The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Bab BalladsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The Bab BalladsAuthor: W. S. GilbertRelease date: June 1, 1997 [eBook #931]Most recently updated: August 11, 2019Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition of “The Bab Ballads” (also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition) by David Price*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BAB BALLADS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The Bab BalladsAuthor: W. S. GilbertRelease date: June 1, 1997 [eBook #931]Most recently updated: August 11, 2019Language: EnglishCredits: Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition of “The Bab Ballads” (also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition) by David Price
Title: The Bab Ballads
Author: W. S. Gilbert
Author: W. S. Gilbert
Release date: June 1, 1997 [eBook #931]Most recently updated: August 11, 2019
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition of “The Bab Ballads” (also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition) by David Price
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BAB BALLADS ***
Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co. edition of “The Bab Ballads” (also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition) by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
BYW. S. GILBERT
Baby at piano
MACMILLAN AND CO. LIMITEDST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON1920
COPYRIGHT
Transferred to Macmillan and Co. Ltd.1904Sixth Edition1904Reprinted1906, 1910, 1912, 1914, 1917, 1919, 1920
PAGE
Captain Reece
1
The Rival Curates
8
Only a Dancing Girl
14
General John
18
To a Little Maid
24
John and Freddy
28
Sir Guy the Crusader
34
Haunted
39
The Bishop and the ’Busman
44
The Troubadour
51
Ferdinando and Elvira; or, the Gentle Pieman
58
Lorenzo de Lardy
64
Disillusioned
71
Babette’s Love
76
To my Bride
82
The Folly of Brown
84
Sir Macklin
94
The Yarn of the “Nancy Bell”
101
The Bishop of Rum-ti-Foo
108
The Precocious Baby
114
To Phœbe
122
Baines Carew, Gentleman
125
Thomas Winterbottom Hance
131
The Reverend Micah Sowls
467
A Discontented Sugar Broker
138
The Pantomime “Super” to his Mask
144
The Force of Argument
475
The Ghost, the Gallant, the Gael, and the Goblin
148
The Phantom Curate
484
The Sensation Captain
492
Tempora Mutantur
501
At A Pantomime
508
King Borria Bungalee Boo
155
The Periwinkle Girl
164
Thomson Green and Harriet Hale
171
Bob Polter
176
The Story of Prince Agib
518
Ellen M‘Jones Aberdeen
185
Peter the Wag
193
Ben Allah Achmet; or, the Fatal Tum
549
The Three Kings of Chickeraboo
200
Joe Golightly; or, the First Lord’s Daughter
528
To the Terrestrial Globe
539
Gentle Alice Brown
205
Ofall the ships upon the blue,No ship contained a better crewThan that of worthyCaptain Reece,Commanding ofThe Mantelpiece.
He was adored by all his men,For worthyCaptain Reece, R.N.,Did all that lay within him toPromote the comfort of his crew.
If ever they were dull or sad,Their captain danced to them like mad,Or told, to make the time pass by,Droll legends of his infancy.
A feather bed had every man,Warm slippers and hot-water can,Brown windsor from the captain’s store,A valet, too, to every four.
Did they with thirst in summer burn,Lo, seltzogenes at every turn,And on all very sultry daysCream ices handed round on trays.
Then currant wine and ginger popsStood handily on all the “tops;”And also, with amusement rife,A “Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life.”
New volumes came across the seaFromMister Mudie’slibraree;The TimesandSaturday ReviewBeguiled the leisure of the crew.
Kind-heartedCaptain Reece, R.N.,Was quite devoted to his men;In point of fact, goodCaptain ReeceBeatifiedThe Mantelpiece.
One summer eve, at half-past ten,He said (addressing all his men):“Come, tell me, please, what I can doTo please and gratify my crew.
“By any reasonable planI’ll make you happy if I can;My own convenience count asnil:It is my duty, and I will.”
Then up and answeredWilliam Lee(The kindly captain’s coxswain he,A nervous, shy, low-spoken man),He cleared his throat and thus began:
“You have a daughter,Captain Reece,Ten female cousins and a niece,A Ma, if what I’m told is true,Six sisters, and an aunt or two.
“Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,More friendly-like we all should be,If you united of ’em toUnmarried members of the crew.
“If you’d ameliorate our life,Let each select from them a wife;And as for nervous me, old pal,Give me your own enchanting gal!”
GoodCaptain Reece, that worthy man,Debated on his coxswain’s plan:“I quite agree,” he said, “OBill;It is my duty, and I will.
“My daughter, that enchanting gurl,Has just been promised to an Earl,And all my other famileeTo peers of various degree.
“But what are dukes and viscounts toThe happiness of all my crew?The word I gave you I’ll fulfil;It is my duty, and I will.
“As you desire it shall befall,I’ll settle thousands on you all,And I shall be, despite my hoard,The only bachelor on board.”
The boatswain ofThe Mantelpiece,He blushed and spoke toCaptain Reece:“I beg your honour’s leave,” he said;“If you would wish to go and wed,
“I have a widowed mother whoWould be the very thing for you—She long has loved you from afar:She washes for you,CaptainR.”
The Captain saw the dame that day—Addressed her in his playful way—“And did it want a wedding ring?It was a tempting ickle sing!
“Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,We’ll all be married this day weekAt yonder church upon the hill;It is my duty, and I will!”
The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,And widowed Ma ofCaptain Reece,Attended there as they were bid;It was their duty, and they did.
Listwhile the poet trollsOfMr. Clayton Hooper,Who had a cure of soulsAt Spiffton-extra-Sooper.
He lived on curds and whey,And daily sang their praises,And then he’d go and playWith buttercups and daisies.
Wild croquêtHooperbanned,And all the sports of Mammon,He warred with cribbage, andHe exorcised backgammon.
His helmet was a glanceThat spoke of holy gladness;A saintly smile his lance;His shield a tear of sadness.
His Vicar smiled to seeThis armour on him buckled:With pardonable gleeHe blessed himself and chuckled.
“In mildness to aboundMy curate’s sole design is;In all the country roundThere’s none so mild as mine is!”
AndHooper, disinclinedHis trumpet to be blowing,Yet didn’t think you’d findA milder curate going.
A friend arrived one dayAt Spiffton-extra-Sooper,And in this shameful wayHe spoke toMr. Hooper:
“You think your famous nameFor mildness can’t be shaken,That none can blot your fame—But,Hooper, you’re mistaken!
“Your mind is not as blankAs that ofHopley Porter,Who holds a curate’s rankAt Assesmilk-cum-Worter.
“Heplays the airy flute,And looks depressed and blighted,Doves round about him ‘toot,’And lambkins dance delighted.
“Helabours more than youAt worsted work, and frames it;In old maids’ albums, too,Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!”
The tempter said his say,Which pierced him like a needle—He summoned straight awayHis sexton and his beadle.
(These men were men who couldHold liberal opinions:On Sundays they were good—On week-days they were minions.)
“ToHopley Portergo,Your fare I will afford you—Deal him a deadly blow,And blessings shall reward you.
“But stay—I do not likeUndue assassination,And so before you strike,Make this communication:
“I’ll give him this one chance—If he’ll more gaily bear him,Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,I willingly will spare him.”
They went, those minions true,To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,And told their errand toTheReverend Hopley Porter.
“What?” said that reverend gent,“Dance through my hours of leisure?Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—Play croquêt? Oh, with pleasure!
“Wear all my hair in curl?Stand at my door and wink—so—At every passing girl?My brothers, I should think so!
“For years I’ve longed for someExcuse for this revulsion:Now that excuse has come—I do it on compulsion!!!”
He smoked and winked away—ThisReverend Hopley Porter—The deuce there was to payAt Assesmilk-cum-Worter.
AndHooperholds his ground,In mildness daily growing—They think him, all around,The mildest curate going.
Onlya dancing girl,With an unromantic style,With borrowed colour and curl,With fixed mechanical smile,With many a hackneyed wile,With ungrammatical lips,And corns that mar her trips.
Hung from the “flies” in air,She acts a palpable lie,She’s as little a fairy thereAs unpoetical I!I hear you asking, Why—Why in the world I singThis tawdry, tinselled thing?
No airy fairy she,As she hangs in arsenic greenFrom a highly impossible treeIn a highly impossible scene(Herself not over-clean).For fays don’t suffer, I’m told,From bunions, coughs, or cold.
And stately dames that bringTheir daughters there to see,Pronounce the “dancing thing”No better than she should be,With her skirt at her shameful knee,And her painted, tainted phiz:Ah, matron, which of us is?
(And, in sooth, it oft occursThat while these matrons sigh,Their dresses are lower than hers,And sometimes half as high;And their hair is hair they buy,And they use their glasses, too,In a way she’d blush to do.)
But change her gold and greenFor a coarse merino gown,And see her upon the sceneOf her home, when coaxing downHer drunken father’s frown,In his squalid cheerless den:She’s a fairy truly, then!
Thebravest names for fire and flamesAnd all that mortal durst,WereGeneral JohnandPrivate James,Of the Sixty-seventy-first.
General Johnwas a soldier tried,A chief of warlike dons;A haughty stride and a withering prideWereMajor-General John’s.
A sneer would play on his martial phiz,Superior birth to show;“Pish!” was a favourite word of his,And he often said “Ho! ho!”
Full-Private Jamesdescribed might be,As a man of a mournful mind;No characteristic trait had heOf any distinctive kind.
From the ranks, one day, criedPrivate James,“Oh!Major-General John,I’ve doubts of our respective names,My mournful mind upon.
“A glimmering thought occurs to me(Its source I can’t unearth),But I’ve a kind of a notion weWere cruelly changed at birth.
“I’ve a strange idea that each other’s namesWe’ve each of us here got on.Such things have been,” saidPrivate James.“They have!” sneeredGeneral John.
“MyGeneral John, I swear uponMy oath I think ’tis so—”“Pish!” proudly sneered hisGeneral John,And he also said “Ho! ho!”
“MyGeneral John! myGeneral John!MyGeneral John!” quoth he,“This aristocratical sneer uponYour face I blush to see!
“No truly great or generous coveDeserving of them names,Would sneer at a fixed idea that’s droveIn the mind of aPrivate James!”
SaidGeneral John, “Upon your claimsNo need your breath to waste;If this is a joke,Full-Private James,It’s a joke of doubtful taste.
“But, being a man of doubtless worth,If you feel certain quiteThat we were probably changed at birth,I’ll venture to say you’re right.”
SoGeneral JohnasPrivate JamesFell in, parade upon;AndPrivate James, by change of names,WasMajor-General John.
Comewith me, little maid,Nay, shrink not, thus afraid—I’ll harm thee not!Fly not, my love, from me—I have a home for thee—A fairy grot,Where mortal eyeCan rarely pry,There shall thy dwelling be!
List to me, while I tellThe pleasures of that cell,Oh, little maid!What though its couch be rude,Homely the only foodWithin its shade?No thought of careCan enter there,No vulgar swain intrude!
Come with me, little maid,Come to the rocky shadeI love to sing;Live with us, maiden rare—Come, for we “want” thee there,Thou elfin thing,To work thy spell,In some cool cellIn stately Pentonville!
Johncourted lovelyMary Ann,So likewise did his brother,Freddy.Fredwas a very soft young man,WhileJohn, though quick, was most unsteady.
Fredwas a graceful kind of youth,ButJohnwas very much the strongest.“Oh, dance away,” said she, “in truth,I’ll marry him who dances longest.”
Johntries the maiden’s taste to strikeWith gay, grotesque, outrageous dresses,And dances comically, likeClodoche and Co., at the Princess’s.
ButFreddytries another style,He knows some graceful steps and does ’em—A breathing Poem—Woman’s smile—A man all poesy and buzzem.
NowFreddy’soperaticpas—NowJohnny’shornpipe seems entrapping:NowFreddy’sgracefulentrechats—NowJohnny’sskilful “cellar-flapping.”
For many hours—for many days—For many weeks performed each brother,For each was active in his ways,And neither would give in to t’other.
After a month of this, they say(The maid was getting bored and moody)A wandering curate passed that wayAnd talked a lot of goody-goody.
“Oh my,” said he, with solemn frown,“I tremble for each dancingfrater,Like unregenerated clownAnd harlequin at some the-ayter.”
He showed that men, in dancing, doBoth impiously and absurdly,And proved his proposition true,With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly.
For months bothJohnandFreddydanced,The curate’s protests little heeding;For months the curate’s words enhancedThe sinfulness of their proceeding.
At length they bowed to Nature’s rule—Their steps grew feeble and unsteady,TillFreddyfainted on a stool,AndJohnnyon the top ofFreddy.
“Decide!” quoth they, “let him be named,Who henceforth as his wife may rank you.”“I’ve changed my views,” the maiden said,“I only marry curates, thank you!”
SaysFreddy, “Here is goings on!To bust myself with rage I’m ready.”“I’ll be a curate!” whispersJohn—“And I,” exclaimed poeticFreddy.
But while they read for it, these chaps,The curate booked the maiden bonny—And when she’s buried him, perhaps,She’ll marryFrederickorJohnny.
Sir Guywas a doughty crusader,A muscular knight,Ever ready to fight,A very determined invader,AndDickey De Lion’sdelight.
Lenorewas a Saracen maiden,Brunette, statuesque,The reverse of grotesque,Her pa was a bagman from Aden,Her mother she played in burlesque.
Acoryphée, pretty and loyal,In amber and redThe ballet she led;Her mother performed at the Royal,Lenoreat the Saracen’s Head.
Of face and of figure majestic,She dazzled the cits—Ecstaticised pits;—Her troubles were only domestic,But drove her half out of her wits.
Her father incessantly lashed her,On water and breadShe was grudgingly fed;Whenever her father he thrashed herHer mother sat down on her head.
Guysaw her, and loved her, with reason,For beauty so brightSent him mad with delight;He purchased a stall for the season,And sat in it every night.
His views were exceedingly proper,He wanted to wed,So he called at her shedAnd saw her progenitor whop her—Her mother sit down on her head.
“So pretty,” said he, “and so trusting!You brute of a dad,You unprincipled cad,Your conduct is really disgusting,Come, come, now admit it’s too bad!
“You’re a turbaned old Turk, and malignant—Your daughterLenoreI intensely adore,And I cannot help feeling indignant,A fact that I hinted before;
“To see a fond father employingA deuce of a knoutFor to bang her about,To a sensitive lover’s annoying.”Said the bagman, “Crusader, get out.”
SaysGuy, “Shall a warrior ladenWith a big spiky knob,Sit in peace on his cobWhile a beautiful Saracen maidenIs whipped by a Saracen snob?
“To London I’ll go from my charmer.”Which he did, with his loot(Seven hats and a flute),And was nabbed for his Sydenham armourAtMr. Ben-Samuel’ssuit.
Sir Guyhe was lodged in the Compter,Her pa, in a rage,Died (don’t know his age),His daughter, she married the prompter,Grew bulky and quitted the stage.
Haunted? Ay, in a social wayBy a body of ghosts in dread array;But no conventional spectres they—Appalling, grim, and tricky:I quail at mine as I’d never quailAt a fine traditional spectre pale,With a turnip head and a ghostly wail,And a splash of blood on the dickey!
Mine are horrible, social ghosts,—Speeches and women and guests and hosts,Weddings and morning calls and toasts,In every bad variety:Ghosts who hover about the graveOf all that’s manly, free, and brave:You’ll find their names on the architraveOf that charnel-house, Society.
Black Monday—black as its school-room ink—With its dismal boys that snivel and thinkOf its nauseous messes to eat and drink,And its frozen tank to wash in.That was the first that brought me grief,And made me weep, till I sought reliefIn an emblematical handkerchief,To choke such baby bosh in.
First and worst in the grim array—Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way,Which I wouldn’t revive for a single dayFor all the wealth ofPlutus—Are the horrible ghosts that school-days scared:If the classical ghost thatBrutusdaredWas the ghost of his “Cæsar” unprepared,I’m sure I pityBrutus.
I pass to critical seventeen;The ghost of that terrible wedding scene,When an elderly Colonel stole my Queen,And woke my dream of heaven.No schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room curlsWas my gushing innocent Queen of Pearls;If she wasn’t a girl of a thousand girls,She was one of forty-seven!
I see the ghost of my first cigar,Of the thence-arising family jar—Of my maiden brief (I was at the Bar,And I called the Judge “Your wushup!”)Of reckless days and reckless nights,With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights,Unholy songs and tipsy fights,Which I strove in vain to hush up.
Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks,Ghosts of “copy, declined with thanks,”Of novels returned in endless ranks,And thousands more, I suffer.The only line to fitly graceMy humble tomb, when I’ve run my race,Is, “Reader, this is the resting-placeOf an unsuccessful duffer.”
I’ve fought them all, these ghosts of mine,But the weapons I’ve used are sighs and brine,And now that I’m nearly forty-nine,Old age is my chiefest bogy;For my hair is thinning away at the crown,And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;And a general verdict sets me downAs an irreclaimable fogy.
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.
ATroubadourhe 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 dungeon 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 play,I recognize your touch;And all that I can sayIs, thank you very much.”
He seized his clarion straight,And blew thereat, untilA warden 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, you cad, and fight!”
Sir Hughhe called—and ranThe warden from the gate:“Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in Forty-eight.”
By many a cell they past,And 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 what 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.
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 I may know—Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?”
But she said, “It isn’t polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes:Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!”
“Tell me,Henry Wadsworth,alfred poet close, orMister Tupper,Do you write the bon bon mottoes myElvirapulls 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 know was very clever; but 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, “O 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 bird-cage, 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!
Dalilah de DardyadoredThe very correctest of cards,Lorenzo de Lardy, a lord—He was one of Her Majesty’s Guards.
Dalilah de Dardywas fat,Dalilah de Dardywas old—(No doubt in the world about that)ButDalilah de Dardyhad gold.
Lorenzo de Lardywas tall,The flower of maidenly pets,Young ladies would love at his call,ButLorenzo de Lardyhad debts.
His money-position was queer,And one of his favourite freaksWas to hide himself three times a year,In Paris, for several weeks.
Many days didn’t pass him beforeHe fanned himself into a flame,For a beautiful “Dam du Comptwore,”And this was her singular name:
Alice Eulalie CoralineEuphrosine Colombina ThérèseJuliette Stephanie CelestineCharlotte Russe de la Sauce Mayonnaise.
She booked all the orders and tin,Accoutred in showy fal-lal,At a two-fifty Restaurant, inThe glittering Palais Royal.
He’d gaze in her orbit of blue,Her hand he would tenderly squeeze,But the words of her tongue that he knewWere limited strictly to these:
“Coraline Celestine Eulalie,Houp là! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo,Combien donnez moi aujourd’huiBonjour, Mademoiselle, parlez voo.”
Mademoiselle de la Sauce MayonnaiseWas a witty and beautiful miss,Extremely correct in her ways,But her English consisted of this:
“Oh my! pretty man, if you please,Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb,Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,Rosbif, me spik Angleesh, godam.”
A waiter, for seasons before,Had basked in her beautiful gaze,And burnt to dismemberMilor,He lovedde la Sauce Mayonnaise.
He said to her, “MéchanteThérèse,Avec désespoir tu m’accables.Penses-tu,de la Sauce Mayonnaise,Ses intentions sont honorables?
“Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu ôses—Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère,Je lui dirai de quoi l’on composeVol au vent à la Financière!”
Lord Lardyknew nothing of this—The waiter’s devotion ignored,But he gazed on the beautiful miss,And never seemed weary or bored.
The waiter would screw up his nerve,His fingers he’d snap and he’d dance—AndLord Lardywould smile and observe,“How strange are the customs of France!”
Well, after delaying a space,His tradesmen no longer would wait:Returning to England apace,He yielded himself to his fate.
Lord Lardyespoused, with a groan,Miss Dardy’sdeveloping charms,And agreed to tag on to his own,Her name and her newly-found arms.
The waiter he knelt at the toesOf an ugly and thin coryphée,Who danced in the hindermost rowsAt the Théatre des Variétés.
Mademoiselle de la Sauce MayonnaiseDidn’t yield to a gnawing despairBut married a soldier, and playsAs a pretty and pert Vivandière.
Oh, that my soul its gods could seeAs years ago they seemed to meWhen first I painted them;Invested with the circumstanceOf old conventional romance:Exploded theorem!
The bard who could, all men above,Inflame my soul with songs of love,And, with his verse, inspireThe craven soul who feared to dieWith all the glow of chivalryAnd old heroic fire;
I found him in a beerhouse tapAwaking from a gin-born nap,With pipe and sloven dress;Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,With muddy, maudlin sentiment,And tipsy foolishness!
The novelist, whose painting penTo legions of fictitious menA real existence lends,Brain-people whom we rarely fail,Whene’er we hear their names, to hailAs old and welcome friends;
I found in clumsy snuffy suit,In seedy glove, and blucher boot,Uncomfortably big.Particularly commonplace,With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face,And spectacles and wig.
My favourite actor who, at will,With mimic woe my eyes could fillWith unaccustomed brine:A being who appeared to me(Before I knew him well) to beA song incarnadine;
I found a coarse unpleasant manWith speckled chin—unhealthy, wan—Of self-importance full:Existing in an atmosphereThat reeked of gin and pipes and beer—Conceited, fractious, dull.
The warrior whose ennobled nameIs woven with his country’s fame,Triumphant over all,I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear;His province seemed to be, to leerAt bonnets in Pall Mall.
Would that ye always shone, who write,Bathed in your own innate limelight,And ye who battles wage,Or that in darkness I had diedBefore my soul had ever sighedTo see you off the stage!
Babetteshe was a fisher gal,With jupon striped and cap in crimps.She passed her days inside the Halle,Or catching little nimble shrimps.Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,With no professional bouquet.
Jacotwas, of the Customs bold,An officer, at gay Boulogne,He lovedBabette—his love he told,And sighed, “Oh, soyez vous my own!”But “Non!” said she, “Jacot, my pet,Vous êtes trop scraggy pourBabette.
“Of one alone I nightly dream,An able mariner is he,And gaily serves the Gen’ral Steam-Boat Navigation Companee.I’ll marry him, if he but will—His name, I rather think, isBill.
“I see him when he’s not aware,Upon our hospitable coast,Reclining with an easy airUpon thePortagainst a post,A-thinking of, I’ll dare to say,His native Chelsea far away!”
“Oh, mon!” exclaimed the Customs bold,“Mes yeux!” he said (which means “my eye”)“Oh, chère!” he also cried, I’m told,“Par Jove,” he added, with a sigh.“Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove!Je n’aime pas cet enticing cove!”
ThePanther’scaptain stood hard by,He was a man of morals strictIf e’er a sailor winked his eye,Straightway he had that sailor licked,Mast-headed all (such was his code)Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.
He wept to think a tar of hisShould lean so gracefully on posts,He sighed and sobbed to think of this,On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.“It’s human natur’, p’raps—if so,Oh, isn’t human natur’ low!”
He called hisBill, who pulled his curl,He said, “MyBill, I understandYou’ve captivated some young gurlOn this here French and foreign land.Her tender heart your beauties jog—They do, you know they do, you dog.
“You have a graceful way, I learn,Of leaning airily on posts,By which you’ve been and caused to burnA tender flame on these here coasts.A fisher gurl, I much regret,—Her age, sixteen—her name,Babette.
“You’ll marry her, you gentle tar—Your union I myself will bless,And when you matrimonied are,I will appoint her stewardess.”ButWilliamhitched himself and sighed,And cleared his throat, and thus replied:
“Not so: unless you’re fond of strife,You’d better mind your own affairs,I have an able-bodied wifeAwaiting me at Wapping Stairs;If all this here to her I tell,She’ll larrup you and me as well.
“Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,Is beauty such asVenusowns—Herbeauty is beneath her skin,And lies in layers on her bones.The other sailors of the crewThey always calls her ‘Whopping Sue!’”
“Oho!” the Captain said, “I see!And is she then so very strong?”“She’d take your honour’s scruff,” said he“And pitch you over to Bolong!”“I pardon you,” the Captain said,“The fairBabetteyou needn’t wed.”
Perhaps the Customs had his will,And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,Perhaps the Captain and hisBill,AndWilliam’slittle wife are dead;Or p’raps they’re all alive and well:I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.