I’m old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief,
My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief!
For terrible sights I’ve seen, and dangers great I’ve run—
I’m nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done!

Ah!  I’ve been young in my time, and I’ve played the deuce with men!
I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then:
My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet,
Poll Pineapple’s eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet!

Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay,
By far the sweetest of all was kind Lieutenant Belaye.’
Lieutenant Belaye commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun,
She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun.

With a laudable view of enhancing his country’s naval pride,
When people inquired her size, Lieutenant Belaye replied,
“Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Seventy-ones!”
Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns.

Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below,
“Come down, Little Buttercup, come” (for he loved to call me so),
And he’d tell of the fights at sea in which he’d taken a part,
And so Lieutenant Belaye won poor Poll Pineapple’s heart!

But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he,
“I’m ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea.”
And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day,
For every Portsmouth maid loved good Lieutenant Belaye.

We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one,—
Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun,
I’m sorry to say that I’ve heard that sailors sometimes swear,
But I never yet heard a Bun say anything wrong, I declare.

When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a “Messmate, ho!  What cheer?”
But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was “How do you do, my dear?”
When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big D—
But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild “Dear me!”

They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run,
And they screamed when Lieutenant Belaye discharged his only gun.
And as he was proud of his gun—such pride is hardly wrong—
The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long.

They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said
That Bill had a way of his own of making his lips look red—
That Joe looked quite his age—or somebody might declare
That Barnacle’s long pig-tail was never his own own hair.

Belaye would admit that his men were of no great use to him,
“But, then,” he would say, “there is little to do on a gunboat trim
I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too—
And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew.”

I saw him every day.  How the happy moments sped!
Reef topsails!  Make all taut!  There’s dirty weather ahead!
(I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun:
In that case, I don’t know whatever we should have done!)

He up, and he says, says he, “O crew of the Hot Cross Bun,
Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!”
And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits,
And all fell down in so many separate fainting-fits.

And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be,
And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me,
Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor’s blue array,
To follow the shifting fate of kind Lieutenant Belaye.

* * * * * * * *

Mr. Blake was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner,
   Who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak,
He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking a glass of grog on a Sunday after dinner,
   And seldom thought of going to church more than twice or—if Good Friday or Christmas Day happened to come in it—three times a week.

He was quite indifferent as to the particular kinds of dresses
   That the clergyman wore at church where he used to go to pray,
And whatever he did in the way of relieving a chap’s distresses,
   He always did in a nasty, sneaking, underhanded, hole-and-corner sort of way.

He didn’t believe in persons who, not being well off themselves, are obliged to confine their charitable exertions to collecting money from wealthier people,
   And looked upon individuals of the former class as ecclesiastical hawks;
He used to say that he would no more think of interfering with his priest’s robes than with his church or his steeple,
   And that he did not consider his soul imperilled because somebody over whom he had no influence whatever, chose to dress himself up like an exaggerated Guy Fawkes.

This shocking old vagabond was so unutterably shameless
   That he actually went a-courting a very respectable and pious middle-aged sister, by the name of Biggs.
She was a rather attractive widow, whose life as such had always been particularly blameless;
   Her first husband had left her a secure but moderate competence, owing to some fortunate speculations in the matter of figs.

I am sorry to say that she rather took to Blake—that outcast of society,
   And when respectable brothers who were fond of her began to look dubious and to cough,
She would say, “Oh, my friends, it’s because I hope to bring this poor benighted soul back to virtue and propriety,”
   And besides, the poor benighted soul, with all his faults, was uncommonly well off.

And when Mr. Blake’s dissipated friends called his attention to the frown or the pout of her,
   Whenever he did anything which appeared to her to savour of an unmentionable place,
He would say that “she would be a very decent old girl when all that nonsense was knocked out of her,”
   And his method of knocking it out of her is one that covered him with disgrace.

She was fond of dropping his sovereigns ostentatiously into the plate, and she liked to see them stand out rather conspicuously against the commonplace half-crowns and shillings,
   So he took her to all the charity sermons, and if by any extraordinary chance there wasn’t a charity sermon anywhere, he would drop a couple of sovereigns (one for him and one for her) into the poor-box at the door;
And as he always deducted the sums thus given in charity from the housekeeping money, and the money he allowed her for her bonnets and frillings,
   She soon began to find that even charity, if you allow it to interfere with your personal luxuries, becomes an intolerable bore.

But Blake even went further than that, and said that people should do their own works of necessity, and not delegate them to persons in a menial situation,
   So he wouldn’t allow his servants to do so much as even answer a bell.
Here he is making his wife carry up the water for her bath to the second floor, much against her inclination,—
   And why in the world the gentleman who illustrates these ballads has put him in a cocked hat is more than I can tell.

And now that wicked person—that detestable sinner (“Belial Blake” his friends and well-wishers call him for his atrocities),
   And his poor deluded victim, whom all her Christian brothers dislike and pity so,
Go to the parish church only on Sunday morning and afternoon and occasionally on a week-day, and spend their evenings in connubial fondlings and affectionate reciprocities,
   And I should like to know where in the world (or rather, out of it) they expect to go!

Weary at heart and extremely ill
Was Paley Vollaire of Bromptonville,
In a dirty lodging, with fever down,
Close to the Polygon, Somers Town.

Paley Vollaire was an only son
(For why?  His mother had had but one),
And Paley inherited gold and grounds
Worth several hundred thousand pounds.

But he, like many a rich young man,
Through this magnificent fortune ran,
And nothing was left for his daily needs
But duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds.

He woke and counted the pips on the walls,
The outdoor passengers’ loud footfalls,
And reckoned all over, and reckoned again,
The little white tufts on his counterpane.

A medical man to his bedside came.
(I can’t remember that doctor’s name),
And said, “You’ll die in a very short while
If you don’t set sail for Madeira’s isle.”

“Go to Madeira? goodness me!
I haven’t the money to pay your fee!”
“Then, Paley Vollaire,” said the leech, “good bye;
I’ll come no more, for your’re sure to die.”

He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast;
“Oh, send,” said he, “for Frederick West,
Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim:
I’ve a terrible tale to whisper him!”

Poor was Frederick’s lot in life,—
A dustman he with a fair young wife,
A worthy man with a hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds—or more.

THE TERRIBLE TALE.

“’Tis now some thirty-seven years ago
Since first began the plot that I’m revealing,
A fine young woman, whom you ought to know,
   Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing.
Herself by means of mangling reimbursing,
And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.

“Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot:
One was her own—the other only lent to her:
Her own she slighted.  Tempted by a lot
   Of gold and silver regularly sent to her,
She ministered unto the little other
In the capacity of foster-mother.

“One day—it was quite early in the week—
I in My cradle having placed the bantling—
Crept into his!  He had not learnt to speak,
   But I could see his face with anger mantling.
It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe,
For, oh!  I was a bad, blackhearted baby!

“So great a luxury was food, I think
No wickedness but I was game to try for it.
Now if I wanted anything to drink
   At any time, I only had to cry for it!
Once, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking,
My blubbering involved a serious smacking!

“I came into his wealth—I bore his name,
I bear it still—his property I squandered—
I mortgaged everything—and now (oh, shame!)
   Into a Somers Town shake-down I’ve wandered!
I am no Paley—no, Vollaire—it’s true, my boy!
The only rightful Paley V. is you, my boy!

“And all I have is yours—and yours is mine.
I still may place you in your true position:
Give me the pounds you’ve saved, and I’ll resign
   My noble name, my rank, and my condition.
So far my wickedness in falsely owning
Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!”

* * * * * * *

Frederick he was a simple soul,
He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll,
And gave to Paley his hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds or more.

Paley Vollaire, with many a groan,
Gave Frederick all that he called his own,—
Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean,
A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane.

I sing a legend of the sea,
So hard-a-port upon your lee!
   A ship on starboard tack!
She’s bound upon a private cruise—
(This is the kind of spice I use
   To give a salt-sea smack).

Behold, on every afternoon
(Save in a gale or strong Monsoon)
   Great Captain Capel Cleggs
(Great morally, though rather short)
Sat at an open weather-port
   And aired his shapely legs.

But Mermen didn’t seem to care
Much time (as far as I’m aware)
   With Cleggs’s legs to spend;
Though Mermaids swam around all day
And gazed, exclaiming, “That’s the way
   A gentleman should end!

“A pair of legs with well-cut knees,
And calves and ankles such as these
   Which we in rapture hail,
Are far more eloquent, it’s clear
(When clothed in silk and kerseymere),
   Than any nasty tail.”

And Cleggs—a worthy kind old boy—
Rejoiced to add to others’ joy,
   And, when the day was dry,
Because it pleased the lookers-on,
He sat from morn till night—though con-
   Stitutionally shy.

They set to work, these water-men,
And made their nether robes—but when
   They drew with dainty touch
The kerseymere upon their tails,
They found it scraped against their scales,
   And hurt them very much.

The silk, besides, with which they chose
To deck their tails by way of hose
   (They never thought of shoon),
For such a use was much too thin,—
It tore against the caudal fin,
   And “went in ladders” soon.

So they designed another plan:
They sent their most seductive man
   This note to him to show—
“Our Monarch sends to Captain Cleggs
His humble compliments, and begs
   He’ll join him down below;

“We’ve pleasant homes below the sea—
Besides, if Captain Cleggs should be
   (As our advices say)
A judge of Mermaids, he will find
Our lady-fish of every kind
   Inspection will repay.”

The Merman sank—the Captain too
Jumped overboard, and dropped from view
   Like stone from catapult;
And when he reached the Merman’s lair,
He certainly was welcomed there,
   But, ah! with what result?

For though, when Captain Capel sank,
The Mermen drawn in double rank
   Gave him a hearty hail,
Yet when secure of Captain Cleggs,
They cut off both his lovely legs,
   And gave him such a tail!

When Captain Cleggs returned aboard,
His blithesome crew convulsive roar’d,
   To see him altered so.
The Admiralty did insist
That he upon the Half-pay List
   Immediately should go.

So spake the stern First Lord aloud—
He was a wag, though very proud,
   And much rejoiced to say,
“You’re only half a captain now—
And so, my worthy friend, I vow
   You’ll only get half-pay!”

Oh! listen to the tale of little Annie Protheroe.
She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of Bow;
She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day—
A gentle executioner whose name was Gilbert Clay.

I think I hear you say, “A dreadful subject for your rhymes!”
O reader, do not shrink—he didn’t live in modern times!
He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance)
That all his actions glitter with the lime-light of Romance.

And when his work was over, they would ramble o’er the lea,
And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree,
And Annie’s simple prattle entertained him on his walk,
For public executions formed the subject of her talk.

And sometimes he’d explain to her, which charmed her very much,
How famous operators vary very much in touch,
And then, perhaps, he’d show how he himself performed the trick,
And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick.

Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look
At his favourable notices, all pasted in a book,
And then her cheek would flush—her swimming eyes would dance with joy
In a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy.

One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle Gilbert said
(As he helped his pretty Annie to a slice of collared head),
“This reminds me I must settle on the next ensuing day
The hash of that unmitigated villain Peter Gray.”

And Annie answered, blushing in an interesting way,
“You think, no doubt, I’m sighing for that felon Peter Gray:
That I was his young woman is unquestionably true,
But not since I began a-keeping company with you.”

Then Gilbert, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore
He’d know the reason why if she refused to tell him more;
And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes)
“You mustn’t ask no questions, and you won’t be told no lies!

“Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you,
Of chopping off a rival’s head and quartering him too!
Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!”
And Gilbert ground his molars as he answered her, “I will!”

He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill,
He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until
This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law
Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

And Annie said, “O Gilbert, dear, I do not understand
Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?”
He said, “It is intended for to lacerate and flay
The neck of that unmitigated villain Peter Gray!”

“Now, Gilbert,” Annie answered, “wicked headsman, just beware—
I won’t have Peter tortured with that horrible affair;
If you appear with that, you may depend you’ll rue the day.”
But Gilbert said, “Oh, shall I?” which was just his nasty way.

He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart,
For Annie was a woman, and had pity in her heart!
She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare;
She only said, “Remember, for your Annie will be there!”

* * * * * * * *

The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock,
And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block.
The hatchet was uplifted for to settle Peter Gray,
When Gilbert plainly heard a woman’s voice exclaiming, “Stay!”

’Twas Annie, gentle Annie, as you’ll easily believe.
“O Gilbert, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve,
It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago,
And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.

“I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, Gilbert Clay,
And as I’d quite surrendered all idea of Peter Gray,
I quietly suppressed it, as you’ll clearly understand,
For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.

[And so she did.

I’ve painted Shakespeare all my life—
   “An infant” (even then at “play”!)
“A boy,” with stage-ambition rife,
   Then “Married to Ann Hathaway.”

“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”),
   His “First appearance on the stage,”
His “Call before the curtain”—then
   “Rejoicings when he came of age.”

“You needn’t waste your breath or time,—
   I know what you are going to say,—
That you’re an artist, and that I’m
   Remarkably like Shakespeare.  Eh?

“You wish that I would sit to you?”
   I clasped him madly round the waist,
And breathlessly replied, “I do!”
   “All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”

I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
   And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,—
   There never was a nobler face!

“Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grand
   Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—
To sport his brow at second-hand,
   To wear his cast-off countenance!

“To rub his eyes whene’er they ache—
   To wear his baldness ere you’re old—
To clean his teeth when you awake—
   To blow his nose when you’ve a cold!”

His scanty hair he wildly tore:
   “That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.”
He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—
   “Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”

“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy
   (Continuing to blaze away),
“You think my face a source of joy;
   That shows you know not what you say.

“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps:
   I’m always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
   This wretched man congratulate.

“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—
   This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,
Have always been the origin
   Of all the woes I ever knew!

“If to the play my way I find,
   To see a grand Shakesperian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
   Until the author’s puppets cease.

“In church the people stare at me,
   Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
   And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.

“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
   Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with Brown’s insipid smile,
   Or Tomkins’s unmannered frown,

“Yet boldly make my face their own,
   When (oh, presumption!) they require
To animate a paving-stone
   With Shakespeare’s intellectual fire.

“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung
   With these or some such whisperings:
‘’Tis pity that a Shakespeare’s tongue
   Should say such un-Shakesperian things!’

“I should not thus be criticised
   Had I a face of common wont:
Don’t envy me—now, be advised!”
   And, now I think of it, I don’t!

The story of Frederick Gowler,
   A mariner of the sea,
Who quitted his ship, the Howler,
   A-sailing in Caribbee.
For many a day he wandered,
   Till he met in a state of rum
Calamity Pop von Peppermint Drop,
   The King of Canoodle-Dum.

And Gowler he answered sadly,
   “Oh, mine is a doleful tale!
They’ve treated me werry badly
   In Lunnon, from where I hail.
I’m one of the Family Royal—
   No common Jack Tar you see;
I’m William the Fourth, far up in the North,
   A King in my own countree!”

Bang-bang!  How the tom-toms thundered!
   Bang-bang!  How they thumped this gongs!
Bang-bang!  How the people wondered!
   Bang-bang!  At it hammer and tongs!
Alliance with Kings of Europe
   Is an honour Canoodlers seek,
Her monarchs don’t stop with Peppermint Drop
   Every day in the week!

Fred told them that he was undone,
   For his people all went insane,
And fired the Tower of London,
   And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane.
And some of them racked St. James’s,
   And vented their rage upon
The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall,
   And the Angel at Islington.

Pop gave him his only daughter,
   Hum Pickety Wimple Tip:
Fred vowed that if over the water
   He went, in an English ship,
He’d make her his Queen,—though truly
   It is an unusual thing
For a Caribbee brat who’s as black as your hat
   To be wife of an English King.

And all the Canoodle-Dummers
   They copied his rolling walk,
His method of draining rummers,
   His emblematical talk.
For his dress and his graceful breeding,
   His delicate taste in rum,
And his nautical way, were the talk of the day
   In the Court of Canoodle-Dum.

They signified wonder roundly
   At any astounding yarn,
By darning their dear eyes roundly
   (’T was all they had to darn).
They “hoisted their slacks,” adjusting
   Garments of plantain-leaves
With nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches,
   Instead of a dress like Eve’s!)

The mariner’s lively “Hollo!”
   Enlivened Canoodle’s plain
(For blessings unnumbered follow
   In Civilization’s train).
But Fortune, who loves a bathos,
   A terrible ending planned,
For Admiral D. Chickabiddy, C.B.,
   Placed foot on Canoodle land!

Calamity said (with folly),
   “Hum! nebber want him again—
Him civilize all of us, golly!
   Calamity suck him brain!”
The people, however, were pained when
   They saw him aboard his ship,
But none of them wept for their Freddy, except
   Hum Pickety Wimple Tip.

Some time ago, in simple verse
   I sang the story true
Of Captain Reece, the Mantelpiece,
   And all her happy crew.

I showed how any captain may
   Attach his men to him,
If he but heeds their smallest needs,
   And studies every whim.

When his ungrateful country placed
   Kind Reece upon half-pay,
Without much claim Sir Berkely came,
   And took command one day.

Sir Berkely was a martinet—
   A stern unyielding soul—
Who ruled his ship by dint of whip
   And horrible black-hole.

A sailor who was overcome
   From having freely dined,
And chanced to reel when at the wheel,
   He instantly confined!

And tars who, when an action raged,
   Appeared alarmed or scared,
And those below who wished to go,
   He very seldom spared.

E’en he who smote his officer
   For punishment was booked,
And mutinies upon the seas
   He rarely overlooked.

When first Sir Berkely came aboard
   He read a speech to all,
And told them how he’d made a vow
   To act on duty’s call.

Then William Lee, he up and said
   (The Captain’s coxswain he),
“We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made,
   And werry pleased we be.

“We won’t pretend, my lad, as how
   We’re glad to lose our Reece;
Urbane, polite, he suited quite
   The saucy Mantelpiece.

“But if your honour gives your mind
   To study all our ways,
With dance and song we’ll jog along
   As in those happy days.

“I like your honour’s looks, and feel
   You’re worthy of your sword.
Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid glad
   To welcome you aboard!”

“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn—
   Come, gov’nor, I insist!”
The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—
   The hand became a fist!

“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt;
   But Berkely dodged his aim,
And made him go in chains below:
   The seamen murmured “Shame!”

He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,
   Stopped hornpipes when at sea,
And swore his cot (or bunk) should not
   Be used by aught than he.

His First Lieutenant, Peter, was
   As useless as could be,
A helpless stick, and always sick
   When there was any sea.

This First Lieutenant proved to be
   His foster-sister May,
Who went to sea for love of he
   In masculine array.

And when he learnt the curious fact,
   Did he emotion show,
Or dry her tears or end her fears
   By marrying her?  No!

Or did he even try to soothe
   This maiden in her teens?
Oh, no!—instead he made her wed
   The Sergeant of Marines!

Of course such Spartan discipline
   Would make an angel fret;
They drew a lot, and William shot
   This fearful martinet.

I go away this blessed day,
   To sail across the sea, Matilda!
My vessel starts for various parts
   At twenty after three, Matilda.
I hardly know where we may go,
   Or if it’s near or far, Matilda,
For Captain Hyde does not confide
   In any ’fore-mast tar, Matilda!

But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass!
   With anxious love I burn, Matilda.
I want to know if we shall go
   To church when I return, Matilda?
Your eyes are red, you bow your head;
   It’s pretty clear you thirst, Matilda,
To name the day—What’s that you say?
   —“You’ll see me further first,” Matilda?

Oh, pause to think before you drink
   The dregs of Lethe’s cup, Matilda!
Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,
   Before you give me up, Matilda!
Recall again the mental pain
   Of what I’ve had to do, Matilda!
And be assured that I’ve endured
   It, all along of you, Matilda!

Do you forget, my blithesome pet,
   How once with jealous rage, Matilda,
I watched you walk and gaily talk
   With some one thrice your age, Matilda?
You squatted free upon his knee,
   A sight that made me sad, Matilda!
You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,
   Which almost drove me mad, Matilda!

I knew him not, but hoped to spot
   Some man you thought to wed, Matilda!
I took a gun, my darling one,
   And shot him through the head, Matilda!
I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruff
   Enough, I own; but, ah, Matilda!
It did annoy your sailor boy
   To find it was your pa, Matilda!

But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—
   Believe me when I say, Matilda,
No corns that shoot—no pinching boot
   Upon a summer day, Matilda—
It’s my belief, could cause such grief
   As that I’ve suffered for, Matilda,
My having shot in vital spot
   Your old progenitor, Matilda.

Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow
   I made one winter day, Matilda—
That, come what could, I never would
   Remain too long away, Matilda.
And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,
   I’ve charged my gentle mind, Matilda,
To keep the vow I made—and now
   You treat me so unkind, Matilda!

Remember, too, how all the crew
   With indignation blind, Matilda,
Distinctly swore they ne’er before
   Had thought me so unkind, Matilda.
And how they’d shun me one by one—
   An unforgiving group, Matilda—
I stopped their howls and sulky scowls
   By pizening their soup, Matilda!

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!

“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.

“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 croquêt-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;

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.”

“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 grieved 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!”