The man in the wilderness asked of meHow many strawberries grew in the sea.I answered him as I thought good,As many as red herrings grow in the wood.
Anonymous.
There were three jovial huntsmen,As I have heard them say,And they would go a-huntingAll on a summer's day.
All the day they hunted,And nothing could they findBut a ship a-sailing,A-sailing with the wind.
One said it was a ship,The other said Nay;The third said it was a houseWith the chimney blown away.
And all the night they hunted,And nothing could they find;But the moon a-gliding,A-gliding with the wind.
One said it was the moon,The other said Nay;The third said it was a cheese,And half o't cut away.
Anonymous.
My father left me three acres of land,Sing ivy, sing ivy;My father left me three acres of land,Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!
I ploughed it with a ram's horn,Sing ivy, sing ivy;And sowed it all over with one peppercorn.Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!
I harrowed it with a bramble bush,Sing ivy, sing ivy;And reaped it with my little penknife,Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!
I got the mice to carry it to the barn,Sing ivy, sing ivy;And thrashed it with a goose's quill,Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!
I got the cat to carry it to the mill,Sing ivy, sing ivy;The miller he swore he would have her paw,And the cat she swore she would scratch his face,Sing holly, go whistle, and ivy!
Anonymous.
Master I have, and I am his man,Gallop a dreary dun;Master I have, and I am his man,And I'll get a wife as fast as I can;With a heighly gaily gamberally,Higgledy piggledy, niggledy, niggledy,Gallop a dreary dun.
Anonymous.
Hyder iddle diddle dell,A yard of pudding is not an ell;Not forgetting tweedle-dye,A tailor's goose will never fly.
Anonymous.
When good King Arthur ruled the land,He was a goodly king:He stole three pecks of barley meal,To make a bag-pudding.
A bag-pudding the king did make,And stuffed it well with plums;And in it put great lumps of fat,As big as my two thumbs.
The king and queen did eat thereof,And noblemen beside;And what they could not eat that night,The queen next morning fried.
Anonymous.
We're all in the dumps,For diamonds are trumps;The kittens are gone to St. Paul's!The babies are bit,The moon's in a fit,And the houses are built without walls.
Anonymous.
Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-deeResolved to have a battle,For Tweedle-dum said Tweedle-deeHad spoiled his nice new rattle.Just then flew by a monstrous crow,As big as a tar-barrel,Which frightened both the heroes soThey quite forgot their quarrel.
Anonymous.
Martin said to his man,Fie! man, fie!Oh, Martin said to his man,Who's the fool now?Martin said to his man,Fill thou the cup, and I the can;Thou hast well drunken, man:Who's the fool now?
I see a sheep shearing corn,Fie! man, fie!I see a sheep shearing corn,Who's the fool now?I see a sheep shearing corn,And a cuckoo blow his horn;Thou hast well drunken, man:Who's the fool now?
I see a man in the moon,Fie! man, fie!I see a man in the moon,Who's the fool now?I see a man in the moon,Clouting of St. Peter's shoon,Thou hast well drunken, man:Who's the fool now?
I see a hare chase a hound,Fie! man, fie!I see a hare chase a hound,Who's the fool now?I see a hare chase a hound,Twenty mile above the ground;Thou hast well drunken, man:Who's the fool now?
I see a goose ring a hog,Fie! man, fie!I see a goose ring a hog,Who's the fool now?I see a goose ring a hog,And a snail that bit a dog;Thou hast well drunken, man:Who's the fool now?
I see a mouse catch the cat,Fie! man, fie!I see a mouse catch the cat,Who's the fool now?I see a mouse catch the cat,And the cheese to eat the rat;Thou hast well drunken, man:Who's the fool now?
FromDeuteromeliaprinted in the reign of James I.
On the Coast of CoromandelWhere the early pumpkins blow,In the middle of the woodsLived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.Two old chairs, and half a candle,One old jug without a handle,—These were all his worldly goods:In the middle of the woods,These were all the worldly goodsOf the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Once, among the Bong-trees walkingWhere the early pumpkins blow,To a little heap of stonesCame the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.There he heard a Lady talking,To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,—"'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!On that little heap of stonesSits the Lady Jingly Jones!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
"Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!Sitting where the pumpkins blow,Will you come and be my wife?"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,"I am tired of living singly,—On this coast so wild and shingly,—I'm a-weary of my life;If you'll come and be my wife,Quite serene would be my life!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
"On this Coast of CoromandelShrimps and watercresses grow,Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo."You shall have my chairs and candle,And my jug without a handle!Gaze upon the rolling deep(Fish is plentiful and cheap):As the sea, my love is deep!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Lady Jingly answered sadly,And her tears began to flow,—"Your proposal comes too late,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!I would be your wife most gladly!"(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)"But in England I've a mate!Yes! you've asked me far too late,For in England I've a mate,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"
Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,—Handel Jones, Esquire & Co.)Dorking fowls delights to send,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle,And your jug without a handle,—I can merely be your friend!Should my Jones more Dorkings send,I will give you three, my friend!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
"Though you've such a tiny body,And your head so large doth grow,—Though your hat may blow away,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy,Yet I wish that I could modi-fy the words I needs must say!Will you please to go away?That is all I have to say,Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,Where the early pumpkins blow,To the calm and silent seaFled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,Lay a large and lively Turtle."You're the Cove," he said, "for me:On your back beyond the sea,Turtle, you shall carry me!"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Through the silent roaring oceanDid the Turtle swiftly go;Holding fast upon his shellRode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.With a sad primaeval motionToward the sunset isles of BoshenStill the Turtle bore him well,Holding fast upon his shell."Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
From the Coast of CoromandelDid that Lady never go,On that heap of stones she mournsFor the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.On that Coast of Coromandel,In his jug without a handleStill she weeps, and daily moans;On the little heap of stonesTo her Dorking Hens she moans,For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Edward Lear.
The Pobble who has no toesHad once as many as we;When they said, "Some day you may lose them all,"He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!"And his Aunt Jobiska made him drinkLavender water tinged with pink;For she said, "The World in general knowsThere's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toesSwam across the Bristol Channel;But before he set out he wrapped his noseIn a piece of scarlet flannel.For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harmCan come to his toes if his nose is warm;And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toesAre safe—provided he minds his nose."
The Pobble swam fast and well,And when boats or ships came near him,He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bellSo that all the world could hear him.And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,When they saw him nearing the farther side,"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska'sRuncible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore—The shore of the Bristol Channel,A sea-green Porpoise carried awayHis wrapper of scarlet flannel.And when he came to observe his feet,Formerly garnished with toes so neat,His face at once became forlornOn perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,From that dark day to the present,Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,In a manner so far from pleasant.Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,Or crafty mermaids stole them away,Nobody knew; and nobody knowsHow the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toesWas placed in a friendly Bark,And they rowed him back and carried him upTo his Aunt Jobiska's Park.And she made him a feast at his earnest wish,Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish;And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows,That Pobbles are happier without their toes."
Edward Lear.
They went to sea in a sieve, they did;In a sieve they went to sea:In spite of all their friends could say,On a winter's morn, on a stormy day,In a sieve they went to sea.And when the sieve turned round and round,And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!"They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big;But we don't care a button, we don't care a fig:In a sieve we'll go to sea!"Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
They sailed away in a sieve, they did,In a sieve they sailed so fast,With only a beautiful pea-green veilTied with a ribbon by way of a sail,To a small tobacco-pipe mast.And every one said who saw them go,"Oh! won't they soon be upset, you know?For the sky is dark and the voyage is long,And, happen what may, it's extremely wrongIn a sieve to sail so fast."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
The water it soon came in, it did;The water it soon came in:So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feetIn a pinky paper all folded neat;And they fastened it down with a pin.And they passed the night in a crockery-jar;And each of them said, "How wise we are!Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,While round in our sieve we spin."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
And all night long they sailed away;And when the sun went down,They whistled and warbled a moony songTo the echoing sound of a coppery gong,In the shade of the mountains brown."O Timballoo! How happy we areWhen we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar!And all night long, in the moonlight pale,We sail away with a pea-green sailIn the shade of the mountains brown."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
VThey sailed to the Western Sea, they did,—To a land all covered with trees;And they bought an owl and a useful cart,And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart,And a hive of silvery bees;And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws,And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws,And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree,And no end of Stilton cheese.Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
And in twenty years they all came back,—In twenty years or more;And every one said, "How tall they've grown!For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,And the hills of the Chankly Bore."And they drank their health, and gave them a feastOf dumplings made of beautiful yeast;And every one said, "If we only live,We, too, will go to sea in a sieve,To the hills of the Chankly Bore."Far and few, far and few,Are the lands where the Jumblies live;Their heads are green, and their hands are blue;And they went to sea in a sieve.
Edward Lear.
Oh! my aged Uncle Arly,Sitting on a heap of barleyThrough the silent hours of night,Close beside a leafy thicket;On his nose there was a cricket,In his hat a Railway-Ticket,(But his shoes were far too tight.)
Long ago, in youth, he squander'dAll his goods away, and wander'dTo the Timskoop-hills afar.There on golden sunsets glazingEvery evening found him gazing,Singing, "Orb! you're quite amazing!How I wonder what you are!"
Like the ancient Medes and Persians,Always by his own exertionsHe subsisted on those hills;Whiles, by teaching children spelling,Or at times by merely yelling,Or at intervals by selling"Propter's Nicodemus Pills."
Later, in his morning rambles,He perceived the moving bramblesSomething square and white disclose:—'Twas a First-class Railway-Ticket;But on stooping down to pick itOff the ground, a pea-green cricketSettled on my uncle's nose.
Never, nevermore, oh! neverDid that cricket leave him ever,—Dawn or evening, day or night;Clinging as a constant treasure,Chirping with a cheerious measure,Wholly to my uncle's pleasure,(Though his shoes were far too tight.)
So for three and forty winters,Till his shoes were worn to splintersAll those hills he wander'd o'er,—Sometimes silent, sometimes yelling;Till he came to Borley-Melling,Near his old ancestral dwelling,(But his shoes were far too tight.)
On a little heap of barleyDied my aged Uncle Arly,And they buried him one nightClose beside the leafy thicket;There, his hat and Railway-Ticket;There, his ever faithful cricket;(But his shoes were far too tight.)
Edward Lear.
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear!Who has written such volumes of stuff!Some think him ill-tempered and queer,But a few think him pleasant enough.
His mind is concrete and fastidious,His nose is remarkably big;His visage is more or less hideous,His beard it resembles a wig.
He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers,Leastways if you reckon two thumbs;Long ago he was one of the singers,But now he is one of the dumbs.
He sits in a beautiful parlour,With hundreds of books on the wall;He drinks a great deal of Marsala,But never gets tipsy at all.
He has many friends, laymen and clerical,Old Foss is the name of his cat:His body is perfectly spherical,He weareth a runcible hat.
When he walks in a waterproof white,The children run after him so!Calling out, "He's come out in his night-Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!"
He weeps by the side of the ocean,He weeps on the top of the hill;He purchases pancakes and lotion,And chocolate shrimps from the mill.
He reads but he cannot speak Spanish,He cannot abide ginger-beer:Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish,How pleasant to know Mr. Lear.
Edward Lear.
I'll tell thee everything I can;There's little to relate.I saw an aged aged man,A-sitting on a gate."Who are you, aged man?" I said,"And how is it you live?"His answer trickled through my headLike water through a sieve.
He said, "I look for butterfliesThat sleep among the wheat:I make them into mutton-pies,And sell them in the street.I sell them unto men," he said,"Who sail on stormy seas;And that's the way I get my bread—A trifle, if you please."
But I was thinking of a planTo dye one's whiskers green,And always use so large a fanThat they could not be seen.So, having no reply to giveTo what the old man said,I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"And thumped him on the head.
His accents mild took up the tale;He said, "I go my waysAnd when I find a mountain-rillI set it in a blaze;And thence they make a stuff they callRowland's Macassar Oil—Yet twopence-halfpenny is allThey give me for my toil."
But I was thinking of a wayTo feed oneself on batter,And so go on from day to dayGetting a little fatter.I shook him well from side to side,Until his face was blue;"Come, tell me how you live," I cried,"And what it is you do!"
He said, "I hunt for haddock's eyesAmong the heather bright,And work them into waistcoat-buttonsIn the silent night.And these I do not sell for goldOr coin of silvery shine,But for a copper halfpennyAnd that will purchase nine."
"I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,Or set limed twigs for crabs;I sometimes search the grassy knollsFor wheels of Hansom cabs.And that's the way" (he gave a wink)"By which I get my wealth—And very gladly will I drinkYour Honor's noble health."
I heard him then, for I had justCompleted my designTo keep the Menai Bridge from rustBy boiling it in wine.I thanked him much for telling meThe way he got his wealth,But chiefly for his wish that heMight drink my noble health.
And now if e'er by chance I putMy fingers into glue,Or madly squeeze a right-hand footInto a left-hand shoe,Or if I drop upon my toeA very heavy weight,I weep, for it reminds me soOf that old man I used to know—Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,Whose hair was whiter than the snow,Whose face was very like a crow,With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,Who seemed distracted with his woe,Who rocked his body to and fro,And muttered mumblingly, and low,As if his mouth were full of dough,Who snorted like a buffalo—That summer evening, long ago,A-sitting on a gate.
Lewis Carroll
The sun was shining on the sea,Shining with all his might:He did his very best to makeThe billows smooth and bright—And this was odd, because it wasThe middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be thereAfter the day was done—"It's very rude of him," she said,"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,The sands were dry as dry.You could not see a cloud, becauseNo cloud was in the sky:No birds were flying overhead—There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the CarpenterWere walking close at hand;They wept like anything to seeSuch quantities of sand:"If this were only cleared away,"They said, "it would be grand!"
"If seven maids with seven mopsSwept it for half a year,Do you suppose," the Walrus said,"That they could get it clear?""I doubt it," said the Carpenter,And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters come and walk with us!"The Walrus did beseech."A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,Along the briny beach:We cannot do with more than four,To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,But not a word he said:The eldest Oyster winked his eye,And shook his heavy head—Meaning to say he did not chooseTo leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,Their shoes were clean and neat—And this was odd, because, you know,They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,And yet another four;And thick and fast they came at last,And more, and more, and more—All hopping through the frothy waves,And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the CarpenterWalked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rockConveniently low:And all the little Oysters stoodAnd waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,"To talk of many things:Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—Of cabbages—and kings—And why the sea is boiling hot—And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,"Before we have our chat;For some of us are out of breath,And all of us are fat!""No hurry!" said the Carpenter,They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,"Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besidesAre very good indeed—Now if you 're ready, Oysters dear,We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,Turning a little blue."After such kindness that would beA dismal thing to do!""The night is fine," the Walrus said,"Do you admire the view?"
"It was so kind of you to come!And you are very nice!"The Carpenter said nothing but"Cut us another slice:I wish you were not quite so deaf—I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,"To play them such a trick,After we've brought them out so far,And made them trot so quick!"The Carpenter said nothing but"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said;"I deeply sympathize."With sobs and tears he sorted outThose of the largest size,Holding his pocket-handkerchiefBefore his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,"You've had a pleasant run!Shall we be trotting home again?"But answer came there none—And this was scarcely odd, becauseThey'd eaten every one.
Lewis Carroll.
We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,(Four weeks to the month you may mark),But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks)Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!
"We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,(Seven days to the week I allow),But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,We have never beheld until now!"
"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you againThe five unmistakable marksBy which you may know, wheresoever you go,The warranted genuine Snarks."
"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp."
"Its habit of getting up late you'll agreeThat it carries too far, when I sayThat it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,And dines on the following day."
"The third is its slowness in taking a jest.Should you happen to venture on one,It will sigh like a thing that is greatly distressed;And it always looks grave at a pun."
"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,Which it constantly carries about,And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes—A sentiment open to doubt."
"The fifth is ambition. It next will be rightTo describe each particular batch;Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,From those that have whiskers, and scratch."
"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,Yet I feel it my duty to saySome are Boojums—" The Bellman broke off in alarm,For the Baker had fainted away.
They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—They roused him with mustard and cress—They roused him with jam and judicious advice—They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,His sad story he offered to tell;And the Bellman cried, "Silence! Not even a shriek!"And excitedly tingled his bell.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor—""Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste,"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark,We have hardly a minute to waste!"
"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,"And proceed without further remarkTo the day when you took me aboard of your shipTo help you in hunting the Snark."
"You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;You may hunt it with forks and hope;You may threaten its life with a railway-share;You may charm it with smiles and soap—"
"I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch—I said it in German and Greek;But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)That English is what you speak!"
"The thing can be done," said the Butcher, "I thinkThe thing must be done, I am sure.The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,The best there is time to procure."
So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,As he wrote with a pen in each hand,And explained all the while in a popular styleWhich the Beaver could well understand.
"Taking Three as the subject to reason about—A convenient number to state—We add Seven and Ten and then multiply outBy One Thousand diminished by Eight."
"The result we proceed to divide, as you see,By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two;Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must beExactly and perfectly true."
"As to temper, the Jubjub's a desperate bird,Since it lives in perpetual passion:Its taste in costume is entirely absurd—It is ages ahead of the fashion."
"Its flavor when cooked is more exquisite farThan mutton or oysters or eggs:(Some think it keeps best in an ivory jar,And some, in mahogany kegs.)"
"You boil it in sawdust; you salt it in glue:You condense it with locusts and tape;Still keeping one principal object in view—To preserve its symmetrical shape."
The Butcher would gladly have talked till next day,But he felt that the Lesson must end,And he wept with delight in attempting to sayHe considered the Beaver his friend.
Lewis Carroll.
He thought he saw a Banker's clerkDescending from the 'bus;He looked again, and found it wasA Hippopotamus."If this should stay to dine," he said,"There won't be much for us!"
He thought he saw an AlbatrossThat fluttered round the lamp:He looked again, and found it wasA Penny-Postage-Stamp."You'd best be getting home," he said;"The nights are very damp!"
He thought he saw a Coach-and-FourThat stood beside his bed:He looked again, and found it wasA Bear without a Head."Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing!It's waiting to be fed!"
He thought he saw a KangarooThat worked a coffee-mill:He looked again, and found it wasA Vegetable-Pill."Were I to swallow this," he said,"I should be very ill!"
He thought he saw a RattlesnakeThat questioned him in Greek:He looked again, and found it wasThe Middle of Next Week."The one thing I regret," he said,"Is that it cannot speak!"
Lewis Carroll.
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!"
And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen,She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten,A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road(The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode.)
But Alice was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wiseTo 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, "'twould 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 check,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."
"Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind;Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find:We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks—Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six."
"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 O 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 wordThis is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your handTo 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 common country folk in this insipid neighborhoodHave nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;And if you marry any one respectable at all,Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"
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 now was 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."
"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two,Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do—A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fallWhen she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."
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 nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind,Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty handOn the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
W.S. Gilbert.
Strike the concertina's melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like any thing!Let the piano's martial blastRouse 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 rollsIn 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 playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving minstrels to his gates,Oh, Allah be obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the "Oiiaits."
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn 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 scents, and tin.And when (as snobs would say)They "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 trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the key-hole in the door!
They played him a sonata—let me see!"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."
He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent, from a most ingenious little fount,More beer, in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.
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!"
"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,To what the gent who's speaking to you, saith:No 'Oiiaits' in truth are we,As you fancy that we be,For (ter-remble) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"
Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that you are men of evil mind!"Beth gave a dreadful shriek—But before he'd time to speakI 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 flatI was walloped with a catFor listening at the key-hole of the door.
Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a will!
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 heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!
W.S. Gilbert.
* * * * *
"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon hersweetly—For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—
"Tell me whither I may his me, tell me, dear one, that I may know—Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"
But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes,Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes."
Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,Till at last I sank exhausted, at a pastrycook his doorway.
And he chirped and sang and skipped about, and laughed withlaughter hearty,He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.
And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"
* * * * *
"Then I polish all the silver which a supper-table lacquers;Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers."
"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.
And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him,And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"
W.S. Gilbert.
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 prideWere Major-General John.
A sneer would play on his martial phiz,Superior birth to show;"Pish!" was a favorite word of his,And he often said "Ho! Ho!"
Full-Private James described might be,As a man of mournful mind;No characteristic trait had heOf 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 notion weWere cruelly changed at birth."
"I've a strange idea, each other's namesThat we have each got on.Such things have been," said Private James."They have!" sneered General John.
"My General John, I swear uponMy oath I think it is 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 uponYour face I blush to see."
"No truly great or generous coveDeserving of them namesWould sneer at a fixed idea that's droveIn the mind of a Private James!"
Said General John, "Upon your claimsNo 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 quiteThat we were probably changed at birth,I'll venture to say you're right."
So General John as Private JamesFell in, parade upon;And Private James, by change of names,Was Major-General John.
W.S. Gilbert
There were three sailors of Bristol CityWho took a boat and went to sea,But first with beef and captain's biscuits,And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy,And the youngest he was little Billee.Now when they'd got as far as the Equator,They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,"I am extremely hungaree."To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy,"We've nothing left, us must eat we."
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy,"With one another we shouldn't agree!There's little Bill, he's young and tender,We're old and tough, so let's eat he."
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you,So undo the button of your chemie."When Bill received this information,He used his pocket-handkerchie,
"First let me say my catechism,Which my poor mother taught to me.""Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy,While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.
Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast,And down he fell on his bended knee,He scarce had come to the Twelfth CommandmentWhen up he jumps—"There's land I see!"
"Jerusalem and Madagascar,And North and South Amerikee,There's the British flag a-riding at anchor,With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's,He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee,But as for little Bill, he made himThe captain of a Seventy-three.
W. M. Thackeray.
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,De win' she blow, blow, blow,An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"Got scar't an' run below—For de win' she blow lak hurricane;Bimeby she blow some more,An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. PierreWan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck,An' walk de him' deck too—He call de crew from up de hole,He call de cook also.De cook she's name was Rosie,She come from Montreal,Was chambre maid on lumber barge,On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor'-eas'-wes',—De sout' win' she blow too,Wen Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,Mon cher, w'at I shall do?"Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre,But still de scow she dreef,De crew he can't pass on de shore,Becos he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak wan black cat,De wave run high an' fas',Wen de captinne tak' de Rosie girlAn' tie her to de mas'.Den he also tak' de life preserve,An' jomp off on de lak',An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie dear,I go down for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—De captinne—scow—an' de poor RosieWas corpses on de shore.For de win' she blow lak' hurricane,Bimeby she blow some more,An' de scow, bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,Wan arpent from de shore.
Now all good wood scow sailor manTak' warning by dat stormAn' go an' marry some nice French girlAn' live on wan beeg farm.De win' can blow lak' hurricaneAn' s'pose she blow some more,You can't get drown on Lac St. PierreSo long you stay on shore.
William H. Drummond.
Upon the poop the captain stands,As starboard as may be;And pipes on deck the topsail handsTo reef the topsail-gallant strandsAcross the briny sea.
"Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!"The captain loudly cried;"Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay!For we must luff for Falmouth BayBefore to-morrow's tide."
The good ship was a racing yawl,A spare-rigged schooner sloop,Athwart the bows the taffrails allIn grummets gay appeared to fall,To deck the mainsail poop.
But ere they made the Foreland Light,And Deal was left behind,The wind it blew great gales that night,And blew the doughty captain tight,Full three sheets in the wind.
And right across the tiller headThe horse it ran apace,Whereon a traveller hitched and spedAlong the jib and vanishedTo heave the trysail brace.
What ship could live in such a sea?What vessel bear the shock?"Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee!Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree,With many a running block!"
And right upon the Scilly IslesThe ship had run aground;When lo! the stalwart Captain GilesMounts up upon the gaff and smiles,And slews the compass round.
"Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry,And scandalize the skiff;As taut and hoisted high and dryThey see the ship unstoppered lieUpon the sea-girt cliff.
And since that day in Falmouth Bay,As herring-fishers trawl,The younkers hear the boatswains sayHow Captain Giles that awful dayPreserved the sinking yawl.
E.H. Palmer.