The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Bab Ballads, by W. S. Gilbert.

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,

I've got a little list—I've got a little list

Of social offenders who might well be underground,

And who never would be missed—who never would be missed!

There's the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs—

All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs—

All children who are up in dates, and floor you with 'em flat—

All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like that—

And all third persons who on spoiling tête-à-têtes insist—

They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed!

There's the banjo serenader, and the others of his race,

And the piano organist—I've got him on the list!

And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face,

They never would be missed—they never would be missed!

Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone,

All centuries but this, and every country but his own;

And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy,

And who "doesn't think she waltzes, but would rather like to try";

And that fin-de-siècle anomaly, the scorching motorist—

I don't think he'd be missed—I'm sure he'd not be missed!

And that Nisi Prius nuisance, who just now is rather rife,

The Judicial humorist—I've got him on the list!

All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life—

They'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed!

And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind,

Such as—What-d'ye-call-him—Thing'em-Bob, and likewise—Never-mind,

And 'St—'st—'st—and What's-his-name, and also—You-know-who—

(The task of filling up the blanks I'd rather leave to you!)

But it really doesn't matter whom you put upon the list,

For they'd none of 'em be missed—they'd none of 'em be missed!

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"

'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,

But I'll eat my hand if I understand

How you can possibly 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 o' 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,

"'Twill 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 grin, and I never smile,

And I never larf nor play,

But I 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!"

GIRL GRADUATES

They intend to send a wire

To the moon;

And they'll set the Thames on fire

Very soon;

Then they learn to make silk purses

With their rigs

From the ears of Lady Circe's

Piggy-wigs.

And weasels at their slumbers

They'll trepan;

To get sunbeams from cucumbers

They've a plan.

They've a firmly rooted notion

They can cross the Polar Ocean,

And they'll find Perpetual Motion

If they can!

These are the phenomena

That every pretty domina

Hopes that we shall see

At this Universitee!

As for fashion, they forswear it,

So they say,

And the circle—they will square it

Some fine day;

Then the little pigs they're teaching

For to fly;

And the niggers they'll be bleaching

By-and-by!

Each newly joined aspirant

To the clan

Must repudiate the tyrant

Known as Man;

They mock at him and flout him,

For they do not care about him,

And they're "going to do without him"

If they can!

These are the phenomena

That every pretty domina

Hopes that we shall see

At this Universitee!

THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO

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 forthwith 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, cuts, 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!"

BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR

Braid the raven hair,

Weave the supple tress,

Deck the maiden fair

In her loveliness;

Paint the pretty face,

Dye the coral lip,

Emphasise the grace

Of her ladyship!

Art and nature, thus allied,

Go to make a pretty bride!

Sit with downcast eye,

Let it brim with dew;

Try if you can cry,

We will do so, too.

When you're summoned, start

Like a frightened roe;

Flutter, little heart,

Colour, come and go!

Modesty at marriage tide

Well becomes a pretty bride!

THE PRECOCIOUS BABY

A VERY TRUE TALE

(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 of 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 bade)

With their loud high jinks

And underbred winks

None thought they'd a family have—but they had;

A singular lad

Who drove 'em half mad,

He proved such 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 weed 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, no!"

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 go, if I may."

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 health 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.

THE WORKING MONARCH

Rising early in the morning,

We proceed to light the fire,

Then our Majesty adorning

In its work-a-day attire,

We embark without delay

On the duties of the day.

First, we polish off some batches

Of political despatches,

And foreign politicians circumvent;

Then, if business isn't heavy,

We may hold a Royal levée,

Or ratify some Acts of Parliament:

Then we probably review the household troops—

With the usual "Shalloo humps" and "Shalloo hoops!"

Or receive with ceremonial and state

An interesting Eastern Potentate.

After that we generally

Go and dress our private valet—

(It's a rather nervous duty—he a touchy little man)—

Write some letters literary

For our private secretary—

(He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.)

Then, in view of cravings inner,

We go down and order dinner;

Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate—

Spend an hour in titivating

All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;

Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.

Oh, philosophers may sing

Of the troubles of a King,

Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great;

But the privilege and pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!

After luncheon (making merry

On a bun and glass of sherry),

If we've nothing in particular to do,

We may make a Proclamation,

Or receive a Deputation—

Then we possibly create a Peer or two.

Then we help a fellow-creature on his path

With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:

Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State

To a festival, a function, or a fête.

Then we go and stand as sentry

At the Palace (private entry),

Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,

While the warrior on duty

Goes in search of beer and beauty

(And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go).

He relieves us, if he's able,

Just in time to lay the table,

Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,

With a pleasure that's emphatic,

Then we seek our little attic

With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.

Oh, philosophers may sing

Of the troubles of a King,

But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;

And the culminating pleasure

That we treasure beyond measure

Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!

TO PHŒBE

"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 ecstaticise 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.

THE APE AND THE LADY

A lady fair, of lineage high,

Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by—

The Maid was radiant as the sun,

The Ape was a most unsightly one—

So it would not do—

His scheme fell through;

For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,

Expressed such terror

At his monstrous error,

That he stammered an apology and made his 'scape,

The picture of a disconcerted Ape.

With a view to rise in the social scale,

He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail,

He grew moustachios, and he took his tub,

And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.

But it would not do,

The scheme fell through—

For the Maid was Beauty's fairest Queen,

With golden tresses,

Like a real princess's,

While the Ape, despite his razor keen,

Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!

He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits.

He crammed his feet into bright tight boots.

And to start his life on a brand-new plan,

He christened himself Darwinian Man!

But it would not do,

The scheme fell through—

For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,

Was a radiant Being,

With a brain far-seeing—

While a Man, however well-behaved,

At best is only a monkey shaved!

BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN

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.)

"O 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 Polterthwaite 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.

ONLY ROSES

To a garden full of posies

Cometh one to gather flowers,

And he wanders through its bowers

Toying with the wanton roses,

Who, uprising from their beds,

Hold on high their shameless heads

With their pretty lips a-pouting,

Never doubting—never doubting

That for Cytherean posies

He would gather aught but roses.

In a nest of weeds and nettles,

Lay a violet, half hidden;

Hoping that his glance unbidden

Yet might fall upon her petals.

Though she lived alone, apart,

Hope lay nestling at her heart,

But, alas! the cruel awaking

Set her little heart a-breaking,

For he gathered for his posies

Only roses—only roses!

THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE

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 zealous 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 doting mother, who

Had heard of his defiant rage:

His ma was nearly eighty-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!"

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 lâche 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.