Itwas a Bishop bold,And London was his see,He was short and stout and round aboutAnd zealous as could be.It also was a Jew,Who drove a Putney 'bus—For flesh of swine however fineHe did not care a cuss.His name wasHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—-This 'bus-directing Jew.The Bishop said, said he,"I'll see what I can doTo Christianise and make you wise,You poor benighted Jew."So every blessed dayThat 'bus he rode outside,From Fulham town, both up and down,And loudly thus he cried:"His name isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—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 waitTo 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 isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—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 fearedTo leave his poor abode,His nose, and name, and beard becameA byword on that road.At length he swore an oath,The reason he would know—"I'll call and see why ever heDoes persecute me so!"The good old Bishop satOn 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 placeHe found a Christian nose.His tangled Hebrew beard,Which to his waist came down.Was now a pair of whiskers fair—His nameAdolphus Brown!He wedded in a yearThat prelate's daughterJane,He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—His wife is far from plain.THE HEAVY DRAGOONIfyou 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 ofLord Nelsonon board of theVictory—Genius ofBismarckdevising a plan;The humour ofFielding(which sounds contradictory)—Coolness ofPagetabout to trepan—The grace ofMozart, that unparalleled musico—Wit ofMacaulay, who wrote ofQueen Anne—The pathos ofPaddy, as rendered byBoucicault—Style of theBishop of Sodor and Man—The dash of aD'Orsay, divested of quackery—Narrative powers ofDickensandThackeray—Victor Emmanuel—peak-hauntingPeveril—Thomas Aquinas, andDoctor Sacheverell—TupperandTennyson—Daniel Defoe—Anthony TrollopeandMister 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 theCzar(if you can)—The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—Force ofMephistopronouncing a ban—A smack ofLord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—Swagger ofRoderick, heading his clan—The keen penetration ofPaddington Pollaky—Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—The genius strategic ofCæsarorHannibal—Skill ofLord Wolseleyin thrashing a cannibal—Flavour ofHamlet—theStranger, a touch of him—Little ofManfred(but not very much of him)—Beadle of Burlington—Richardson'sshow—Mr. MicawberandMadame 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 TROUBADOURA Troubadourhe playedWithout a castle wall,Within, a hapless maidResponded to his call."Oh, willow, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!If I were only freeI'd hie me far away!"Unknown her face and name,But this he knew right well,The maiden's wailing cameFrom out a dungeon cell.A hapless woman layWithin 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 woeThe prisoned maiden sang:"Oh, stranger, as you playI recognise your touch;And all that I can say,Is thank you very much!"He seized his clarion straight,And blew thereat, untilA warder oped the gate,"Oh, what might be your will?""I've come, sir knave, to seeThe master of these halls:A maid unwillinglyLies prisoned in their walls."With barely stifled sighThat 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 beforeSir Hugh de Peckham Rye.Sir Hughhe darkly frowned,"What would you, sir, with me?"The troubadour he downedUpon 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 herUpon 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 Hughhe called—and ranThe warden from the gate,"Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in forty-eight."By many a cell they passedAnd stopped at length beforeA portal, bolted fast:The man unlocked the door.He called inside the gateWith 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 gotFor 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 PentonvilleThis is the Female Side!"The minstrel did not waitThe warden stout to thank,But recollected straightHe'd business at the Bank.PROPER PRIDETheSun, whose raysAre all ablazeWith ever-living glory,Will not denyHis majesty—He scorns to tell a story:He won't exclaim,"I blush for shame,So kindly be indulgent,"But, fierce and bold,In fiery gold,He glories all effulgent!I mean to rule the earth,As he the sky—We really know our worth,The Sun and I!Observe his flame,That placid dame,The Moon's Celestial Highness;There's not a traceUpon her faceOf diffidence or shyness:She borrows lightThat, through the night,Mankind may all acclaim her!And, truth to tell,She lights up well,So I, for one, don't blame her!Ah, pray make no mistake,We are not shy;We're very wide awake,The Moon and I!FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA OR, THE GENTLE PIEMANPART IAta pleasant evening party I had taken down to supperOne whom I will callElvira, and we talked of love andTupper,Mr. Tupperand the poets, very lightly with them dealing,For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing;Then she let down all her back hair which had taken long in dressing.Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.So I whispered, "DearElvira, say—what can the matter be with you?Does anything you've eaten, darlingPopsy, disagree with you?"But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling then above me,And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really,reallylove me?""Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,On a scientific goose-chase, with myCoxwellor myGlaisher."Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that Imayknow—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!"PART II"Tell me,Henry Wadsworth,Alfred,Poet Close, orMister Tupper,Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"ButHenry Wadsworthsmiled, and said he had not had that honour;AndAlfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her."Mister Martin Tupper,Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.Mister Closeexpressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me.AndMister Martin Tuppersent the following reply to me:—"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit."Which I think must have been clever, for I didn't understand it.Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,And his little wife was pretty, and particularly cosy.And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter 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?"But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer—If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing, 'Tirer, lirer!'"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings and the jellies,Then I make a sugar birdcage, which upon a table swell is;"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!"And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"But until I reachedElvira'shome, I never, never waited,AndElvirato herFerdinand'sirrevocably mated!THE POLICEMAN'S LOTWhena felon's not engaged in his employment,Or maturing his felonious little plans,His capacity for innocent enjoymentIs just as great as any honest man's.Our feelings we with difficulty smotherWhen constabulary duty's to be done:Ah, take one consideration with another,A policeman's lot is not a happy one!When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,And listen to the merry village chime.When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:Ah, take one consideration with another,The policeman's lot is not a happy one!LORENZO DE LARDY
Itwas a Bishop bold,And London was his see,He was short and stout and round aboutAnd zealous as could be.It also was a Jew,Who drove a Putney 'bus—For flesh of swine however fineHe did not care a cuss.His name wasHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—-This 'bus-directing Jew.The Bishop said, said he,"I'll see what I can doTo Christianise and make you wise,You poor benighted Jew."So every blessed dayThat 'bus he rode outside,From Fulham town, both up and down,And loudly thus he cried:"His name isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—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 waitTo 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 isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—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 fearedTo leave his poor abode,His nose, and name, and beard becameA byword on that road.At length he swore an oath,The reason he would know—"I'll call and see why ever heDoes persecute me so!"The good old Bishop satOn 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 placeHe found a Christian nose.His tangled Hebrew beard,Which to his waist came down.Was now a pair of whiskers fair—His nameAdolphus Brown!He wedded in a yearThat prelate's daughterJane,He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—His wife is far from plain.
Itwas a Bishop bold,And London was his see,He was short and stout and round aboutAnd zealous as could be.It also was a Jew,Who drove a Putney 'bus—For flesh of swine however fineHe did not care a cuss.His name wasHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—-This 'bus-directing Jew.The Bishop said, said he,"I'll see what I can doTo Christianise and make you wise,You poor benighted Jew."So every blessed dayThat 'bus he rode outside,From Fulham town, both up and down,And loudly thus he cried:"His name isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—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 waitTo 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 isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—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 fearedTo leave his poor abode,His nose, and name, and beard becameA byword on that road.At length he swore an oath,The reason he would know—"I'll call and see why ever heDoes persecute me so!"The good old Bishop satOn 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 placeHe found a Christian nose.His tangled Hebrew beard,Which to his waist came down.Was now a pair of whiskers fair—His nameAdolphus Brown!He wedded in a yearThat prelate's daughterJane,He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—His wife is far from plain.
Itwas a Bishop bold,And London was his see,He was short and stout and round aboutAnd zealous as could be.
Itwas 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 fineHe did not care a cuss.
It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney 'bus—
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.
His name wasHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—-This 'bus-directing Jew.
His name wasHash Baz Ben,
AndJedediahtoo,
AndSolomonandZabulon—-
This 'bus-directing Jew.
The Bishop said, said he,"I'll see what I can doTo Christianise and make you wise,You poor benighted 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 dayThat 'bus he rode outside,From Fulham town, both up and down,And loudly thus he cried:
So every blessed day
That 'bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:
"His name isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—This 'bus-directing Jew."
"His name isHash Baz Ben,
AndJedediahtoo,
AndSolomonandZabulon—
This 'bus-directing Jew."
At first the 'busman smiled,And rather liked the fun—He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,And said, "Eccentric one!"
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 waitTo see the 'bus go by(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),To hear the Bishop cry:
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.
"Observe his grisly beard,
His race it clearly shows,
He sticks no fork in ham or pork—
Observe, my friends, his nose.
"His name isHash Baz Ben,AndJedediahtoo,AndSolomonandZabulon—This 'bus-directing Jew."
"His name isHash Baz Ben,
AndJedediahtoo,
AndSolomonandZabulon—
This 'bus-directing Jew."
But though at first amused,Yet after seven years,This Hebrew child got rather riled,And melted into tears.
But though at first amused,
Yet after seven years,
This Hebrew child got rather riled,
And melted into tears.
He really almost fearedTo leave his poor abode,His nose, and name, and beard becameA byword on that road.
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 heDoes persecute me so!"
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 satOn his ancestral chair,The 'busman came, sent up his name,And laid his grievance bare.
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!
"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!"
"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 placeHe found a Christian nose.
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 nameAdolphus Brown!
His tangled Hebrew beard,
Which to his waist came down.
Was now a pair of whiskers fair—
His nameAdolphus Brown!
He wedded in a yearThat prelate's daughterJane,He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—His wife is far from plain.
He wedded in a year
That prelate's daughterJane,
He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—
His wife is far from plain.
Ifyou 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 ofLord Nelsonon board of theVictory—Genius ofBismarckdevising a plan;The humour ofFielding(which sounds contradictory)—Coolness ofPagetabout to trepan—The grace ofMozart, that unparalleled musico—Wit ofMacaulay, who wrote ofQueen Anne—The pathos ofPaddy, as rendered byBoucicault—Style of theBishop of Sodor and Man—The dash of aD'Orsay, divested of quackery—Narrative powers ofDickensandThackeray—Victor Emmanuel—peak-hauntingPeveril—Thomas Aquinas, andDoctor Sacheverell—TupperandTennyson—Daniel Defoe—Anthony TrollopeandMister 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 theCzar(if you can)—The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—Force ofMephistopronouncing a ban—A smack ofLord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—Swagger ofRoderick, heading his clan—The keen penetration ofPaddington Pollaky—Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—The genius strategic ofCæsarorHannibal—Skill ofLord Wolseleyin thrashing a cannibal—Flavour ofHamlet—theStranger, a touch of him—Little ofManfred(but not very much of him)—Beadle of Burlington—Richardson'sshow—Mr. MicawberandMadame 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!
Ifyou 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 ofLord Nelsonon board of theVictory—Genius ofBismarckdevising a plan;The humour ofFielding(which sounds contradictory)—Coolness ofPagetabout to trepan—The grace ofMozart, that unparalleled musico—Wit ofMacaulay, who wrote ofQueen Anne—The pathos ofPaddy, as rendered byBoucicault—Style of theBishop of Sodor and Man—The dash of aD'Orsay, divested of quackery—Narrative powers ofDickensandThackeray—Victor Emmanuel—peak-hauntingPeveril—Thomas Aquinas, andDoctor Sacheverell—TupperandTennyson—Daniel Defoe—Anthony TrollopeandMister 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 theCzar(if you can)—The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—Force ofMephistopronouncing a ban—A smack ofLord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—Swagger ofRoderick, heading his clan—The keen penetration ofPaddington Pollaky—Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—The genius strategic ofCæsarorHannibal—Skill ofLord Wolseleyin thrashing a cannibal—Flavour ofHamlet—theStranger, a touch of him—Little ofManfred(but not very much of him)—Beadle of Burlington—Richardson'sshow—Mr. MicawberandMadame 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!
Ifyou 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 ofLord Nelsonon board of theVictory—Genius ofBismarckdevising a plan;The humour ofFielding(which sounds contradictory)—Coolness ofPagetabout to trepan—The grace ofMozart, that unparalleled musico—Wit ofMacaulay, who wrote ofQueen Anne—The pathos ofPaddy, as rendered byBoucicault—Style of theBishop of Sodor and Man—The dash of aD'Orsay, divested of quackery—Narrative powers ofDickensandThackeray—
Ifyou 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 ofLord Nelsonon board of theVictory—
Genius ofBismarckdevising a plan;
The humour ofFielding(which sounds contradictory)—
Coolness ofPagetabout to trepan—
The grace ofMozart, that unparalleled musico—
Wit ofMacaulay, who wrote ofQueen Anne—
The pathos ofPaddy, as rendered byBoucicault—
Style of theBishop of Sodor and Man—
The dash of aD'Orsay, divested of quackery—
Narrative powers ofDickensandThackeray—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-hauntingPeveril—Thomas Aquinas, andDoctor Sacheverell—TupperandTennyson—Daniel Defoe—Anthony TrollopeandMister 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!
Victor Emmanuel—peak-hauntingPeveril—
Thomas Aquinas, andDoctor Sacheverell—
TupperandTennyson—Daniel Defoe—
Anthony TrollopeandMister 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 theCzar(if you can)—The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—Force ofMephistopronouncing a ban—A smack ofLord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—Swagger ofRoderick, heading his clan—The keen penetration ofPaddington Pollaky—Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—The genius strategic ofCæsarorHannibal—Skill ofLord Wolseleyin thrashing a cannibal—Flavour ofHamlet—theStranger, a touch of him—Little ofManfred(but not very much of him)—Beadle of Burlington—Richardson'sshow—Mr. MicawberandMadame 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!
If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,
Get at the wealth of theCzar(if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—
Force ofMephistopronouncing a ban—
A smack ofLord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—
Swagger ofRoderick, heading his clan—
The keen penetration ofPaddington Pollaky—
Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—
The genius strategic ofCæsarorHannibal—
Skill ofLord Wolseleyin thrashing a cannibal—
Flavour ofHamlet—theStranger, a touch of him—
Little ofManfred(but not very much of him)—
Beadle of Burlington—Richardson'sshow—
Mr. MicawberandMadame 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!
A Troubadourhe playedWithout a castle wall,Within, a hapless maidResponded to his call."Oh, willow, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!If I were only freeI'd hie me far away!"Unknown her face and name,But this he knew right well,The maiden's wailing cameFrom out a dungeon cell.A hapless woman layWithin 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 woeThe prisoned maiden sang:"Oh, stranger, as you playI recognise your touch;And all that I can say,Is thank you very much!"He seized his clarion straight,And blew thereat, untilA warder oped the gate,"Oh, what might be your will?""I've come, sir knave, to seeThe master of these halls:A maid unwillinglyLies prisoned in their walls."With barely stifled sighThat 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 beforeSir Hugh de Peckham Rye.Sir Hughhe darkly frowned,"What would you, sir, with me?"The troubadour he downedUpon 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 herUpon 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 Hughhe called—and ranThe warden from the gate,"Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in forty-eight."By many a cell they passedAnd stopped at length beforeA portal, bolted fast:The man unlocked the door.He called inside the gateWith 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 gotFor 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 PentonvilleThis is the Female Side!"The minstrel did not waitThe warden stout to thank,But recollected straightHe'd business at the Bank.
A Troubadourhe playedWithout a castle wall,Within, a hapless maidResponded to his call."Oh, willow, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!If I were only freeI'd hie me far away!"Unknown her face and name,But this he knew right well,The maiden's wailing cameFrom out a dungeon cell.A hapless woman layWithin 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 woeThe prisoned maiden sang:"Oh, stranger, as you playI recognise your touch;And all that I can say,Is thank you very much!"He seized his clarion straight,And blew thereat, untilA warder oped the gate,"Oh, what might be your will?""I've come, sir knave, to seeThe master of these halls:A maid unwillinglyLies prisoned in their walls."With barely stifled sighThat 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 beforeSir Hugh de Peckham Rye.Sir Hughhe darkly frowned,"What would you, sir, with me?"The troubadour he downedUpon 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 herUpon 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 Hughhe called—and ranThe warden from the gate,"Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in forty-eight."By many a cell they passedAnd stopped at length beforeA portal, bolted fast:The man unlocked the door.He called inside the gateWith 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 gotFor 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 PentonvilleThis is the Female Side!"The minstrel did not waitThe warden stout to thank,But recollected straightHe'd business at the Bank.
A Troubadourhe playedWithout a castle wall,Within, a hapless maidResponded to his call.
A Troubadourhe 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 freeI'd hie me far away!"
"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 cameFrom out a dungeon cell.
Unknown her face and name,
But this he knew right well,
The maiden's wailing came
From out a dungeon cell.
A hapless woman layWithin that prison grim—That fact, I've heard him say,Was quite enough for him.
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!"
"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 woeThe prisoned maiden sang:
Her tears then ceased to flow,
Her wails no longer rang,
And tuneful in her woe
The prisoned maiden sang:
"Oh, stranger, as you playI recognise your touch;And all that I can say,Is thank you very much!"
"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, untilA warder oped the gate,"Oh, what might be your will?"
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 seeThe master of these halls:A maid unwillinglyLies prisoned in their walls."
"I've come, sir knave, to see
The master of these halls:
A maid unwillingly
Lies prisoned in their walls."
With barely stifled sighThat porter drooped his head,With teardrops in his eye,"A many, sir," he said.
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 beforeSir Hugh de Peckham Rye.
He stayed to hear no more,
But pushed that porter by,
And shortly stood before
Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye.
Sir Hughhe darkly frowned,"What would you, sir, with me?"The troubadour he downedUpon his bended knee.
Sir Hughhe 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.
"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 herUpon the second floor!
"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!"
"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 Hughhe called—and ranThe warden from the gate,"Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in forty-eight."
Sir Hughhe called—and ran
The warden from the gate,
"Go, show this gentleman
The maid in forty-eight."
By many a cell they passedAnd stopped at length beforeA portal, bolted fast:The man unlocked the door.
By many a cell they passed
And stopped at length before
A portal, bolted fast:
The man unlocked the door.
He called inside the gateWith coarse and brutal shout,"Come, step it, forty-eight!"And forty-eight stepped out.
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 gotFor collaring a wotch."
"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?"
"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 PentonvilleThis is the Female Side!"
The warden's eyelids fill,
And, sighing, he replied,
"Of gloomy Pentonville
This is the Female Side!"
The minstrel did not waitThe warden stout to thank,But recollected straightHe'd business at the Bank.
The minstrel did not wait
The warden stout to thank,
But recollected straight
He'd business at the Bank.
TheSun, whose raysAre all ablazeWith ever-living glory,Will not denyHis majesty—He scorns to tell a story:He won't exclaim,"I blush for shame,So kindly be indulgent,"But, fierce and bold,In fiery gold,He glories all effulgent!I mean to rule the earth,As he the sky—We really know our worth,The Sun and I!Observe his flame,That placid dame,The Moon's Celestial Highness;There's not a traceUpon her faceOf diffidence or shyness:She borrows lightThat, through the night,Mankind may all acclaim her!And, truth to tell,She lights up well,So I, for one, don't blame her!Ah, pray make no mistake,We are not shy;We're very wide awake,The Moon and I!
TheSun, whose raysAre all ablazeWith ever-living glory,Will not denyHis majesty—He scorns to tell a story:He won't exclaim,"I blush for shame,So kindly be indulgent,"But, fierce and bold,In fiery gold,He glories all effulgent!I mean to rule the earth,As he the sky—We really know our worth,The Sun and I!Observe his flame,That placid dame,The Moon's Celestial Highness;There's not a traceUpon her faceOf diffidence or shyness:She borrows lightThat, through the night,Mankind may all acclaim her!And, truth to tell,She lights up well,So I, for one, don't blame her!Ah, pray make no mistake,We are not shy;We're very wide awake,The Moon and I!
TheSun, whose raysAre all ablazeWith ever-living glory,Will not denyHis majesty—He scorns to tell a story:He won't exclaim,"I blush for shame,So kindly be indulgent,"But, fierce and bold,In fiery gold,He glories all effulgent!
TheSun, whose rays
Are all ablaze
With ever-living glory,
Will not deny
His majesty—
He scorns to tell a story:
He won't exclaim,
"I blush for shame,
So kindly be indulgent,"
But, fierce and bold,
In fiery gold,
He glories all effulgent!
I mean to rule the earth,As he the sky—We really know our worth,The Sun and I!
I mean to rule the earth,
As he the sky—
We really know our worth,
The Sun and I!
Observe his flame,That placid dame,The Moon's Celestial Highness;There's not a traceUpon her faceOf diffidence or shyness:She borrows lightThat, through the night,Mankind may all acclaim her!And, truth to tell,She lights up well,So I, for one, don't blame her!
Observe his flame,
That placid dame,
The Moon's Celestial Highness;
There's not a trace
Upon her face
Of diffidence or shyness:
She borrows light
That, through the night,
Mankind may all acclaim her!
And, truth to tell,
She lights up well,
So I, for one, don't blame her!
Ah, pray make no mistake,We are not shy;We're very wide awake,The Moon and I!
Ah, pray make no mistake,
We are not shy;
We're very wide awake,
The Moon and I!
Ata pleasant evening party I had taken down to supperOne whom I will callElvira, and we talked of love andTupper,Mr. Tupperand the poets, very lightly with them dealing,For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing;Then she let down all her back hair which had taken long in dressing.Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.So I whispered, "DearElvira, say—what can the matter be with you?Does anything you've eaten, darlingPopsy, disagree with you?"But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling then above me,And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really,reallylove me?""Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,On a scientific goose-chase, with myCoxwellor myGlaisher."Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that Imayknow—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!"PART II"Tell me,Henry Wadsworth,Alfred,Poet Close, orMister Tupper,Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"ButHenry Wadsworthsmiled, and said he had not had that honour;AndAlfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her."Mister Martin Tupper,Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.Mister Closeexpressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me.AndMister Martin Tuppersent the following reply to me:—"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit."Which I think must have been clever, for I didn't understand it.Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,And his little wife was pretty, and particularly cosy.And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter 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?"But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer—If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing, 'Tirer, lirer!'"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings and the jellies,Then I make a sugar birdcage, which upon a table swell is;"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!"And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"But until I reachedElvira'shome, I never, never waited,AndElvirato herFerdinand'sirrevocably mated!
Ata pleasant evening party I had taken down to supperOne whom I will callElvira, and we talked of love andTupper,Mr. Tupperand the poets, very lightly with them dealing,For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing;Then she let down all her back hair which had taken long in dressing.Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.So I whispered, "DearElvira, say—what can the matter be with you?Does anything you've eaten, darlingPopsy, disagree with you?"But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling then above me,And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really,reallylove me?""Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,On a scientific goose-chase, with myCoxwellor myGlaisher."Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that Imayknow—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!"PART II"Tell me,Henry Wadsworth,Alfred,Poet Close, orMister Tupper,Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"ButHenry Wadsworthsmiled, and said he had not had that honour;AndAlfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her."Mister Martin Tupper,Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.Mister Closeexpressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me.AndMister Martin Tuppersent the following reply to me:—"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit."Which I think must have been clever, for I didn't understand it.Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,And his little wife was pretty, and particularly cosy.And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter 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?"But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer—If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing, 'Tirer, lirer!'"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings and the jellies,Then I make a sugar birdcage, which upon a table swell is;"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!"And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"But until I reachedElvira'shome, I never, never waited,AndElvirato herFerdinand'sirrevocably mated!
Ata pleasant evening party I had taken down to supperOne whom I will callElvira, and we talked of love andTupper,
Ata pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper
One whom I will callElvira, and we talked of love andTupper,
Mr. Tupperand the poets, very lightly with them dealing,For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.
Mr. Tupperand the poets, very lightly with them dealing,
For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.
Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.
Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,
And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.
Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."
Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;
If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."
There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.
There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,
There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.
Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing;Then she let down all her back hair which had taken long in dressing.
Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing;
Then she let down all her back hair which had taken long in dressing.
Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.
Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,
Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.
So I whispered, "DearElvira, say—what can the matter be with you?Does anything you've eaten, darlingPopsy, disagree with you?"
So I whispered, "DearElvira, say—what can the matter be with you?
Does anything you've eaten, darlingPopsy, disagree with you?"
But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.
But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,
And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.
Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling then above me,And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really,reallylove me?"
Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling then above me,
And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really,reallylove me?"
"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—
"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly—
For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly—
"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,On a scientific goose-chase, with myCoxwellor myGlaisher.
"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,
On a scientific goose-chase, with myCoxwellor myGlaisher.
"Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that Imayknow—Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"
"Tell me whither I may hie me, tell me, dear one, that Imayknow—
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!"
But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes,
Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!"
"Tell me,Henry Wadsworth,Alfred,Poet Close, orMister Tupper,Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"
"Tell me,Henry Wadsworth,Alfred,Poet Close, orMister Tupper,
Do you write the bonbon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"
ButHenry Wadsworthsmiled, and said he had not had that honour;AndAlfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.
ButHenry Wadsworthsmiled, and said he had not had that honour;
AndAlfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.
"Mister Martin Tupper,Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.
"Mister Martin Tupper,Poet Close, I beg of you inform us";
But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.
Mister Closeexpressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me.AndMister Martin Tuppersent the following reply to me:—
Mister Closeexpressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me.
AndMister Martin Tuppersent the following reply to me:—
"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit."Which I think must have been clever, for I didn't understand it.
"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit."
Which I think must have been clever, for I didn't understand it.
Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.
Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway,
Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.
There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.
There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,
So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.
He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,And his little wife was pretty, and particularly cosy.
He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,
And his little wife was pretty, and particularly cosy.
And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty—He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.
And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter 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?"
And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?
Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"
But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer—If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing, 'Tirer, lirer!'
But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer—
If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing, 'Tirer, lirer!'
"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings and the jellies,Then I make a sugar birdcage, which upon a table swell is;
"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings and the jellies,
Then I make a sugar birdcage, which upon a table swell is;
"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers;Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers"—
"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.
"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!"
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!"
And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"
And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,
"'Tira! lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"
But until I reachedElvira'shome, I never, never waited,AndElvirato herFerdinand'sirrevocably mated!
But until I reachedElvira'shome, I never, never waited,
AndElvirato herFerdinand'sirrevocably mated!
Whena felon's not engaged in his employment,Or maturing his felonious little plans,His capacity for innocent enjoymentIs just as great as any honest man's.Our feelings we with difficulty smotherWhen constabulary duty's to be done:Ah, take one consideration with another,A policeman's lot is not a happy one!When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,And listen to the merry village chime.When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:Ah, take one consideration with another,The policeman's lot is not a happy one!
Whena felon's not engaged in his employment,Or maturing his felonious little plans,His capacity for innocent enjoymentIs just as great as any honest man's.Our feelings we with difficulty smotherWhen constabulary duty's to be done:Ah, take one consideration with another,A policeman's lot is not a happy one!When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,And listen to the merry village chime.When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:Ah, take one consideration with another,The policeman's lot is not a happy one!
Whena felon's not engaged in his employment,Or maturing his felonious little plans,His capacity for innocent enjoymentIs just as great as any honest man's.Our feelings we with difficulty smotherWhen constabulary duty's to be done:Ah, take one consideration with another,A policeman's lot is not a happy one!
Whena felon's not engaged in his employment,
Or maturing his felonious little plans,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man's.
Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When constabulary duty's to be done:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
A policeman's lot is not a happy one!
When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,And listen to the merry village chime.When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:Ah, take one consideration with another,The policeman's lot is not a happy one!
When the enterprising burglar isn't burgling,
When the cut-throat isn't occupied in crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
And listen to the merry village chime.
When the coster's finished jumping on his mother,
He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
The policeman's lot is not a happy one!