Dr. Belvillewas regarded as theCrichtonof his age:His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;His poems held a noble rank, although it’s very trueThat, being very proper, they were read by very few.He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the “line,”And evenMr. Ruskincame and worshipped at his shrine;But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high—The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy;And everybody said“How can he be repaid—This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?”But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,A plan for making everybody’s fortune but his own;For, in business, an Inventor’s little better than a fool,And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule.His poems—people read them in the Quarterly Reviews—His pictures—they engraved them in theIllustrated News—His inventions—they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees,But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;And everybody said“How can he be repaid—This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?”But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
At last the point was given up in absolute despair,When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire,With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House!Thenit flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewardsWas, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords!And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,As this very great—this very good—this very gifted man?(Though I’m more than half afraidThat it sometimes may be saidThat we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride,However great his merits—if his cousin hadn’t died!)
AMagnethung in a hardware shop,And all around was a loving cropOf scissors and needles, nails and knives,Offering love for all their lives;But for iron the Magnet felt no whim,Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,From needles and nails and knives he’d turn,For he’d set his love on a Silver Churn!His most æsthetic,Very magneticFancy took this turn—“If I can wheedleA knife or needle,Why not a Silver Churn?”
And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,The needles opened their well-drilled eyes,The pen-knives felt “shut up,” no doubt,The scissors declared themselves “cut out,”The kettles they boiled with rage, ’tis said,While every nail went off its head,And hither and thither began to roam,Till a hammer came up—and drove it home,While this magneticPeripateticLover he lived to learn,By no endeavour,Can Magnet everAttract a Silver Churn!
Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,If you listen to popular rumour;From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright,And he bubbles with wit and good humour!He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;Yet though people forgive his transgression,There are one or two rules that all Family FoolsMust observe, if they love their profession.There are one or two rules,Half-a-dozen, maybe,That all family fools,Of whatever degree,Must observe if they love their profession.
If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll needTo consider each person’s auricular:What is all right for B would quite scandalise C(For C is so very particular);And D may be dull, and E’s very thick skullIs as empty of brains as a ladle;While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,That he’s known your best joke from his cradle!When your humour they flout,You can’t let yourself go;And itdoesput you outWhen a person says, “Oh!I have known that old joke from my cradle!”
If your master is surly, from getting up early(And tempers are short in the morning),An inopportune joke is enough to provokeHim to give you, at once, a month’s warning.Then if you refrain, he is at you again,For he likes to get value for money:He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,“If you know that you’re paid to be funny?”It adds to the tasksOf a merryman’s place,When your principal asks,With a scowl on his face,If you know that you’re paid to be funny?
Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.—Oh, beware of his anger provoking!Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his chair;He won’t understand practical joking.If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,You may get a bland smile from these sages;But should it, by chance, be imported from France,Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!It’s a general rule,Though your zeal it may quench,If the Family FoolMakes a joke that’stooFrench,Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!
Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,And your senses with toothache you’re losing,And you’re mopy and flat—they don’t fine you for thatIf you’re properly quaint and amusing!Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,And took with her your trifle of money;Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind—They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny!It’s a comfort to feelIf your partner should flit,Thoughyousuffer a deal,Theydon’t mind it a bit—They don’t blame you—so long as you’re funny!
Icannottell what this love may beThat cometh to all but not to me.It cannot be kind as they’d imply,Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?It cannot be joy and rapture deep,Or why do these gentle ladies weep?It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said,Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no witWho foolishly hug and foster it.If love is a weed, how simple theyWho gather and gather it, day by day!If love is a nettle that makes you smart,Why do you wear it next your heart?And if it be neither of these, say I,Why do you sit and sob and sigh?
Takea pair of sparkling eyes,Hidden, ever and anon,In a merciful eclipse—Do not heed their mild surprise—Having passed the Rubicon.Take a pair of rosy lips;Take a figure trimly planned—Such as admiration whets(Be particular in this);Take a tender little hand,Fringed with dainty fingerettes,Press it—in parenthesis;—Take all these, you lucky man—Take and keep them, if you can.
Take a pretty little cot—Quite a miniature affair—Hung about with trellised vine,Furnish it upon the spotWith the treasures rich and rareI’ve endeavoured to define.Live to love and love to live—You will ripen at your ease,Growing on the sunny side—Fate has nothing more to give.You’re a dainty man to pleaseIf you are not satisfied.Take my counsel, happy man:Act upon it, if you can!
He. Ihavea song to sing, O!She. Sing me your song, O!He. It is sung to the moonBy a love-lorn loon,Who fled from the mocking throng, O!It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye.Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me—lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
She. I have a song to sing, O!He. Sing me your song, O!She. It is sung with the ringOf the song maids singWho love with a love life-long, O!It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloudAt the moan of the merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me—lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
He. I have a song to sing, O!She. Sing me your song, O!He. It is sung to the knellOf a churchyard bell,And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born,Who turned up his noble nose with scornAt the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloudAt the moan of the merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me—lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
She. I have a song to sing, O!He. Sing me your song, O!She. It is sung with a sighAnd a tear in the eye,For it tells of a righted wrong, O!It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,Who turned on her heel and tripped awayFrom the peacock popinjay, bravely born,Who turned up his noble nose with scornAt the humble heart that he did not prize;And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes,For the love of a merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Both. Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me—lackadaydee!His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more.For he lived in the love of a ladye!
Thelaw is the true embodimentOf everything that’s excellent.It has no kind of fault or flaw,And I, my lords, embody the Law.The constitutional guardian IOf pretty young Wards in Chancery,All very agreeable girls—and noneIs over the age of twenty-one.A pleasant occupation forA rather susceptible Chancellor!
But though the compliment impliedInflates me with legitimate pride,It nevertheless can’t be deniedThat it has its inconvenient side.For I’m not so old, and not so plain,And I’m quite prepared to marry again,But there’d be the deuce to pay in the LordsIf I fell in love with one of my Wards:Which rather tries my temper, forI’msucha susceptible Chancellor!
And every one who’d marry a WardMust come to me for my accord:So in my court I sit all day,Giving agreeable girls away,With one for him—and one for he—And one for you—and one for ye—And one for thou—and one for thee—But never, oh never a one for me!Which is exasperating, forA highly susceptible Chancellor!
Whena merry maiden marries,Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;Every sound becomes a song,All is right and nothing’s wrong!From to-day and ever afterLet your tears be tears of laughter—Every sigh that finds a ventBe a sigh of sweet content!When you marry merry maiden,Then the air with love is laden;Every flower is a rose,Every goose becomes a swan,Every kind of trouble goesWhere the last year’s snows have gone;Sunlight takes the place of shadeWhen you marry merry maid!
When a merry maiden marriesSorrow goes and pleasure tarries;Every sound becomes a song,All is right, and nothing’s wrong.Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,Get ye gone until to-morrow;Jealousies in grim array,Ye are things of yesterday!When you marry merry maiden,Then the air with joy is laden;All the corners of the earthRing with music sweetly played,Worry is melodious mirth,Grief is joy in masquerade;Sullen night is laughing day—All the year is merry May!
ABritishtar is a soaring soul,As free as a mountain bird,His energetic fist should be ready to resistA dictatorial word.His nose should pant and his lip should curl,His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl,His bosom should heave and his heart should glow,And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.
His eyes should flash with an inborn fire,His brow with scorn be rung;He never should bow down to a domineering frown,Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,His hair should twirl and his face should scowl;His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,And this should be his customary attitude!
Amanwho would woo a fair maid,Should ’prentice himself to the trade;And study all day,In methodical way,How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.He should ’prentice himself at fourteenAnd practise from morning to e’en;And when he’s of age,If he will, I’ll engage,He may capture the heart of a queen!It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every JackHe must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill!
If he’s made the best use of his time,His twig he’ll so carefully limeThat every birdWill come down at his word.Whatever its plumage and clime.He must learn that the thrill of a touchMay mean little, or nothing, or much;It’s an instrument rare,To be handled with care,And ought to be treated as such.It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every Jack,He must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill!
Then a glance may be timid or free;It will vary in mighty degree,From an impudent stareTo a look of despairThat no maid without pity can see.And a glance of despair is no guide—It may have its ridiculous side;It may draw you a tearOr a box on the ear;You can never be sure till you’ve tried.It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every JackHe must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill!
Oh! my name isJohn Wellington Wells—I’m a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses,In prophecies, witches, and knells!If you want a proud foe to “make tracks”—If you’d melt a rich uncle in wax—You’ve but to look inOn our resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe.
We’ve a first-class assortment of magic;And for raising a posthumous shadeWith effects that are comic or tragic,There’s no cheaper house in the trade.Love-philtre—we’ve quantities of it;And for knowledge if any one burns,We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophetWho brings us unbounded returns:For he can prophesyWith a winkofhis eye,Peep with securityInto futurity,Sum up your history,Clear up a mystery,Humour proclivityFor a nativity.With mirrors so magical,Tetrapods tragical,Bogies spectacular,Answers oracular,Facts astronomical,Solemn or comical,And, if you want it, heMakes a reduction on taking a quantity!Oh!If any one anything lacks,He’ll find it all ready in stacks,If he’ll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
He can raise you hosts,Of ghosts,And that without reflectors;And creepy thingsWith wings,And gaunt and grisly spectres!He can fill you crowdsOf shrouds,And horrify you vastly;He can rack your brainsWith chains,And gibberings grim and ghastly.Then, if you plan it, heChanges organityWith an urbanity,Full of Satanity,Vexes humanityWith an inanityFatal to vanity—Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.Barring tautology,In demonology,’Lectro biology,Mystic nosology,Spirit philology,High class astrology,Such is his knowledge, heIsn’t the man to require an apologyOh!My name isJohn Wellington Wells,I’m a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses—In prophecies, witches, and knells.If any one anything lacks,He’ll find it all ready in stacks,If he’ll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
Sighingsoftly to the riverComes the loving breeze,Setting nature all a-quiver,Rustling through the trees!And the brook in rippling measureLaughs for very love,While the poplars, in their pleasure,Wave their arms above!River, river, little river,May thy loving prosper ever.Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,May thy wooing happy be!
Yet, the breeze is but a rover,When he wings away,Brook and poplar mourn a lover!Sighing well-a-day!Ah, the doing and undoingThat the rogue could tell!When the breeze is out a-wooing,Who can woo so well?Pretty brook, thy dream is over,For thy love is but a rover!Sad the lot of poplar trees,Courted by the fickle breeze!
WhenI was a lad I served a termAs office boy to an Attorney’s firm;I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,And I polished up the handle of the big front door.I polished up that handle so successfullee,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!
As office boy I made such a markThat they gave me the post of a junior clerk;I served the writs with a smile so bland,And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.I copied all the letters in a hand so free,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!
In serving writs I made such a nameThat an articled clerk I soon became;I wore clean collars and a brand-new suitFor the Pass Examination at the Institute:And that Pass Examination did so well for me,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!
Of legal knowledge I acquired such a gripThat they took me into the partnership,And that junior partnership I ween,Was the only ship that I ever had seen:But that kind of ship so suited me,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!
I grew so rich that I was sentBy a pocket borough into Parliament;I always voted at my Party’s call,And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.I thought so little, they rewarded me,By making me the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!
Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be,If you want to rise to the top of the tree—If your soul isn’t fettered to an office stool,Be careful to be guided by this golden rule—Stick close to your desks andnever go to sea,And you all may be Rulers of the Queen’s Navee!
Wouldyou know the kind of maidSets my heart a flame-a?Eyes must be downcast and staid,Cheeks must flush for shame-a!She may neither dance nor sing,But, demure in everything,Hang her head in modest wayWith pouting lips that seem to say,“Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,Though I die of shame-a!”Please you, that’s the kind of maidSets my heart a flame-a!
When a maid is bold and gayWith a tongue goes clang-a,Flaunting it in brave array,Maiden may go hang-a!Sunflower gay and hollyhockNever shall my garden stock;Mine the blushing rose of May,With pouting lips that seem to say“Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,Though I die for shame-a!”Please you, that’s the kind of maidSets my heart a flame-a!
Comesa train of little ladiesFrom scholastic trammels free,Each a little bit afraid is,Wondering what the world can be!
Is it but a world of trouble—Sadness set to song?Is its beauty but a bubbleBound to break ere long?
Are its palaces and pleasuresFantasies that fade?And the glory of its treasuresShadow of a shade?
Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under,From scholastic trammels free,And we wonder—how we wonder!—What on earth the world can be!
Whenmaiden loves, she sits and sighs,She wanders to and fro;Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,And to all questions she replies,With a sad heigho!’Tis but a little word—“heigho!”So soft, ’tis scarcely heard—“heigho!”An idle breath—Yet life and deathMay hang upon a maid’s “heigho!”
When maiden loves, she mopes apart,As owl mopes on a tree;Although she keenly feels the smart,She cannot tell what ails her heart,With its sad “Ah me!”’Tis but a foolish sigh—“Ah me!”Born but to droop and die—“Ah me!”Yet all the senseOf eloquenceLies hidden in a maid’s “Ah me!”
Inenterprise of martial kind,When there was any fighting,He led his regiment from behind(He found it less exciting).But when away his regiment ran,His place was at the fore, O—That celebrated,Cultivated,UnderratedNobleman,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!You always found that knight, ha, ha!That celebrated,Cultivated,UnderratedNobleman,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
When, to evade Destruction’s hand,To hide they all proceeded,No soldier in that gallant bandHid half as well as he did.He lay concealed throughout the war,And so preserved his gore, O!That unaffected,Undetected,Well connectedWarrior,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!In every doughty deed, ha, ha!He always took the lead, ha, ha!That unaffected,Undetected,Well connectedWarrior,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
When told that they would all be shotUnless they left the service,That hero hesitated not,So marvellous his nerve is.He sent his resignation in,The first of all his corps, O!That very knowing,Overflowing,Easy-goingPaladin,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!He always showed the way, ha, ha!That very knowing,Overflowing,Easy-goingPaladin,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
Ifyou’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare,You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere.You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind(The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind).And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep forme,Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”
Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of goodQueen Annewas Culture’s palmiest day.Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of theEmpress Josephine.And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough forme,Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”
Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,An attachmentà laPlato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band,If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand.And every one will say,As you walk your flowery way,“If he’s content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suitme,Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”
WhenI went to the Bar as a very young man(Said I to myself—said I),I’ll work on a new and original plan(Said I to myself—said I),I’ll never assume that a rogue or a thiefIs a gentleman worthy implicit belief,Because his attorney, has sent me a brief(Said I to myself—said I!)
I’ll never throw dust in a juryman’s eyes(Said I to myself—said I),Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise(Said I to myself—said I),Or assume that the witnesses summoned in forceIn Exchequer, Queen’s Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce,Have perjured themselves as a matter of course(Said I to myself—said I!)
Ere I go into court I will read my brief through(Said I to myself—said I),And I’ll never take work I’m unable to do(Said I to myself—said I).My learned profession I’ll never disgraceBy taking a fee with a grin on my face,When I haven’t been there to attend to the case(Said I to myself—said I!)
In other professions in which men engage(Said I to myself—said I),The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage,(Said I to myself—said I),Professional licence, if carried too far,Your chance of promotion will certainly mar—And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar(Said I to myself—said I!)
Sorryher lot who loves too well,Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,Sad are the sighs that own the spellUttered by eyes that speak too plainly;Heavy the sorrow that bows the headWhen Love is alive and Hope is dead!
Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—Dark is the night to Earth’s poor daughters,When to the ark the wearied oneFlies from the empty waste of waters!Heavy the sorrow that bows the headWhen Love is alive and Hope is dead!
Whenall night long a chap remainsOn sentry-go, to chase monotonyHe exercises of his brains,That is, assuming that he’s got any.Though never nurtured in the lapOf luxury, yet I admonish you,I am an intellectual chap,And think of things that would astonish you.I often think it’s comicalHow Nature always does contriveThat every boy and every gal,That’s born into the world alive,Is either a little Liberal,Or else a little Conservative!Fal lal la!
When in that house M.P.’s divide,If they’ve a brain and cerebellum, too,They’ve got to leave that brain outside,And vote just as their leaders tell ’em to.But then the prospect of a lotOf statesmen, all in close proximity,A-thinking for themselves, is whatNo man can face with equanimity.Then let’s rejoice with loud Fal lalThat Nature wisely does contriveThat every boy and every gal,That’s born into the world alive,Is either a little Liberal,Or else a little Conservative!Fal lal la!
I’vewisdom from the East and from the West,That’s subject to no academic rule;You may find it in the jeering of a jest,Or distil it from the folly of a fool.I can teach you with a quip, if I’ve a mind;I can trick you into learning with a laugh;Oh, winnow all my folly, and you’ll findA grain or two of truth among the chaff!
I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,The upstart I can wither with a whim;He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,But his laughter has an echo that is grim.When they’ve offered to the world in merry guise,Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—For he who’d make his fellow-creatures wiseShould always gild the philosophic pill!
Spurnnot the nobly bornWith love affected,Nor treat with virtuous scornThe well connected.High rank involves no shame—We boast an equal claimWith him of humble nameTo be respected!Blue blood! Blue blood!When virtuous love is sought,Thy power is naught,Though dating from the Flood,Blue blood!
Spare us the bitter painOf stern denials,Nor with low-born disdainAugment our trials.Hearts just as pure and fairMay beat in Belgrave SquareAs in the lowly airOf Seven Dials!Blue blood! Blue blood!Of what avail art thouTo serve me now?Though dating from the Flood,Blue blood!
WhenI, good friends, was called to the Bar,I’d an appetite fresh and hearty,But I was, as many young barristers are,An impecunious party.I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—A brief which was brought by a booby—A couple of shirts and a collar or two,And a ring that looked like a ruby!
In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,Like a semi-despondent fury;For I thought I should never hit on a chanceOf addressing a British Jury—But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,And dinners of bread and water;So I fell in love with a rich attorney’sElderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,And replied to my fond professions:“You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he,“And a very nice girl you’ll find her—She may very well pass for forty-threeIn the dusk, with a light behind her!”
The rich attorney was as good as his word:The briefs came trooping gaily,And every day my voice was heardAt the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.All thieves who could my fees affordRelied on my orations,And many a burglar I’ve restoredTo his friends and his relations.
At length I became as rich as theGurneys—An incubus then I thought her,So I threw over that rich attorney’sElderly, ugly daughter.The rich attorney my character highTried vainly to disparage—And now, if you please, I’m ready to tryThis Breach of Promise of Marriage!
WhenI first put this uniform on,I said, as I looked in the glass,“It’s one to a millionThat any civilianMy figure and form will surpass.Gold lace has a charm for the fair,And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare,While a lover’s professions,When uttered in Hessians,Are eloquent everywhere!”A fact that I counted upon,When I first put this uniform on!
I said, when I first put it on,“It is plain to the veriest dunceThat every beautyWill feel it her dutyTo yield to its glamour at once.They will see that I’m freely gold-lacedIn a uniform handsome and chaste”—But the peripateticsOf long-haired æsthetics,Are very much more to their taste—Which I never counted uponWhen I first put this uniform on!
Comesthe broken flower—Comes the cheated maid—Though the tempest lower,Rain and cloud will fade!Take, O maid, these posies:Though thy beauty rareShame the blushing roses,They are passing fair!Wear the flowers till they fade;Happy be thy life, O maid!
O’er the season vernal,Time may cast a shade;Sunshine, if eternal,Makes the roses fade:Time may do his duty;Let the thief alone—Winter hath a beautyThat is all his own.Fairest days are sun and shade:Happy be thy life, O maid!
Whenyou’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety,I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and toss till there’s nothing ’twixt you and the ticking.Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick ’em all up in a tangle;Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching,But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you’d very much better be waking;For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich,Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage;And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations—They’re a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon);He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised when he tells you he’s only eleven.Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship’s now a four-wheeler),And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that “ties pay the dealer”;But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you’re as cold as an icicle,In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they’ve somehow or other invested in—And he’s telling the tars all the particularsof a company he’s interested in—It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vegetables—You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree—From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries—The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken byRothschildandBaring,And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing—You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in clover;But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and thank goodness they’re both of them over!
Now, Marco, dear,My wishes hear:While you’re awayIt’s understoodYou will be good,And not too gay.To every traceOf maiden graceYou will be blind,And will not glanceBy any chanceOn womankind!If you are wise,You’ll shut your eyesTill we arrive,And not addressA lady lessThan forty-five;You’ll please to frownOn every gownThat you may see;And O, my pet,You won’t forgetYou’ve married me!
O, my darling, O, my pet,Whatever else you may forget,In yonder isle beyond the sea,O, don’t forget you’ve married me!
You’ll lay your headUpon your bedAt set of sun.You will not singOf anythingTo any one:You’ll sit and mopeAll day, I hope,And shed a tearUpon the lifeYour little wifeIs passing here!And if so beYou think of me,Please tell the moon;I’ll read it allIn rays that fallOn the lagoon:You’ll be so kindAs tell the windHow you may be,And send me wordsBy little birdsTo comfort me!
And O, my darling, O, my pet,Whatever else you may forget,In yonder isle beyond the sea,O, don’t forget you’ve married me!
Ona tree by a river a little tomtitSang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sitSinging ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried,“Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”With a shake of his poor little head he replied,“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave—“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my nameIsn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow,That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”And if you remain callous and obdurate, IShall perish as he did, and you will know why,Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
He. I know a youth who loves a little maid—(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)Silent is he, for he’s modest and afraid—(Hey, but he’s timid as a youth can be!)She. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth—(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)Shecannot tell him all the sad, sad truth—(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,What in the world should the poor soul do?
He. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—(Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!)She. She’s very thin and she’s very pale—(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)Both. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,What in the world should the poor soul do?
She. If I were the youth I should offer her my name—(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)He. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—(Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!)She. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)He. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)Both. I thank you much for your counsel true;I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
Comemighty Must!Inevitable Shall!In thee I trust.Time weaves my coronal!Go mocking Is!Go disappointing Was!That I am thisYe are the cursed cause!Yet humble Second shall be First,I ween;And dead and buried be the curstHas Been!
Oh weak Might Be!Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!How powerless yeFor evil or for good!In every senseYour moods I cheerless call,Whate’er your tenseYe are Imperfect, all!Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shownIn ye!Away! The Mighty Must aloneShall be!
WereI thy bride,Then the whole world besideWere not too wideTo hold my wealth of love—Were I thy bride!Upon thy breastMy loving head would rest,As on her nestThe tender turtle-dove—Were I thy bride!
This heart of mineWould be one heart with thine,And in that shrineOur happiness would dwell—Were I thy bride!And all day longOur lives should be a song:No grief, no wrongShould make my heart rebel—Were I thy bride!
The silvery flute,The melancholy lute,Were night-owl’s hootTo my low-whispered coo—Were I thy bride!The skylark’s trillWere but discordance shrillTo the soft thrillOf wooing as I’d woo—Were I thy bride!
The rose’s sighWere as a carrion’s cryTo lullabySuch as I’d sing to thee—Were I thy bride!A feather’s pressWere leaden heavinessTo my caress.But then, unhappily,I’m not thy bride!
Whenthe night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black dogs bay the moon,Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the ghosts’ high noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen,From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men,And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon,For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight,With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “good night”;Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune,And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!
Amorehumane Mikado neverDid in Japan exist;To nobody second,I’m certainly reckonedA true philanthropist.It is my very humane endeavourTo make, to some extent,Each evil liverA running riverOf harmless merriment.
My object all sublimeI shall achieve in time—To let the punishment fit the crime—The punishment fit the crime;And make each prisoner pentUnwillingly representA source of innocent merriment—Of innocent merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners,Who chatter and bleat and bore,Are sent to hear sermonsFrom mystical GermansWho preach from ten to four:The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainiesAll desire to shirk,Shall, during off-hours,Exhibit his powersTo Madame Tussaud’s waxwork:The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,Or stains her grey hair puce,Or pinches her figger,Is blacked like a niggerWith permanent walnut juice:The idiot who, in railway carriages,Scribbles on window panes,We only sufferTo ride on a bufferIn Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublimeI shall achieve in time—To let the punishment fit the crime—The punishment fit the crime;And make each prisoner pentUnwillingly representA source of innocent merriment—Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who weariesWith tales of countless cures,His teeth, I’ve enacted,Shall all be extractedBy terrified amateurs:The music-hall singer attends a seriesOf masses and fugues and “ops”By Bach, interwovenWith Spohr and Beethoven,At classical Monday Pops:The billiard sharp whom any one catchesHis doom’s extremely hard—He’s made to dwellIn a dungeon cellOn a spot that’s always barred;And there he plays extravagant matchesIn fitless finger-stalls,On a cloth untrueWith a twisted cue,And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublimeI shall achieve in time—To let the punishment fit the crime—The punishment fit the crime;And make each prisoner pentUnwillingly representA source of innocent merriment,Of innocent merriment!
He.Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true(Hey, but I’m doleful, willow, willow waly!)Have you e’er a lover a-dangling after you?Hey, willow waly O!I would fain discoverIf you have a lover?Hey, willow waly O!
She. Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—(Hey, but he’s doleful, willow, willow waly!)Nobody I care for comes a-courting me—Hey, willow waly O!Nobody I care forComes a-courting—therefore,Hey, willow waly O!
He. Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?(Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow, willow waly!)I may say, at once, I’m a man of propertee—Hey, willow waly O!Money, I despise it,But many people prize it,Hey, willow waly O!
She. Gentle sir, although to marry I design—(Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!)As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.Hey, willow waly O!To other maidens go you—As yet I do not know you,Hey, willow waly O!
Whenthe buds are blossoming,Smiling welcome to the spring,Lovers choose a wedding day—Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green—Fal lal la!Summer’s rose—Fal lal la!It is sad when Summer goes,Fal la!Autumn’s gold—Fal lal la!Winter’s grey—Fal lal la!Winter still is far away—Fal la!Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;Winter is the end of all.Spring and summer teem with glee:Spring and summer, then, for me!Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:In the Summer grass is mown:In the Autumn you may reap:Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope—Fal lal la!Summer’s joy—Fal lal la!Spring and Summer never cloy,Fal la!Autumn, toil—Fal lal la!Winter, rest—Fal lal la!Winter, after all, is best—Fal la!Spring and summer pleasure you,Autumn, ay, and winter, too—Every season has its cheer;Life is lovely all the year!Fal la!
Now, Jurymen, hear my advice—All kinds of vulgar prejudiceI pray you set aside:With stern judicial frame of mind—From bias free of every kind,This trial must be tried!
Oh, listen to the plaintiff’s case:Observe the features of her face—The broken-hearted bride!Condole with her distress of mind—From bias free of every kind,This trial must be tried!
And when amid the plaintiff’s shrieks,The ruffianly defendant speaks—Upon the other side;Whathemay say you need not mind—From bias free of every kind,This trial must be tried!