Now, Jurymen, hear my advice—

All kinds of vulgar prejudice

With stern judicial frame of mind—

From bias free of every kind,

Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:

Observe the features of her face—

Condole with her distress of mind—

From bias free of every kind,

And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks,

The ruffianly defendant speaks—

What he may say you need not mind—

From bias free of every kind,

Old Peter led a wretched life—

Old Peter had a furious wife;

Old Peter, too, was truly stout,

He measured several yards about.

The little fairy Picklekin

One summer afternoon looked in,

And said, "Old Peter, how-de-do?

Can I do anything for you?

"I have three gifts—the first will give

Unbounded riches while you live;

The second, health where'er you be;

The third, invisibility."

"O, little fairy Picklekin,"

Old Peter answered, with a grin,

"To hesitate would be absurd,—

Undoubtedly I choose the third."

"'Tis yours," the fairy said; "be quite

Invisible to mortal sight

Whene'er you please. Remember me

Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P."

Old Mrs. Peter overheard

Wee Picklekin's concluding word,

And, jealous of her girlhood's choice,

Said, "That was some young woman's voice!"

Old Peter let her scold and swear—

Old Peter, bless him, didn't care.

"My dear, your rage is wasted quite—

Observe, I disappear from sight!"

A well-bred fairy (so I've heard)

Is always faithful to her word:

Old Peter vanished like a shot,

But then—his suit of clothes did not.

For when conferred the fairy slim

Invisibility on him,

She popped away on fairy wings,

Without referring to his "things."

So there remained a coat of blue,

A vest and double eyeglass too,

His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,

His pair of—no, I must not tell.

Old Mrs. Peter soon began

To see the failure of his plan,

And then resolved (I quote the bard)

To "hoist him with his own petard."

Old Peter woke next day and dressed,

Put on his coat and shoes and vest,

His shirt and stock—but could not find

His only pair of—never mind!

Old Peter was a decent man,

And though he twigged his lady's plan,

Yet, hearing her approaching, he

Resumed invisibility.

"Dear Mrs. P., my only joy,"

Exclaimed the horrified old boy;

"Now give them up, I beg of you—

You know what I'm referring to!"

But no; the cross old lady swore

She'd keep his—what I said before—

To make him publicly absurd;

And Mrs. Peter kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest;

His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest,

Were all that now met mortal eye—

The rest, invisibility!

"Now, madam, give them up, I beg—

I've bad rheumatics in my leg;

Besides, until you do, it's plain

I cannot come to sight again!

"For though some mirth it might afford

To see my clothes without their lord,

Yet there would rise indignant oaths

If he were seen without his clothes!"

But no; resolved to have her quiz,

The lady held her own—and his—

And Peter left his humble cot

To find a pair of—you know what.

But—here's the worst of this affair—-

Whene'er he came across a pair

Already placed for him to don,

He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train,

And walked and walked with all his main;

For years he paced this mortal earth,

To bring himself to decent girth.

At night, when all around is still,

You'll find him pounding up a hill;

And shrieking peasants whom he meets,

Fall down in terror on the peats!

Old Peter walks through wind and rain

Resolved to train, and train, and train,

Until he weighs twelve stone or so—

And when he does, I'll let you know.

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

When rival adorers come courting a maid,

There's something or other may often be said,

Why he should be pitched upon rather than him.

This wasn't the case with Old Paul and Old Tim.

No soul could discover a reason at all

For marrying Timothy rather than Paul;

Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,

Against marrying either—or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,

They were equally timid and equally bold;

They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes—

Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young Emily, I should have said,

"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,

Threescore at the least you are verging upon";

But I wasn't young Emily. Let us get on.

No coward's blood ran in young Emily's veins,

Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;

At the rumours of battles all over the globe

He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise—

Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,

Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee—

For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,

Implored her between them at once to decide,

She told them she'd marry whichever might bring

Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy:

That coward, Old Paul, chose a very small boy,

And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,

He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,

But the lion was roused, and Old Paul didn't care;

He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked

Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old Tim knew a trick worth a dozen of that,

So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.

"I'll cover myself with cheap glory—I'll go

And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

"The German invader is ravaging France

With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,

And beautiful Paris is fighting her best

To shake herself free from her terrible guest.

"The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,

Have all run away from the summons to arms;

They haven't the pluck of a pigeon—I'll go

And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!"

Old Timothy tried it and found it succeed:

That day he caused many French noses to bleed;

Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,

And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.

He took care to abstain from employing his fist

On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;

A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,

But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.

Old Tim and Old Paul, with the list of their foes,

Prostrated themselves at their Emily's toes:

"Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?"

And Emily answered and Emily said:

"Old Tim has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores

Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;

Old Paul has made little chaps' noses to bleed—

Old Paul has accomplished the pluckier deed!"

There lived a King, as I've been told

In the wonder-working days of old,

When hearts were twice as good as gold,

Good temper triumphed in his face,

And in his heart he found a place

For all the erring human race

When he had Rhenish wine to drink

It made him very sad to think

That some, at junket or at jink,

He wished all men as rich as he

(And he was rich as rich could be),

So to the top of every tree

Ambassadors cropped up like hay,

Prime Ministers and such as they

Grew like asparagus in May,

Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,

And Bishops in their shovel hats

Were plentiful as tabby cats—

On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,

Small beer were Lords-Lieutenant deemed,

With Admirals the ocean teemed,

And Party Leaders you might meet

In twos and threes in every street

Maintaining, with no little heat,

That King, although no one denies,

His heart was of abnormal size,

Yet he'd have acted otherwise

The end is easily foretold,

When every blessed thing you hold

Is made of silver, or of gold,

When you have nothing else to wear

But cloth of gold and satins rare,

For cloth of gold you cease to care—

In short, whoever you may be,

To this conclusion you'll agree,

When every one is somebody,

Perhaps already you may know

Sir Blennerhasset Portico?

A Captain in the Navy, he—

A Baronet and K.C.B.

It was that captain's favourite whim

(A notion not confined to him)

That Rodney was the greatest tar

Who ever wielded capstan-bar.

"Benbow? Cornwallis? Hood?—Belay!

Compared with Rodney"—he would say—

"No other tar is worth a rap;

The great Lord Rodney was the chap

"Though, mind you, I respect Lord Hood;

Cornwallis, too, was rather good;

Benbow could enemies repel;

Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—

Sir Blennerhasset spent his days

In learning Rodney's little ways,

And closely imitated, too,

His mode of talking to his crew—

An ancient tar he tried to catch

Who'd served in Rodney's famous batch;

But since his time long years have fled,

And Rodney's tars are mostly dead:

But after searching near and far,

At last he found an ancient tar

Who served with Rodney and his crew

Against the French in 'eighty-two

He gave him fifty pounds a year,

His rum, his baccy, and his beer;

And had a comfortable den

Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,

"Now, Jasper"—'twas that sailor's name—

"Don't fear that you'll incur my blame

By saying, when it seems to you,

That there is anything I do

The ancient sailor turned his quid,

Prepared to do as he was bid:

"Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,

You've done away with 'swifting in'—

"Upon your spars I see you've clapped

Peak-halliard blocks, all iron-capped;

I would not christen that a crime,

But 'twas not done in Rodney's time.

Upon your maintop-stay, I see,

You always clap a selvagee;

Your stays, I see, are equalised—

No vessel, such as Rodney prized,

"And Rodney, honoured sir, would grin

To see you turning deadeyes in,

Not up, as in the ancient way,

But downwards, like a cutter's stay—

Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,

Breast backstays you have quite ignored;

Great Rodney kept unto the last

Breast backstays on topgallant mast—

Sir Blennerhasset "swifted in,"

Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin

To strip (as told by Jasper Knox)

The iron capping from his blocks,

Sir Blennerhasset does away

With selvagees from maintop-stay;

And though it makes his sailors stare,

He rigs breast backstays everywhere—

One morning, when the saucy craft

Lay calmed, old Jasper toddled aft.

"My mind misgives me, sir, that we

Were wrong about that selvagee—

"Good," said the captain, and that day

Restored it to the maintop-stay.

Well-practised sailors often make

A much more serious mistake,

Next day old Jasper came once more.

"I think, sir, I was right before."

Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,

The selvagee was soon unshipped,

Again a day, and Jasper came:

"I p'raps deserve your honour's blame,

I can't make up my mind," said he,

"About that cursed selvagee—

"On Monday night I could have sworn

That maintop-stay it should adorn,

On Tuesday morning I could swear

That selvagee should not be there.

"Oh, you be hanged!" said Captain P.,

"Here, go ashore at Caribbee,

Get out—good-bye—shove off—all right!"

Old Jasper soon was out of sight—