Weave the supple tress,
Deck the maiden fair
In her loveliness;
Paint the pretty face,
Dye the coral lip,
Emphasise the grace
Of her ladyship!
Art and nature, thus allied,
Go to make a pretty bride!
Sit with downcast eye,
Let it brim with dew;
Try if you can cry,
We will do so, too.
When you're summoned, start
Like a frightened roe;
Flutter, little heart,
Colour, come and go!
Modesty at marriage tide
Well becomes a pretty bride!
[Illustration]
THE PRECOCIOUS BABY
A VERY TRUE TALE
(_To be sung to the Air of the "Whistling Oyster."_)
An elderly person--a prophet by trade--
With his quips and tips
On withered old lips,
He married a young and a beautiful maid;
The cunning old blade,
Though rather decayed,
He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.
She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be.
With her tempting smiles
And maidenly wiles,
And he was a trifle of seventy-three:
Now what she could see
Is a puzzle to me,
In a prophet of seventy--seventy-three!
Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bade)
With their loud high jinks
And underbred winks
None thought they'd a family have--but they had;
A singular lad
Who drove 'em half mad,
He proved such a horribly fast little cad.
For when he was born he astonished all by,
With their "Law, dear me!"
"Did ever you see?"
He'd a weed in his mouth and a glass in his eye,
A hat all awry--
An octagon tie,
And a miniature--miniature glass in his eye.
He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,
With his "Oh dear, no!"
And his "Hang it! 'oo know!"
And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap--
"My friends, it's a tap
Dat is not worf a rap."
(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)
He'd chuck his nurse under the chin, and he'd say,
With his "Fal, lal, lal"--
"'Oo doosed fine gal!"
This shocking precocity drove 'em away:
"A month from to-day
Is as long as I'll stay--
Then I'd wish, if you please, for to go, if I may."
His father, a simple old gentleman, he
With nursery rhyme
And "Once on a time,"
Would tell him the story of "Little Bo-P,"
"So pretty was she,
So pretty and wee,
As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be."
But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,
With his "C'ck! Oh my!--
Go along wiz 'oo, fie!"
Would exclaim, "I'm afraid 'oo a socking ole fox."
Now a father it shocks,
And it whitens his locks
When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.
The name of his father he'd couple and pair
(With his ill-bred laugh,
And insolent chaff)
With those of the nursery heroines rare;
Virginia the fair,
Or Good Goldenhair,
Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.
"There's Jill and White Cat" (said the bold little brat,
With his loud, "Ha, ha!")
"'Oo sly ickle pa!
Wiz 'oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and 'oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!
I've noticed 'oo pat
_My_ pretty White Cat--
I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!"
[Illustration]
He early determined to marry and wive,
For better or worse
With his elderly nurse--
Which the poor little boy didn't live to contrive:
His health didn't thrive--
No longer alive,
He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!
MORAL
Now elderly men of the bachelor crew,
With wrinkled hose
And spectacled nose,
Don't marry at all--you may take it as true
If ever you do
The step you will rue,
For your babes will be elderly--elderly too.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE WORKING MONARCH
Rising early in the morning,
We proceed to light the fire,
Then our Majesty adorning
In its work-a-day attire,
We embark without delay
On the duties of the day.
First, we polish off some batches
Of political despatches,
And foreign politicians circumvent;
Then, if business isn't heavy,
We may hold a Royal _levée_,
Or ratify some Acts of Parliament:
Then we probably review the household troops--
With the usual "Shalloo humps" and "Shalloo hoops!"
Or receive with ceremonial and state
An interesting Eastern Potentate.
After that we generally
Go and dress our private _valet_--
(It's a rather nervous duty--he a touchy little man)--
Write some letters literary
For our private secretary--
(He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.)
Then, in view of cravings inner,
We go down and order dinner;
Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate--
Spend an hour in titivating
All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;
Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.
Oh, philosophers may sing
Of the troubles of a King,
Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great;
But the privilege and pleasure
That we treasure beyond measure
Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!
After luncheon (making merry
On a bun and glass of sherry),
If we've nothing in particular to do,
We may make a Proclamation,
Or receive a Deputation--
Then we possibly create a Peer or two.
Then we help a fellow-creature on his path
With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:
Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State
To a festival, a function, or a _fête_.
Then we go and stand as sentry
At the Palace (private entry),
Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,
While the warrior on duty
Goes in search of beer and beauty
(And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go).
He relieves us, if he's able,
Just in time to lay the table,
Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one,
With a pleasure that's emphatic,
Then we seek our little attic
With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.
Oh, philosophers may sing
Of the troubles of a King,
But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none;
And the culminating pleasure
That we treasure beyond measure
Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
TO PHŒBE
"Gentle, modest, little flower,
Sweet epitome of May,
Love me but for half-an-hour,
Love me, love me, little fay."
Sentences so fiercely flaming
In your tiny shell-like ear,
I should always be exclaiming
If I loved you, PHŒBE, dear.
"Smiles that thrill from any distance
Shed upon me while I sing!
Please ecstaticise existence,
Love me, oh thou fairy thing!"
Words like these, outpouring sadly.
You'd perpetually hear,
If I loved you, fondly, madly;--
But I do not, PHŒBE, dear.
[Illustration]
THE APE AND THE LADY
A lady fair, of lineage high,
Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by--
The Maid was radiant as the sun,
The Ape was a most unsightly one--
So it would not do--
His scheme fell through;
For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,
Expressed such terror
At his monstrous error,
That he stammered an apology and made his 'scape,
The picture of a disconcerted Ape.
With a view to rise in the social scale,
He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail,
He grew moustachios, and he took his tub,
And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.
But it would not do,
The scheme fell through--
For the Maid was Beauty's fairest Queen,
With golden tresses,
Like a real princess's,
While the Ape, despite his razor keen,
Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!
He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits.
He crammed his feet into bright tight boots.
And to start his life on a brand-new plan,
He christened himself Darwinian Man!
But it would not do,
The scheme fell through--
For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,
Was a radiant Being,
With a brain far-seeing--
While a Man, however well-behaved,
At best is only a monkey shaved!
[Illustration]
BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN
Of all the good attorneys who
Have placed their names upon the roll,
But few could equal BAINES CAREW
For tender-heartedness and soul.
Whene'er he heard a tale of woe
From client A or client B,
His grief would overcome him so,
He'd scarce have strength to take his fee.
It laid him up for many days,
When duty led him to distrain;
And serving writs, although it pays,
Gave him excruciating pain.
He made out costs, distrained for rent,
Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye--
No bill of costs could represent
The value of such sympathy.
No charges can approximate
The worth of sympathy with woe;--
Although I think I ought to state
He did his best to make them so.
Of all the many clients who
Had mustered round his legal flag,
No single client of the crew
Was half so dear as CAPTAIN BAGG.
Now CAPTAIN BAGG had bowed him to
A heavy matrimonial yoke:
His wifey had of faults a few--
She never could resist a joke.
Her chaff at first he meekly bore,
Till unendurable it grew.
"To stop this persecution sore
I will consult my friend CAREW.
"And when CAREW'S advice I've got,
Divorce _a mensâ_ I shall try.'"
(A legal separation--not
A _vinculo conjugii_.)
"O BAINES CAREW, my woe I've kept
A secret hitherto, you know;"--
(And BAINES CAREW, ESQUIRE, he wept
To hear that BAGG had any woe).
"My case, indeed, is passing sad,
My wife--whom I considered true--
With brutal conduct drives me mad."
"I am appalled," said BAINES CAREW.
"What! sound the matrimonial knell
Of worthy people such as these!
Why was I an attorney? Well--
Go on to the _sævitia_, please."
[Illustration]
'Domestic bliss has proved my bane,
A harder case you never heard,
My wife (in other matters sane)
Pretends that I'm a Dicky Bird!
"She makes me sing, 'Too-whit, too-wee!'
And stand upon a rounded stick,
And always introduces me
To every one as 'Pretty Dick'!"
"Oh dear," said weeping BAINES CAREW,
"This is the direst case I know"--
"I'm grieved," said BAGG, "at paining you,
To COBB and POLTERTHWAITE I'll go.
"To COBB'S cold calculating ear
My gruesome sorrows I'll impart"--
"No; stop," said BAINES, "I'll dry my tear
And steel my sympathetic heart!"
[Illustration]
"She makes me perch upon a tree,
Rewarding me with, 'Sweety--nice!'
And threatens to exhibit me
With four or five performing mice."
"Restrain my tears I wish I could"
(Said BAINES), "I don't know what to do."
Said CAPTAIN BAGG, "You're very good."
"Oh, not at all," said BAINES CAREW,
"She makes me fire a gun," said BAGG;
"And at a preconcerted word
Climb up a ladder with a flag,
Like any street-performing bird.
"She places sugar in my way--
In public places calls me 'Sweet!'--
She gives me groundsel every day,
And hard canary seed to eat."
"Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!"
(Said BAINES), "Be good enough to stop."
And senseless on the floor he fell
With unpremeditated flop.
Said CAPTAIN BAGG, "Well, really I
Am grieved to think it pains you so.
I thank you for your sympathy;
But, hang it--come--I say, you know!"
But BAINES lay flat upon the floor,
Convulsed with sympathetic sob--
The Captain toddled off next door,
And gave the case to Mr. Cobb.
[Illustration]
ONLY ROSES
To a garden full of posies
Cometh one to gather flowers,
And he wanders through its bowers
Toying with the wanton roses,
Who, uprising from their beds,
Hold on high their shameless heads
With their pretty lips a-pouting,
Never doubting--never doubting
That for Cytherean posies
He would gather aught but roses.
In a nest of weeds and nettles,
Lay a violet, half hidden;
Hoping that his glance unbidden
Yet might fall upon her petals.
Though she lived alone, apart,
Hope lay nestling at her heart,
But, alas! the cruel awaking
Set her little heart a-breaking,
For he gathered for his posies
Only roses--only roses!
[Illustration]
THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE
In all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.
The dauntless lad could fairly hew
A silken handkerchief in twain,
Divide a leg of mutton, too--
And this without unwholesome strain.
On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,
His sabre sometimes he'd employ--
No bar of lead, however thick,
Had terrors for the stalwart boy.
At Dover daily he'd prepare
To hew and slash, behind, before--
Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.
[Illustration]
It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,
The sight annoyed and vexed him so;
He was the bravest man in France--
He said so, and he ought to know.
'Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros--
Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!
Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots!
Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!
"Il sait que les foulards de soie
Give no retaliating whack--
Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi--
Le plomb don't ever hit you back."
But every day the zealous lad
Cut lead and mutton more and more;
And every day, poor PIERRE, half mad,
Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.
HANCE had a mother, poor and old,
A simple, harmless village dame,
Who crowed and clapped as people told
Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.
She said, "I'll be upon the spot
To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play";
And so she left her leafy cot,
And walked to Dover in a day.
PIERRE had a doting mother, who
Had heard of his defiant rage:
_His_ ma was nearly eighty-two,
And rather dressy for her age.
At HANCE'S doings every morn,
With sheer delight _his_ mother cried;
And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn
Filled _his_ mamma with proper pride.
But HANCE'S powers began to fail--
His constitution was not strong--
And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale,
Grew thin from shouting all day long.
Their mothers saw them pale and wan,
Maternal anguish tore each breast,
And so they met to find a plan
To set their offsprings' minds at rest.
Said MRS. HANCE, "Of course I shrinks
From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,
But still they'd better meet, I thinks."
"Assurément!" said MADAME PIERRE.
[Illustration]
A sunny spot in sunny France
Was hit upon for this affair;
The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE,
The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE.
Said MRS. H., "Your work you see--
Go in, my noble boy, and win."
"En garde, mon fils!" said MADAME P.
"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"
Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!"
"The French for 'Pish!'" said THOMAS HANCE.
Said PIERRE, "L'anglais, Monsieur, pour 'bah!'"
Said MRS. H., "Come, one! two! three!--
We're sittin' here to see all fair";
"C'est magnifique!" said MADAME P.,
"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"
[Illustration]
"Je scorn un foe si lâche que vous,"
Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France.
"I fight not coward foe like you!"
Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.
"The French for 'Pooh!'" our TOMMY cried.
"L'anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
Each went on his respective road.
[Illustration]
THE ROVER'S APOLOGY
Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;
Though I own that my heart has been ranging,
Of nature the laws I obey,
For nature is constantly changing.
The moon in her phases is found,
The time and the wind and the weather,
The months in succession come round,
And you don't find two Mondays together.
Consider the moral, I pray,
Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,
Who loves this young lady to-day,
And loves that young lady to-morrow!
You cannot eat breakfast all day,
Nor is it the act of a sinner,
When breakfast is taken away,
To turn your attention to dinner;
And it's not in the range of belief
That you could hold him as a glutton,
Who, when he is tired of beef,
Determines to tackle the mutton.
But this I am ready to say,
If it will diminish their sorrow,
I'll marry this lady to-day,
And I'll marry that lady to-morrow!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKER
A gentleman of City fame
Now claims your kind attention;
West India broking was his game,
His name I shall not mention;
No one of finely pointed sense
Would violate a confidence,
And shall _I_ go
And do it? No.
His name I shall not mention.
He had a trusty wife and true,
And very cosy quarters,
A manager, a boy or two,
Six clerks, and seven porters.
A broker must be doing well
(As any lunatic can tell)
Who can employ
An active boy,
Six clerks, and seven porters.
His knocker advertised no dun,
No losses made him sulky,
He had one sorrow--only one--
He was extremely bulky.
A man must be, I beg to state,
Exceptionally fortunate
Who owns his chief
And only grief
Is being very bulky.
"This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear,
I'm nineteen stone or twenty!
Henceforward I'll go in for air
And exercise in plenty."
Most people think that, should it come,
They can reduce a bulging tum
To measures fair
By taking air
And exercise in plenty.
In every weather, every day,
Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,
He took to dancing all the way
From Brompton to the City.
You do not often get the chance
Of seeing sugar-brokers dance
From their abode
In Fulham Road
Through Brompton to the City.
He braved the gay and guileless laugh
Of children with their nusses,
The loud uneducated chaff
Of clerks on omnibuses.
Against all minor things that rack
A nicely balanced mind, I'll back
The noisy chaff
And ill-bred laugh
Of clerks on omnibuses.
[Illustration]
His friends, who heard his money chink,
And saw the house he rented,
And knew his wife, could never think
What made him discontented.
It never struck their simple minds
That fads are of eccentric kinds,
Nor would they own
That fat alone
Could make one discontented.
"Your riches know no kind of pause,
Your trade is fast advancing,
You dance--but not for joy, because
You weep as you are dancing.
To dance implies that man is glad,
To weep implies that man is sad.
But here are you
Who do the two--
You weep as you are dancing!"
His mania soon got noised about
And into all the papers--
His size increased beyond a doubt
For all his reckless capers:
[Illustration]
It may seem singular to you,
But all his friends admit it true--
The more he found
His figure round,
The more he cut his capers.
His bulk increased--no matter that--
He tried the more to toss it--
He never spoke of it as "fat"
But "adipose deposit."
Upon my word, it seems to me
Unpardonable vanity
(And worse than that)
To call your fat
An "adipose deposit."
At length his brawny knees gave way,
And on the carpet sinking,
Upon his shapeless back he lay
And kicked away like winking.
Instead of seeing in his state
The finger of unswerving Fate,
He laboured still
To work his will,
And kicked away like winking.
His friends, disgusted with him now,
Away in silence wended--
I hardly like to tell you how
This dreadful story ended.
The shocking sequel to impart,
I must employ the limner's art--
If you would know,
This sketch will show
How his exertions ended.
[Illustration]
MORAL
I hate to preach--I hate to prate--
I'm no fanatic croaker,
But learn contentment from the fate
Of this West India broker.
He'd everything a man of taste
Could ever want, except a waist:
And discontent
His size anent,
And bootless perseverance blind,
Completely wrecked the peace of mind
Of this West India broker.
[Illustration]
AN APPEAL
Oh! is there not one maiden breast
Which does not feel the moral beauty
Of making worldly interest
Subordinate to sense of duty?
Who would not give up willingly
All matrimonial ambition
To rescue such a one as I
From his unfortunate position?
Oh, is there not one maiden here,
Whose homely face and bad complexion
Have caused all hopes to disappear
Of ever winning man's affection?
To such a one, if such there be,
I swear by heaven's arch above you,
If you will cast your eyes on me,---
However plain you be--I'll love you!
[Illustration]
THE PANTOMIME "SUPER" TO HIS
MASK
Vast, empty shell!
Impertinent, preposterous abortion:
With vacant stare,
And ragged hair,
And every feature out of all proportion!
Embodiment of echoing inanity,
Excellent type of simpering insanity,
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity,
I ring thy knell!
To-night thou diest,
Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity!
Twelve weeks of nights
Before the lights,
Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity,
I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally,
Credited for the smile you wear externally--
I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally,
As there thou liest!
I've been thy brain:
_I've_ been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!
The human race
Invest _my_ face
With thine expression of unchecked depravity:
Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,
_I've_ been responsible for thy monstrosity,
I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity--
But not again!
'Tis time to toll
Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:
A twelve weeks' run,
And thou hast done
All thou canst do to make thyself inimical.
Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
Freed is thy soul!
(_The Mask respondeth._)
Oh! master mine,
Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.
Art thou aware
Of nothing there
Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?
A brain that mourns _thine_ unredeemed rascality?
A soul that weeps at _thy_ threadbare morality?
Both grieving that _their_ individuality
Is merged in thine?
[Illustration]
THE REWARD OF MERIT
DR. BELVILLE was regarded as the CRICHTON of his age:
His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;
His poems held a noble rank, although it's very true
That, being very proper, they were read by very few.
He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the "line,"
And even MR. RUSKIN came and worshipped at his shrine;
But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high--
The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy;
And everybody said
"How can he be repaid--
This very great--this very good--this very gifted man?"
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,
A plan for making everybody's fortune but his own;
For, in business, an Inventor's little better than a fool,
And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule.
His poems--people read them in the Quarterly Reviews--
His pictures--they engraved them in the _Illustrated News_--
His inventions--they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees,
But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;
And everybody said
"How can he be repaid--
This very great--this very good--this very gifted man?"
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
At last the point was given up in absolute despair,
When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire,
With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,
And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House!
_Then_ it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewards
Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords!
And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,
As this very great--this very good--this very gifted man?
(Though I'm more than half afraid
That it sometimes may be said
That we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride,
However great his merits--if his cousin hadn't died!)
[Illustration]
THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL,
AND THE GOBLIN
O'er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin'
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.
And as they exercised their joints,
Promoting quick digestion,
They talked on several curious points,
And raised this pregnant question:
"Which of us two is Number One--
The ghostie, or the goblin?"
And o'er the point they raised in fun
They fairly fell a-squabblin'.
They'd barely speak, and each, in fine,
Grew more and more reflective,
Each thought his own particular line
By far the more effective.
At length they settled some one should
By each of them be haunted,
And so arranged that either could
Exert his prowess vaunted.
"The Quaint against the Statuesque"--
By competition lawful--
The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,
The ghost the Grandly Awful.
"Now," said the goblin, "here's my plan--
In attitude commanding,
I see a stalwart Englishman
By yonder tailor's standing.
"The very fittest man on earth
My influence to try on--
Of gentle, p'raps of noble birth,
And dauntless as a lion!
Now wrap yourself within your shroud--
Remain in easy hearing--
Observe--you'll hear him scream aloud
When I begin appearing!"
The imp with yell unearthly--wild--
Threw off his dark enclosure:
His dauntless victim looked and smiled
With singular composure.
For hours he tried to daunt the youth,
For days, indeed, but vainly--
The stripling smiled!--to tell the truth,
The stripling smiled inanely.
For weeks the goblin weird and wild,
That noble stripling haunted;
For weeks the stripling stood and smiled
Unmoved and all undaunted.
The sombre ghost exclaimed, "Your plan
Has failed you, goblin, plainly:
Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,
So stalwart and ungainly.
[Illustration]