The Bab Ballads

Letters, letters, letters, letters!
   Some that please and some that bore,
Some that threaten prison fetters
(Metaphorically, fetters
Such as bind insolvent debtors)—
   Invitations by the score.

One from Cogson, Wiles, and Railer,
   My attorneys, off the Strand;
One from Copperblock, my tailor—
My unreasonable tailor—
   One in Flagg’s disgusting hand.

One from Ephraim and Moses,
   Wanting coin without a doubt,
I should like to pull their noses—
Their uncompromising noses;
One from Alice with the roses—
   Ah, I know what that’s about!

Time was when I waited, waited
   For the missives that she wrote,
Humble postmen execrated—
Loudly, deeply execrated—
When I heard I wasn’t fated
   To be gladdened with a note!

Time was when I’d not have bartered
   Of her little pen a dip
For a peerage duly gartered—
For a peerage starred and gartered—
With a palace-office chartered,
   Or a Secretaryship.

But the time for that is over,
   And I wish we’d never met.
I’m afraid I’ve proved a rover—
I’m afraid a heartless rover—
Quarters in a place like Dover
   Tend to make a man forget.

Bills for carriages and horses,
   Bills for wine and light cigar,
Matters that concern the Forces—
News that may affect the Forces—
News affecting my resources,
   Much more interesting are!

And the tiny little paper,
   With the words that seem to run
From her little fingers taper
(They are very small and taper),
By the tailor and the draper
   Are in interest outdone.

And unopened it’s remaining!
   I can read her gentle hope—
Her entreaties, uncomplaining
(She was always uncomplaining),
Her devotion never waning—
   Through the little envelope!

An Actor sits in doubtful gloom,
   His stock-in-trade unfurled,
In a damp funereal dressing-room
   In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-time,
   And braves its icy breath,
To play in that favourite pantomime,
   Harlequin Life and Death.

A hoary flowing wig his weird
   Unearthly cranium caps,
He hangs a long benevolent beard
   On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features down
   The actor’s art he cribs,—
A long and a flowing padded gown.
   Bedecks his rattling ribs.

He cries, “Go on—begin, begin!
   Turn on the light of lime—
I’m dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in
   A favourite pantomime!”

The curtain’s up—the stage all black—
   Time and the year nigh sped—
Time as an advertising quack—
   The Old Year nearly dead.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo!
   Revealed Old Christmas stands,
And little children chuckle and crow,
   And laugh and clap their hands.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens up
   At the death of the Olden Year,
And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,
   And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King,—
   No thought can make them sad.
Their laughter comes with a sounding ring,
   They clap and crow like mad!

They only see in the humbug old
   A holiday every year,
And handsome gifts, and joys untold,
   And unaccustomed cheer.

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,
   Their breasts in anguish beat—
They’ve seen him seventy times before,
   How well they know the cheat!

They’ve seen that ghastly pantomime,
   They’ve felt its blighting breath,
They know that rollicking Christmas-time
   Meant Cold and Want and Death,—

Starvation—Poor Law Union fare—
   And deadly cramps and chills,
And illness—illness everywhere,
   And crime, and Christmas bills.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween,
   Those men of ripened age;
They’ve often, often, often seen
   That Actor off the stage!

They see in his gay rotundity
   A clumsy stuffed-out dress—
They see in the cup he waves on high
   A tinselled emptiness.

Those aged men so lean and wan,
   They’ve seen it all before,
They know they’ll see the charlatan
   But twice or three times more.

And so they bear with dance and song,
   And crimson foil and green,
They wearily sit, and grimly long
   For the Transformation Scene.

King Borria Bungalee Boo
   Was a man-eating African swell;
His sigh was a hullaballoo,
   His whisper a horrible yell—
   A horrible, horrible yell!

Four subjects, and all of them male,
   To Borria doubled the knee,
They were once on a far larger scale,
   But he’d eaten the balance, you see
   (“Scale” and “balance” is punning, you see).

There was haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah,
   There was lumbering Doodle-Dum-Dey,
Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah,
   And good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—
   Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh.

One day there was grief in the crew,
   For they hadn’t a morsel of meat,
And Borria Bungalee Boo
   Was dying for something to eat—
   “Come, provide me with something to eat!

“Alack-a-Dey, famished I feel;
   Oh, good little Tootle-Tum-Teh,
Where on earth shall I look for a meal?
   For I haven’t no dinner to-day!—
   Not a morsel of dinner to-day!

“Dear Tootle-Tum, what shall we do?
   Come, get us a meal, or, in truth,
If you don’t, we shall have to eat you,
   Oh, adorable friend of our youth!
   Thou beloved little friend of our youth!”

And he answered, “Oh, Bungalee Boo,
   For a moment I hope you will wait,—
Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo
   Is the Queen of a neighbouring state—
   A remarkably neighbouring state.

“Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo,
   She would pickle deliciously cold—
And her four pretty Amazons, too,
   Are enticing, and not very old—
   Twenty-seven is not very old.

“There is neat little Titty-Fol-Leh,
   There is rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah,
There is jocular Waggety-Weh,
   There is musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah—
   There’s the nightingale Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah!”

So the forces of Bungalee Boo
   Marched forth in a terrible row,
And the ladies who fought for Queen Loo
   Prepared to encounter the foe—
   This dreadful, insatiate foe!

But they sharpened no weapons at all,
   And they poisoned no arrows—not they!
They made ready to conquer or fall
   In a totally different way—
   An entirely different way.

With a crimson and pearly-white dye
   They endeavoured to make themselves fair,
With black they encircled each eye,
   And with yellow they painted their hair
   (It was wool, but they thought it was hair).

And the forces they met in the field:—
   And the men of King Borria said,
“Amazonians, immediately yield!”
   And their arrows they drew to the head—
   Yes, drew them right up to the head.

But jocular Waggety-Weh
   Ogled Doodle-Dum-Dey (which was wrong),
And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh
   Said, “Tootle-Tum, you go along!
   You naughty old dear, go along!”

And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah
   Tapped Alack-a-Dey-Ah with her fan;
And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah
   Said, “Pish, go away, you bad man!
   Go away, you delightful young man!”

And the Amazons simpered and sighed,
   And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,
And they opened their pretty eyes wide,
   And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed
   (At least, if they could, they’d have blushed).

But haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah
   Said, “Alack-a-Dey, what does this mean?”
And despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah
   Said, “They think us uncommonly green!
   Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!”

Even blundering Doodle-Dum-Dey
   Was insensible quite to their leers,
And said good little Tootle-Tum-Teh,
   “It’s your blood we desire, pretty dears—
   We have come for our dinners, my dears!”

And the Queen of the Amazons fell
   To Borria Bungalee Boo,—
In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,
   Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo—
   The pretty Queen Tol-the-Rol-Loo.

And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh
   Was eaten by Pish-Pooh-Bah,
And light-hearted Waggety-Weh
   By dismal Alack-a-Dey-Ah—
   Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah.

And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah
   Was eaten by Doodle-Dum-Dey,
And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah
   By good little Tootle-Dum-Teh—
   Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh!

I’ve often thought that headstrong youths
   Of decent education,
Determine all-important truths,
   With strange precipitation.

The ever-ready victims they,
   Of logical illusions,
And in a self-assertive way
   They jump at strange conclusions.

Now take my case: Ere sorrow could
   My ample forehead wrinkle,
I had determined that I should
   Not care to be a winkle.

“A winkle,” I would oft advance
   With readiness provoking,
“Can seldom flirt, and never dance,
   Or soothe his mind by smoking.”

In short, I spurned the shelly joy,
   And spoke with strange decision—
Men pointed to me as a boy
   Who held them in derision.

But I was young—too young, by far—
   Or I had been more wary,
I knew not then that winkles are
   The stock-in-trade of Mary.

I had not watched her sunlight blithe
   As o’er their shells it dances—
I’ve seen those winkles almost writhe
   Beneath her beaming glances.

Of slighting all the winkly brood
   I surely had been chary,
If I had known they formed the food
   And stock-in-trade of Mary.

Both high and low and great and small
   Fell prostrate at her tootsies,
They all were noblemen, and all
   Had balances at Coutts’s.

Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,
   Duke Bailey and Duke Humphy,
Who ate her winkles till they felt
   Exceedingly uncomfy.

Duke Bailey greatest wealth computes,
   And sticks, they say, at no-thing,
He wears a pair of golden boots
   And silver underclothing.

Duke Humphy, as I understand,
   Though mentally acuter,
His boots are only silver, and
   His underclothing pewter.

A third adorer had the girl,
   A man of lowly station—
A miserable grov’ling Earl
   Besought her approbation.

This humble cad she did refuse
   With much contempt and loathing,
He wore a pair of leather shoes
   And cambric underclothing!

“Ha! ha!” she cried.  “Upon my word!
   Well, really—come, I never!
Oh, go along, it’s too absurd!
   My goodness!  Did you ever?

“Two Dukes would Mary make a bride,
   And from her foes defend her”—
“Well, not exactly that,” they cried,
   “We offer guilty splendour.

“We do not offer marriage rite,
   So please dismiss the notion!”
“Oh dear,” said she, “that alters quite
   The state of my emotion.”

The Earl he up and says, says he,
   “Dismiss them to their orgies,
For I am game to marry thee
   Quite reg’lar at St. George’s.”

(He’d had, it happily befell,
   A decent education,
His views would have befitted well
   A far superior station.)

His sterling worth had worked a cure,
   She never heard him grumble;
She saw his soul was good and pure,
   Although his rank was humble.

Her views of earldoms and their lot,
   All underwent expansion—
Come, Virtue in an earldom’s cot!
   Go, Vice in ducal mansion!

(To be sung to the Air of “An ’Orrible Tale.”)

   Oh list to this incredible tale
   Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale;
   Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

   Oh, Thomson Green was an auctioneer,
   And made three hundred pounds a year;
   And Harriet Hale, most strange to say,
Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.

   Oh, Thomson Green, I may remark,
   Met Harriet Hale in Regent’s Park,
   Where he, in a casual kind of way,
Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.

   They met again, and strange, though true,
   He courted her for a month or two,
   Then to her pa he said, says he,
“Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!”

   Their names were regularly banned,
   The wedding day was settled, and
   I’ve ascertained by dint of search
They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot’s Church.

   Oh, list to this incredible tale
   Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,
   Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

   That very self-same afternoon
   They started on their honeymoon,
   And (oh, astonishment!) took flight
To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.

   But now—you’ll doubt my word, I know—
   In a month they both returned, and lo!
   Astounding fact! this happy pair
Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!

   They led a weird and reckless life,
   They dined each day, this man and wife
   (Pray disbelieve it, if you please),
On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.

   In time came those maternal joys
   Which take the form of girls or boys,
   And strange to say of each they’d one—
A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!

   Oh, list to this incredible tale
   Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,
   Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

   My name for truth is gone, I fear,
   But, monstrous as it may appear,
   They let their drawing-room one day
To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.

   Whenever Thomson Green fell sick
   His wife called in a doctor, quick,
   From whom some words like these would come—
Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.

   For thirty years this curious pair
   Hung out in Canonbury Square,
   And somehow, wonderful to say,
They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.

   Well, Thomson Green fell ill and died;
   For just a year his widow cried,
   And then her heart she gave away
To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.

   Oh, list to this incredible tale
   Of Thomson Green and Harriet Hale,
   Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

Bob Polter was a navvy, and
   His hands were coarse, and dirty too,
His homely face was rough and tanned,
   His time of life was thirty-two.

He lived among a working clan
   (A wife he hadn’t got at all),
A decent, steady, sober man—
   No saint, however—not at all.

He smoked, but in a modest way,
   Because he thought he needed it;
He drank a pot of beer a day,
   And sometimes he exceeded it.

At times he’d pass with other men
   A loud convivial night or two,
With, very likely, now and then,
   On Saturdays, a fight or two.

But still he was a sober soul,
   A labour-never-shirking man,
Who paid his way—upon the whole
   A decent English working man.

One day, when at the Nelson’s Head
   (For which he may be blamed of you),
A holy man appeared, and said,
   “Oh, Robert, I’m ashamed of you.”

He laid his hand on Robert’s beer
   Before he could drink up any,
And on the floor, with sigh and tear,
   He poured the pot of “thruppenny.”

“Oh, Robert, at this very bar
   A truth you’ll be discovering,
A good and evil genius are
   Around your noddle hovering.

“They both are here to bid you shun
   The other one’s society,
For Total Abstinence is one,
   The other, Inebriety.”

He waved his hand—a vapour came—
   A wizard Polter reckoned him;
A bogy rose and called his name,
   And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster’s salient points to sum,—
   His heavy breath was portery:
His glowing nose suggested rum:
   His eyes were gin-and-wortery.

His dress was torn—for dregs of ale
   And slops of gin had rusted it;
His pimpled face was wan and pale,
   Where filth had not encrusted it.

“Come, Polter,” said the fiend, “begin,
   And keep the bowl a-flowing on—
A working man needs pints of gin
   To keep his clockwork going on.”

Bob shuddered: “Ah, you’ve made a miss
   If you take me for one of you:
You filthy beast, get out of this—
   Bob Polter don’t wan’t none of you.”

The demon gave a drunken shriek,
   And crept away in stealthiness,
And lo! instead, a person sleek,
   Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

“In me, as your adviser hints,
   Of Abstinence you’ve got a type—
Of Mr. Tweedie’s pretty prints
   I am the happy prototype.

“If you abjure the social toast,
   And pipes, and such frivolities,
You possibly some day may boast
   My prepossessing qualities!”

Bob rubbed his eyes, and made ’em blink:
   “You almost make me tremble, you!
If I abjure fermented drink,
   Shall I, indeed, resemble you?

“And will my whiskers curl so tight?
   My cheeks grow smug and muttony?
My face become so red and white?
   My coat so blue and buttony?

“Will trousers, such as yours, array
   Extremities inferior?
Will chubbiness assert its sway
   All over my exterior?

“In this, my unenlightened state,
   To work in heavy boots I comes;
Will pumps henceforward decorate
   My tiddle toddle tootsicums?

“And shall I get so plump and fresh,
   And look no longer seedily?
My skin will henceforth fit my flesh
   So tightly and so Tweedie-ly?”

The phantom said, “You’ll have all this,
   You’ll know no kind of huffiness,
Your life will be one chubby bliss,
   One long unruffled puffiness!”

“Be off!” said irritated Bob.
   “Why come you here to bother one?
You pharisaical old snob,
   You’re wuss almost than t’other one!

“I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,
   And drunk I’m never seen to be:
I’m no teetotaller or sot,
   And as I am I mean to be!”

Strike the concertina’s melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
      Let the piano’s martial blast
      Rouse the Echoes of the Past,
For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:
      His gentle spirit rolls
      In the melody of souls—
Which is pretty, but I don’t know what it means.

Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
      He would diligently play
      On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter—I am shaky in my dates—
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
      Oh, Allah be obeyed,
      How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the “Oüaits.”

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
      Photographically lined
      On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.
      And when (as snobs would say)
      They had “put it all away,”
He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before,—
      The consequences true
      Of that awful interview,
For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

They played him a sonata—let me see!
“Medulla oblongata”—key of G.
      Then they began to sing
      That extremely lovely thing,
“Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp.”

He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
      More beer, in little kegs,
      Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I’m growing gradually pale,
      For, even at this day,
      Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel;
      “Oh, Prince,” he says, says he,
      “If a Prince indeed you be,
I’ve a mystery I’m going to reveal!

“Oh, listen, if you’d shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who’s speaking to you saith:
      No ‘Oüaits’ in truth are we,
      As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck—this is Beth!”

Said Agib, “Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!”
      Beth gave a dreadful shriek—
      But before he’d time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me full length upon the floor.
      On my face extended flat,
      I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
      For a week from ten to four
      I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
      And, upon my solemn word,
      I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
      Photographically lined
      On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page

Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus M‘Clan
Was the son of an elderly labouring man;
You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,
Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,
There wasn’t a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus M‘Clan.

No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:
All day and ill night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around
To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.

All loved their M‘Clan, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,
Tho’ his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.

Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense
To make him a Scotchman in every sense;
But this is a matter, you’ll readily own,
That isn’t a question of tailors alone.

A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;
Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

Clonglockety’s pipings all night and all day
Quite frenzied poor Pattison Corby Torbay;
The girls were amused at his singular spleen,
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen,

“Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus, my lad,
With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.
If you really must play on that cursed affair,
My goodness! play something resembling an air.”

Boiled over the blood of Macphairson M‘Clan—
The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;
For all were enraged at the insult, I ween—
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.

“Let’s show,” said M‘Clan, “to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.
Let’s see,” said M‘Clan, as he thoughtfully sat,
“‘In my Cottage’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.”

He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You’ll hardly believe it) M‘Clan, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—
It wandered about into several keys;
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.

The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;
He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced;
And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene—
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.

“Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound.
An air fra’ the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!
Hurrah for Clonglocketty Angus M‘Clan!”

The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,
And maidens came flocking to sit on the green—
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.

One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore,
And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)
Divided Clonglocketty close to the waist.

Oh! loud were the wailings for Angus M‘Clan,
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene—
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.

It sorrowed poor Pattison Corby Torbay
To find them “take on” in this serious way;
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words:

“Oh, maidens,” said Pattison, touching his hat,
“Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;
Observe, I’m a very superior man,
A much better fellow than Angus M‘Clan.”

They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,”
And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,
A pleasanter gentleman never was seen—
Especially Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen.

Policeman Peter forth I drag
   From his obscure retreat:
He was a merry genial wag,
   Who loved a mad conceit.
If he were asked the time of day,
   By country bumpkins green,
He not unfrequently would say,
   “A quarter past thirteen.”

If ever you by word of mouth
   Inquired of Mister Forth
The way to somewhere in the South,
   He always sent you North.
With little boys his beat along
   He loved to stop and play;
He loved to send old ladies wrong,
   And teach their feet to stray.

He would in frolic moments, when
   Such mischief bent upon,
Take Bishops up as betting men—
   Bid Ministers move on.
Then all the worthy boys he knew
   He regularly licked,
And always collared people who
   Had had their pockets picked.

He was not naturally bad,
   Or viciously inclined,
But from his early youth he had
   A waggish turn of mind.
The Men of London grimly scowled
   With indignation wild;
The Men of London gruffly growled,
   But Peter calmly smiled.

Against this minion of the Crown
   The swelling murmurs grew—
From Camberwell to Kentish Town—
   From Rotherhithe to Kew.
Still humoured he his wagsome turn,
   And fed in various ways
The coward rage that dared to burn,
   But did not dare to blaze.

Still, Retribution has her day,
   Although her flight is slow:
One day that Crusher lost his way
   Near Poland Street, Soho.
The haughty boy, too proud to ask,
   To find his way resolved,
And in the tangle of his task
   Got more and more involved.

The Men of London, overjoyed,
   Came there to jeer their foe,
And flocking crowds completely cloyed
   The mazes of Soho.
The news on telegraphic wires
   Sped swiftly o’er the lea,
Excursion trains from distant shires
   Brought myriads to see.

For weeks he trod his self-made beats
   Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear-
Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,
   And into Golden Square.
But all, alas! in vain, for when
   He tried to learn the way
Of little boys or grown-up men,
   They none of them would say.

Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—
   Their lips would tightly curl—
They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find,
   Thou misdirecting churl!”
And, similarly, also, when
   He tried a foreign friend;
Italians answered, “Il balen”—
   The French, “No comprehend.”

The Russ would say with gleaming eye
   “Sevastopol!” and groan.
The Greek said, “Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,
   Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων.”
To wander thus for many a year
   That Crusher never ceased—
The Men of London dropped a tear,
   Their anger was appeased.

At length exploring gangs were sent
   To find poor Forth’s remains—
A handsome grant by Parliament
   Was voted for their pains.
To seek the poor policeman out
   Bold spirits volunteered,
And when they swore they’d solve the doubt,
   The Men of London cheered.

And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,
   They found him, on the floor—
It leads from Richmond Buildings—near
   The Royalty stage-door.
With brandy cold and brandy hot
   They plied him, starved and wet,
And made him sergeant on the spot—
   The Men of London’s pet!

I once did know a Turkish man
   Whom I upon a two-pair-back met,
His name it was Effendi Khan
   Backsheesh Pasha Ben Allah Achmet.

A Doctor Brown I also knew—
   I’ve often eaten of his bounty;
The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,
   In Sussex, that delightful county!

I knew a nice young lady there,
   Her name was Emily Macpherson,
And though she wore another’s hair,
   She was an interesting person.

The Turk adored the maid of Hooe
   (Although his harem would have shocked her).
But Brown adored that maiden too:
   He was a most seductive doctor.

They’d follow her where’er she’d go—
   A course of action most improper;
She neither knew by sight, and so
   For neither of them cared a copper.

Brown did not know that Turkish male,
   He might have been his sainted mother:
The people in this simple tale
   Are total strangers to each other.

One day that Turk he sickened sore,
   And suffered agonies oppressive;
He threw himself upon the floor
   And rolled about in pain excessive.

It made him moan, it made him groan,
   And almost wore him to a mummy.
Why should I hesitate to own
   That pain was in his little tummy?

At length a doctor came, and rung
   (As Allah Achmet had desired),
Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,
   And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired:

“Where is the pain that long has preyed
   Upon you in so sad a way, sir?”
The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said:
   “I don’t exactly like to say, sir.”

“Come, nonsense!” said good Doctor Brown.
   “So this is Turkish coyness, is it?
You must contrive to fight it down—
   Come, come, sir, please to be explicit.”

The Turk he shyly bit his thumb,
   And coyly blushed like one half-witted,
“The pain is in my little tum,”
   He, whispering, at length admitted.

“Then take you this, and take you that—
   Your blood flows sluggish in its channel—
You must get rid of all this fat,
   And wear my medicated flannel.

“You’ll send for me when you’re in need—
   My name is Brown—your life I’ve saved it.”
“My rival!” shrieked the invalid,
   And drew a mighty sword and waved it:

“This to thy weazand, Christian pest!”
   Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it,
And drove right through the doctor’s chest
   The sabre and the hand that held it.

The blow was a decisive one,
   And Doctor Brown grew deadly pasty,
“Now see the mischief that you’ve done—
   You Turks are so extremely hasty.

“There are two Doctor Browns in Hooe—
   He’s short and stout, I’m tall and wizen;
You’ve been and run the wrong one through,
   That’s how the error has arisen.”

The accident was thus explained,
   Apologies were only heard now:
“At my mistake I’m really pained—
   I am, indeed—upon my word now.

“With me, sir, you shall be interred,
   A mausoleum grand awaits me.”
“Oh, pray don’t say another word,
   I’m sure that more than compensates me.

“But p’r’aps, kind Turk, you’re full inside?”
   “There’s room,” said he, “for any number.”
And so they laid them down and died.
   In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber,

There were three niggers of Chickeraboo—
Pacifico, Bang-bang, Popchop—who
Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day,
“Oh, let’s be kings in a humble way.”

The first was a highly-accomplished “bones,”
The next elicited banjo tones,
The third was a quiet, retiring chap,
Who danced an excellent break-down “flap.”

“We niggers,” said they, “have formed a plan
By which, whenever we like, we can
Extemporise kingdoms near the beach,
And then we’ll collar a kingdom each.

“Three casks, from somebody else’s stores,
Shall represent our island shores,
Their sides the ocean wide shall lave,
Their heads just topping the briny wave.

“Great Britain’s navy scours the sea,
And everywhere her ships they be;
She’ll recognise our rank, perhaps,
When she discovers we’re Royal Chaps.

“If to her skirts you want to cling,
It’s quite sufficient that you’re a king;
She does not push inquiry far
To learn what sort of king you are.”

A ship of several thousand tons,
And mounting seventy-something guns,
Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,
Discovering kings and countries new.

The brave Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip,
Commanding that magnificent ship,
Perceived one day, his glasses through,
The kings that came from Chickeraboo.

“Dear eyes!” said Admiral Pip, “I see
Three flourishing islands on our lee.
And, bless me! most remarkable thing!
On every island stands a king!

“Come, lower the Admiral’s gig,” he cried,
“And over the dancing waves I’ll glide;
That low obeisance I may do
To those three kings of Chickeraboo!”

The Admiral pulled to the islands three;
The kings saluted him graciouslee.
The Admiral, pleased at his welcome warm,
Unrolled a printed Alliance form.

“Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray—
I come in a friendly kind of way—
I come, if you please, with the best intents,
And Queen Victoria’s compliments.”

The kings were pleased as they well could be;
The most retiring of the three,
In a “cellar-flap” to his joy gave vent
With a banjo-bones accompaniment.

The great Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip
Embarked on board his jolly big ship,
Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,
And off he sailed to his native shore.

Admiral Pip directly went
To the Lord at the head of the Government,
Who made him, by a stroke of a quill,
Baron de Pippe, of Pippetonneville.

The College of Heralds permission yield
That he should quarter upon his shield
Three islands, vert, on a field of blue,
With the pregnant motto “Chickeraboo.”

Ambassadors, yes, and attachés, too,
Are going to sail for Chickeraboo.
And, see, on the good ship’s crowded deck,
A bishop, who’s going out there on spec.

And let us all hope that blissful things
May come of alliance with darky kings,
And, may we never, whatever we do,
Declare a war with Chickeraboo!

A tar, but poorly prized,
   Long, shambling, and unsightly,
Thrashed, bullied, and despised,
   Was wretched Joe Golightly.

He bore a workhouse brand;
   No Pa or Ma had claimed him,
The Beadle found him, and
   The Board of Guardians named him.

P’r’aps some Princess’s son—
   A beggar p’r’aps his mother.
He rather thought the one,
   I rather think the other.

He liked his ship at sea,
   He loved the salt sea-water,
He worshipped junk, and he
   Adored the First Lord’s daughter.

The First Lord’s daughter, proud,
   Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly;
She sneered at Barts. aloud,
   And spurned poor Joe Golightly.

Whene’er he sailed afar
   Upon a Channel cruise, he
Unpacked his light guitar
   And sang this ballad (Boosey):

Ballad

   The moon is on the sea,
            Willow!
   The wind blows towards the lee,
            Willow!
But though I sigh and sob and cry,
   No Lady Jane for me,
            Willow!

   She says, “’Twere folly quite,
            Willow!
   For me to wed a wight,
            Willow!
Whose lot is cast before the mast”;
   And possibly she’s right,
            Willow!

His skipper (Captain Joyce),
   He gave him many a rating,
And almost lost his voice
   From thus expostulating:

“Lay aft, you lubber, do!
   What’s come to that young man, Joe?
Belay!—’vast heaving! you!
   Do kindly stop that banjo!

“I wish, I do—O lor’!—
   You’d shipped aboard a trader:
Are you a sailor or
   A negro serenader?”

But still the stricken lad,
   Aloft or on his pillow,
Howled forth in accents sad
   His aggravating “Willow!”

Stern love of duty had
   Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty;
Says he, “I love that lad,
   But duty, damme! duty!

“Twelve months’ black-hole, I say,
   Where daylight never flashes;
And always twice a day
   A good six dozen lashes!”

But Joseph had a mate,
   A sailor stout and lusty,
A man of low estate,
   But singularly trusty.

Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe!
   I’ll tell you what I’m arter—
To that Fust Lord I’ll go
   And ax him for his darter.

“To that Fust Lord I’ll go
   And say you love her dearly.”
And Joe said (weeping low),
   “I wish you would, sincerely!”

That sailor to that Lord
   Went, soon as he had landed,
And of his own accord
   An interview demanded.

Says he, with seaman’s roll,
   “My Captain (wot’s a Tartar)
Guv Joe twelve months’ black-hole,
   For lovering your darter.

“He loves Miss Lady Jane
   (I own she is his betters),
But if you’ll jine them twain,
   They’ll free him from his fetters.

“And if so be as how
   You’ll let her come aboard ship,
I’ll take her with me now.”
   “Get out!” remarked his Lordship.

That honest tar repaired
   To Joe upon the billow,
And told him how he’d fared.
   Joe only whispered, “Willow!”

And for that dreadful crime
   (Young sailors, learn to shun it)
He’s working out his time;
   In six months he’ll have done it.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of Space
         Roll on!
What though I’m in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache’s ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
      Never you mind!
         Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through seas of inky air
         Roll on!
It’s true I’ve got no shirts to wear;
It’s true my butcher’s bill is due;
It’s true my prospects all look blue—
But don’t let that unsettle you!
      Never you mind!
         Roll on!

[It rolls on.

It was a robber’s daughter, and her name was Alice Brown,
Her father was the terror of a small Italian town;
Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing;
But it isn’t of her parents that I’m going for to sing.

As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day,
A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way;
She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true,
That she thought, “I could be happy with a gentleman like you!”

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,
She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten;
A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road
(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes’ walk from her abode).

But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn’t wise
To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes;
So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed,
The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

“Oh, holy father,” Alice said, “’t would grieve you, would it not,
To discover that I was a most disreputable lot?
Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!”
The padre said, “Whatever have you been and gone and done?”

“I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad,
I’ve assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad,
I’ve planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque,
And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!”

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear,
And said, “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear:
It’s wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece;
But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

“Girls will be girls—you’re very young, and flighty in your mind;
Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:
We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—
Let’s see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six.”

“Oh, father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness makes me weep,
You do these little things for me so singularly cheap—
Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget;
But, oh! there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet!

“A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,
I’ve noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies;
He passes by it every day as certain as can be—
I blush to say I’ve winked at him, and he has winked at me!”

“For shame!” said Father Paul, “my erring daughter!  On my word
This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.
Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand
To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

“This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so!
They are the most remunerative customers I know;
For many many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors:
I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

“The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood
Have nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good;
And if you marry any one respectable at all,
Why, you’ll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?”

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown,
And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown—
To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit,
Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well:
He said, “I have a notion, and that notion I will tell;
I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits,
And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

“I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two:
Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—
A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall
When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small.”

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square;
He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware;
He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head,
And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind,
She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind,
Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand
On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.