I cannot tell what this love may be

That cometh to all but not to me.

It cannot be kind as they'd imply,

Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?

It cannot be joy and rapture deep,

Or why do these gentle ladies weep?

It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,

Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit

Who foolishly hug and foster it.

If love is a weed, how simple they

Who gather and gather it, day by day!

If love is a nettle that makes you smart,

Why do you wear it next your heart?

And if it be neither of these, say I,

Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.

Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.

"Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!"

They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot's Church.

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.

Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!

On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.

A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.

Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.

They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.

To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.

"Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

Take a pair of sparkling eyes,

Do not heed their mild surprise—

Take a figure trimly planned—

Take a tender little hand,

Take all these, you lucky man—

Take and keep them, if you can.

Take a pretty little cot—

Furnish it upon the spot

Live to love and love to live—

Fate has nothing more to give.

Take my counsel, happy man:

Act upon it, if you can!

Bob Polter was a navvy, and

His homely face was rough and tanned,

He lived among a working clan

A decent, steady, sober man—

He smoked, but in a modest way,

He drank a pot of beer a day,

At times he'd pass with other men

With, very likely, now and then,

But still he was a sober soul,

Who paid his way—upon the whole,

One day, when at the Nelson's Head

A holy man appeared and said,

He laid his hand on Robert's beer

And on the floor, with sigh and tear,

"Oh, Robert, at this very bar,

A good and evil genius are

"They both are here to bid you shun

For Total Abstinence is one,

He waved his hand—a vapour came—

A bogy rose and called his name,

The monster's salient points to sum,

His glowing nose suggested rum;

His dress was torn—for dregs of ale

His pimpled face was wan and pale,

"Come, Polter," said the fiend, "begin,

A working-man needs pints of gin

Bob shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss,

You filthy brute, get out of this—

The demon gave a drunken shriek,

And lo, instead, a person sleek

"In me, as your adviser hints,

Of Mr. Tweedie's pretty prints

"If you abjure the social toast,

You possibly some day may boast

Bob rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink.

If I abjure fermented drink,

"And will my whiskers curl so tight?

My face become so pink and white?

"Will trousers, such as yours, array

Will chubbiness assert its sway

"In this, my unenlightened state,

Will pumps henceforward decorate

"And shall I get so plump and fresh,

My skin will henceforth fit my flesh

The phantom said, "You'll have all this,

Your life will be one chubby bliss,

"Be off," said irritated Bob,

You pharisaical old snob,

"I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,

I'm no teetotaller or sot,

He.     I have a song to sing, O!

She.          Sing me your song, O!

He.               It is sung to the moon

She.     I have a song to sing, O!

He.          Sing me your song, O!

She.             It is sung with the ring

He.     I have a song to sing, O!

She.          Sing me your song, O!

He.               It is sung to the knell

She.     I have a song to sing, O!

He.          Sing me your song, O!

She.             It is sung with a sigh

Both.          Heighdy! heighdy!

MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS

Was the son of an elderly labouring man,

You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,

And p'raps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the hills of 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 all 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 his pipes and to gaze in his e'en,

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,

Though 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 skean in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—

But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

Clonglocketty'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' yer lugs wi' the exquisite sound.

An air frae 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 snivel, 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.

The law is the true embodiment

Of everything that's excellent.

It has no kind of fault or flaw,

And I, my lords, embody the Law.

The constitutional guardian I

Of pretty young Wards in Chancery,

All very agreeable girls—and none

Is over the age of twenty-one.

But though the compliment implied

Inflates me with legitimate pride,

It nevertheless can't be denied

That it has its inconvenient side.

For I'm not so old, and not so plain,

And I'm quite prepared to marry again,

But there'd be the deuce to pay in the Lords

If I fell in love with one of my Wards:

And every one who'd marry a Ward

Must come to me for my accord:

So in my court I sit all day,

Giving agreeable girls away,

With one for him—and one for he—

And one for you—and one for ye-

And one for thou—and one for thee—

But never, oh never a one for me!

Policeman Peter Forth I drag

He was a merry, genial wag,

If he were asked the time of day

He not unfrequently would say,

If ever you by word of mouth

The way to somewhere in the South,

With little boys his beat along

He loved to send old ladies wrong,

He would in frolic moments, when

Take Bishops up as betting men—

Then all the worthy boys he knew

And always collared people who

He was not naturally bad,

But from his early youth he had

The Men of London grimly scowled

The Men of London gruffly growled,

Against this minion of the Crown

From Camberwell to Kentish Town—

Still humoured he his wagsome turn,

The coward rage that dared to burn

Still, Retribution has her day

The haughty youth, too proud to ask,

And in the tangle of his task

The Men of London, overjoyed,

And flocking crowds completely cloyed

The news, on telegraphic wires,

Excursion trains from distant shires

For weeks he trod his self-made beats

Greek, Rupert, Frith, Dean, Poland Streets,

But all, alas, in vain, for when

Of little boys or grown-up men

Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—

They'd say, "Thy way thyself must find,

And, similarly, also, when

Italians answered, "Il balen"—

The Russ would say with gleaming eye

The Greek said, "Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,

To wander thus for many a year

The Men of London dropped a tear,

At length exploring gangs were sent

A handsome grant by Parliament

To seek the poor policeman out

And when at length they solved the doubt

And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,

(It leads from Richmond Buildings—near

With brandy cold and brandy hot

And made him sergeant on the spot—

When a merry maiden marries,

Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;

From to-day and ever after

Let your tears be tears of laughter—

When you marry merry maiden,

Then the air with love is laden;

When a merry maiden marries

Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;

Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,

Get ye gone until to-morrow;

When you marry merry maiden,

Then the air with joy is laden;

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!