Now, Marco, dear,

My wishes hear:

It's understood

You will be good,

To every trace

Of maiden grace

And will not glance

By any chance

If you are wise,

You'll shut your eyes

And not address

A lady less

You'll please to frown

On every gown

And O, my pet,

You won't forget

O, my darling, O, my pet,

Whatever else you may forget,

In yonder isle beyond the sea,

O, don't forget you've married me!

You'll lay your head

Upon your bed

You will not sing

Of anything

You'll sit and mope

All day, I hope,

Upon the life

Your little wife

And if so be

You think of me,

I'll read it all

In rays that fall

You'll be so kind

As tell the wind

And send me words

By little birds

And O, my darling, O, my pet,

Whatever else you may forget,

In yonder isle beyond the sea,

O, don't forget you've married me!

I go away, this blessed day,

My vessel sails for various parts

I hardly know where we may go,

For Captain Hyde does not confide

Beneath my ban that mystic man

What right has he to keep from me

Because, forsooth! I am a youth

Am I a man on human plan

But there, my lass, we'll let that pass!

I want to know if we shall go

Your eyes are red, you bow your head;

To name the day—What's that you say?—

I can't mistake the signs you make,

Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue

My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—

With simple grace you make a face,

Oh, pause to think before you drink

Remember, do, what I've gone through,

Recall again the mental pain

And be assured that I've endured

It, all along of you, Matilda!

Do you forget, my blithesome pet,

I watched you walk and gaily talk

You squatted free upon his knee,

You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,

I knew him not, but thought to spot

I took a gun, my darling one,

I'm made of stuff that's rough and gruff

It did annoy your poor old boy

To find it was your pa, Matilda!

I've passed a life of toil and strife,

I've lain awake with dental ache

At times again I've missed a train,

And worn a boot on corns that shoot,

But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—

No corns that shoot—no pinching boot

It's my belief, could cause such grief

My having shot in vital spot

Bethink you how I've kept the vow

That, come what could, I never would

And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,

To keep the vow I made—and now

For when at sea off Caribbee,

By impulse egged, I went and begged

And when, my pet, I couldn't get

Right through a sort of open port

Remember, too, how all the crew,

Distinctly swore they ne'er before

And how they'd shun me one by one—

I stopped their howls and sulky scowls

So pause to think, before you drink

Remember, do, what I've gone through,

Recall again the mental pain

And be assured that I've endured

It, all along of you, Matilda!

On a tree by a river a little tomtit

And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sit

Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried,

"Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"

With a shake of his poor little head he replied,

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,

And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,

He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,

Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,

And an echo arose from the suicide's grave—

Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name

That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,

And if you remain callous and obdurate, I

Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,

Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,

A rich advowson, highly prized,

For private sale was advertised;

And many a parson made a bid;

The Reverend Simon Magus did.

He sought the agent's: "Agent, I

Have come prepared at once to buy

(If your demand is not too big)

The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge."

"Ah!" said the agent, "there's a berth—

The snuggest vicarage on earth;

No sort of duty (so I hear),

And fifteen hundred pounds a year!

"If on the price we should agree,

The living soon will vacant be:

The good incumbent's ninety-five,

And cannot very long survive.

"See—here's his photograph—you see,

He's in his dotage." "Ah, dear me!

Poor soul!" said Simon. "His decease

Would be a merciful release!"

The agent laughed—the agent blinked—

The agent blew his nose and winked

And poked the parson's ribs in play—

It was that agent's vulgar way.

The Reverend Simon frowned: "I grieve

This light demeanour to perceive;

It's scarcely comme il faut, I think:

Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.

"Don't dig my waistcoat into holes—

Your mission is to sell the souls

Of human sheep and human kids

To that divine who highest bids.

"Do well in this, and on your head

Unnumbered honours will be shed."

The agent said, "Well, truth to tell,

I have been doing pretty well."

"You should," said Simon, "at your age;

But now about the parsonage.

How many rooms does it contain?

Show me the photograph again.

"A poor apostle's humble house

Must not be too luxurious;

No stately halls with oaken floor—

It should be decent and no more.

"No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—

No croquet-grounds or pineries."

"Ah!" sighed the agent, "very true:

This property won't do for you.

"All these about the house you'll find"—

"Well," said the parson, "never mind;

I'll manage to submit to these

Luxurious superfluities.

"A clergyman who does not shirk

The various calls of Christian work,

Will have no leisure to employ

These 'common forms' of worldly joy.

"To preach three times on Sabbath days—

To wean the lost from wicked ways—

The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—

The poor to feed with meat and bread;

"These are the various wholesome ways

In which I'll spend my nights and days:

My zeal will have no time to cool

At croquet, archery, or pool."

The agent said, "From what I hear,

This living will not suit, I fear—

There are no poor, no sick at all;

For services there is no call."

The reverend gent looked grave. "Dear me!

Then there is no 'society'?—

I mean, of course, no sinners there

Whose souls will be my special care?"

The cunning agent shook his head,

"No, none—except"—(the agent said)—

"The Duke of A., the Earl of B.,

The Marquis C., and Viscount D.

"But you will not be quite alone,

For, though they've chaplains of their own,

Of course this noble well-bred clan

Receive the parish clergyman."

"Oh, silence, sir!" said Simon M.,

"Dukes—earls! What should I care for them?

These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!"

"Of course," the agent said, "no doubt."

"Yet I might show these men of birth

The hollowness of rank on earth."

The agent answered, "Very true—

But I should not, if I were you."

"Who sells this rich advowson, pray?"

The agent winked—it was his way—

"His name is Hart; 'twixt me and you,

He is, I'm griev'd to say, a Jew!"

"A Jew?" said Simon, "happy find!

I purchase this advowson, mind.

My life shall be devoted to

Converting that unhappy Jew!"

He.        I know a youth who loves a little maid—

She.       I know a maid who loves a gallant youth—

Both.              Now tell me pray, and tell me true,

He.        He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—

She.       She's very thin and she's very pale—

Both.              Now tell me pray, and tell me true,

She.       If I were the youth I should offer her my name—

He.         If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—

She.       If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—

He.         If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—

Both.              I thank you much for your counsel true;

Two better friends you wouldn't pass

Than Damon and his Pythias,—

At school together they contrived

And, later on, together thrived

And then, when many years had flown,

They bought a business of their own—

They loved each other all their lives,

And, stranger still, their very wives

Perhaps you think, to serve my ends,

When I admit that these dear friends

But 'twas a friendly action, for

Fought merely as executor,

They laughed to think, as through the throng

That they, who'd lived and loved so long,

The junior briefs they kindly let

These learned persons never yet

But though the happy suitors two

Not so the junior counsel who

They too, till then, were friends. At school

And under Oxford's gentle rule

But now they met with scowl and grin

And often snapped their fingers in

It almost ended in a fight

Met face to face. They made it quite

And when at length the case was called

Spectators really were appalled

One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,

To all his powers of eloquence

His argument was novel—for

On blackening the junior

"Oh," said the Judge, in robe and fur,

To arbitration pray refer—

And Pythias, in merry mood,

And Damon, tickled with the feud,

But oh! those deadly counsel twain,

Were never reconciled again——

At length it happened that they met

And thus they paid each one his debt,

They seized each other in a trice,

And, falling from a precipice,

Come, mighty Must!

In thee I trust.

Go, mocking Is!

That I am this

Yet humble Second shall be First,

And dead and buried be the curst

Oh, weak Might Be!

How powerless ye

In every sense

Whate'er your tense

Ye have deceived the trust I've shown

Away! The Mighty Must alone

The other night, from cares exempt,

I slept—and what d'you think I dreamt?

I dreamt that somehow I had come

To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom!—

Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:

Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:

Where right is wrong and wrong is right—

Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise,

Are born astonishingly wise;

With every Science on their lips,

And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them,

They crow binomial theorem,

With views (it seems absurd to us)

On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said,

Is born with learning in his head,

He must forget it, if he can,

Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here,

Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;

The wisdom we so highly prize

Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way,

Must learn some nonsense every day;

And cut, to carry out this view,

His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils,

Intent on giant-killers' toils;

And sages close their aged eyes

To other sages' lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound,

Commit all robbers who are found;

But there the beaks (so people said)

Commit all robberies instead.

Our judges, pure and wise in tone,

Know crime from theory alone.

And glean the motives of a thief

From books and popular belief.

But there, a judge who wants to prime

His mind with true ideas of crime,

Derives them from the common sense

Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away

Who practise virtue every day—

Of course, I mean to say, you know,

What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do

What we consider just and true,

And only good men do, in fact,

What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls,

The girls are boys—the boys are girls!

The men are women, too—but then

Per contra, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings

This seems an awkward state of things,

But if to think it out you try,

It doesn't really signify.

With them, as surely as can be,

A sailor should be sick at sea,

And not a passenger may sail

Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck)

Is always shot for showing pluck—

That is, if others can be found

With pluck enough to fire a round.

"How strange," I said to one I saw,

"You quite upset our every law.

However can you get along

So systematically wrong?"

"Dear me," my mad informant said,

"Have you no eyes within your head?

You sneer when you your hat should doff:

Why, we begin where you leave off!

"Your wisest men are very far

Less learned than our babies are!"

I mused awhile—and then, oh me!

I framed this brilliant repartee:

"Although your babes are wiser far

Than our most valued sages are,

Your sages, with their toys and cots,

Are duller than our idiots!"

But this remark, I grieve to state,

Came just a little bit too late;

For as I framed it in my head,

I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, 'stead of here,

My lot were in that favoured sphere!—

Where greatest fools bear off the bell

I ought to do extremely well.

Then the whole world beside

My loving head would rest,

Would be one heart with thine,

Our lives should be a song:

The melancholy lute,

Were but discordance shrill

Were as a carrion's cry

Were leaden heaviness

I often wonder whether you

Think sometimes of that Bishop, who

From black but balmy Rum-ti-foo

Unto your mind I p'raps may bring

Remembrance of the man I sing

To-day, by simply mentioning

Remember now that holy man

Came with the great Colonial clan

To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;

How, having crossed the ocean wide,

To please his flock all means he tried

Consistent with a proper pride

He only, of the reverend pack

Who minister to Christians black,

Brought any useful knowledge back

In consequence a place I claim

For "Peter" on the scroll of Fame

(For Peter was that Bishop's name,

He carried Art, he often said,

To places where that timid maid

(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)

The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught

As he had learnt it; for he thought

The choicest fruits of Progress ought

And he had other work to do,

For, while he tossed upon the blue,

The islanders of Rum-ti-foo

Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—

They learnt to say, "I do not care,"

Though they, of course, were well aware

Some sailors whom he did not know,

Had landed there not long ago,

And taught them "Bother!" also "Blow!"

No need to use a casuist's pen

To prove that they were merchantmen;

No sailor of the Royal N.

And so, when Bishop Peter came

(That was the kindly Bishop's name),

He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,

(Except a shell—a bangle rare—

A feather here—a feather there—

The South Pacific negroes wear

He taught them that a Bishop loathes

To listen to unseemly oaths,

He gave them all his left-off clothes—

The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;

In Peter's left-off clothes they bound

(His three-and-twenty suits they found

The Bishop's eyes with water fill,

Quite overjoyed to find them still

Obedient to his sovereign will,

Half-way to meet you I'll prepare:

I'll dress myself in cowries rare,

And fasten feathers in my hair,

And to conciliate his see

He married Piccadillillee,

The youngest of his twenty-three,

(And though the dress he made her don

Looks awkwardly a girl upon,

It was a great improvement on

The Bishop in his gay canoe

(His wife, of course, went with him too),

To some adjacent island flew,

Some day in sunny Rum-ti-foo

A little Peter'll be on view;

And that (if people tell me true)