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.

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.)

“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!

“Oh, dear,” said weeping Baines Carew,
   “This is the direst case I know.”
“I’m grieved,” said Bagg, “at paining you—
   To Cobb and Poltherthwaite 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 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!”

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.

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.

“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 headstrong 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 doating mother, who
   Had heard of his defiant rage;
His Ma was nearly ninety-two,
   And rather dressy for her age.

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.

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!”

(The mothers were of decent size,
   Though not particularly tall;
But in the sketch that meets your eyes
   I’ve been obliged to draw them small.)

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 lache 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.

A gentleman of City fame
   Now claims your kind attention;
East India broking was his game,
   His name I shall not mention:
      No one of finely-pointed sense
      Would violate a confidence,
            And shall I go
            And do it?  No!
   His name I shall not mention.

His knocker advertised no dun,
   No losses made him sulky,
He had one sorrow—only one—
   He was extremely bulky.
      A man must be, I beg to state,
      Exceptionally fortunate
            Who owns his chief
            And only grief
   Is—being very bulky.

“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;
   I’m nineteen stone or twenty!
Henceforward I’ll go in for air
   And exercise in plenty.”
      Most people think that, should it come,
      They can reduce a bulging tum
            To measures fair
            By taking air
   And exercise in plenty.

He braved the gay and guileless laugh
   Of children with their nusses,
The loud uneducated chaff
   Of clerks on omnibuses.
      Against all minor things that rack
      A nicely-balanced mind, I’ll back
            The noisy chaff
            And ill-bred laugh
   Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money chink,
   And saw the house he rented,
And knew his wife, could never think
   What made him discontented.
      It never entered their pure minds
      That fads are of eccentric kinds,
            Nor would they own
            That fat alone
   Could make one discontented.

His mania soon got noised about
   And into all the papers;
His size increased beyond a doubt
   For all his reckless capers:
      It may seem singular to you,
      But all his friends admit it true—
            The more he found
            His figure round,
   The more he cut his capers.

At length his brawny knees gave way,
   And on the carpet sinking,
Upon his shapeless back he lay
   And kicked away like winking.
      Instead of seeing in his state
      The finger of unswerving Fate,
            He laboured still
            To work his will,
   And kicked away like winking.

MORAL.

I hate to preach—I hate to prate—
—I’m no fanatic croaker,
But learn contentment from the fate
Of this East India broker.
He’d everything a man of taste
Could ever want, except a waist;
And discontent
His size anent,
And bootless perseverance blind,
Completely wrecked the peace of mind
Of this East India broker.

         Vast empty shell!
Impertinent, preposterous abortion!
         With vacant stare,
         And ragged hair,
And every feature out of all proportion!
Embodiment of echoing inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
         I ring thy knell!

         To-night thou diest,
Beast that destroy’st my heaven-born identity!
         Nine weeks of nights,
         Before the lights,
Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,
I’ve been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,
Credited for the smile you wear externally—
I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,
         As there thou liest!

         ’T is time to toll
Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:
         A nine weeks’ run,
         And thou hast done
All thou canst do to make thyself inimical.
Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
         Freed is thy soul!

(The Mask respondeth.)

         Oh! master mine,
Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.
         Art thou aware
         Of nothing there
Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?
A brain that mourns thine unredeemed rascality?
A soul that weeps at thy threadbare morality?
Both grieving that their individuality
         Is merged in thine?

O’er unreclaimed suburban clays
   Some years ago were hobblin’
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
   And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
   A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
   A fine low-comedy bogy.

They’d barely speak, and each, in fine,
   Grew more and more reflective:
Each thought his own particular line
   By chalks the more effective.
At length they settled some one should
   By each of them be haunted,
And so arrange that either could
   Exert his prowess vaunted.

“The Quaint against the Statuesque”—
   By competition lawful—
The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,
   The ghost the Grandly Awful.
“Now,” said the goblin, “here’s my plan—
   In attitude commanding,
I see a stalwart Englishman
   By yonder tailor’s standing.

“The very fittest man on earth
   My influence to try on—
Of gentle, p’r’aps of noble birth,
   And dauntless as a lion!
Now wrap yourself within your shroud—
   Remain in easy hearing—
Observe—you’ll hear him scream aloud
   When I begin appearing!”

For weeks the goblin weird and wild,
   That noble stripling haunted;
For weeks the stripling stood and smiled,
   Unmoved and all undaunted.
The sombre ghost exclaimed, “Your plan
   Has failed you, goblin, plainly:
Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,
   So stalwart and ungainly.

“Of such as he the bard has said
   ‘Hech thrawfu’ raltie rorkie!
Wi’ thecht ta’ croonie clapperhead
   And fash’ wi’ unco pawkie!’
He’ll faint away when I appear,
   Upon his native heather;
Or p’r’aps he’ll only scream with fear,
   Or p’r’aps the two together.”

The spectre showed himself, alone,
   To do his ghostly battling,
With curdling groan and dismal moan,
   And lots of chains a-rattling!
But no—the chiel’s stout Gaelic stuff
   Withstood all ghostly harrying;
His fingers closed upon the snuff
   Which upwards he was carrying.

For several years the ghostly twain
   These Britons bold have haunted,
But all their efforts are in vain—
   Their victims stand undaunted.
This very day the imp, and ghost,
   Whose powers the imp derided,
Stand each at his allotted post—
   The bet is undecided.

A Bishop once—I will not name his see—
   Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional;
From pulpit shackles never set them free,
   And found a sin where sin was unintentional.
         All pleasures ended in abuse auricular—
         The Bishop was so terribly particular.

Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,
   He sought to make of human pleasures clearances;
And form his priests on that much-lauded plan
   Which pays undue attention to appearances.
         He couldn’t do good deeds without a psalm in ’em,
         Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in ’em.

Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,
   Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity,
He sought by open censure to enhance
   Their dread of joining harmless social jollity.
         Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)
         The ordinary pleasures of society.

Again, ’t was Christmas Eve, and to enhance
   His children’s pleasure in their harmless rollicking,
He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;
   When something checked the current of his frolicking:
         That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly,
         Stood up and figured with him in the “Coverley!”

Once, yielding to an universal choice
   (The company’s demand was an emphatic one,
For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),
   In a quartet he joined—an operatic one.
         Harmless enough, though ne’er a word of grace in it,
         When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!

One day, when passing through a quiet street,
   He stopped awhile and joined a Punch’s gathering;
And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet,
   To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;
         And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty,
         That phantom curate laughing all hyænally.

Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed
   From cares episcopal and ties monarchical,
He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed,
   In manner anything but hierarchical—
         He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it—
         That curate’s face, with half a yard of hair on it!

At length he gave a charge, and spake this word:
   “Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may;
To check their harmless pleasuring’s absurd;
   What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may.”
         He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him,
         The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.

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

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!”

“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.

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).

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

“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?

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.

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.”

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!

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.

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 Mcclan
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 Mcclan.

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.

All loved their McClan, 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 McJones 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.”

“Let’s show,” said McClan, “to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.
Let’s see,” said McClan, 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) McClan, I declare,
Elicited something resembling 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 McJones 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 McClan!”

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 McJones 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 McClan,
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene—
Especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen.

“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 McClan.”

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 McJones 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.”

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.

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.

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.”

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!

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!”

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.

“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 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.

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.

Oh, listen to the tale of Mister William, if you please,
Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas.
He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife,
Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.

He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone,
Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own.
But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike—
To plan one little wickedness—to see what it was like.

He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I;
I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try!
For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold,
And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold!

“So one who never revelled in discreditable tricks
Until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six,
May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame,
Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.

“That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true,
But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue;
And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll,
Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.

“The common sin of babyhood—objecting to be drest—
If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest,
For anything you know, may represent, if you’re alive,
A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.

“Still, I wouldn’t take advantage of this fact, but be content
With some pardonable folly—it’s a mere experiment.
The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin;
So with something that’s particularly tempting I’ll begin.

“I would not steal a penny, for my income’s very fair—
I do not want a penny—I have pennies and to spare—
And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till,
The sin would be enormous—the temptation being nil.

“There’s Wilson who is dying—he has wealth from Stock and rent—
If I divert his riches from their natural descent,
I’m placed in a position to indulge each little whim.”
So he diverted them—and they, in turn, diverted him.

Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw,
Temptation isn’t recognized by Britain’s Common Law;
Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch,
And William got a “lifer,” which annoyed him very much.

For, ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol,
He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale;
He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him so
That his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low.

Kind Clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate,
Affected by the details of his pitiable state.
They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall,
Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call.

“Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case:
A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace;
It’s telling on young William, who’s reduced to skin and bone—
Remember he’s a gentleman, with money of his own.

“He had an ample income, and of course he stands in need
Of sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed;
No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips—
He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips.

“He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude;
He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food.
When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad,
And other educational advantages he’s had.

“A burglar or garotter, or, indeed, a common thief
Is very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef,
Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,—
A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward.

“Good Gracious Me!” that sympathetic Secretary cried,
“Suppose in prison fetters Mister William should have died!
Dear me, of course!  Imprisonment for Life his sentence saith:
I’m very glad you mentioned it—it might have been For Death!

“Release him with a ticket—he’ll be better then, no doubt,
And tell him I apologize.”  So Mister William’s out.
I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I’m sure,
And not begin experimentalizing any more.