My William was a soldier, and he says to me, says he,"My Susan, I must sail across the South Pacific sea;For we've got to go to Egypt for to fight the old Khedive;But when he's dead I'll marry you, as sure as I'm alive!"'Twere hard for me to part with him; he couldn't read nor write,So I never had love letters for to keep my memory bright;But Jim, who is our footman, took theDaily Telegraph,And told me William's reg-i-ment mowed down the foe like chaff.So every day Jim come to me to read the Eastern news,And used to bring me bouquets, which I scarcely could refuse;Till one fine day it happened—howit happened, goodness knows,—He put his arm around me and he started to propose.I put his hand from off me, and I said in thrilling tones,"I like you, Jim, butneverwill I give up William Jones;It ain't no good your talking, for my heart is firm and fixed,For William is engaged to me, and naught shall come betwixt."So Jim he turned a ghastly pale to find there was no hope;And made remarks about a pond, and razors, and a rope;The other servants pitied him, and Rosie said as much;But Rosie was too flighty, and he didn't care for such.The weeks and months passed slowly, till I heard the Eastern warWas over, and my William would soon be home once more;And I was proud and happy for I knew that I could sayI'd been true to my sweet William all the years he'd been away.Says Jim to me, "I love you, Sue, you know full well I do,And evermore whilst I draw breath I vow I will be true;But my feelings are too sensitive, I really couldn't standA-seeing of that soldier taking hold your little hand."So I've made my mind up finally to throw myself away;There's Rosie loves me truly, and no more I'll say her nay;I've bought a hat on purpose, and I'm going to hire a ring,And I've borrowed father's wedding suit that looks the very thing."So Jim he married Rosie, just the very day beforeMy William's reg-i-ment was due to reach their native shore;I was there to see him landed and to give him welcome home,And take him to my arms from which he never more should roam.But I couldn't see my William, for the men were all alike,With their red coats and their rifles, and their helmets with a spike;So I curtseys to a sergeant who was smiling very kind,"Where's William Jones?" I asks him, "if so be you wouldn't mind?"Then he calls a gawky, red-haired chap, that stood good six-feet two:"Here, Jones," he cries, "this lady here's enquiring after you.""Not me!" I says, "I want a man who 'listed from our Square;With a small moustache, but growing fast, and bright brown curly hair."The sergeant wiped his eye, and took his helmet from his head,"I'm very sorry, ma'am," he said, "thatWilliam Jones is dead;He died from getting sunstroke, and we envied him his lot,For we were melted to our bones, the climate was that hot!"So that's how 'tis that I'm condemned to lead a single life,For the sergeant, who was struck with me, already had a wife;And Jim is tied to Rosie, and can't get himself untied,Whilst the man that I was faithful to has been and gone and died!
H. M. Paull.
They tell me (but I really can'tImagine such a rum thing),Itis the phantom of my Aunt,Who ran away—or something.Itis the very worst of bores:(My Aunt was most delightful).Itprowls about the corridors,And utters noises frightful.At midnight through the roomsItglides,Behaving very coolly,Our hearts all throb against our sides—The lights are burning bluely.The lady, in her living hours,Was the most charming vixenThat ever this poor sex of oursDelighted to play tricks on.Yes, that's her portrait on the wall,In quaint old-fangled bodice:Her eyes are blue—her waist is small—A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!A fine patrician shape, to suitMy dear old father's sister—Lips softly curved, a dainty foot:Happy the man that kissed her!Light hair of crisp irregular curlOver fair shoulders scattered—Egad, she was a pretty girl,Unless Sir Thomas flattered!And who the deuce, in these bright days,Could possibly expect herTo take to dissipated ways,And plague us as a spectre?
Mortimer Collins.
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day,The score stood four to six with but an inning left to play.And so, when Cooney died at first, and Burrows did the same,A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game.A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest,With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast.For they thought if only Casey could get a whack at that,They'd put up even money with Casey at the bat.But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake,And the former was a pudding and the latter was a fake;So on that stricken multitude a death-like silence sat,For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.But Flynn let drive a single to the wonderment of all,And the much despisèd Blakey tore the cover off the ball,And when the dust had lifted and they saw what had occurred,There was Blakey safe on second, and Flynn a-hugging third.Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell,It bounded from the mountain top and rattled in the dell,It struck upon the hillside, and rebounded on the flat,For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face,And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat,No stranger in the crowd could doubt, 'twas Casey at the bat.Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,Five thousand tongues applauded as he wiped them on his shirt;And while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip—Defiance gleamed from Casey's eye—a sneer curled Casey's lip.And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there;Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—"That hain't my style," said Casey—"Strike one," the Umpire said.From the bleachers black with people there rose a sullen roar,Like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore,"Kill him! kill the Umpire!" shouted some one from the stand—And it's likely they'd have done it had not Casey raised his hand.With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone,He stilled the rising tumult and he bade the game go on;He signalled to the pitcher and again the spheroid flew,But Casey still ignored it and the Umpire said "Strike two.""Fraud!" yelled the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud,"But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed;They saw his face grow stern and cold; they saw his muscles strain,And they knew that Casey would not let that ball go by again.The sneer is gone from Casey's lip; his teeth are clenched with hate,He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.Oh! somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has "Struck Out."
Ernest Lawrence Thayer.
Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,By famous Hanover City;The river Weser, deep and wide,Washes its wall on the southern side;A pleasanter spot you never spied;But when begins my ditty,Almost five hundred years ago,To see the townsfolk suffer soFrom vermin was a pity.Rats!They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chats,By drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.At last the people in a bodyTo the Town Hall came flocking:"Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy;And as for our Corporation—shockingTo think we buy gowns lined with ermineFor dolts that can't or won't determineWhat's best to rid us of our vermin!You hope, because you're old and obese,To find in the furry civic robe ease?Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a rackingTo find the remedy we're lacking,Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"At this the Mayor and CorporationQuaked with a mighty consternation.An hour they sate in council,At length the Mayor broke silence:"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell!I wish I were a mile hence!It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—I'm sure my poor head aches againI've scratched it so, and all in vain.Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!"Just as he said this, what should hapAt the chamber door but a gentle tap?"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?"(With the Corporation as he sat,Looking little though wondrous fat;Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,Than a too-long-opened oyster,Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinousFor a plate of turtle green and glutinous),"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?Anything like the sound of a ratMakes my heart go pit-a-pat!""Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger:And in did come the strangest figure.His queer long coat from heel to headWas half of yellow and half of red;And he himself was tall and thin,With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,But lips where smiles went out and in;There was no guessing his kith and kin:And nobody could enough admireThe tall man and his quaint attire.Quoth one: "It's as my great grandsire,Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"He advanced to the council-table;And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able,By means of a secret charm, to drawAll creatures living beneath the sun,That creep or swim or fly or run,After me so as you never saw!And I chiefly use my charmOn creatures that do people harm,The mole and toad and newt and viper;And people call me the Pied Piper."(And here they noticed round his neckA scarf of red and yellow stripe,To match with his coat of the selfsame cheque;And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;And his fingers, they noticed, were ever strayingAs if impatient to be playingUpon this pipe, as low it dangledOver his vesture so old-fangled.)"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,In Tartary I freed the Cham,Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;I eased in Asia the NizamOf a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:And as for what your brain bewilders,If I can rid your town of rats,Will you give me a thousand guilders?""One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamationOf the astonished Mayor and Corporation.Into the street the Piper stept,Smiling first a little smile,As if he knew what magic sleptIn his quiet pipe the while;Then, like a musical adept,To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkledLike a candle flame where salt is sprinkled;And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,You heard as if an army muttered;And the muttering grew to a grumbling;And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;And out of the house the rats came tumbling.Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,Families by tens and dozens,Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—Followed the Piper for their lives.From street to street he piped advancing,And step by step they followed dancing,Until they came to the river WeserWherein all plunged and perished—Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,Swam across and lived to carry(As he the manuscript he cherished)To Rat-land home his commentary,Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,And putting apples wondrous ripe,Into a cider-press's gripe:And a moving away of pickle-tub boards,And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:And it seemed as if a voice(Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice!The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!And just as a bulky sugar puncheon,All ready staved, like a great sun shoneGlorious scarce an inch before me,Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!—I found the Weser rolling o'er me."You should have heard the Hamelin peopleRinging the bells till they rocked the steeple."Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles!Poke out the nests and block up the holes!Consult with carpenters and builders,And leave in our town not even a traceOf the rats!"—when suddenly, up the faceOf the piper perked in the market-place,With a "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;So did the Corporation too.For council dinners made rare havockWith Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;And half the money would replenishTheir cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.To pay this sum to a wandering fellowWith a gipsy coat of red and yellow!"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,"Our business was done at the river's brink;We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,And what's dead can't come to life, I think.So, friend, we're not the folks to shrinkFrom the duty of giving you something to drink,And a matter of money to put in your poke;But as for the guilders, what we spokeOf them, as you very well know, was in joke;Beside, our losses have made us thrifty:A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"The Piper's face fell, and he cried,"No trifling! I can't wait, beside!I've promised to visit by dinner timeBagdad, and accept the primeOf the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,For having left in the Caliph's kitchen,Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:With him I proved no bargain-driver,With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!And folks who put me in a passionMay find me pipe after another fashion.""How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brookBeing worse treated than a Cook?Insulted by a lazy ribaldWith idle pipe and vesture piebald?You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,Blow your pipe there till you burst!"Once more he stept into the street;And to his lips againLaid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;And ere he blew three notes (such sweetSoft notes as yet musician's cunningNever gave the enraptured air),There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustlingOf merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering,Out came the children running.All the little boys and girls,With rosy cheeks and flaxen curlsAnd sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,Tripping and skipping, ran merrily afterThe wonderful music with shouting and laughter.The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stoodAs if they were changed into blocks of wood,Unable to move a step, or cryTo the children merrily skipping by,And could only follow with the eyeThat joyous crowd at the Piper's back.But how the Mayor was on the rack,And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,As the Piper turned from the High StreetTo where the Weser rolled its watersRight in the way of their sons and daughters!However he turned from South to West,And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,And after him the children pressed;Great was the joy in every breast."He never can cross that mighty top!He's forced to let the piping drop,And we shall see our children stop!"When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side,A wondrous portal opened wide,As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed;And the Piper advanced and the children followed,And when all were in to the very last,The door in the mountain-side shut fast.Did I say—all? No! one was lame,And could not dance the whole of the way;And in after years, if you would blameHis sadness, he was used to say,—"It's dull in our town since my playmates left;I can't forget that I'm bereftOf all the pleasant sights they see,Which the Piper also promised me;For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,Joining the town and just at hand,Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,And flowers put forth a fairer hue,And everything was strange and new;The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,And their dogs outran our fallow deer,And honey-bees had lost their stings;And horses were born with eagle's wings;And just as I became assuredMy lame foot would be speedily cured,The music stopped, and I stood still,And found myself outside the Hill,Left alone against my will,To go now limping as before,And never hear of that country more!"Alas, alas, for Hamelin!There came into many a burgher's pateA text which says, that Heaven's GateOpes to the Rich at as easy rateAs the needle's eye takes a camel in!The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,To offer the Piper by word of mouth,Wherever it was men's lot to find him,Silver and gold to his heart's content,If he'd only return the way he went,And bring the children all behind him.But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,They made a decree that lawyers neverShould think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year,These words did not as well appear,"And so long after what happened hereOn the twenty-second of July,Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:"And the better in memory to fixThe place of the Children's last retreat,They called it the Pied Piper's Street—Where any one playing on pipe or taborWas sure for the future to lose his labour.Nor suffered they hostelry or tavernTo shock with mirth a street so solemn;But opposite the place of the cavernThey wrote the story on a column.And on the great Church Window paintedThe same, to make the world acquaintedHow their children were stolen away,And there it stands to this very day.And I must not omit to sayThat in Transylvania there's a tribeOf alien people that ascribeThe outlandish ways and dress,On which their neighbours lay such stress,To their fathers and mothers having risenOut of some subterraneous prison,Into which they were trepannedLong time ago in a mighty bandOut of Hamelin town in Brunswick Land,But how or why, they don't understand.So, Willy, let me and you be wipersOf scores out with all men—especially pipers;And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
Robert Browning.
I knew an old wife lean and poor,Her rags scarce held together;There strode a stranger to the door,And it was windy weather.He held a goose upon his arm,He utter'd rhyme and reason,"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,It is a stormy season."She caught the white goose by the leg,A goose—'twas no great matter.The goose let fall a golden eggWith cackle and with clatter.She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,And ran to tell her neighbours;And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,And rested from her labours.And feeding high, and living soft,Grew plump and able-bodied;Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,The parson smirk'd and nodded.So sitting, served by man and maid,She felt her heart grow prouder:But, ah! the more the white goose laidIt clack'd and cackled louder.It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:She shifted in her elbow-chair,And hurl'd the pan and kettle."A quinsy choke thy cursed note!"Then wax'd her anger stronger."Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,I will not bear it longer."Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.The goose flew this way and flew that,And fill'd the house with clamour.As head and heels upon the floorThey flounder'd all together,There strode a stranger to the door,And it was windy weather:He took the goose upon his arm,He utter'd words of scorning;"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,It is a stormy morning."The wild wind rang from park and plain,And round the attics rumbled,Till all the tables danced again,And half the chimneys tumbled.The glass blew in, the fire blew out,The blast was hard and harder.Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,And a whirlwind clear'd the larder:And while on all sides breaking looseHer household fled the danger,Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,And God forget the stranger!"
Lord Tennyson.
It was in a pleasant deepô, sequestered from the rain,That many weary passengers were waitin' for the train;Piles of quite expensive baggage, many a gorgeous portmantó,Ivory-handled umberellas made a most touristic show.Whereunto there came a person, very humble was his mien,Who took an observation of the interestin' scene;Closely scanned the umberellas, watched with joy the mighty trunks,And observed that all the people were securin' Pullman bunks:Who was followed shortly after by a most unhappy tramp,Upon whose features poverty had jounced her iron stamp;And to make a clear impression as bees sting you while they buzz,She had hit him rather harder than she generally does.For he was so awful ragged, and in parts so awful bare,That the folks were quite repulsioned to behold him begging there;And instead of drawing currency from out their pocket-books,They drew themselves asunder with aversionary looks.Sternly gazed the first newcomer on the unindulgent crowd,Then in tones which pierced the deepô he solilicussed aloud:—"I hev trevelled o'er this cont'nent from Quebec to Bogotáw,But sech a set of scallawags as these I never saw."Ye are wealthy, ye are gifted, ye have house and lands and rent,Yet unto a suff'rin' mortal ye will not donate a cent;Ye expend your missionaries to the heathen and the Jew,But there isn't any heathen that is half as small as you."Ye are lucky—ye hev cheque-books and deeposits in the bank,And ye squanderate your money on the titled folks of rank;The onyx and the sardonyx upon your garments shine,An' ye drink at every dinner p'r'aps a dollar's wuth of wine."Ye are goin' for the summer to the islands by the sea,Where it costs four dollars daily—setch is not for setch as me;Iv'ry-handled umberellas do not come into my plan,But I kin give a dollar to this suff'rin' fellow-man."Hand-bags made of Rooshy leather are not truly at my call,Yet in the eyes of Mussy I am richer 'en you all,For I kin give a dollar wher' you dare not stand a dime,And never miss it nother, nor regret it ary time."Sayin' this he drew a wallet from the inner of his vest,And gave the tramp a daddy, which it was his level best;Other people havin' heard him soon to charity inclined—One giver soon makes twenty if you only get their wind.The first who gave the dollar led the other one about,And at every contribution he a-raised a joyful shout,Exclaimin' how 'twas noble to relieviate distress,And remarkin' that our duty is our present happiness.Thirty dollars altogether were collected by the tramp,When he bid 'em all good evenin' and went out into the damp,And was followed briefly after by the one who made the speech,And who showed by good example how to practise as to preach.Which soon around the corner the couple quickly met,And the tramp produced the specie for to liquidate his debt;And the man who did the preachin' took his twenty of the sum,Which you see that out of thirty left a tenner for the bum.And the couple passed the summer at Bar Harbor with the rest,Greatly changed in their appearance and most elegently dressed.Any fowl with change of feathers may a brilliant bird become:Oh, how hard is life for many! oh, how sweet it is for some!
Charles Godfrey Leland.
When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew,On the "Royal Biddy" frigate was Sir Peter Bombazoo;His mind was full of music and his head was full of tunes,And he cheerfully exhibited on pleasant afternoons.He could whistle, on his fingers, an invigorating reel,And could imitate a piper on the handles of the wheel;He could play in double octaves, too, all up and down the rail,Or rattle off a rondo on the bottom of a pail.Then porters with their packages and bakers with their buns,And countesses in carriages and grenadiers with guns,And admirals and commodores arrived from near and far,To listen to the music of this entertaining tar.When they heard the Captain humming and beheld the dancing crew.The commodores severely said, "Why, this will never do!"And the admirals all hurried home, remarking, "This is mostExtraordinary conduct for a captain at his post."Then they sent some sailing-orders to Sir Peter, in a boat,And he did a little fifing on the edges of the note;But he read the sailing orders, as of course he had to do,And removed the "Royal Biddy" to the Bay of Boohgabooh.Now, Sir Peter took it kindly, but it's proper to explainHe was sent to catch a pirate out upon the Spanish Main.And he played, with variations, an imaginary tuneOn the buttons of his waistcoat, like a jocular bassoon.Then a topman saw the pirate come a-sailing in the bay,And reported to the Captain in the ordinary way."I'll receive him," said Sir Peter, "with a musical salute,"And he gave some imitations of a double-jointed flute.Then the Pirate cried derisively, "I've heard it done before!"And he hoisted up a banner emblematical of gore.But Sir Peter said serenely, "You may double-shot the gunsWhile I sing my little ballad of 'The Butter on the Buns.'"Then the Pirate banged Sir Peter and Sir Peter banged him back,And they banged away together as they took another tack.Then Sir Peter said, politely, "You may board him, if you like,"And he played a little dirge upon the handle of a pike.Then the "Biddies" poured like hornets down upon the Pirate's deckAnd Sir Peter caught the Pirate and he took him by the neck,And remarked, "You must excuse me, but you acted like a bruteWhen I gave my imitation of that double-jointed flute."So they took that wicked Pirate and they took his wicked crew,And tied them up with double knots in packages of two.And left them lying on their backs in rows upon the beachWith a little bread and water within comfortable reach.Now the Pirate had a treasure (mostly silverware and gold),And Sir Peter took and stowed it in the bottom of his hold;And said, "I will retire on this cargo of doubloons,And each of you, my gallant crew, may have some silver spoons."Now commodores in coach-and-fours and corporals in cabs,And men with carts of pies and tarts and fishermen with crabs,And barristers with wigs, in gigs, still gather on the strand,But there isn't any music save a little German band.
Charles E. Carryl.
The night was thick and hazyWhen thePiccadilly DaisyCarried down the crew and captain in the sea;And I think the water drowned 'em,For they never, never found 'em,And I know they didn't come ashore with me.Oh! 'twas very sad and lonelyWhen I found myself the onlyPopulation on this cultivated shore;But I've made a little tavernIn a rocky little cavern,And I sit and watch for people at the door.I spent no time in lookingFor a girl to do my cooking,As I'm quite a clever hand at making stews;But I had that fellow FridayJust to keep the tavern tidy,And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.I have a little gardenThat I'm cultivating lard in,As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;For I live on toasted lizards,Prickly pears and parrot gizzards,And I'm really very fond of beetle pie.The clothes I had were furry,And it made me fret and worryWhen I found the moths were eating off the hair;And I had to scrape and sand 'em,And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.I sometimes seek diversionIn a family excursion,With the few domestic animals you see;And we take along a carrotAs refreshment for the parrot,And a little can of jungleberry tea.Then we gather as we travelBits of moss and dirty gravel,And we chip off little specimens of stone;And we carry home as prizesFunny bugs of handy sizes,Just to give the day a scientific tone.If the roads are wet and muddyWe remain at home and study,—For the Goat is very clever at a sum,—And the Dog, instead of fightingStudies ornamental writing,While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.We retire at eleven,And we rise again at seven;And I wish to call attention, as I close,To the fact that all the scholarsAre correct about their collars,And particular in turning out their toes.
Charles E. Carryl.
Ben Bluff was a whaler, and many a dayHad chased the huge fish about Baffin's old Bay;But time brought a change his diversion to spoil,And that was when Gas took the shine out of Oil.He turned up his nose at the fumes of the coke,And swore the whole scheme was a bottle of smoke;As to London, he briefly delivered his mind,"Sparma-city," said he,—but the city declined.So Ben cut his line in a sort of a huff,As soon as his whales had brought profits enough,—And hard by the Docks settled down for his life,But, true to his text, went to Wales for a wife.A big one she was, without figure or waist,More bulky than lovely, but that was his taste;In fat she was lapped from her sole to her crown,And, turned into oil, would have lighted a town.But Ben, like a whaler, was charmed with the match,And thought, very truly, his spouse a great catch;A flesh-and-blood emblem of Plenty and Peace,And would not have changed her for Helen of Greece!For Greenland was green in his memory still;He'd quitted his trade, but retained the good-will;And often when softened by bumbo and flip,Would cry till he blubbered about his old ship.No craft like theGrampuscould work through a floe,What knots she could run, and what tons she could stow!And then that rich smell he preferred to the rose,By just nosing the hold without holding his nose.Now Ben he resolved, one fine Saturday night,A snug arctic circle of friends to invite;Old tars in the trade, who related old tales,And drank, and blew clouds that were "very like whales."Of course with their grog there was plenty of chat,Of canting, and flenching, and cutting up fat;And how gun-harpoons into fashion had got,And if they were meant for the gun-whale or not?At last they retired, and left Ben to his rest,By fancies cetaceous and drink well possessed,When, lo! as he lay by his partner in bed,He heard something blow through two holes in its head!"A start!" muttered Ben, in theGrampusafloat,And made but one jump from the deck to the boat!"Huzza! pull away for the blubber and bone,—I look on that whale as already my own!"Then groping about by the light of the moon,He soon laid his hand on his trusty harpoon;A moment he poised it, to send it more pat,And then made a plunge to imbed it in fat!"Starn all!" he sang out, "as you care for your lives,—Starn all! as you hope to return to your wives,—Stand by for the flurry! she throws up the foam!Well done, my old iron; I've sent you right home!"And scarce had he spoken, when lo! bolt uprightThe leviathan rose in a great sheet of white,And swiftly advanced for a fathom or two,As only a fish out of water could do."Starn all!" echoed Ben, with a movement aback,But too slow to escape from the creature's attack;If flippers it had, they were furnished with nails,—"You willin, I'll teach you that women ain't whales!""Avast!" shouted Ben, with a sort of a screech,"I've heard a whale spouting, but here is a speech!""A-spouting, indeed!—very pretty," said she;"But it's you I'll blow up, not the froth of the sea!"To go to pretend to takemefor a fish!You great polar bear—but I know what you wish;You're sick of a wife that your hankering balks,You want to go back to some young Esquimaux!""O dearest," cried Ben, frightened out of his life,"Don't think I would go for to murder a wifeI must long have bewailed!" But she only cried, "Stuff!"Don't name it, you brute, you'vebe-whaledme enough!""Lord, Polly!" said Ben, "such a deed could I do?I'd rather have murdered all Wapping than you!Come, forgive what is past." "O you monster!" she cried,"It was none of your fault that it passed off one side!"However, at last she inclined to forgive;"But, Ben, take this warning as long as you live,—If the love of harpooning so strong must prevail,Take a whale for a wife,—not a wife for a whale!"
Thomas Hood.
A brace of sinners, for no good,Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:A nostrum, famous in old popish times,For purifying souls that stunk with crimes;A sort of apostolic salt,Which popish parsons for its powers exalt,For keeping souls of sinners sweet,Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.The knaves set off on the same day,Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:But very different was their speed, I wot:One of the sinners gallop'd on,Swift as a bullet from a gun;The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.One saw the Virgin soon—peccavicried—Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever;Then home again he nimbly hied,Made fit with saints above to live forever.In coming back, however, let me say,He met his brother rogue about half-way,Hobbling, with outstretch'd arms and bended knees,Damning the souls and bodies of the peas;His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet."How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke,"You lazy lubber!""Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke;My feet, once hard as any rock,Are now as soft as blubber."Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear:As for Loretto, I shall not go there;No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe.But, brother sinner, pray explainHow 'tis that you are not in pain?What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes?Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?"How is't thatyoucan like a greyhound go,Merry as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye!""Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,That, just before I ventured on my journey,To walk a little more at ease,I took the liberty to boilmypeas."
John Wolcot.
When chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neibors neibors meet,As market days are wearin' late,And folk begin to tak the gate:While we sit bousing at the nappy,And gettin' fou and unco happy,We thinkna on the lang Scots miles,The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,That lie between us and our hame,Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.This truth fand honest Tam o'Shanter,As he frae Ayr ae night did canter(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpassesFor honest men and bonny lasses).O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wiseAs ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;That frae November till October,Ae market day thou wasna sober;That ilka melder, wi' the millerThou sat as lang as thou hadst siller;That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.She prophesied, that, late or soon,Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon!Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greetTo think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises!But to our tale:—Ae market night,Tam had got planted unco right,Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;Tam lo'ed him like a very brither—They had been fou for weeks thegither!The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,And aye the ale was growing better:The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favours secret, sweet, and preciousThe Souter tauld his queerest stories,The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:The storm without might rair and rustle—Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drown'd himsel' amang the nappy!As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!But pleasures are like poppies spread,You seize the flower, its bloom is shed!Or like the snowfall in the river,A moment white—then melts for ever;Or like the borealis race,That flit ere you can point their placeOr like the rainbow's lovely form,Evanishing amid the storm.Nae man can tether time or tide;The hour approaches Tam maun ride;That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;And sic a night he taks the road inAs ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:That night, a child might understandThe deil had business on his hand.Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg,A better never lifted leg,Tam skelpit on through dub and mire,Despising wind, and rain, and fire;Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares:Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.By this time he was 'cross the foord,Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;And past the birks and meikle staneWhare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane:And through the whins, and by the cairnWhare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;And near the thorn, aboon the well,Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.Before him Doon pours a' his floods;The doubling storm roars through the woods;The lightnings flash frae pole to pole;Near and more near the thunders roll;When, glimmering through the groaning trees,Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;Through ilka bore the beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!What dangers thou canst mak us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!—The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,She ventured forward on the light;And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance;Nae cotillon brent-new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,Put life and mettle i' their heels:At winnock-bunker, i' the east,There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge;He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl,Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.Coffins stood round, like open presses,That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;And by some devilish cantrip slightEach in its cauld hand held a light,—By which heroic Tam was ableTo note upon the haly table,A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;Twa span-lang, wee, unchristian bairns;A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter, which a babe had strangled;A knife, a father's throat had mangled,Whom his ain son o' life bereft,The grey hairs yet stack to the heft:Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.As Tammie glower'd, amazed and curiousThe mirth and fun grew fast and furiousThe piper loud and louder blew,The dancers quick and quicker flew;They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,And coost her duddies to the wark,And linket at it in her sark.Now Tam! O Tam! had thae been queans,A' plump and strappin' in their teens,Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen!Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gien them aff my hurdies,For ae blink o' the bonny burdies!But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,Lowpin' and flingin' on a cummock,I wonder didna turn thy stomach.But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie,"There was ae winsome wench and walie,"That night enlisted in the core(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore;For mony a beast to dead she shot,And perish'd money a bonny boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bear,And kept the country-side in fear).Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,That, while a lassie, she had worn,In longitude though sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!But here my Muse her wing maun core,Sic flights are far beyond her power;To sing how Nannie lap and flang(A souple jade she was, and strang),And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,And thought, his very een enriched.Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' fain,And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;Till first ae caper, syne anither,Tam tint his reason a' thegither,And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"And in an instant a' was dark:And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,When plundering herds assail their byke,As open pussie's mortal foes,When, pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, the witches follow,Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'lt get thy fairin'!In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,And win the keystane of the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss,A running stream they darena cross;But ere the keystane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake!For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;But little wist she Maggie's mettle—Ae spring brought off her master hale,But left behind her ain grey tail:The carlin caught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:Whane'er to drink you are inclined,Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,Think! ye may buy the joys ower dear—Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
Robert Burns.
Two webfoot brothers loved a fairYoung lady, rich and good to see;And oh, her black abundant hair!And oh, her wondrous witchery!Her father kept a cattle farm,These brothers kept her safe from harm:From harm of cattle on the hill;From thick-necked bulls loud bellowingThe livelong morning, loud and shrill,And lashing sides like anything;From roaring bulls that tossed the sandAnd pawed the lilies from the land.There came a third young man. He cameFrom far and famous Boston town.He was not handsome, was not "game,"But he could "cook a goose" as brownAs any man that set foot onThe sunlit shores of Oregon.This Boston man he taught the school,Taught gentleness and love alway,Said love and kindness, as a rule,Would ultimately "make it pay."He was so gentle, kind, that heCould make a noun and verb agree.So when one day the brothers grewAll jealous and did strip to fight,He gently stood between the two,And meekly told them 'twas not right."I have a higher, better plan,"Outspake this gentle Boston man."My plan is this: Forget this frayAbout that lily hand of hers;Go take your guns and hunt all dayHigh up yon lofty hill of firs,And while you hunt, my loving doves,Why, I will learn which one she loves."The brothers sat the windy hill,Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold,Their rifles crossed their laps, but stillThey sat and sighed and shook with cold.Their hearts lay bleeding far below;Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.Their hounds lay couching, slim and neat;A spotted circle in the grass.The valley lay beneath their feet;They heard the wide-winged eagles pass.The eagles cleft the clouds above;Yet what could they but sigh and love?"If I could die," the elder sighed,"My dear young brother here might wed.""Oh, would to Heaven I had died!"The younger sighed, with bended head.Then each looked each full in the faceAnd each sprang up and stood in place."If I could die,"—the elder spake,—"Die by your hand, the world would say'Twas accident;—and for her sake,Dear brother, be it so, I pray.""Not that!" the younger nobly said;Then tossed his gun and turned his head.And fifty paces back he paced!And as he paced he drew the ball;Then sudden stopped and wheeled and facedHis brother to the death and fall!Two shots rang wild upon the air!But lo! the two stood harmless there!An eagle poised high in the air;Far, far below the bellowingOf bullocks ceased, and everywhereVast silence sat all questioning.The spotted hounds ran circling roundTheir red, wet noses to the ground.And now each brother came to knowThat each had drawn the deadly ball;And for that fair girl far belowHad sought in vain to silent fall.And then the two did gladly "shake,"And thus the elder bravely spake:"Now let us run right hastilyAnd tell the kind schoolmaster all!Yea! yea! and if she choose not me,But all on you her favors fall,This valiant scene, till all life ends,Dear brother, binds us best of friends."The hounds sped down, a spotted line,The bulls in tall, abundant grass,Shook back their horns from bloom and vine,And trumpeted to see them pass—They loved so good, they loved so true,These brothers scarce knew what to do.They sought the kind schoolmaster outAs swift as sweeps the light of morn;They could but love, they could not doubtThis man so gentle, "in a horn,"They cried, "Now whose the lily hand—That lady's of this webfoot land?"They bowed before that big-nosed man,That long-nosed man from Boston town;They talked as only lovers can,They talked, but he could only frown;And still they talked, and still they plead;It was as pleading with the dead.At last this Boston man did speak—"Her father has a thousand ceows,An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek;He also had this ample heouse."The brothers' eyes stuck out thereat,So far you might have hung your hat."I liked the looks of this big heouse—My lovely boys, won't you come in?Her father has a thousand ceows,He also had a heap of tin.The guirl? Oh yes, the guirl, you see—The guirl, just neow she married me."
Joaquin Miller.
'Twas on the shores that round our coastFrom Deal to Ramsgate span,That I found alone on a piece of stoneAn elderly naval man.His hair was weedy, his beard was long,And weedy and long was he,And I heard this wight on the shore recite,In a singular minor key:"Oh, I am a cook and the captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,Till I really felt afraid,For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,And so I simply said:"Oh, elderly man, it's little I knowOf the duties of men of the sea,And I'll eat my hand if I understandHow you can possibly be"At once a cook, and a captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, whichIs a trick all seamen larn,And having got rid of a thumping quid,He spun this painful yarn:"'Twas in the good shipNancy BellThat we sailed to the Indian Sea,And there on a reef we come to grief,Which has often occurred to me."And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned(There was seventy-seven o' soul),And only ten of theNancy'smenSaid 'here' to the muster-roll."There was me and the cook and the captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,Till a-hungry we did feel,So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shotThe captain for our meal."The next lot fell to theNancy'smate,And a delicate dish he made;Then our appetite with the midshipmiteWe seven survivors stayed."And then we murdered the bos'un tight,And he much resembled pig;Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,On the crew of the captain's gig."Then only the cook and me was left,And the delicate question, 'WhichOf us two goes to the kettle?' arose,And we argued it out as sich."For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,And the cook he worshipped me;But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowedIn the other chap's hold, you see."'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom.'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,—I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I.And 'Exactly so,' quoth he."Says he, 'Dear James, to murder meWere a foolish thing to do,For don't you see that you can't cookme,While I can—and will—cookyou!'"So he boils the water, and takes the saltAnd the pepper in portions true(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,And some sage and parsley too."'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,Which his smiling features tell,''Twill soothing be if I let you seeHow extremely nice you'll smell.'"And he stirred it round and round and round,And he sniffed at the foaming froth;When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squealsIn the scum of the boiling broth."And I eat that cook in a week or less,And—as I eating beThe last of his chops, why, I almost drops,For a vessel in sight I see.
"And I never larf, and I never smile,And I never lark or play,But sit and croak, and a single jokeI have,—which is to say:"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of theNancybrig,And a bos'un tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."
W. S. Gilbert.
PART I
At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper
One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of love and Tupper.
Mr. Tupper and 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 ballroom 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, "Dear Elvira, say,—what can the matter be with you?
Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy, 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 my Coxwell or my Glaisher!
"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!"
PART II
"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, Poet Close, or Mister Tupper,
Do you write the bon-ton mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"
But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honor;
And Alfred, 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 Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me;
And Mister Martin Tupper sent 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 reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited,
And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated!
W. S. Gilbert.