’ll never find him “shy”—for, once or twice
   Already, he’s been driven by a lady,
      Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—
      Because she hasn’t any further use for him.

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

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

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

I knew a boor—a clownish card
   (His only friends were pigs and cows and
The poultry of a small farmyard),
   Who came into two hundred thousand.

Good fortune worked no change in Brown,
   Though she’s a mighty social chymist;
He was a clown—and by a clown
   I do not mean a pantomimist.

It left him quiet, calm, and cool,
   Though hardly knowing what a crown was—
You can’t imagine what a fool
   Poor rich uneducated Brown was!

He scouted all who wished to come
   And give him monetary schooling;
And I propose to give you some
   Idea of his insensate fooling.

I formed a company or two—
   (Of course I don’t know what the rest meant,
I formed them solely with a view
   To help him to a sound investment).

Their objects were—their only cares—
   To justify their Boards in showing
A handsome dividend on shares
   And keep their good promoter going.

But no—the lout sticks to his brass,
   Though shares at par I freely proffer:
Yet—will it be believed?—the ass
   Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!

He adds, with bumpkin’s stolid grin
   (A weakly intellect denoting),
He’d rather not invest it in
   A company of my promoting!

“You have two hundred ‘thou’ or more,”
   Said I.  “You’ll waste it, lose it, lend it;
Come, take my furnished second floor,
   I’ll gladly show you how to spend it.”

But will it be believed that he,
   With grin upon his face of poppy,
Declined my aid, while thanking me
   For what he called my “philanthroppy”?

Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice
   In doubting friends who wouldn’t harm them;
They will not hear the charmer’s voice,
   However wisely he may charm them!

I showed him that his coat, all dust,
   Top boots and cords provoked compassion,
And proved that men of station must
   Conform to the decrees of fashion.

I showed him where to buy his hat
   To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;
But no—he wouldn’t hear of that—
   “He didn’t think the style would suit him!”

I offered him a county seat,
   And made no end of an oration;
I made it certainty complete,
   And introduced the deputation.

But no—the clown my prospect blights—
   (The worth of birth it surely teaches!)
“Why should I want to spend my nights
   In Parliament, a-making speeches?

“I haven’t never been to school—
   I ain’t had not no eddication—
And I should surely be a fool
   To publish that to all the nation!”

I offered him a trotting horse—
   No hack had ever trotted faster—
I also offered him, of course,
   A rare and curious “old master.”

I offered to procure him weeds—
   Wines fit for one in his position—
But, though an ass in all his deeds,
   He’d learnt the meaning of “commission.”

He called me “thief” the other day,
   And daily from his door he thrusts me;
Much more of this, and soon I may
   Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me.

So deaf to all sound Reason’s rule
   This poor uneducated clown is,
You cannot fancy what a fool
   Poor rich uneducated Brown is.

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

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

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

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

He wept to think each thoughtless youth
   Contained of wickedness a skinful,
And burnt to teach the awful truth,
   That walking out on Sunday’s sinful.

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

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

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

“That matter settled, I shall reach
   The ‘Sixthly’ in my solemn tether,
And show that what is true of each,
   Is also true of all, together.

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

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

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

To “Twenty-firstly” on they go,
   The lads do not attempt to scout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
   He also argued round about him.

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

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

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

The hundred and eleventh head
   The priest completed of his stricture;
“Oh, bosh!” the worthy Bishop said,
   And walked him off as in the picture.

’Twas on the shores that round our coast
   From Deal to Ramsgate span,
That I found alone on a piece of stone
   An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,
   And weedy and long was he,
And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
   In a singular minor key:

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

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,
   Till I really felt afraid,
For I couldn’t help thinking the man had been drinking,
   And so I simply said:

“Oh, elderly man, it’s little I know
   Of the duties of men of the sea,
And I’ll eat my hand if I understand
   However you can be

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The next lot fell to the Nancy’s mate,
   And a delicate dish he made;
Then our appetite with the midshipmite
   We seven survivors stayed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Come here,’ says he, with a proper pride,
   Which his smiling features tell,
‘’T will soothing be if I let you see
   How extremely nice you’ll smell.’

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

His people—twenty-three in sum—
They played the eloquent tum-tum,
And lived on scalps served up, in rum—
      The only sauce they knew.
When first good Bishop Peter came
(For Peter was that Bishop’s name),
To humour them, he did the same
      As they of Rum-ti-Foo.

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

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

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

The Bishop chuckled at the sight.
“This style of dancing would delight
A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.
      I’ll learn it if I can,
To please the tribe when I get back.”
He begged the man to teach his knack.
“Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack,”
      Replied that dancing man.

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

“Come, walk like this,” the dancer said,
“Stick out your toes—stick in your head,
Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread—
      Your fingers thus extend;
The attitude’s considered quaint.”
The weary Bishop, feeling faint,
Replied, “I do not say it ain’t,
      But ‘Time!’ my Christian friend!”

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

Another game the dancer planned—
“Just take your ankle in your hand,
And try, my lord, if you can stand—
      Your body stiff and stark.
If, when revisiting your see,
You learnt to hop on shore—like me—
The novelty would striking be,
      And must attract remark.”

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

“The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Are well-conducted persons, who
Approve a joke as much as you,
      And laugh at it as such;
But if they saw their Bishop land,
His leg supported in his hand,
The joke they wouldn’t understand—
      ’Twould pain them very much!”

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

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

She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be,
         With her tempting smiles
         And maidenly wiles,
And he was a trifle past seventy-three:
         Now what she could see
         Is a puzzle to me,
In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three!

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

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

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

He’d chuck his nurse under the chin, and he’d say,
         With his “Fal, lal, lal”—
         “’Oo doosed fine gal!”
This shocking precocity drove ’em away:
         “A month from to-day
         Is as long as I’ll stay—
Then I’d wish, if you please, for to toddle away.”

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

But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,
         With his “C’ck!  Oh, my!—
         Go along wiz ’oo, fie!”
Would exclaim, “I’m afraid ’oo a socking ole fox.”
         Now a father it shocks,
         And it whitens his locks,
When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.

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

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

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

MORAL.

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

“Gentle, modest little flower,
   Sweet epitome of May,
Love me but for half an hour,
   Love me, love me, little fay.”
Sentences so fiercely flaming
   In your tiny shell-like ear,
I should always be exclaiming
   If I loved you, Phœbe dear.

“Smiles that thrill from any distance
   Shed upon me while I sing!
Please ecstaticize existence,
   Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!”
Words like these, outpouring sadly
   You’d perpetually hear,
If I loved you fondly, madly;—
   But I do not, Phœbe dear.

Of all the good attorneys who
   Have placed their names upon the roll,
But few could equal Baines Carew
   For tender-heartedness and soul.

Whene’er he heard a tale of woe
   From client A or client B,
His grief would overcome him so
   He’d scarce have strength to take his fee.

It laid him up for many days,
   When duty led him to distrain,
And serving writs, although it pays,
   Gave him excruciating pain.

He made out costs, distrained for rent,
   Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye—
No bill of costs could represent
   The value of such sympathy.

No charges can approximate
   The worth of sympathy with woe;—
Although I think I ought to state
   He did his best to make them so.

Of all the many clients who
   Had mustered round his legal flag,
No single client of the crew
   Was half so dear as Captain Bagg.

Now, Captain Bagg had bowed him to
   A heavy matrimonial yoke—
His wifey had of faults a few—
   She never could resist a joke.

Her chaff at first he meekly bore,
   Till unendurable it grew.
“To stop this persecution sore
   I will consult my friend Carew.

“And when Carew’s advice I’ve got,
   Divorce a mensâ I shall try.”
(A legal separation—not
   A vinculo conjugii.)

“Oh, Baines Carew, my woe I’ve kept
   A secret hitherto, you know;”—
(And Baines Carew, Esquire, he wept
   To hear that Bagg had any woe.)

“My case, indeed, is passing sad.
   My wife—whom I considered true—
With brutal conduct drives me mad.”
   “I am appalled,” said Baines Carew.

“What! sound the matrimonial knell
   Of worthy people such as these!
Why was I an attorney?  Well—
   Go on to the sævitia, please.”

“Domestic bliss has proved my bane,—
   A harder case you never heard,
My wife (in other matters sane)
   Pretends that I’m a Dicky bird!

“She makes me sing, ‘Too-whit, too-wee!’
   And stand upon a rounded stick,
And always introduces me
   To every one as ‘Pretty Dick’!”

“Oh, dear,” said weeping Baines Carew,
   “This is the direst case I know.”
“I’m grieved,” said Bagg, “at paining you—
   To Cobb and Poltherthwaite I’ll go—

“To Cobb’s cold, calculating ear,
   My gruesome sorrows I’ll impart”—
“No; stop,” said Baines, “I’ll dry my tear,
   And steel my sympathetic heart.”

“She makes me perch upon a tree,
   Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’
And threatens to exhibit me
   With four or five performing mice.”

“Restrain my tears I wish I could”
   (Said Baines), “I don’t know what to do.”
Said Captain Bagg, “You’re very good.”
   “Oh, not at all,” said Baines Carew.

“She makes me fire a gun,” said Bagg;
   “And, at a preconcerted word,
Climb up a ladder with a flag,
   Like any street performing bird.

“She places sugar in my way—
   In public places calls me ‘Sweet!’
She gives me groundsel every day,
   And hard canary-seed to eat.”

“Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!”
   (Said Baines).  “Be good enough to stop.”
And senseless on the floor he fell,
   With unpremeditated flop!

Said Captain Bagg, “Well, really I
   Am grieved to think it pains you so.
I thank you for your sympathy;
   But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!”

But Baines lay flat upon the floor,
   Convulsed with sympathetic sob;—
The Captain toddled off next door,
   And gave the case to Mr. Cobb.

In all the towns and cities fair
   On Merry England’s broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
   With Thomas Winterbottom Hance.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew
   A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton too—
   And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
   His sabre sometimes he’d employ—
No bar of lead, however thick,
   Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he’d prepare
   To hew and slash, behind, before—
Which aggravated Monsieur Pierre,
   Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good Pierre to swear and dance,
   The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France—
   He said so, and he ought to know.

“Regardez donc, ce cochon gros—
   Ce polisson!  Oh, sacré bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots
   Comme cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

“Il sait que les foulards de soie
   Give no retaliating whack—
Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi—
   Le plomb don’t ever hit you back.”

But every day the headstrong lad
   Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day poor Pierre, half mad,
   Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

Hance had a mother, poor and old,
   A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
   Of Winterbottom’s rising fame.

She said, “I’ll be upon the spot
   To see my Tommy’s sabre-play;”
And so she left her leafy cot,
   And walked to Dover in a day.

Pierre had a doating mother, who
   Had heard of his defiant rage;
His Ma was nearly ninety-two,
   And rather dressy for her age.

At Hance’s doings every morn,
   With sheer delight his mother cried;
And Monsieur Pierre’s contemptuous scorn
   Filled his mamma with proper pride.

But Hance’s powers began to fail—
   His constitution was not strong—
And Pierre, who once was stout and hale,
   Grew thin from shouting all day long.

Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
   Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
   To set their offsprings’ minds at rest.

Said Mrs. Hance, “Of course I shrinks
   From bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware,
But still they’d better meet, I thinks.”
   “Assurément!” said Madame Pierre.

A sunny spot in sunny France
   Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by Mrs. Hance,
   The stakes were pitched by Madame Pierre.

Said Mrs. H., “Your work you see—
   Go in, my noble boy, and win.”
“En garde, mon fils!” said Madame P.
   “Allons!”  “Go on!”  “En garde!”  “Begin!”

(The mothers were of decent size,
   Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
   I’ve been obliged to draw them small.)

Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
   “Ho! ho!  Ho! ho!  Ha! ha!  Ha! ha!”
“The French for ‘Pish’” said Thomas Hance.
   Said Pierre, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’”

Said Mrs. H., “Come, one! two! three!—
   We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.”
“C’est magnifique!” said Madame P.,
   “Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!”

“Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,”
   Said Pierre, the doughty son of France.
“I fight not coward foe like you!”
   Said our undaunted Tommy Hance.

“The French for ‘Pooh!’” our Tommy cried.
   “L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
   Each went on his respective road.

   The Reverend Micah Sowls,
   He shouts and yells and howls,
   He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
   He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
“The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,”

   The subject’s sad enough
   To make him rant and puff,
   And fortunately, too,
   His Bishop’s in a pew.

So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it’s o’er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where Micah, very red,
Is mopping of his head.

“Pardon, my Lord, your Sowls’ excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel.”
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)

   The Bishop bowed his head,
   And, acquiescing, said,
   “I’ve heard your well-meant rage
   Against the Modern Stage.

“A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,
Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may;
But let me ask you, my respected son,
Pray, have you ever ventured into one?”

   “My Lord,” said Micah, “no!
   I never, never go!
   What!  Go and see a play?
   My goodness gracious, nay!”

The worthy Bishop said, “My friend, no doubt
The Stage may be the place you make it out;
But if, my Reverend Sowls, you never go,
I don’t quite understand how you’re to know.”

   “Well, really,” Micah said,
   “I’ve often heard and read,
   But never go—do you?”
   The Bishop said, “I do.”

“That proves me wrong,” said Micah, in a trice:
“I thought it all frivolity and vice.”
The Bishop handed him a printed card;
“Go to a theatre where they play our Bard.”

   The Bishop took his leave,
   Rejoicing in his sleeve.
   The next ensuing day
   Sowls went and heard a play.

He saw a dreary person on the stage,
Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,
Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,
And spoke an English Sowls had never heard.

   For “gaunt” was spoken “garnt,”
   And “haunt” transformed to “harnt,”
   And “wrath” pronounced as “rath,”
   And “death” was changed to “dath.”

For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,
And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,
Till lethargy upon the parson crept,
And sleepy Micah Sowls serenely slept.

   He slept away until
   The farce that closed the bill
   Had warned him not to stay,
   And then he went away.

“I thought my gait ridiculous,” said he—
“My elocution faulty as could be;
I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan—
I had not seen our great Tragedian!

   “Forgive me, if you can,
   O great Tragedian!
   I own it with a sigh—
   You’re drearier than I!”

A Gentleman of City fame
   Now claims your kind attention;
East India broking was his game,
   His name I shall not mention:
      No one of finely-pointed sense
      Would violate a confidence,
            And shall I go
            And do it?  No!
   His name I shall not mention.

He had a trusty wife and true,
   And very cosy quarters,
A manager, a boy or two,
   Six clerks, and seven porters.
      A broker must be doing well
      (As any lunatic can tell)
            Who can employ
            An active boy,
   Six clerks, and seven porters.

His knocker advertised no dun,
   No losses made him sulky,
He had one sorrow—only one—
   He was extremely bulky.
      A man must be, I beg to state,
      Exceptionally fortunate
            Who owns his chief
            And only grief
   Is—being very bulky.

“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;
   I’m nineteen stone or twenty!
Henceforward I’ll go in for air
   And exercise in plenty.”
      Most people think that, should it come,
      They can reduce a bulging tum
            To measures fair
            By taking air
   And exercise in plenty.

In every weather, every day,
   Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,
He took to dancing all the way
   From Brompton to the City.
      You do not often get the chance
      Of seeing sugar brokers dance
            From their abode
            In Fulham Road
   Through Brompton to the City.

He braved the gay and guileless laugh
   Of children with their nusses,
The loud uneducated chaff
   Of clerks on omnibuses.
      Against all minor things that rack
      A nicely-balanced mind, I’ll back
            The noisy chaff
            And ill-bred laugh
   Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money chink,
   And saw the house he rented,
And knew his wife, could never think
   What made him discontented.
      It never entered their pure minds
      That fads are of eccentric kinds,
            Nor would they own
            That fat alone
   Could make one discontented.

“Your riches know no kind of pause,
   Your trade is fast advancing;
You dance—but not for joy, because
   You weep as you are dancing.
      To dance implies that man is glad,
      To weep implies that man is sad;
            But here are you
            Who do the two—
   You weep as you are dancing!”

His mania soon got noised about
   And into all the papers;
His size increased beyond a doubt
   For all his reckless capers:
      It may seem singular to you,
      But all his friends admit it true—
            The more he found
            His figure round,
   The more he cut his capers.

His bulk increased—no matter that—
   He tried the more to toss it—
He never spoke of it as “fat,”
   But “adipose deposit.”
      Upon my word, it seems to me
      Unpardonable vanity
            (And worse than that)
            To call your fat
   An “adipose deposit.”

At length his brawny knees gave way,
   And on the carpet sinking,
Upon his shapeless back he lay
   And kicked away like winking.
      Instead of seeing in his state
      The finger of unswerving Fate,
            He laboured still
            To work his will,
   And kicked away like winking.

His friends, disgusted with him now,
   Away in silence wended—
I hardly like to tell you how
   This dreadful story ended.
      The shocking sequel to impart,
      I must employ the limner’s art—
            If you would know,
            This sketch will show
   How his exertions ended.

MORAL.

I hate to preach—I hate to prate—
   I’m no fanatic croaker,
But learn contentment from the fate
   Of this East India broker.
      He’d everything a man of taste
      Could ever want, except a waist;
            And discontent
            His size anent,
   And bootless perseverance blind,
Completely wrecked the peace of mind
Of this East India broker.

         Vast empty shell!
Impertinent, preposterous abortion!
         With vacant stare,
         And ragged hair,
And every feature out of all proportion!
Embodiment of echoing inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
         I ring thy knell!

         To-night thou diest,
Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born identity!
         Nine weeks of nights,
         Before the lights,
Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,
I’ve been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,
Credited for the smile you wear externally—
I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,
         As there thou liest!

         I’ve been thy brain:
I’ve been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!
         The human race
         Invest my face
With thine expression of unchecked depravity,
Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,
I’ve been responsible for thy monstrosity,
I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity—
         But not again!

         ’T is time to toll
Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:
         A nine weeks’ run,
         And thou hast done
All thou canst do to make thyself inimical.
Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
         Freed is thy soul!

(The Mask respondeth.)

         Oh! master mine,
Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.
         Art thou aware
         Of nothing there
Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?
A brain that mourns thine unredeemed rascality?
A soul that weeps at thy threadbare morality?
Both grieving that their individuality
         Is merged in thine?

Lord B. was a nobleman bold
   Who came of illustrious stocks,
He was thirty or forty years old,
   And several feet in his socks.

To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea
   This elegant nobleman went,
For that was a borough that he
   Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.

At local assemblies he danced
   Until he felt thoroughly ill;
He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced,
   And threaded the mazy quadrille.

The maidens of Turniptopville
   Were simple—ingenuous—pure—
And they all worked away with a will
   The nobleman’s heart to secure.

Two maidens all others beyond
   Endeavoured his cares to dispel—
The one was the lively Ann Pond,
   The other sad Mary Morell.

Ann Pond had determined to try
   And carry the Earl with a rush;
Her principal feature was eye,
   Her greatest accomplishment—gush.

And Mary chose this for her play:
   Whenever he looked in her eye
She’d blush and turn quickly away,
   And flitter, and flutter, and sigh.

It was noticed he constantly sighed
   As she worked out the scheme she had planned,
A fact he endeavoured to hide
   With his aristocratical hand.

Old Pond was a farmer, they say,
   And so was old Tommy Morell.
In a humble and pottering way
   They were doing exceedingly well.

They both of them carried by vote
   The Earl was a dangerous man;
So nervously clearing his throat,
   One morning old Tommy began:

“My darter’s no pratty young doll—
   I’m a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—
Now what do ’ee mean by my Poll,
   And what do ’ee mean by his Ann?”

Said B., “I will give you my bond
   I mean them uncommonly well,
Believe me, my excellent Pond,
   And credit me, worthy Morell.

“It’s quite indisputable, for
   I’ll prove it with singular ease,—
You shall have it in ‘Barbara’ or
   ‘Celarent’—whichever you please.

‘You see, when an anchorite bows
   To the yoke of intentional sin,
If the state of the country allows,
   Homogeny always steps in—

“It’s a highly æsthetical bond,
   As any mere ploughboy can tell—”
“Of course,” replied puzzled old Pond.
   “I see,” said old Tommy Morell.

“Very good, then,” continued the lord;
   “When it’s fooled to the top of its bent,
With a sweep of a Damocles sword
   The web of intention is rent.

“That’s patent to all of us here,
   As any mere schoolboy can tell.”
Pond answered, “Of course it’s quite clear”;
   And so did that humbug Morell.

“Its tone’s esoteric in force—
   I trust that I make myself clear?”
Morell only answered, “Of course,”
   While Pond slowly muttered, “Hear, hear.”

“Volition—celestial prize,
   Pellucid as porphyry cell—
Is based on a principle wise.”
   “Quite so,” exclaimed Pond and Morell.

“From what I have said you will see
   That I couldn’t wed either—in fine,
By Nature’s unchanging decree
   Your daughters could never be mine.

“Go home to your pigs and your ricks,
   My hands of the matter I’ve rinsed.”
So they take up their hats and their sticks,
   And exeunt ambo, convinced.

O’er unreclaimed suburban clays
   Some years ago were hobblin’
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
   And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
   A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
   A fine low-comedy bogy.

And as they exercised their joints,
   Promoting quick digestion,
They talked on several curious points,
   And raised this delicate question:
“Which of us two is Number One—
   The ghostie, or the goblin?”
And o’er the point they raised in fun
   They fairly fell a-squabblin’.

They’d barely speak, and each, in fine,
   Grew more and more reflective:
Each thought his own particular line
   By chalks the more effective.
At length they settled some one should
   By each of them be haunted,
And so arrange that either could
   Exert his prowess vaunted.

“The Quaint against the Statuesque”—
   By competition lawful—
The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,
   The ghost the Grandly Awful.
“Now,” said the goblin, “here’s my plan—
   In attitude commanding,
I see a stalwart Englishman
   By yonder tailor’s standing.

“The very fittest man on earth
   My influence to try on—
Of gentle, p’r’aps of noble birth,
   And dauntless as a lion!
Now wrap yourself within your shroud—
   Remain in easy hearing—
Observe—you’ll hear him scream aloud
   When I begin appearing!”

The imp with yell unearthly—wild—
   Threw off his dark enclosure:
His dauntless victim looked and smiled
   With singular composure.
For hours he tried to daunt the youth,
   For days, indeed, but vainly—
The stripling smiled!—to tell the truth,
   The stripling smiled inanely.

For weeks the goblin weird and wild,
   That noble stripling haunted;
For weeks the stripling stood and smiled,
   Unmoved and all undaunted.
The sombre ghost exclaimed, “Your plan
   Has failed you, goblin, plainly:
Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,
   So stalwart and ungainly.

“These are the men who chase the roe,
   Whose footsteps never falter,
Who bring with them, where’er they go,
   A smack of old Sir Walter.
Of such as he, the men sublime
   Who lead their troops victorious,
Whose deeds go down to after-time,
   Enshrined in annals glorious!

“Of such as he the bard has said
   ‘Hech thrawfu’ raltie rorkie!
Wi’ thecht ta’ croonie clapperhead
   And fash’ wi’ unco pawkie!’
He’ll faint away when I appear,
   Upon his native heather;
Or p’r’aps he’ll only scream with fear,
   Or p’r’aps the two together.”

The spectre showed himself, alone,
   To do his ghostly battling,
With curdling groan and dismal moan,
   And lots of chains a-rattling!
But no—the chiel’s stout Gaelic stuff
   Withstood all ghostly harrying;
His fingers closed upon the snuff
   Which upwards he was carrying.

For days that ghost declined to stir,
   A foggy shapeless giant—
For weeks that splendid officer
   Stared back again defiant.
Just as the Englishman returned
   The goblin’s vulgar staring,
Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned
   The ghost’s unmannered scaring.

For several years the ghostly twain
   These Britons bold have haunted,
But all their efforts are in vain—
   Their victims stand undaunted.
This very day the imp, and ghost,
   Whose powers the imp derided,
Stand each at his allotted post—
   The bet is undecided.

A BISHOP once—I will not name his see—
   Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;
From pulpit shackles never set them free,
   And found a sin where sin was unintentional.
All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—
The Bishop was so terribly particular.

Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,
   He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;
And form his priests on that much-lauded plan
   Which pays undue attention to appearances.
He couldn’t do good deeds without a psalm in ’em,
Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in ’em.

Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,
   Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,
He sought by open censure to enhance
   Their dread of joining harmless social jollity.
Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)
The ordinary pleasures of society.

One evening, sitting at a pantomime
   (Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him),
Roaring at jokes, sans metre, sense, or rhyme,
   He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,
His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it,
A curate, also heartily enjoying it.

Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to enhance
   His children’s pleasure in their harmless rollicking,
He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;
   When something checked the current of his frolicking:
That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,
Stood up and figured with him in the “Coverley!”

Once, yielding to an universal choice
   (The company’s demand was an emphatic one,
For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),
   In a quartet he joined—an operatic one.
Harmless enough, though ne’er a word of grace in it,
When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!

One day, when passing through a quiet street,
   He stopped awhile and joined a Punch’s gathering;
And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet,
   To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;
And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty,
That phantom curate laughing all hyænally.

Now at a picnic, ’mid fair golden curls,
   Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly,
A croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;
   And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt praisingly;
But suddenly declines to play at all in it—
The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!

Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed
   From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,
He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,
   In manner anything but hierarchical—
He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—
That curate’s face, with half a yard of hair on it!

At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:
   “Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;
To check their harmless pleasuring’s absurd;
   What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may.”
He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,
The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.

No nobler captain ever trod
Than Captain Parklebury Todd,
   So good—so wise—so brave, he!
But still, as all his friends would own,
He had one folly—one alone—
   This Captain in the Navy.

I do not think I ever knew
A man so wholly given to
   Creating a sensation,
Or p’raps I should in justice say—
To what in an Adelphi play
   Is known as “situation.”

He passed his time designing traps
To flurry unsuspicious chaps—
   The taste was his innately;
He couldn’t walk into a room
Without ejaculating “Boom!”
   Which startled ladies greatly.

He’d wear a mask and muffling cloak,
Not, you will understand, in joke,
   As some assume disguises;
He did it, actuated by
A simple love of mystery
   And fondness for surprises.

I need not say he loved a maid—
His eloquence threw into shade
   All others who adored her.
The maid, though pleased at first, I know,
Found, after several years or so,
   Her startling lover bored her.

So, when his orders came to sail,
She did not faint or scream or wail,
   Or with her tears anoint him:
She shook his hand, and said “Good-bye,”
With laughter dancing in her eye—
   Which seemed to disappoint him.

But ere he went aboard his boat,
He placed around her little throat
   A ribbon, blue and yellow,
On which he hung a double-tooth—
A simple token this, in sooth—
   ’Twas all he had, poor fellow!

“I often wonder,” he would say,
When very, very far away,
   “If Angelina wears it?
A plan has entered in my head:
I will pretend that I am dead,
   And see how Angy bears it.”

The news he made a messmate tell.
His Angelina bore it well,
   No sign gave she of crazing;
But, steady as the Inchcape Rock,
His Angelina stood the shock
   With fortitude amazing.

She said, “Some one I must elect
Poor Angelina to protect
   From all who wish to harm her.
Since worthy Captain Todd is dead,
I rather feel inclined to wed
   A comfortable farmer.”

A comfortable farmer came
(Bassanio Tyler was his name),
   Who had no end of treasure.
He said, “My noble gal, be mine!”
The noble gal did not decline,
   But simply said, “With pleasure.”

When this was told to Captain Todd,
At first he thought it rather odd,
   And felt some perturbation;
But very long he did not grieve,
He thought he could a way perceive
   To such a situation!

“I’ll not reveal myself,” said he,
“Till they are both in the Ecclesiastical arena;
   Then suddenly I will appear,
And paralysing them with fear,
Demand my Angelina!”

At length arrived the wedding day;
Accoutred in the usual way
   Appeared the bridal body;
The worthy clergyman began,
When in the gallant Captain ran
   And cried, “Behold your Toddy!”

The bridegroom, p’raps, was terrified,
And also possibly the bride—
   The bridesmaids were affrighted;
But Angelina, noble soul,
Contrived her feelings to control,
   And really seemed delighted.

“My bride!” said gallant Captain Todd,
“She’s mine, uninteresting clod!
   My own, my darling charmer!”
“Oh dear,” said she, “you’re just too late—
I’m married to, I beg to state,
   This comfortable farmer!”

“Indeed,” the farmer said, “she’s mine:
You’ve been and cut it far too fine!”
   “I see,” said Todd, “I’m beaten.”
And so he went to sea once more,
“Sensation” he for aye forswore,
And married on her native shore
A lady whom he’d met before—
   A lovely Otaheitan.