GOOD children, list, if you’re inclined,

And wicked children too—

This pretty ballad is designed

Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold,

One grown up—one a lad:

The younger was as good as gold,

The elder one was bad.

A wicked, disobedient son

Was James McAlpine, and

A contrast to the younger one,

Good Applebody Bland.

McAlpine—brutes like him are few—

In greediness delights,

A melancholy victim to

Unchastened appetites.

Good, well-bred children every day

He ravenously ate,—

All boys were fish who found their way

Into McAlpine’s net:

Boys whose good breeding is innate,

Whose sums are always right;

And boys who don’t expostulate

When sent to bed at night;

And kindly boys who never search

The nests of birds of song;

And serious boys for whom, in church,

No sermon is too long.

Contrast with James’s greedy haste

And comprehensive hand,

The nice discriminating taste

Of Applebody Bland.

Bland only eats bad boys, who swear—

Who can behave, but don’t—

Disgraceful lads who say “don’t care,”

And “shan’t,” and “can’t,” and “won’t.”

Who wet their shoes and learn to box,

And say what isn’t true,

Who bite their nails and jam their frocks,

And make long noses too;

Who kick a nurse’s aged shin,

And sit in sulky mopes;

And boys who twirl poor kittens in

Distracting zoëtropes.

But James, before he grew so big,

Had often been to school,

And though, of course, a reckless pig,

He wasn’t quite a fool.

At logic few with him could vie;

To his peculiar sect

He could propose a fallacy

With singular effect.

So, when his Mentors said, “You hound,

Why eat good children—why?”

Upon his Mentors he would round

With this absurd reply:

“I have been taught to love the good—

The pure—the unalloyed—

And wicked boys, I’ve understood,

I always should avoid.

“Why do I eat good children—why?

Because I love them so!”

(But this was empty sophistry,

As your Papa can show.)

Now, though the learning of his friends

Was truly not immense,

They had a way of fitting ends

By rule of common sense.

“Away, away!” his Mentors cried,

“Thou uncongenial pest!

A quirk’s a thing we can’t abide,

A quibble we detest!

“A fallacy in your reply

Our intellect descries,

Although we don’t pretend to spy

Exactly where it lies.

“In misery, unworthy son,

Must end a glutton’s joys;

And learn how ogres punish one

Who dares to eat good boys.

“Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain,

And gagged securely—so—

You shall be placed in Drury Lane,

Where only good lads go.

“Surrounded there by virtuous boys.

You’ll suffer torture wus

Than that which constantly annoys

Disgraceful Tantalus.

(“If you would learn the woes that vex

Poor Tantalus, down there,

Pray borrow of Papa an ex-

Purgated Lemprière.)

“But as for Applebody Bland,

Who only eats the bad,

A fitting recompense we’ve planned

For that deserving lad.

“Where naughty boys in crowds are stowed

He shall unquestioned rule,

And have the run of Hackney Road

Reformatory School.”

EARL JOYCE he was a kind old party

Whom nothing ever could put out,

Though eighty-two, he still was hearty,

Excepting as regarded gout.

He had one unexampled daughter,

The Lady Minnie-haha Joyce,

Fair Minnie-haha, “Laughing Water,”

So called from her melodious voice.

By Nature planned for lover-capture,

Her beauty every heart assailed;

The good old nobleman with rapture

Observed how widely she prevailed.

Aloof from all the lordly flockings

Of titled swells who worshipped her,

There stood, in pumps and cotton stockings,

One humble lover—Oliver.

He was no peer by Fortune petted,

His name recalled no bygone age;

He was no lordling coronetted—

Alas! he was a simple page!

With vain appeals he never bored her,

But stood in silent sorrow by—

He knew how fondly he adored her,

And knew, alas! how hopelessly!

Well grounded by a village tutor

In languages alive and past,

He’d say unto himself, “Knee-suitor,

Oh, do not go beyond your last!”

But though his name could boast no handle,

He could not every hope resign;

As moths will hover round a candle,

So hovered he about her shrine.

The brilliant candle dazed the moth well:

One day she sang to her Papa

The air that Marie sings with Bothwell

In Neidermeyer’s opera.

(Therein a stable boy, it’s stated,

Devoutly loved a noble dame,

And that the dame reciprocated

His rather injudicious flame.)

And then, before the piano closing

(He listened coyly at the door)

She sang a song of her composing—

I give one verse from half a score:

Ballad.

Why, pretty page, art ever sighing?

Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying?

Come, set a-ringing

Thy laugh entrancing,

And ever singing

And ever dancing.

Ever singing, Tra! la! la!

Ever dancing, Tra! la! la!

Ever singing, ever dancing,

Ever singing, Tra! la! la!

He skipped for joy like little muttons,

He danced like Esmeralda’s kid

(She did not mean a boy in buttons,

Although he fancied that she did).

Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her,

He wore out many pairs of soles;

He danced when taking down the dinner—

He danced when bringing up the coals.

He danced and sang (however laden)

With his incessant “Tra! la! la!”

Which much surprised the noble maiden,

And puzzled even her Papa.

He nourished now his flame and fanned it,

He even danced at work below.

At length the servants wouldn’t stand it,

And Bowles the butler told him so.

At length on impulse acting blindly,

His love he laid completely bare;

The gentle Earl received him kindly,

And told the lad to take a chair.

“Oh, sir,” the suitor uttered sadly,

“Don’t give your indignation vent;

I fear you think I’m acting madly,

Perhaps you think me insolent?”

The kindly Earl repelled the notion;

His noble bosom heaved a sigh,

His fingers trembled with emotion,

A tear stood in his mild blue eye.

For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly

The half-forgotten time when he,

A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly

A governess of forty-three!

“My boy,” he said, his hands still wringing,

“Give up this idle fancy—do—

The ballad that you heard her singing

Did not, indeed, refer to you.

“I feel for you, poor boy, acutely;

I would not wish to give you pain;

Your pangs I estimate minutely,—

I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.

“But still your humble rank and station

For Minnie surely are not meet”—

He said much more in conversation

Which it were needless to repeat.

Now I’m prepared to bet a guinea,

Were this a mere dramatic case,

The page would have eloped with Minnie,

But, no—he only left his place.

The simple Truth is my detective,

With me Sensation can’t abide;

The Likely beats the mere Effective,

And Nature is my only guide.

A PROUD Pasha was Bailey Ben,

His wives were three, his tails were ten,

His form was dignified, but stout,

Men called him “Little Roundabout.”

His Importance.

Pale Pilgrims came from o’er the sea

To wait on Pasha Bailey B.,

All bearing presents in a crowd,

For B. was poor as well as proud.

His Presents.

They brought him onions strung on ropes,

And cold boiled beef, and telescopes,

And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns,

And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns.

More of them.

They brought him white kid gloves, and pails,

And candlesticks, and potted quails,

And capstan-bars, and scales and weights,

And ornaments for empty grates.

Why I mention these.

My tale is not of these—oh, no!

I only mention them to show

The divers gifts that divers men

Brought o’er the sea to Bailey Ben.

His Confidant.

A confidant had Bailey B.,

A gay Mongolian dog was he;

I am not good at Turkish names,

And so I call him Simple James.

His Confidant’s Countenance.

A dreadful legend you might trace

In Simple James’s honest face,

For there you read, in Nature’s print,

“A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint.”

His Character.

A deed of blood, or fire, or flames,

Was meat and drink to Simple James!

To hide his guilt he did not plan,

But owned himself a bad young man.

The Author to his Reader.

And why on earth good Bailey Ben

(The wisest, noblest, best of men)

Made Simple James his right-hand man

Is quite beyond my mental span.

The same, continued.

But there—enough of gruesome deeds!

My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds

And so let Simple James take wing,—

’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Pasha’s Clerk.

Good Pasha Bailey kept a clerk

(For Bailey only made his mark),

His name was Matthew Wycombe Coo,

A man of nearly forty-two.

His Accomplishments.

No person that I ever knew

Could “yödel” half as well as Coo;

And Highlanders exclaimed, “Ah, weel!”

When Coo began to dance a reel.

His Kindness to the Pasha’s Wives.

He used to dance and sing and play

In such an unaffected way,

He cheered the unexciting lives

Of Pasha Bailey’s lovely wives.

The Author to his Reader.

But why should I encumber you

With histories of Matthew Coo?

Let Matthew Coo at once take wing,—

’Tis not of Coo I’m going to sing.

The Author’s Muse.

Let me recall my wandering Muse;

She shall be steady if I choose—

She roves, instead of helping me

To tell the deeds of Bailey B.

One morning knocked, at half-past eight,

A tall Red Indian at his gate.

In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware,

Red Indians are extremely rare.

Mocassins decked his graceful legs,

His eyes were black, and round as eggs,

And on his neck, instead of beads,

Hung several Catawampous seeds.

“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one,

Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,

You’ve never seen the Red Man skip

Upon the banks of Mississip!”

To say that Bailey oped his eyes

Would feebly paint his great surprise—

To say it almost made him die

Would be to paint it much too high.

But why should I ransack my head

To tell you all that Indian said

We’ll let the Indian man take wing,—

’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Reader to the Author.

Come, come, I say, that’s quite enough

Of this absurd disjointed stuff;

Now let’s get on to that affair

About Lieutenant-Colonel Flare.

THE earth has armies plenty,

And semi-warlike bands,

I dare say there are twenty

In European lands;

But, oh! in no direction

You’d find one to compare

In brotherly affection

With that of Colonel Flare.

His soldiers might be rated

As military Pearls:

As unsophisticated

As pretty little girls!

They never smoked or ratted,

Or talked of Sues or Polls;

The Sergeant-Major tatted,

The others nursed their dolls.

He spent the days in teaching

These truly solemn facts:

There’s little use in preaching,

Or circulating tracts.

(The vainest plan invented

For laying other creeds,

Unless it’s supplemented

With charitable deeds.)

He taught his soldiers kindly

To give at Hunger’s call:

“Oh, better far give blindly

Than never give at all!

Though sympathy be kindled

By Imposition’s game,

Oh, better far be swindled

Than smother up its flame!”

His means were far from ample

For pleasure or for dress,

Yet note this bright example

Of single-heartedness:

Though ranking as a Colonel,

His pay was but a groat,

While their reward diurnal

Was—each a five-pound note.

Moreover,—this evinces

His kindness, you’ll allow,—

He fed them all like princes,

And lived himself on cow.

He set them all regaling

On curious wines, and dear,

While he would sit pale-ale-ing

Or quaffing ginger-beer.

Then at his instigation

(A pretty fancy this)

Their daily pay and ration

They’d always change for his;

They brought it to him weekly,

And he without a groan

Would take it from them meekly,

And give them all his own!

Though not exactly knighted

As knights, of course, should be,

Yet no one so delighted

In harmless chivalry.

If peasant girl or ladye

Beneath misfortunes sank,

Whatever distinctions made he,

They were not those of rank.

No maiden young and comely

Who wanted good advice

(However poor or homely)

Need ask him for it twice.

He’d wipe away the blindness

That comes of teary dew;

His sympathetic kindness

No sort of limit knew.

He always hated dealing

With men who schemed or planned

A person harsh—unfeeling—

The Colonel could not stand.

He hated cold, suspecting,

Official men in blue,

Who pass their lives detecting

The crimes that others do.

For men who’d shoot a sparrow,

Or immolate a worm

Beneath a farmers harrow,

He could not find a term.

Humanely, ay, and knightly

He dealt with such an one;

He took and tied him tightly,

And blew him from a gun.

The earth has armies plenty,

And semi-warlike bands,

I’m certain there are twenty

In European lands;

But, oh! in no direction

You’d find one to compare

In brotherly affection

With that of Colonel Flare.

I SING a legend of the sea,

So hard-a-port upon your lee!

A ship on starboard tack!

She’s bound upon a private cruise—

(This is the kind of spice I use

To give a salt-sea smack).

Behold, on every afternoon

(Save in a gale or strong Monsoon)

Great Captain Capel Cleggs

(Great morally, though rather short)

Sat at an open weather-port

And aired his shapely legs.

And Mermaids hung around in flocks,

On cable chains and distant rocks,

To gaze upon those limbs;

For legs like those, of flesh and bone,

Are things “not generally known”

To any Merman Timbs.

But Mermen didn’t seem to care

Much time (as far as I’m aware)

With Cleggs’s legs to spend;

Though Mermaids swam around all day

And gazed, exclaiming, “That’s the way

A gentleman should end!

“A pair of legs with well-cut knees

And calves and ankles such as these

Which we in rapture hail,

Are far more eloquent, it’s clear,

When clothed in silk and kerseymere,

Than any nasty tail.”

And Cleggs—a worthy kind old boy—

Rejoiced to add to others’ joy,

And (though he scarce knew why)

Because it pleased the lookers-on,

He sat there every day—though con-

Stitutionally shy.

At first the Mermen laughed a few,

But finally they jealous grew,

And sounded loud recalls;

But vainly. So these fishy males

Declared they too would clothe their tails

In silken hose and smalls.

They set to work, these water-men,

And made their nether robes—but when

They drew with dainty touch

The kerseymere upon their tails,

They found it scraped against their scales,

And hurt them very much.

The silk, besides, with which they chose

To deck their tails, by way of hose

(They never thought of shoon),

For such a use was much too thin,—

It tore against the caudal fin

And “went in ladders” soon.

So they designed another plan:

They sent their most seductive man

This note to him to show—

“Our Monarch sends to Captain Cleggs

His humble compliments, and begs

He’ll join him down below;

“We’ve pleasant homes below the sea—

Besides, if Captain Cleggs should be

(As our advices say)

A judge of Mermaids, he will find

Our lady-fish of every kind

Inspection will repay.”

Good Capel sent a kind reply,

For Capel thought he could descry

An admirable plan

To study all their ways and laws—

(But not their lady-fish, because

He was a married man).

The Merman sank—the Captain too

Jumped overboard, and dropped from view

Like stone from catapult;

And when he reached the Merman’s lair

He certainly was welcomed there,

But, ah! with what result?

They didn’t let him learn their law,

Or make a note of what he saw,

Or interesting mem.:

The lady-fish he couldn’t find,

But that, of course, he didn’t mind—

He didn’t come for them.

For though, when Captain Capel sank,

The Mermen drawn in double rank

Gave him a hearty hail;

Yet when secure of Captain Cleggs,

They cut off both his lovely legs,

And gave him such a tail!

When Captain Cleggs returned aboard,

His blithesome crew convulsive roar’d,

To see him altered so.

The Admiralty did insist

That he upon the Half-pay List

Immediately should go.

In vain declared the poor old salt,

“It’s my misfortune—not my fault,”

With tear and trembling lip—

In vain poor Capel begged and begged.

“A man must be completely legged

Who rules a British ship.”

So spake the stern First Lord aloud—

He was a wag, though very proud,

And much rejoiced to say,

“You’re only half a captain now—

And so, my worthy friend, I vow

You’ll only get half-pay!”

I’VE painted Shakespeare all my life—

“An infant” (even then at play!)

“A boy,” with stage-ambition rife,

Then “Married to Ann Hathaway.”

“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”),

His “First appearance on the stage,”

His “Call before the curtain”—then

“Rejoicings when he came of age.”

The bard play-writing in his room,

The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk,

The bard a lawyer¹—parson²—groom³—

The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

The bard a tradesman⁴—and a Jew⁵—

The bard a botanist⁶—a beak⁷—

The bard a skilled musician⁸ too—

A sheriff⁹ and a surgeon¹⁰ eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock)

That, though it’s evident I try,

Yet even I can barely mock

The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning as a work I framed,

There passed a person, walking hard:

“My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,

“How very like my dear old bard!

“Oh, what a model he would make!”

I rushed outside—impulsive me!—

“Forgive the liberty I take,

But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he.

“You needn’t waste your breath or time,—

I know what you are going to say,—

That you’re an artist, and that I’m

Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh?

“You wish that I would sit to you?”

I clasped him madly round the waist,

And breathlessly replied, “I do!”

“All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”

I led him by his hallowed sleeve,

And worked away at him apace,

I painted him till dewy eve,—

There never was a nobler face!

“Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grand

Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—

To sport his brow at second-hand,

To wear his cast-off countenance!

“To rub his eyes whene’er they ache—

To wear his baldness ere you’re old—

To clean his teeth when you awake—

To blow his nose when you’ve a cold!”

His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—

I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;

“Bravo!” I said, “I recognize

The phrensy of your prototype!”

His scanty hair he wildly tore:

“That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.”

He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—

“Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”

“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy

(Continuing to blaze away),

“You think my face a source of joy;

That shows you know not what you say.

“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps,

I’m always thrown in some such state

When on his face well-meaning chaps

This wretched man congratulate.

“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—

This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,

Have always been the origin

Of all the woes I ever knew!

“If to the play my way I find,

To see a grand Shakesperian piece,

I have no rest, no ease of mind

Until the author’s puppets cease!

“Men nudge each other—thus—and say,

‘This certainly is Shakespeare’s son,’

And merry wags (of course in play)

Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.

“In church the people stare at me,

Their soul the sermon never binds;

I catch them looking round to see,

And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.

“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,

Who find it difficult to crown

A bust with Brown’s insipid smile,

Or Tomkins’s unmannered frown,

“Yet boldly make my face their own,

When (oh, presumption!) they require

To animate a paving-stone

With Shakespeare’s intellectual fire.

“At parties where young ladies gaze,

And I attempt to speak my joy,

‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says,

‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’

“Whene’er I speak my soul is wrung

With these or some such whisperings;

‘’Tis pity that a Shakespeare’s tongue

Should say such un-Shakesperian things!’

“I should not thus be criticised

Had I a face of common wont:

Don’t envy me—now, be advised!”

And, now I think of it, I don’t!

A LEAFY cot, where no dry rot

Had ever been by tenant seen,

Where ivy clung and wopses stung,

Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,

Where treeses grew and breezes blew—

A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,

Where countless herds of dickybirds

Built twiggy beds to lay their heads

(My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,”

But though it’s true that dickies do

Construct a nest with chirpy noise,

With view to rest their eggy joys,

’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,

As I explain to her in vain

Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes).

’Neath such a cot, built on a plot

Of freehold land, dwelt Mary and

Her worthy father, named by me

Gregory Parable, LL.D.

He knew no guile, this simple man,

No wordly wile, or plot, or plan,

Except that plot of freehold land

That held the cot, and Mary, and

Her worthy father, named by me

Gregory Parable, LL.D.

A grave and learned scholar he,

Yet simple as a child could be.

He’d shirk his meal to sit and cram

A goodish deal of Eton Gram.

No man alive could him nonplus

With vocative of filius.

No man alive more fully knew

The passive of a verb or two.

None better knew the worth than he

Of words that end in b, d, t.

Upon his green in early spring

He might be seen endeavouring

To understand the hooks and crooks

Of Henry and his Latin books,

Or calling for his “Cæsar on

The Gallic War,” like any don.

Or, p’raps, expounding unto all

How mythic Balbus built a wall.

So lived the sage who’s named by me

Gregory Parable, LL.D.

To him one autumn day there came

A lovely youth of mystic name,

He took a lodging in the house,

And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse,

For, oh! that mild scholastic one

Let shooting for a single gun.

By three or four, when sport was o’er,

The Mystic One laid by his gun,

And made sheep’s eyes of giant size,

Till after tea, at Mary P.

And Mary P. (so kind was she),

She, too, made eyes of giant size,

Whose every dart right through the heart

Appeared to run that Mystic One.

The Doctor’s whim engrossing him,

He did not know they flirted so.

For, save at tea, “musa musæ,”

As I’m advised, monopolized

And rendered blind his giant mind.

But looking up above his cup

One afternoon, he saw them spoon.

“Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass!

As quaint old Ovid says, ‘Amas!’”

The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,

And, claiming ruth, he said, “In sooth

I love your daughter, aged man:

Refuse to join us if you can.

Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn,

I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.”

“Young sir,” the aged scholar said,

“I never thought you meant to wed:

Engrossed completely with my books,

I little noticed lovers’ looks.

I’ve lived so long away from man,

I do not know of any plan

By which to test a lover’s worth,

Except, perhaps, the test of birth.

I’ve half forgotten in this wild

A father’s duty to his child.

It is his place, I think it’s said,

To see his daughters richly wed

To dignitaries of the earth,

If possible, of noble birth.

If noble birth is not at hand,

A father may, I understand

(And this affords a chance for you),

Be satisfied to wed her to

A Boucicault or Baring—which

Means any one who’s jolly rich.

Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,—

Come, Mary, we will go and try

If he would like to marry thee,

If not, thy bride the maid shall be.”

They sought the Earl that very day;

The sage began to say his say.

The Earl (a very wicked man,

Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban)

Cut short the scholar’s simple tale,

And said in voice to make them quail,

“Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt—

Here, Peters, turn these people out!”

The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,

Returning, met the Mystic Youth.

“My darling boy,” the Scholar said,

“Take Mary—blessings on your head!”

The Mystic Boy undid his vest,

And took a parchment from his breast,

And said, “Now, by that noble brow,

I ne’er knew father such as thou!

The sterling rule of common sense

Now reaps its proper recompense.

Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen,

For I am Duke of Gretna Green!”

A CLERGYMAN in Berkshire dwelt,

The Reverend Bernard Powles,

And in his church there weekly knelt

At least a thousand souls.

There little Ellen you might see,

The modest rustic belle;

In maidenly simplicity,

She loved her Bernard well.

Though Ellen wore a plain silk gown

Untrimmed with lace or fur,

Yet not a husband in the town

But wished his wife like her.

Though sterner memories might fade,

You never could forget

The child-form of that baby-maid,

The Village Violet!

A simple frightened loveliness,

Whose sacred spirit-part

Shrank timidly from wordly stress,

And nestled in your heart.

Powles woo’d with every well-worn plan

And all the usual wiles

With which a well-schooled gentleman

A simple heart beguiles.

The hackneyed compliments that bore

World-folks like you and me,

Appeared to her as if they wore

The crown of Poesy.

His winking eyelid sang a song

Her heart could understand,

Eternity seemed scarce too long

When Bernard squeezed her hand.

He ordered down the martial crew

Of Godfrey’s Grenadiers,

And Coote conspired with Tinney to

Ecstaticize her ears.

Beneath her window, veiled from eye,

They nightly took their stand,

On birthdays supplemented by

The Covent Garden band.

And little Ellen, all alone,

Enraptured sat above,

And thought how blest she was to own

The wealth of Powles’s love.

I often, often wonder what

Poor Ellen saw in him;

For calculated he was not

To please a woman’s whim.

He wasn’t good, despite the air

An M.B. waistcoat gives;

Indeed, his dearest friends declare

No greater humbug lives.

No kind of virtue decked this priest,

He’d nothing to allure;

He wasn’t handsome in the least,—

He wasn’t even poor.

No—he was cursed with acres fat

(A Christian’s direst ban).

And gold—yet, notwithstanding that,

Poor Ellen loved the man.

As unlike Bernard as could be

Was poor old Aaron Wood

(Disgraceful Bernard’s curate he):

He was extremely good.

A Bayard in his moral pluck,

Without reproach or fear,

A quiet venerable duck

With fifty pounds a year.

No fault had he—no fad, except

A tendency to strum,

In mode at which you would have wept,

A dull harmonium.

He had no gold with which to hire

The minstrels who could best

Convey a notion of the fire

That raged within his breast.

And so, when Coote and Tinney’s Own

Had tootled all they knew,

And when the Guards, completely blown,

Exhaustedly withdrew,

And Nell began to sleepy feel,

Poor Aaron then would come,

And underneath her window wheel

His plain harmonium.

He woke her every morn at two,

And having gained her ear,

In vivid colours Aaron drew

The sluggard’s grim career.

He warbled Apiarian praise,

And taught her in his chant

To shun the dog’s disgraceful ways,

And imitate the ant.

Still Nell seemed not, how much he played,

To love him out and out,

Although the admirable maid

Respected him, no doubt.

She told him of her early vow,

And said as Bernard’s wife

It might be hers to show him how

To rectify his life.

“You are so pure, so kind, so true,

Your goodness shines so bright,

What use would Ellen be to you?

Believe me, you’re all right.”

She wished him happiness and health,

And flew on lightning wings

To Bernard with his dangerous wealth

And all the woes it brings.

SOME time ago, in simple verse

I sang the story true

Of Captain Reece, the Mantelpiece,

And all her happy crew.

I showed how any captain may

Attach his men to him,

If he but heeds their smallest needs,

And studies every whim.

Now mark how, by Draconic rule

And hauteur ill-advised,

The noblest crew upon the Blue

May be demoralized.

When his ungrateful country placed

Kind Reece upon half-pay,

Without much claim Sir Berkely came,

And took command one day.

Sir Berkely was a martinet—

A stern unyielding soul—

Who ruled his ship by dint of whip

And horrible black-hole.

A sailor who was overcome

From having freely dined,

And chanced to reel when at the wheel,

He instantly confined!

And tars who, when an action raged,

Appeared alarmed or scared,

And those below who wished to go,

He very seldom spared.

E’en he who smote his officer

For punishment was booked,

And mutinies upon the seas

He rarely overlooked.

In short, the happy Mantelpiece

Where all had gone so well,

Beneath that fool Sir Berkely’s rule

Became a floating hell.

When first Sir Berkely came aboard

He read a speech to all,

And told them how he’d made a vow

To act on duty’s call.

Then William Lee, he up and said

(The Captain’s coxswain he):

“We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made,

And werry pleased we be.

“We won’t pretend, my lad, as how

We’re glad to lose our Reece;

Urbane, polite, he suited quite

The saucy Mantelpiece.

“But if your honour gives your mind

To study all our ways,

With dance and song we’ll jog along

As in those happy days.

“I like your honour’s looks, and feel

You’re worthy of your sword.

Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid glad

To welcome you aboard!”

Sir Berkely looked amazed, as though

He didn’t understand.

“Don’t shake your head,” good William said,

“It is an honest hand.

“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn—

Come, gov’nor, I insist!”

The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—

The hand became a fist!

“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt;

But Berkely dodged his aim,

And made him go in chains below:

The seamen murmured “Shame!”

He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,

Stopped hornpipes when at sea,

And swore his cot (or bunk) should not

Be used by aught than he.

He never joined their daily mess,

Nor asked them to his own,

But chaffed in gay and social way

The officers alone.

His First Lieutenant, Peter, was

As useless as could be,

A helpless stick, and always sick

When there was any sea.

This First Lieutenant proved to be

His foster-sister May,

Who went to sea for love of he

In masculine array.

And when he learnt the curious fact,

Did he emotion show,

Or dry her tears, or end her fears

By marrying her? No!

Or did he even try to soothe

This maiden in her teens?

Oh, no!—instead he made her wed

The Sergeant of Marines!

Of course such Spartan discipline

Would make an angel fret.

They drew a lot, and William shot

This fearful Martinet.

The Admiralty saw how ill

They’d treated Captain Reece;

He was restored once more aboard

The saucy Mantelpiece.

I GO away this blessed day,

To sail across the sea, Matilda!

My vessel starts for various parts

At twenty after three, Matilda.

I hardly know where we may go,

Or if it’s near or far, Matilda,

For Captain Hyde does not confide

In any ’fore-mast tar, Matilda!

Beneath my ban that mystic man

Shall suffer, coûte qui coûte, Matilda!

What right has he to keep from me

The Admiralty route, Matilda?

Because, forsooth! I am a youth

Of common sailors’ lot, Matilda!

Am I a man on human plan

Designed, or am I not, Matilda?

But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass!

With anxious love I burn, Matilda.

I want to know if we shall go

To church when I return, Matilda?

Your eyes are red, you bow your head;

It’s pretty clear you thirst, Matilda,

To name the day—What’s that you say?

—“You’ll see me further first,” Matilda?

I can’t mistake the signs you make,

Although you barely speak, Matilda;

Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue

Right in your pretty cheek, Matilda!

My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—

I do—I’m sure I do, Matilda—

With simple grace you make a face,

Ejaculating, “Ugh!” Matilda.

Oh, pause to think before you drink

The dregs of Lethe’s cup, Matilda!

Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,

Before you give me up, Matilda!

Recall again the mental pain

Of what I’ve had to do, Matilda!

And be assured that I’ve endured

It, all along of you, Matilda!

Do you forget, my blithesome pet,

How once with jealous rage, Matilda,

I watched you walk and gaily talk

With some one thrice your age, Matilda?

You squatted free upon his knee,

A sight that made me sad, Matilda!

You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,

Which almost drove me mad, Matilda!

I know him not, but hoped to spot

Some man you thought to wed, Matilda!

I took a gun, my darling one,

And shot him through the head, Matilda!

I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruff

Enough, I own; but, ah, Matilda!

It did annoy your poor old boy

To find it was your pa, Matilda!

I’ve passed a life of toil and strife,

And disappointments deep, Matilda;

I’ve lain awake with dental ache

Until I fell asleep, Matilda!

At times again I’ve missed a train,

Or p’rhaps run short of tin, Matilda,

And worn a boot on corns that shoot,

Or, shaving, cut my chin, Matilda!

But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—

Believe me when I say, Matilda,

No corns that shoot—no pinching boot

Upon a summer day, Matilda—

It’s my belief, could cause such grief

As that I’ve suffered for, Matilda,

My having shot in vital spot

Your old progenitor, Matilda!

Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow

I made one winter day, Matilda—

That, come what could, I never would

Remain too long away, Matilda.

And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,

I’ve charged my gentle mind, Matilda

To keep the vow I made—and now

You treat me so unkind, Matilda!

For when at sea, off Caribbee,

I felt my passion burn, Matilda;

By passion egged, I went and begged

The captain to return, Matilda.

And when, my pet, I couldn’t get

That captain to agree, Matilda,

Right through a sort of open port

I pitched him in the sea, Matilda!

Remember, too, how all the crew,

With indignation blind, Matilda,

Distinctly swore they ne’er before

Had thought me so unkind, Matilda;

And how they’d shun me one by one—

An unforgiving group, Matilda—

I stopped their howls and sulky scowls

By pizening their soup, Matilda!

So pause to think, before you drink

The dregs of Lethe’s cup, Matilda;

Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,

Before you give me up, Matilda.

Recall again the mental pain

Of what I’ve had to do, Matilda,

And be assured that I’ve endured

It, all along of you, Matilda!

A RICH advowson, highly prized,

For private sale was advertised;

And many a parson made a bid;

The Reverend Simon Magus did.

He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I

Have come prepared at once to buy

(If your demand is not too big)

The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”

“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—

The snuggest vicarage on earth;

No sort of duty (so I hear),

And fifteen hundred pounds a year!

“If on the price we should agree,

The living soon will vacant be:

The good incumbent’s ninety-five,

And cannot very long survive.

“See—here’s his photograph—you see,

He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me!

Poor soul!” said Simon. “His decease

Would be a merciful release!”

The agent laughed—the agent blinked—

The agent blew his nose and winked—

And poked the parson’s ribs in play—

It was that agent’s vulgar way.

The Reverend Simon frowned: “I grieve

This light demeanour to perceive;

It’s scarcely comme il faut, I think:

Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.

“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—

Your mission is to sell the souls

Of human sheep and human kids

To that divine who highest bids.

“Do well in this, and on your head

Unnumbered honours will be shed.”

The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,

I have been doing very well.”

“You should,” said Simon, “at your age;

But now about the parsonage.

How many rooms does it contain?

Show me the photograph again.

“A poor apostle’s humble house

Must not be too luxurious;

No stately halls with oaken floor—

It should be decent and no more.

“No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—

No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”

“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:

This property won’t do for you.

“All these about the house you’ll find”—

“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;

I’ll manage to submit to these

Luxurious superfluities.

“A clergyman who does not shirk

The various calls of Christian work,

Will have no leisure to employ

These ‘common forms’ of worldly joy.

“To preach three times on Sabbath days—

To wean the lost from wicked ways—

The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—

The poor to feed with meat and bread;

“These are the various wholesome ways

In which I’ll spend my nights and days:

My zeal will have no time to cool

At croquêt, archery, or pool.”

The agent said, “From what I hear,

This living will not suit, I fear—

There are no poor, no sick at all;

For services there is no call.”

The reverend gent looked grave. “Dear me!

Then there is no ‘society’?—

I mean, of course, no sinners there

Whose souls will be my special care?”

The cunning agent shook his head,

“No, none—except”—(the agent said)—

“The Duke of A., the Earl of B.,

The Marquis C., and Viscount D.

“But you will not be quite alone,

For, though they’ve chaplains of their own,

Of course this noble well-bred clan

Receive the parish clergyman.”

“Oh, silence, sir!” said Simon M.,

“Dukes—earls! What should I care for them?

These worldly ranks I scorn and flout,

Of course.” The agent said, “No doubt.”

“Yet I might show these men of birth

The hollowness of rank on earth.”

The agent answered, “Very true—

But I should not, if I were you.”

“Who sells this rich advowson, pray?”

The agent winked—it was his way—

“His name is Hart; ’twixt me and you,

He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!”

“A Jew?” said Simon, “happy find!

I purchase this advowson, mind.

My life shall be devoted to

Converting that unhappy Jew!”

TWO better friends you wouldn’t pass

Throughout a summer’s day,

Than Damon and his Pythias,—

Two merchant princes they.

At school together they contrived

All sorts of boyish larks;

And, later on, together thrived

As merry merchants’ clerks.

And then, when many years had flown,

They rose together till

They bought a business of their own—

And they conduct it still.

They loved each other all their lives,

Dissent they never knew,

And, stranger still, their very wives

Were rather friendly too.

Perhaps you think, to serve my ends

These statements I refute,

When I admit that these dear friends

Were parties to a suit.

But ’twas a friendly action, for

Good Pythias, as you see,

Fought merely as executor,

And Damon as trustee.

They laughed to think, as through the throng

Of suitors sad they past,

That they, who’d lived and loved so long,

Should go to law at last.

The junior briefs they kindly let

Two sucking counsel hold;

These learned persons never yet

Had tasted suitors’ gold.

But though the happy suitors two

Were friendly as could be,

Not so the junior counsel who

Were earning maiden fee.

They too, till then, were friends. At school

They’d done each other’s sums,

And under Oxford’s gentle rule

Had been the closest chums.

But now they met with scowl and grin

In every public place,

And often snapped their fingers in

Each other’s learned face.

It almost ended in a fight

When they on path or stair

Met face to face. They made it quite

A personal affair.

(Enthusiastically high

Your sense of legal strife,

When it affects the sanctity

Of your domestic life.)

And when at length the case was called

(It came on rather late),

Spectators really were appalled

To see their deadly hate.

One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,

And swollen frontal veins:

To all his powers of eloquence

He gave the fullest reins.

His argument was novel—for

A verdict he relied

On blackening the junior

Upon the other side.

“Oh,” said the Judge at Westminster,

“The matter in dispute

To arbitration pray refer—

This is a friendly suit.”

And Pythias, in merry mood,

Digged Damon in the side;

And Damon, tickled with the feud

With other digs replied.

But oh! those deadly counsel twain,

Who were such friends before,

Were never reconciled again.

They quarrelled more and more.

At length it happened that they met

On Alpine heights one day,

And then they paid each other’s debt—

Their fury had its way.

They seized each other in a trice,

With scorn and hatred filled,

And falling from a precipice,

They, both of them, were killed.

THE other night, from cares exempt,

I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt?

I dreamt that somehow I had come

To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom!—

Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:

Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:

Where right is wrong and wrong is right—

Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise,

Are born astonishingly wise;

With every Science on their lips,

And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them,

They crow binomial theorem,

With views (it seems absurd to us)

On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said,

Is born with learning in his head,

He must forgot it, if he can,

Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here,

Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;

The wisdom we so highly prize

Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way,

Must learn some nonsense every day

And cut, to carry out this view,

His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils,

Intent on giant-killers’ toils;

And sages close their aged eyes

To other sages’ lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound,

Commit all robbers who are found;

But there the beaks (so people said)

Commit all robberies instead.

Our judges, pure and wise in tone,

Know crime from theory alone,

And glean the motives of a thief

From books and popular belief.

But there, a judge who wants to prime

His mind with true ideas of crime,

Derives them from the common sense

Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away

Who practise virtue every day—

Of course, I mean to say, you know,

What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do

What we consider just and true,

And only good men do, in fact,

What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls,

The girls are boys—the boys are girls!

The men are women, too—but then,

Per contra, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings

This seems an awkward state of things,

But if to think it out you try,

It doesn’t really signify.

With them, as surely as can be,

A sailor should be sick at sea,

And not a passenger may sail

Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck)

Is always shot for showing pluck,

(That is, if others can be found

With pluck enough to fire a round.)

“How strange,” I said to one I saw,

“You quite upset our every law.

However can you get along

So systematically wrong?”

“Dear me,” my mad informant said,

“Have you no eyes within your head?

You sneer when you your hat should doff:

Why, we begin where you leave off!

“Your wisest men are very far

Less learned than our babies are!”

I mused awhile—and then, oh, me!

I framed this brilliant repartee:

“Although your babes are wiser far

Than our most valued sages are,

Your sages, with their toys and cots,

Are duller than our idiots!”

But this remark, I grieve to state,

Came just a little bit too late;

For as I framed it in my head,

I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, ’stead of here,

My lot were in that favoured sphere!—

Where greatest fools bear off the bell

I ought to do extremely well.

I OFTEN wonder whether you

Think sometimes of that bishop, who

From black but balmy Rum-ti-foo

Last summer twelvemonth came.

Unto your mind I p’raps may bring

Remembrance of the man I sing

To-day, by simply mentioning

That Peter was his name.

Remember how that holy man

Came with the great Colonial clan

To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;

And kindly recollect

How, having crossed the ocean wide,

To please his flock all means he tried

Consistent with a proper pride

And manly self-respect.

He only, of the reverend pack

Who minister to Christians black,

Brought any useful knowledge back

To his Colonial fold.

In consequence a place I claim

For “Peter” on the scroll of Fame

(For Peter was that bishop’s name,

As I’ve already told).

He carried Art, he often said,

To places where that timid maid

(Save by Colonial bishops’ aid)

Could never hope to roam.

The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught

As he had learnt it; for he thought

The choicest fruits of Progress ought

To bless the Negro’s home.

And he had other work to do,

For, while he tossed upon the blue,

The islanders of Rum-ti-foo

Forgot their kindly friend.

Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—

They learnt to say, “I do not care,”

Though they, of course, were well aware

How folks, who say so, end.

Some sailors, whom he did not know,

Had landed there not long ago,

And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!”

(Of wickedness the germs.)

No need to use a casuist’s pen

To prove that they were merchantmen;

No sailor of the Royal N.

Would use such awful terms.

And so, when Bishop Peter came

(That was the kindly bishop’s name),

He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,

And chid their want of dress.

(Except a shell—a bangle rare—

A feather here—a feather there—

The South Pacific negroes wear

Their native nothingness.)

He taught them that a bishop loathes

To listen to disgraceful oaths,

He gave them all his left-off clothes—

They bent them to his will.

The bishop’s gift spreads quickly round;

In Peter’s left-off clothes they bound

(His three-and-twenty suits they found

In fair condition still).

The bishop’s eyes with water fill,

Quite overjoyed to find them still

Obedient to his sovereign will,

And said, “Good Rum-ti-foo!

Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare:

I’ll dress myself in cowries rare,

And fasten feathers in my hair,

And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’”*

And to conciliate his see

He married Piccadillillee,

The youngest of his twenty-three,

Tall—neither fat nor thin.

(And though the dress he made her don

Looks awkwardly a girl upon,

It was a great improvement on

The one he found her in.)

The bishop in his gay canoe

(His wife, of course, went with him too),

To some adjacent island flew,

To spend his honeymoon.

Some day in sunny Rum-ti-foo

A little Peter’ll be on view;

And that (if people tell me true)

Is like to happen soon.

I LOVE a man who’ll smile and joke

When with misfortune crowned;

Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke,

And as he breaks his daily toke,

Conundrums gay propound.

Just such a man was Bernard Jupp,

He scoffed at Fortune’s frown;

He gaily drained his bitter cup—

Though Fortune often threw him up,

It never cast him down.

Though years their share of sorrow bring,

We know that far above

All other griefs, are griefs that spring

From some misfortune happening

To those we really love.

E’en sorrow for another’s woe

Our Bernard failed to quell;

Though by this special form of blow

No person ever suffered so,

Or bore his grief so well.

His father, wealthy and well clad,

And owning house and park,

Lost every halfpenny he had,

And then became (extremely sad!)

A poor attorney’s clerk.

All sons it surely would appal,

Except the passing meek,

To see a father lose his all,

And from an independence fall

To one pound ten a week!

But Jupp shook off this sorrow’s weight,

And like a Christian son,

Proved Poverty a happy fate—

Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait,

To lure poor sinners on.

With other sorrows Bernard coped,

For sorrows came in packs;

His cousins with their housemaids sloped—

His uncles died—his aunts eloped—

His sisters married blacks.

But Bernard, far from murmuring,

(Exemplar, friends to us)

Determined to his faith to cling,—

He made the best of everything,

And argued softly thus:

“’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knack

Too rudely to condemn—

My aunts, repentant, may come back,

And blacks are nothing like as black

As people colour them!”

Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,

Maintained relentless fight:

His grandmamma next lost her life,

Then died the mother of his wife,

But still he seemed all right.

His brother fond (the only link

To life that bound him now)

One morning, overcome by drink,

He broke his leg (the right, I think)

In some disgraceful row.

But did my Bernard swear and curse?

Oh, no—to murmur loth,

He only said, “Go, get a nurse:

Be thankful that it isn’t worse;

You might have broken both!”

But worms who watch without concern

The cockchafer on thorns,

Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn

If, walking through the slippery fern,

You tread upon their corns.

And if when all the mischief’s done

You watch their dying squirms,

And listen, ere their breath has run,

You’ll hear them sigh “Oh, clumsy one!”

—And devil blame the worms.

One night, as Bernard made his track

Through Brompton home to bed,

A footpad, with a vizor black,

Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack

On Bernard’s saint-like head.

It was too much—his spirit rose,

He looked extremely cross.

Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,

But no—he bowed to countless blows,

But kicked against this loss.

He finally made up his mind

Upon his friends to call;

Subscription lists were largely signed,

For men were really glad to find

Him mortal, after all!

AN actor—Gibbs, of Drury Lane—

Of very decent station,

Once happened in a part to gain

Excessive approbation:

It sometimes turns a fellow’s brain

And makes him singularly vain

When he believes that he receives

Tremendous approbation.

His great success half drove him mad,

But no one seemed to mind him:

Well, in another piece he had

Another part assigned him.

This part was smaller, by a bit,

Than that in which he made a hit.

So, much ill-used, he straight refused

To play the part assigned him.

* * * * *

That night that actor slept, and I’ll attempt

To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt:

THE DREAM.

In fighting with a robber band

(A thing he loved sincerely)

A sword struck Gibbs upon the hand

And wounded it severely.

At first he didn’t heed it much,

He thought it was a simple touch,

But soon he found the weapon’s bound

Had wounded him severely.

To Surgeon Cobb he made a trip,

Who’d just effected featly

An amputation at the hip

Particularly neatly.

A rising man was Surgeon Cobb,

But this extremely ticklish job

He had achieved (as he believed)

Particularly neatly.

The actor rang the surgeon’s bell.

“Observe my wounded finger,

Be good enough to strap it well,

And prithee do not linger.

That I, dear sir, may fill again

The Theatre Royal Drury Lane:

This very night I have to fight—

So prithee do not linger.”

“I don’t strap fingers up for doles,”

Replied the haughty surgeon;

“To use your cant, I don’t play rôles

‘Utility’ that verge on.

‘First amputation’—nothing less—

That is my line of business:

We surgeon nobs despise all jobs

Utility that verge on.

“When in your hip there lurks disease”

(So dreamt this lively dreamer)

“Or devastating caries,

In humerus or femur,

If you can pay a handsome fee,

Oh, then you may remember me

With joy elate I’ll amputate

Your humerus or femur.”

The disconcerted actor ceased

The haughty leech to pester.

But when the wound in size increased,

And then began to fester,

He sought a learned Counsel’s lair,

And told that Counsel, then and there,

How Cobb’s neglect of his defect

Had made his finger fester.

“Oh, bring my action, if you please,

The case I pray you urge on,

And win me thumping damages

From Cobb, that haughty surgeon.

He culpably neglected me

Although I proffered him his fee,

So pray come down, in wig and gown,

On Cobb, that haughty surgeon!”

That Counsel learned in the laws,

With passion almost trembled.

He just had gained a mighty cause

Before the Peers assembled!

Said he, “How dare you have the face

To come with Common Jury case

To one who wings rhetoric flings

Before the Peers assembled?”

Dispirited became our friend—

Depressed his moral pecker—

“But stay! a thought! I’ll gain my end

And save my poor exchequer.

I won’t be placed upon the shelf,

I’ll take it into Court myself,

And legal lore display before

The Court of the Exchequer.”

He found a Baron—one of those

Who with our laws supply us—

In wig and silken gown and hose,

As if at Nisi Prius.

But he’d just given, off the reel,

A famous judgment on Appeal:

It scarce became his heightened fame

To sit at Nisi Prius.

Our friend began, with easy wit,

That half concealed his terror:

“Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sit

In Banco or in Error.

Can you suppose, my man, that I’d

O’er Nisi Prius Courts preside,

Or condescend my time to spend

On anything but Error?”

“Too bad,” said Gibbs, “my case to shirk!

You must be bad innately,

To save your skill for mighty work

Because it’s valued greatly!”

But here he woke, with sudden start.

* * * * *

He wrote to say he’d play the part.

I’ve but to tell he played it well—

The author’s words—his native wit

Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”—

The papers praised him greatly.

OLD Peter led a wretched life—

Old Peter had a furious wife;

Old Peter, too, was truly stout,

He measured several yards about.

The little fairy Picklekin

One summer afternoon looked in,

And said, “Old Peter, how de do?

Can I do anything for you?

“I have three gifts—the first will give

Unbounded riches while you live;

The second, health where’er you be;

The third, invisibility.”

“O, little fairy Picklekin,”

Old Peter answered, with a grin,

“To hesitate would be absurd,—

Undoubtedly I choose the third.”

“’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quite

Invisible to mortal sight

Whene’er you please. Remember me

Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P.”

Old Mrs. Peter overheard

Wee Picklekin’s concluding word,

And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice,

Said, “That was some young woman’s voice!”

Old Peter let her scold and swear—

Old Peter, bless him, didn’t care.

“My dear, your rage is wasted quite—

Observe, I disappear from sight!”

A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard)

Is always faithful to her word:

Old Peter vanished like a shot,

But then—his suit of clothes did not.

For when conferred the fairy slim

Invisibility on him,

She popped away on fairy wings,

Without referring to his “things.”

So there remained a coat of blue,

A vest and double eyeglass too,

His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,

His pair of—no, I must not tell.

Old Mrs. Peter soon began

To see the failure of his plan,

And then resolved (I quote the bard)

To “Hoist him with his own petard.”

Old Peter woke next day and dressed,

Put on his coat and shoes and vest,

His shirt and stock—but could not find

His only pair of—never mind!

Old Peter was a decent man,

And though he twigged his lady’s plan,

Yet, hearing her approaching, he

Resumed invisibility.

“Dear Mrs. P., my only joy,”

Exclaimed the horrified old boy;

“Now give them up, I beg of you—

You know what I’m referring to!”

But no; the cross old lady swore

She’d keep his—what I said before—

To make him publicly absurd;

And Mrs. Peter kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest;

His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest,

Were all that now met mortal eye—

The rest, invisibility!

“Now, madam, give them up, I beg—

I’ve bad rheumatics in my leg;

Besides, until you do, it’s plain

I cannot come to sight again!

“For though some mirth it might afford

To see my clothes without their lord,

Yet there would rise indignant oaths

If he were seen without his clothes!”

But no; resolved to have her quiz,

The lady held her own—and his—

And Peter left his humble cot

To find a pair of—you know what.

But—here’s the worst of this affair—

Whene’er he came across a pair

Already placed for him to don,

He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train,

And walked and walked with all his main

For years he paced this mortal earth,

To bring himself to decent girth.

At night, when all around is still,

You’ll find him pounding up a hill;

And shrieking peasants whom he meets,

Fall down in terror on the peats!

Old Peter walks through wind and rain,

Resolved to train, and train, and train,

Until he weighs twelve stone or so—

And when he does, I’ll let you know.

PERHAPS already you may know

Sir Blennerhasset Portico?

A Captain in the Navy, he—

A Baronet and K.C.B.

You do? I thought so!

It was that captain’s favourite whim

(A notion not confined to him)

That Rodney was the greatest tar

Who ever wielded capstan-bar.

He had been taught so.

“Benbow! Cornwallis! Hood!—Belay!

Compared with Rodney”—he would say—

“No other tar is worth a rap;

The great Lord Rodney was the chap

The French to polish!

Though, mind you, I respect Lord Hood;

Cornwallis, too, was rather good;

Benbow could enemies repel,

Lord Nelson, too, was pretty well—

That is, tol-lol-ish!”

Sir Blennerhasset spent his days

In learning Rodney’s little ways,

And closely imitated, too,

His mode of talking to his crew—

His port and paces.

An ancient tar he tried to catch

Who’d served in Rodney’s famous batch;

But since his time long years have fled,

And Rodney’s tars are mostly dead:

Eheu fugaces!

But after searching near and far,

At last he found an ancient tar

Who served with Rodney and his crew

Against the French in ’Eighty-two,

(That gained the peerage).

He gave him fifty pounds a year,

His rum, his baccy, and his beer;

And had a comfortable den

Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,

Is called the steerage.

“Now, Jasper”—’twas that sailor’s name—

“Don’t fear that you’ll incur my blame

By saying, when it seems to you,

That there is anything I do

That Rodney wouldn’t.”

The ancient sailor turned his quid,

Prepared to do as he was bid:

“Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,

You’ve done away with ‘swifting in’—

Well, sir, you shouldn’t!

“Upon your spars I see you’ve clapped

Peak halliard blocks, all iron-capped.

I would not christen that a crime,

But ’twas not done in Rodney’s time.

It looks half-witted!

Upon your maintop-stay, I see,

You always clap a salvagee!

Your stays, I see, are equalised—

No vessel, such as Rodney prized,

Would thus be fitted!

“And Rodney, honoured sir, would grin

To see you turning deadeyes in,

Not up, as in the ancient way,

But downwards, like a cutter’s stay—

You didn’t oughter;

Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,

Breast backstays you have quite ignored;

Great Rodney kept unto the last

Breast backstays on topgallant mast—

They make it tauter.”

Sir Blennerhasset “swifted in,”

Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin

To strip (as told by Jasper Knox)

The iron capping from his blocks,

Where there was any.

Sir Blennerhasset does away

With salvagees from maintop-stay;

And though it makes his sailors stare,

He rigs breast backstays everywhere—

In fact, too many.

One morning, when the saucy craft

Lay calmed, old Jasper toddled aft.

“My mind misgives me, sir, that we

Were wrong about that salvagee—

I should restore it.”

“Good,” said the captain, and that day

Restored it to the maintop-stay.

Well-practised sailors often make

A much more serious mistake,

And then ignore it.

Next day old Jasper came once more:

“I think, sir, I was right before.”

Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,

The salvagee was soon unshipped,

And all were merry.

Again a day, and Jasper came:

“I p’r’aps deserve your honour’s blame,

I can’t make up my mind,” said he,

“About that cursed salvagee—

It’s foolish—very.”

“On Monday night I could have sworn

That maintop-stay it should adorn,

On Tuesday morning I could swear

That salvagee should not be there.

The knot’s a rasper!”

“Oh, you be hanged!” said Captain P.,

“Here, go ashore at Caribbee.

Get out—good-bye—shove off—all right!”

Old Jasper soon was out of sight—

Farewell, old Jasper!

IN all Arcadia’s sunny plain,

On all Arcadia’s hill,

None were so blithe as Bill and Jane,

So blithe as Jane and Bill.

No social earthquake e’er occurred

To rack their common mind:

To them a Panic was a word—

A Crisis, empty wind.

No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad

With overwhelming shocks—

Bill ploughed with all the shares he had,

Jane planted all her stocks.

And learn in what a simple way

Their pleasures they enhanced—

Jane danced like any lamb all day,

Bill piped as well as danced.

Surrounded by a twittling crew,

Of linnet, lark, and thrush,

Bill treated his young lady to

This sentimental gush:

“Oh, Jane, how true I am to you!

How true you are to me!

And how we woo, and how we coo!

So fond a pair are we!

“To think, dear Jane, that anyways,

Your chiefest end and aim

Is, one of these fine summer days,

To bear my honoured name!”

Quoth Jane, “Well, as you put the case,

I’m true enough, no doubt,

But then, you see, in this here place

There’s none to cut you out.

“But, oh! if anybody came,

A Lord or any such,

I do not think your honoured name

Would fascinate me much.

“For though your pals, you often boast,

You distance out-and-out;

Still, in the abstract, you’re a most

Uncompromising lout!”

Poor Bill, he gave a heavy sigh,

He tried in vain to speak—

A fat tear started to each eye

And coursed adown each cheek.

For, oh! right well in truth he knew

That very self-same day,

The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo

Was coming there to stay!

The Lord de Jacob Pillaloo

All proper maidens shun—

He loves all womankind, it’s true,

But never marries none.

Now Jane, with all her mad self-will,

Was no coquette—oh, no!

She really loved her painful Bill,

And thus she tuned her woe:

“Oh, willow, willow, o’er the lea!

And willow once again!

He’s sure to fall in love with me!

Why wasn’t I made plain?”

* * * *

A cunning woman lived hard by,

A sorceressing dame,

Mac Catacomb de Salmon-Eye

Was her uncommon name!

To her good Jane, with kindly yearn

For Bill’s increasing pain,

Repaired in secret, for to learn

How best to make her plain.

“Oh, Jane,” the worthy woman said,

“This mystic phial keep,

And rub its liquor in your head

Before you go to sleep.

“When you awake next day, I trow,

You’ll look in form and hue

To others just as you do now—

But not to Pillaloo!

“When you approach him, you will find

He’ll think you coarse—unkempt—

And coarsely bid you get behind,

With undisguised contempt.”

The Lord de Pillaloo arrived

With his expensive train,

And when in state serenely hived,

He sent for Bill and Jane.

“Oh, spare her, Lord of Pillaloo!

If ever wed you be,

There’s anything I’d rather do

Than flirt with Lady P.”

Lord Pillaloo looked in her eye,

He looked her through and through:

The cunning woman’s prophecy

Was clearly coming true.

Lord Pillaloo, the Rustic’s Bane

(Bad person he, and proud),

He laughed Ha! ha! at pretty Jane,

And sneered at her aloud!

He bade her get behind him then,

And seek her mother’s stye—

Yet to her native countrymen

She was as fair as aye!

MacCatacomb, continue green!

Grow, Salmon-Eye, in might,

Except for you, there might have been

The deuce’s own delight!

“COME, collar this bad man—

Around the throat he knotted me

Till I to choke began—

In point of fact, garrotted me!”

So spake Sir Herbert White

To James, Policeman Thirty-two—

All ruffled with his fight

Sir Herbert was, and dirty too.

Policeman nothing said

(Though he had much to say on it)

But from the bad man’s head

He took the cap that lay on it.

“No, great Sir Herbert White—

Impossible to take him up.

This man is honest quite—

Wherever did you rake him up?

“For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,

Indeed I’m no apologist,

But I, some years ago,

Assisted a Phrenologist.

“Observe his various bumps,

His head as I uncover it;

His morals lie in lumps

All round about and over it.”

“Now take him,” said Sir White,

“Or you will soon be rueing it;

Bless me! I must be right,—

I caught the fellow doing it!”

Policeman calmly smiled,

“Indeed you are mistaken, sir,

You’re agitated—riled—

And very badly shaken, sir.

“Sit down, and I’ll explain

My system of Phrenology,

A second, please, remain”—

(A second is horology).

Policeman left his beat—

(The Bart., no longer furious,

Sat down upon a seat,

Observing, “this is curious!”)

“Oh, surely, here are signs

Should soften your rigidity,

This gentleman combines

Politeness with timidity.

“Of Shyness here’s a lump—

A hole for Animosity—

And like my fist his bump

Of Impecuniosity.

“Just here the bump appears

Of Innocent Hilarity,

And just behind his ear

Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.

“He of true Christian ways

As bright example sent us is—

This maxim he obeys,

‘Sorte tuâ contentus sis.’

“There, let him go his ways,

He needs no stern admonishing.”

The Bart., in blank amaze,

Exclaimed, “This is astonishing!

“I must have made a mull,

This matter I’ve been blind in it:

Examine, please, my skull,

And tell me what you find in it.”

That Crusher looked, and said,

With unimpaired urbanity,

“Sir Herbert, you’ve a head

That teems with inhumanity.

“Here’s Murder, Envy, Strife,

(Propensity to kill any)

And Lies as large as life,

And heaps of Social Villainy.

“Here’s Love of Bran New Clothes,

Embezzling—Arson—Deism—

A taste for Slang and Oaths,

And Fraudulent Trusteeism.

“Here’s Love of Groundless Charge—

Here’s Malice, too, and Trickery,

Unusually large

Your bump of Pocket-Pickery——”

“Stop!” said the Bart., “my cup

Is full—I’m worse than him in all—

Policeman, take me up—

No doubt I am some criminal!”

That Policeman’s scorn grew large

(Phrenology had nettled it),

He took that Bart. in charge—

I don’t know how they settled it.

ONCE a fairy

Light and airy

Married with a mortal;

Men, however,

Never, never,

Pass the fairy portal.

Slyly stealing,

She to Ealing

Made a daily journey;

There she found him,

Clients round him

(He was an attorney).

Long they tarried,

Then they married.

When the ceremony

Once was ended,

Off they wended

On their moon of honey.

Twelvemonth, maybe,

Saw a baby

(Friends performed an orgie).

Much they prized him,

And baptized him

By the name of Georgie.

Georgie grew up;

Then he flew up

To his fairy mother.

Happy meeting—

Pleasant greeting—

Kissing one another.

“Choose a calling

Most enthralling,

I sincerely urge ye.”

“Mother,” said he

(Rev’rence made he),

“I would join the clergy.

“Give permission

In addition—

Pa will let me do it:

He’s a living

In his giving,

He’ll appoint me to it.

Dreams of coff’ring

Easter off’ring,

Tithe and rent and pew-rate,

So inflame me

(Do not blame me),

That I’ll be a curate.”

She, with pleasure,

Said, “My treasure,

’Tis my wish precisely.

Do your duty,

There’s a beauty;

You have chosen wisely.

Tell your father

I would rather

As a churchman rank you.

You, in clover,

I’ll watch over.”

Georgie said, “Oh, thank you!”

Georgie scudded,

Went and studied,

Made all preparations,

And with credit

(Though he said it)

Passed examinations.

(Do not quarrel

With him, moral,

Scrupulous digestions—

’Twas his mother

And no other,

Answered all his questions).

Time proceeded;

Little needed

Georgie admonition:

He, elated,

Vindicated

Clergyman’s position.

People round him

Always found him

Plain and unpretending;

Kindly teaching,

Plainly preaching—

All his money lending.

So the fairy,

Wise and wary,

Felt no sorrow rising—

No occasion

For persuasion,

Warning, or advising.

He, resuming

Fairy pluming

(That’s not English, is it?)

Oft would fly up,

To the sky up,

Pay mamma a visit.

* * *  

Time progressing,

Georgie’s blessing

Grew more Ritualistic—

Popish scandals,

Tonsures—sandals—

Genuflections mystic;

Gushing meetings—

Bosom-beatings—

Heavenly ecstatics—

Broidered spencers—

Copes and censers—

Rochets and dalmatics.

This quandary

Vexed the fairy—

Flew she down to Ealing.

“Georgie, stop it!

Pray you, drop it;

Hark to my appealing:

To this foolish

Papal rule-ish

Twaddle put an ending;

This a swerve is

From our Service

Plain and unpretending.”

He, replying,

Answered, sighing,

Hawing, hemming, humming,

“It’s a pity—

They’re so pritty;

Yet in mode becoming,

Mother tender,

I’ll surrender—

I’ll be unaffected—”

Then his Bishop

Into his shop

Entered unexpected!

“Who is this, sir,—

Ballet miss, sir?”

Said the Bishop coldly.

“’Tis my mother,

And no other,”

Georgie answered boldly.

“Go along, sir!

You are wrong, sir,

You have years in plenty;

While this hussy

(Gracious mussy!)

Isn’t two and twenty!”

(Fairies clever

Never, never

Grow in visage older;

And the fairy,

All unwary,

Leant upon his shoulder!)

Bishop grieved him,

Disbelieved him;

George the point grew warm on;

Changed religion,

Like a pigeon,

And became a Mormon!

A MAIDEN sat at her window wide,

Pretty enough for a prince’s bride,

Yet nobody came to claim her.

She sat like a beautiful picture there,

With pretty bluebells and roses fair,

And jasmine leaves to frame her.

And why she sat there nobody knows;

But thus she sang as she plucked a rose,

The leaves around her strewing:

“I’ve time to lose and power to choose;

’Tis not so much the gallant who woos

But the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A lover came riding by awhile,

A wealthy lover was he, whose smile

Some maids would value greatly—

A formal lover, who bowed and bent,

With many a high-flown compliment,

And cold demeanour stately.

“You’ve still,” said she to her suitor stern,

“The ’prentice-work of your craft to learn,

If thus you come a-cooing.

I’ve time to lose and power to choose;

’Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A second lover came ambling by—

A timid lad with a frightened eye

And a colour mantling highly.

He muttered the errand on which he’d come,

Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,

And simpered, simpered shyly.

“No,” said the maiden, “go your way,

You dare but think what a man would say,

Yet dare come a-suing!

I’ve time to lose and power to choose;

’Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

A third rode up at a startling pace—

A suitor poor, with a homely face—

No doubts appeared to bind him.

He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,

And off he rode with the maiden, placed

On a pillion safe behind him.

And she heard the suitor bold confide

This golden hint to the priest who tied

The knot there’s no undoing:

“With pretty young maidens who can choose,

’Tis not so much the gallant who woos

As the gallant’s way of wooing!”