The Bab Ballads E-Book

W. S. Gilbert

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 306

Beschreibung

Of all the ships upon the blue No ship contained a better crew Than that of worthy Captain Reece, Commanding of The Mantelpiece. He was adored by all his men, For worthy Captain Reece, R.N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew. If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by. Droll legends of his infancy.

Leseprobe

The Bab Ballads

The Bab Ballads CAPTAIN REECETHE DARNED MOUNSEERTHE RIVAL CURATESTHE ENGLISHMANONLY A DANCING GIRLTHE DISAGREEABLE MANGENERAL JOHNTHE COMING BY-AND-BYTO A LITTLE MAIDTHE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIERJOHN AND FREDDYTHE FAIRY QUEEN'S SONGSIR GUY THE CRUSADERIS LIFE A BOONHAUNTEDTHE MODERN MAJOR-GENERALTHE BISHOP AND THE 'BUSMANTHE HEAVY DRAGOONTHE TROUBADOURPROPER PRIDEFERDINANDO AND ELVIRA OR, THE GENTLE PIEMANTHE POLICEMAN'S LOTLORENZO DE LARDYTHE BAFFLED GRUMBLERDISILLUSIONEDTHE HOUSE OF PEERSBABETTE'S LOVEA MERRY MADRIGALTO MY BRIDETHE DUKE AND THE DUCHESSTHE FOLLY OF BROWNEHEU FUGACES—!SIR MACKLINTHEY'LL NONE OF 'EM BE MISSEDTHE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"GIRL GRADUATESTHE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOOBRAID THE RAVEN HAIRTHE PRECOCIOUS BABYTHE WORKING MONARCHTO PHŒBETHE APE AND THE LADYBAINES CAREW, GENTLEMANONLY ROSESTHOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCETHE ROVER'S APOLOGYA DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKERAN APPEALTHE PANTOMIME "SUPER" TO HIS MASKTHE REWARD OF MERITTHE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLINTHE MAGNET AND THE CHURNKING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOOTHE FAMILY FOOLTHE PERIWINKLE GIRLSANS SOUCITHOMSON GREEN AND HARRIET HALEA RECIPEBOB POLTERTHE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAIDELLEN M'JONES ABERDEENTHE SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLORPETER THE WAGWHEN A MERRY MAIDEN MARRIESTHE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOOTHE BRITISH TARGENTLE ALICE BROWNA MAN WHO WOULD WOO A FAIR MAIDTHE SORCERER'S SONGTHE BUMBOAT WOMAN'S STORYTHE FICKLE BREEZETHE TWO OGRESTHE FIRST LORD'S SONGLITTLE OLIVERMISTER WILLIAMWOULD YOU KNOW?PASHA BAILEY BENLIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARESPECULATIONAH ME!LOST MR. BLAKETHE DUKE OF PLAZA-TOROTHE BABY'S VENGEANCETHE ÆSTHETETHE CAPTAIN AND THE MERMAIDSSAID I TO MYSELF, SAID IANNIE PROTHEROESORRY HER LOTAN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESSTHE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRYGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.THE PHILOSOPHIC PILLTHE KING OF CANOODLE-DUMBLUE BLOODFIRST LOVETHE JUDGE'S SONGBRAVE ALUM BEYWHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ONSIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOOSOLATIUMTHE MODEST COUPLEA NIGHTMARETHE MARTINETDON'T FORGET!THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASSTHE SUICIDE'S GRAVETHE REVEREND SIMON MAGUSHE AND SHEDAMON v. PYTHIASTHE MIGHTY MUSTMY DREAMA MIRAGETHE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAINTHE GHOSTS' HIGH NOONA WORM WILL TURNTHE HUMANE MIKADOTHE HAUGHTY ACTORTHE DREAMWILLOW WALY!THE TWO MAJORSLIFE IS LOVELY ALL THE YEAREMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND ITHE USHER'S CHARGETHE PERILS OF INVISIBILITYTHE GREAT OAK TREEOLD PAUL AND OLD TIMKING GOODHEARTTHE MYSTIC SELVAGEESLEEP ON!THE CUNNING WOMANTHE LOVE-SICK BOYPHRENOLOGYPOETRY EVERYWHERETHE FAIRY CURATEHE LOVES!THE WAY OF WOOINGTRUE DIFFIDENCEHONGREE AND MAHRYTHE TANGLED SKEINTHE REVEREND MICAH SOWLSMY LADYONE AGAINST THE WORLDTHE FORCE OF ARGUMENTPUT A PENNY IN THE SLOTGOOD LITTLE GIRLSTHE PHANTOM CURATELIFELIMITED LIABILITYTHE SENSATION CAPTAINANGLICISED UTOPIAAN ENGLISH GIRLTEMPORA MUTANTURA MANAGER'S PERPLEXITIESOUT OF SORTSAT A PANTOMIMEHOW IT'S DONEA CLASSICAL REVIVALTHE STORY OF PRINCE AGIBTHE PRACTICAL JOKERTHE NATIONAL ANTHEMJOE GOLIGHTLYHER TERMSTHE INDEPENDENT BEETO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBEETIQUETTE[12]THE DISCONCERTED TENORBEN ALLAH ACHMET;THE PLAYED-OUT HUMORISTCopyright

The Bab Ballads

W. S. Gilbert

CAPTAIN REECE

Of all the ships upon the blueNo ship contained a better crewThan that of worthy Captain Reece,Commanding ofThe Mantelpiece.He was adored by all his men,For worthy Captain Reece, R.N.,Did all that lay within him toPromote the comfort of his crew.If ever they were dull or sad,Their captain danced to them like mad,Or told, to make the time pass by.Droll legends of his infancy.A feather bed had every man,Warm slippers and hot-water can,Brown Windsor from the captain's store,A valet, too, to every four.Did they with thirst in summer burn?Lo, seltzogenes at every turn,And on all very sultry daysCream ices handed round on trays.Then currant wine and ginger popsStood handily on all the "tops";And, also, with amusement rife,A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."New volumes came across the seaFrom Mister Mudie's libraree;The TimesandSaturday ReviewBeguiled the leisure of the crew.Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N.,Was quite devoted to his men;In point of fact, good Captain ReeceBeatifiedThe Mantelpiece.One summer eve, at half-past ten,He said (addressing all his men):"Come, tell me, please, what I can doTo please and gratify my crew?"By any reasonable planI'll make you happy, if I can;My own convenience count asnil;It is my duty, and I will."Then up and answered William Lee(The kindly captain's coxswain he,A nervous, shy, low-spoken man),He cleared his throat and thus began:"You have a daughter, Captain Reece,Ten female cousins and a niece,A ma, if what I'm told is true,Six sisters, and an aunt or two."Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,More friendly-like we all should beIf you united of 'em toUnmarried members of the crew."If you'd ameliorate our life,Let each select from them a wife;And as for nervous me, old pal,Give me your own enchanting gal!"Good Captain Reece, that worthy man,Debated on his coxswain's plan:"I quite agree," he said, "O Bill;It is my duty, and I will."My daughter, that enchanting gurl,Has just been promised to an earl,And all my other familee,To peers of various degree."But what are dukes and viscounts toThe happiness of all my crew?The word I gave you I'll fulfil;It is my duty, and I will."As you desire it shall befall,I'll settle thousands on you all,And I shall be, despite my hoard,The only bachelor on board."The boatswain ofThe Mantelpiece,He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece."I beg your honour's leave," he said,"If you would wish to go and wed,"I have a widowed mother whoWould be the very thing for you—She long has loved you from afar,She washes for you, Captain R."The captain saw the dame that day—Addressed her in his playful way—"And did it want a wedding ring?It was a tempting ickle sing!"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,We'll all be married this day week—At yonder church upon the hill;It is my duty, and I will!"The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,And widowed ma of Captain Reece,Attended there as they were bid;It was their duty, and they did.

THE DARNED MOUNSEER

I shipped, d'ye see, in a Revenue sloop,

And, off Cape Finisteere,

A merchantman we see,

A Frenchman, going free,

So we made for the bold Mounseer,

D'ye see?

We made for the bold Mounseer!

But she proved to be a Frigate—and she up with her ports,

And fires with a thirty-two!

It come uncommon near,

But we answered with a cheer,

Which paralysed the Parley-voo,

D'ye see?

Which paralysed the Parley-voo!

Then our Captain he up and he says, says he,

"That chap we need not fear,—

We can take her, if we like,

She is sartin for to strike,

For she's only a darned Mounseer,

D'ye see?

She's only a darned Mounseer!

But to fight a French fal-lal—it's like hittin' of a gal—

It's a lubberly thing for to do;

For we, with all our faults,

Why, we're sturdy British salts,

While she's but a Parley-voo,

D'ye see?

A miserable Parley-voo!"

So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze,

As we gives a compassionating cheer;

Froggee answers with a shout

As he sees us go about,

Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer,

D'ye see?

Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer!

And I'll wager in their joy they kissed each other's cheek

(Which is what them furriners do),

And they blessed their lucky stars

We were hardy British tars

Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo,

D'ye see?

Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo!

THE RIVAL CURATES

List while the poet trolls

Of Mr. Clayton Hooper,

Who had a cure of souls

At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.

He lived on curds and whey,

And daily sang their praises,

And then he'd go and play

With buttercups and daisies.

Wild croquet Hooper banned,

And all the sports of Mammon,

He warred with cribbage, and

He exorcised backgammon.

His helmet was a glance

That spoke of holy gladness;

A saintly smile his lance,

His shield a tear of sadness.

His Vicar smiled to see

This armour on him buckled;

With pardonable glee

He blessed himself and chuckled:

"In mildness to abound

My curate's sole design is,

In all the country round

There's none so mild as mine is!"

And Hooper, disinclined

His trumpet to be blowing.

Yet didn't think you'd find

A milder curate going.

A friend arrived one day

At Spiffton-extra-Sooper,

And in this shameful way

He spoke to Mr. Hooper:

"You think your famous name

For mildness can't be shaken.

That none can blot your fame—

But, Hooper, you're mistaken!

"Your mind is not as blank

As that of Hopley Porter,

Who holds a curate's rank

At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

"Heplays the airy flute,

And looks depressed and blighted,

Doves round about him 'toot,'

And lambkins dance delighted.

"Helabours more than you

At worsted work, and frames it;

In old maids' albums, too,

Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!"

The tempter said his say,

Which pierced him like a needle—

He summoned straight away

His sexton and his beadle.

These men were men who could

Hold liberal opinions:

On Sundays they were good—

On week-days they were minions.

"To Hopley Porter go,

Your fare I will afford you—

Deal him a deadly blow,

And blessings shall reward you.

"But stay—I do not like

Undue assassination,

And so, before you strike,

Make this communication:

"I'll give him this one chance—

If he'll more gaily bear him,

Play croquet, smoke, and dance,

I willingly will spare him."

They went, those minions true,

To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,

And told their errand to

The Reverend Hopley Porter.

"What?" said that reverend gent,

"Dance through my hours of leisure?

Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—

Play croquet? Oh, with pleasure!

"Wear all my hair in curl?

Stand at my door, and wink—so—

At every passing girl?

My brothers, I should think so!

"For years I've longed for some

Excuse for this revulsion:

Now that excuse has come—

I do it on compulsion!!!"

He smoked and winked away—

This Reverend Hopley Porter—

The deuce there was to pay

At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

And Hooper holds his ground,

In mildness daily growing—

They think him, all around,

The mildest curate going.

THE ENGLISHMAN

He is an Englishman!

For he himself has said it,

And it's greatly to his credit,

That he is an Englishman!

For he might have been a Roosian,

A French, or Turk, or Proosian,

Or perhaps Itali-an!

But in spite of all temptations,

To belong to other nations,

He remains an Englishman!

Hurrah!

For the true-born Englishman!

ONLY A DANCING GIRL

Only a dancing girl,

With an unromantic style,

With borrowed colour and curl,

With fixed mechanical smile,

With many a hackneyed wile,

With ungrammatical lips,

And corns that mar her trips!

Hung from the "flies" in air,

She acts a palpable lie;

She's as little a fairy there

As unpoetical I!

I hear you asking, Why—

Why in the world I sing

This tawdry, tinselled thing?

No airy fairy she,

As she hangs in arsenic green,

From a highly impossible tree,

In a highly impossible scene

(Herself not over clean).

For fays don't suffer, I'm told,

From bunions, coughs, or cold.

And stately dames that bring

Their daughters there to see,

Pronounce the "dancing thing"

No better than she should be.

With her skirt at her shameful knee,

And her painted, tainted phiz:

Ah, matron, which of us is?

(And, in sooth, it oft occurs

That while these matrons sigh,

Their dresses are lower than hers,

And sometimes half as high;

And their hair is hair they buy.

And they use their glasses, too,

In a way she'd blush to do.)

But change her gold and green

For a coarse merino gown,

And see her upon the scene

Of her home, when coaxing down

Her drunken father's frown,

In his squalid cheerless den:

She's a fairy truly, then!

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:

I'm a genuine philanthropist—all other kinds are sham.

Each little fault of temper and each social defect

In my erring fellow-creatures, I endeavour to correct.

To all their little weaknesses I open people's eyes,

And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;

I love my fellow-creatures—I do all the good I can—

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

To compliments inflated I've a withering reply,

And vanity I always do my best to mortify;

A charitable action I can skilfully dissect;

And interested motives I'm delighted to detect.

I know everybody's income and what everybody earns,

And I carefully compare it with the income-tax returns;

But to benefit humanity however much I plan,

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

I'm sure I'm no ascetic; I'm as pleasant as can be;

You'll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;

I've an irritating chuckle, I've a celebrated sneer,

I've an entertaining snigger, I've a fascinating leer;

To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two;

I can tell a woman's age in half a minute—and I do—

But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can.

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

GENERAL JOHN

The bravest names for fire and flames

And all that mortal durst,

Were General John and Private James,

Of the Sixty-seventy-first.

General John was a soldier tried,

A chief of warlike dons;

A haughty stride and a withering pride

Were Major-General John's.

A sneer would play on his martial phiz,

Superior birth to show;

"Pish!" was a favourite word of his,

And he often said "Ho! ho!"

Full-Private James described might be

As a man of a mournful mind;

No characteristic trait had he

Of any distinctive kind.

From the ranks, one day, cried Private James,

"Oh! Major-General John,

I've doubts of our respective names

My mournful mind upon.

"A glimmering thought occurs to me

(Its source I can't unearth),

But I've a kind of a notion we

Were cruelly changed at birth.

"I've a strange idea that each other's names

We've each of us here got on.

Such things have been," said Private James.

"They have!" sneered General John.

"My General John, I swear upon

My oath I think 'tis so——"

"Pish!" proudly sneered his General John

And he also said "Ho! ho!"

"My General John! my General John!

My General John!" quoth he,

"This aristocratical sneer upon

Your face I blush to see!

"No truly great or generous cove

Deserving of them names

Would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove

In the mind of a Private James!"

Said General John, "Upon your claims

No need your breath to waste;

If this is a joke, Full-Private James,

It's a joke of doubtful taste.

"But, being a man of doubtless worth,

If you feel certain quite

That we were probably changed at birth,

I'll venture to say you're right."

So General John as Private James

Fell in, parade upon;

And Private James, by change of names,

Was Major-General John.

THE COMING BY-AND-BY

Sad is that woman's lot who, year by year,

Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear;

As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs,

Impatiently begins to "dim her eyes "!—

Herself compelled, in life's uncertain gloamings,

To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well-saved "combings"—

Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey,

To "make up" for lost time, as best she may!

Silvered is the raven hair,

Spreading is the parting straight,

Mottled the complexion fair,

Halting is the youthful gait,

Hollow is the laughter free,

Spectacled the limpid eye,

Little will be left of me,

In the coming by-and-by!

Fading is the taper waist—

Shapeless grows the shapely limb,

And although securely laced,

Spreading is the figure trim!

Stouter than I used to be,

Still more corpulent grow I—

There will be too much of me

In the coming by-and-by!

TO A LITTLE MAID

BY A POLICEMAN

Come with me, little maid!

Nay, shrink not, thus afraid—

I'll harm thee not!

Fly not, my love, from me—

I have a home for thee—

A fairy grot,

Where mortal eye

Can rarely pry,

There shall thy dwelling be!

List to me, while I tell

The pleasures of that cell,

Oh, little maid!

What though its couch be rude—

Homely the only food

Within its shade?

No thought of care

Can enter there,

No vulgar swain intrude!

Come with me, little maid,

Come to the rocky shade

I love to sing;

Live with us, maiden rare—

Come, for we "want" thee there,

Thou elfin thing,

To work thy spell,

In some cool cell

In stately Pentonville!

THE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIER

I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,

And left him, gaily prattling

With a highly respectable Gondolier,

Who promised the Royal babe to rear,

And teach him the trade of a timoneer

With his own beloved bratling.

Both of the babes were strong and stout,

And, considering all things, clever.

Of that there is no manner of doubt—

No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

No possible doubt whatever.

Time sped, and when at the end of a year

I sought that infant cherished,

That highly respectable Gondolier

Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—

I dropped a Grand Inquisitor's tear—

That Gondolier had perished!

A taste for drink, combined with gout,

Had doubled him up for ever.

Ofthatthere is no manner of doubt—

No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

No possible doubt whatever.

But owing, I'm much disposed to fear,

To his terrible taste for tippling,

That highly respectable Gondolier

Could never declare with a mind sincere

Which of the two was his offspring dear,

And which the Royal stripling!

Which was which he could never make out,

Despite his best endeavour.

Ofthatthere is no manner of doubt—

No probable, possible shadow of doubt—

No possible doubt whatever.

The children followed his old career—

(This statement can't be parried)

Of a highly respectable Gondolier:

Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—

Butwhichof the two is not quite clear—

Is the Royal Prince you married!

Search in and out and round about

And you'll discover never

A tale so free from every doubt—

All probable, possible shadow of doubt—

All possible doubt whatever!

JOHN AND FREDDY

John courted lovely Mary Ann,

So likewise did his brother, Freddy.

Fred was a very soft young man,

While John, though quick, was most unsteady

Fred was a graceful kind of youth,

But John was very much the strongest.

"Oh, dance away," said she, "in truth,

I'll marry him who dances longest."

John tries the maiden's taste to strike

With gay, grotesque, outrageous dresses,

And dances comically, like

Clodoche and Co., at the Princess's.

But Freddy tries another style,

He knows some graceful steps and does 'em—

A breathing Poem—Woman's smile—

A man all poesy and buzzem.

Now Freddy's operaticpas—

Now Johnny's hornpipe seems entrapping:

Now Freddy's gracefulentrechats—

Now Johnny's skilful "cellar-flapping."

For many hours—for many days—

For many weeks performed each brother,

For each was active in his ways,

And neither would give in to t'other.

After a month of this, they say

(The maid was getting bored and moody)

A wandering curate passed that way

And talked a lot of goody-goody.

"Oh my," said he, with solemn frown,

"I tremble for each dancingfrater,

Like unregenerated clown

And harlequin at some the-ayter."

He showed that men, in dancing, do

Both impiously and absurdly,

And proved his proposition true,

With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly.

For months both John and Freddy danced,

The curate's protests little heeding;

For months the curate's words enhanced

The sinfulness of their proceeding

At length they bowed to Nature's rule—

Their steps grew feeble and unsteady,

Till Freddy fainted on a stool,

And Johnny on the top of Freddy.

"Decide!" quoth they, "let him be named,

Who henceforth as his wife may rank you."

"I've changed my views," the maiden said,

"I only marry curates, thank you!"

Says Freddy, "Here is goings on!

To bust myself with rage I'm ready."

"I'll be a curate!" whispers John—

"And I," exclaimed poetic Freddy.

But while they read for it, these chaps,

The curate booked the maiden bonny—

And when she's buried him, perhaps,

She'll marry Frederick or Johnny.

THE FAIRY QUEEN'S SONG

Oh, foolish fay,

Think you because

Man's brave array

My bosom thaws

I'd disobey

Our fairy laws?

Because I fly

In realms above,

In tendency

To fall in love

Resemble I

The amorous dove?

Oh, amorous dove!

Type of Ovidius Naso!

This heart of mine

Is soft as thine,

Although I dare not say so!

On fire that glows

With heat intense

I turn the hose

Of Common Sense,

And out it goes

At small expense!

We must maintain

Our fairy law;

That is the main

On which to draw—

In that we gain

A Captain Shaw.

Oh, Captain Shaw!

Type of true love kept under!

Could thy Brigade

With cold cascade

Quench my great love, I wonder!

SIR GUY THE CRUSADER

Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,

A muscular knight,

Ever ready to fight,

A very determined invader,

And Dickey de Lion's delight.

Lenore was a Saracen maiden,

Brunette, statuesque,

The reverse of grotesque,

Her pa was a bagman from Aden,

Her mother she played in burlesque.

Acoryphée, pretty and loyal,

In amber and red

The ballet she led;

Her mother performed at the Royal,

Lenore at the Saracen's Head.

Of face and of figure majestic,

She dazzled the cits—

Ecstaticised pits;—

Her troubles were only domestic,

But drove her half out of her wits.

Her father incessantly lashed her,

On water and bread

She was grudgingly fed;

Whenever her father he thrashed her

Her mother sat down on her head.

Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason,

For beauty so bright

Sent him mad with delight;

He purchased a stall for the season,

And sat in it every night.

His views were exceedingly proper,

He wanted to wed,

So he called at her shed

And saw her progenitor whop her—

Her mother sit down on her head.

"So pretty," said he, "and so trusting!

You brute of a dad,

You unprincipled cad,

Your conduct is really disgusting,

Come, come, now admit it's too bad!

"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant—

Your daughter Lenore

I intensely adore,

And I cannot help feeling indignant.

A fact that I hinted before;

"To see a fond father employing

A deuce of a knout

For to bang her about,

To a sensitive lover's annoying."

Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."

Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden

With a big spiky knob,

Sit in peace on his cob

While a beautiful Saracen maiden

Is whipped by a Saracen snob?

"To London I'll go from my charmer."

Which he did, with his loot

(Seven hats and a flute),

And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour

At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.

Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter,

Her pa, in a rage,

Died (don't know his age),

His daughter, she married the prompter,

Grew bulky and quitted the stage.

IS LIFE A BOON

Is life a boon?

If so, it must befall

That Death, whene'er he call,

Must call too soon.

Though fourscore years he give,

Yet one would pray to live

Another moon!

What kind of plaint have I,

Who perish in July?

I might have had to die

Perchance in June!

Is life a thorn?

Then count it not a whit!

Man is well done with it:

Soon as he's born

He should all means essay

To put the plague away;

And I, war-worn,

Poor captured fugitive,

My life most gladly give—

I might have had to live

Another morn!

HAUNTED

Haunted? Ay, in a social way,

By a body of ghosts in a dread array:

But no conventional spectres they—

Appalling, grim, and tricky;

I quail at mine as I'd never quail

At a fine traditional spectre pale,

With a turnip head and a ghostly wail,

And a splash of blood on the dicky!

Mine are horrible social ghosts,

Speeches and women and guests and hosts,

Weddings and morning calls and toasts,

In every bad variety:

Ghosts that hover about the grave

Of all that's manly, free, and brave:

You'll find their names on the architrave

Of that charnel-house, Society.

Black Monday—black as its schoolroom ink—

With its dismal boys that snivel and think

Of nauseous messes to eat and drink,

And a frozen tank to wash in.

That was the first that brought me grief

And made me weep, till I sought relief

In an emblematical handkerchief,

To choke such baby bosh in.

First and worst in the grim array—

Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way,

Which I wouldn't revive for a single day

For all the wealth of Plutus—

Are the horrible ghosts that schooldays scared

If the classical ghost that Brutus dared

Was the ghost of his "Cæsar" unprepared,

I'm sure I pity Brutus.

I pass to critical seventeen:

The ghost of that terrible wedding scene,

When an elderly colonel stole my queen,

And woke my dream of heaven:

No school-girl decked in her nursery curls

Was my gushing innocent queen of pearls;

If she wasn't a girl of a thousand girls.

She was one of forty-seven!

I see the ghost of my first cigar—

Of the thence-arising family jar—

Of my maiden brief (I was at the Bar),

When I called the judge "Your wushup"!

Of reckless days and reckless nights,

With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights,

Unholy songs, and tipsy fights,

Which I strove in vain to hush up.

Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks,

Ghosts of copy, "declined with thanks,"

Of novels returned in endless ranks,

And thousands more, I suffer.

The only line to fitly grace

My humble tomb, when I've run my race,

Is "Reader, this is the resting-place

Of an unsuccessful duffer."

I've fought them all, these ghosts of mine,

But the weapons I've used are sighs and brine,

And now that I'm nearly forty-nine,

Old age is my only bogy;

For my hair is thinning away at the crown,

And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;

And a general verdict sets me down

As an irreclaimable fogy.

THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL

I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral;

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical;

About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,

With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus,

I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

I know our mythic history—King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's,

I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox;

I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,

In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.

I tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,

I know the croaking chorus from the "Frogs" of Aristophanes;

Then I can hum a fugue, of which I've heard the music's din afore,

And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense "Pinafore."

Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform,

And tell you every detail of Caractacus's uniform.

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin,"

When I can tell at sight a Chassepot rifle from a javelin,

When such affairs assortiesand surprises I'm more wary at,

And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,

When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,

When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,

In short, when I've a smattering of elementary strategy,

You'll say a better Major-Generalhas neversata gee—

For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,

Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century.

But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral!

THE BISHOP AND THE 'BUSMAN

It was a Bishop bold,

And London was his see,

He was short and stout and round about

And zealous as could be.

It also was a Jew,

Who drove a Putney 'bus—

For flesh of swine however fine

He did not care a cuss.

His name was Hash Baz Ben,

And Jedediah too,

And Solomon and Zabulon—-

This 'bus-directing Jew.

The Bishop said, said he,

"I'll see what I can do

To Christianise and make you wise,

You poor benighted Jew."

So every blessed day

That 'bus he rode outside,

From Fulham town, both up and down,

And loudly thus he cried:

"His name is Hash Baz Ben,

And Jedediah too,

And Solomon and Zabulon—

This 'bus-directing Jew."

At first the 'busman smiled,

And rather liked the fun—

He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,

And said, "Eccentric one!"

And gay young dogs would wait

To see the 'bus go by

(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),

To hear the Bishop cry:

"Observe his grisly beard,

His race it clearly shows,

He sticks no fork in ham or pork—

Observe, my friends, his nose.

"His name is Hash Baz Ben,

And Jedediah too,

And Solomon and Zabulon—

This 'bus-directing Jew."

But though at first amused,

Yet after seven years,

This Hebrew child got rather riled,

And melted into tears.

He really almost feared

To leave his poor abode,

His nose, and name, and beard became

A byword on that road.

At length he swore an oath,

The reason he would know—

"I'll call and see why ever he

Does persecute me so!"

The good old Bishop sat

On his ancestral chair,

The 'busman came, sent up his name,

And laid his grievance bare.

"Benighted Jew," he said

(The good old Bishop did),

"Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—

Become a Christian kid!

"I'll ne'er annoy you more."

"Indeed?" replied the Jew;

"Shall I be freed?" "You will, indeed!"

Then "Done!" said he, "with you!"

The organ which, in man,

Between the eyebrows grows,

Fell from his face, and in its place

He found a Christian nose.

His tangled Hebrew beard,

Which to his waist came down.

Was now a pair of whiskers fair—

His name Adolphus Brown!

He wedded in a year

That prelate's daughter Jane,

He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—

His wife is far from plain.

THE HEAVY DRAGOON

If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,

Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,

Take all the remarkable people in history,

Rattle them off to a popular tune!

The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of theVictory—

Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;

The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—

Coolness of Paget about to trepan—

The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico—

Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—

The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—

Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—

The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery—

Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—

Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—

Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—

Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—

Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot!

Take of these elements all that is fusible,

Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible,

Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,

And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,

Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—

The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—

Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—

A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—

Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—

The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—

Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—

The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal—

Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibal—

Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—

Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—

Beadle of Burlington—Richardson's show—

Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!

Take of these elements all that is fusible—

Melt 'em all down in a pipkin or crucible—

Set 'em to simmer and take off the scum,

And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!

THE TROUBADOUR

A Troubadour he played

Without a castle wall,

Within, a hapless maid

Responded to his call.

"Oh, willow, woe is me!

Alack and well-a-day!

If I were only free

I'd hie me far away!"

Unknown her face and name,

But this he knew right well,

The maiden's wailing came

From out a dungeon cell.

A hapless woman lay

Within that prison grim—

That fact, I've heard him say,

Was quite enough for him.

"I will not sit or lie,

Or eat or drink, I vow,

Till thou art free as I,

Or I as pent as thou!"

Her tears then ceased to flow,

Her wails no longer rang,

And tuneful in her woe

The prisoned maiden sang:

"Oh, stranger, as you play

I recognise your touch;

And all that I can say,

Is thank you very much!"

He seized his clarion straight,

And blew thereat, until

A warder oped the gate,

"Oh, what might be your will?"

"I've come, sir knave, to see

The master of these halls:

A maid unwillingly

Lies prisoned in their walls."

With barely stifled sigh

That porter drooped his head,

With teardrops in his eye,

"A many, sir," he said.

He stayed to hear no more,

But pushed that porter by,

And shortly stood before

Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye.

Sir Hugh he darkly frowned,

"What would you, sir, with me?"

The troubadour he downed

Upon his bended knee.

"I've come, de Peckham Rye,

To do a Christian task,

You ask me what would I?

It is not much I ask.

"Release these maidens, sir,

Whom you dominion o'er—

Particularly her

Upon the second floor!

"And if you don't, my lord"—

He here stood bolt upright.

And tapped a tailor's sword—

"Come out at once and fight!"

Sir Hugh he called—and ran

The warden from the gate,

"Go, show this gentleman

The maid in forty-eight."

By many a cell they passed

And stopped at length before

A portal, bolted fast:

The man unlocked the door.

He called inside the gate

With coarse and brutal shout,

"Come, step it, forty-eight!"

And forty-eight stepped out.

"They gets it pretty hot,

The maidens wot we cotch—

Two years this lady's got

For collaring a wotch."

"Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,"

The troubadour exclaimed—

"If I may make so free,

How is this castle named?"

The warden's eyelids fill,

And, sighing, he replied,

"Of gloomy Pentonville

This is the Female Side!"

The minstrel did not wait