Were as a carrion's cry
To lullaby
Such as I'd sing to thee--
Were I thy bride!
A feather's press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I'm not thy bride!
[Illustration]
THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN
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 now 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.)
[Illustration]
He taught them that a Bishop loathes
To listen to unseemly 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 to meet you I'll prepare:
I'll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fasten feathers in my hair,
And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo'!"
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
THE GHOSTS' HIGH NOON
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the
moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight
skies--
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay
the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday--then is the ghosts' high noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie
low on the fen,
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women
and men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too
soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday--the dead of the night's high noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds
take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good
night";
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest
tune,
And ushers our next high holiday--the dead of the night's high noon!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
A WORM WILL TURN
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 forged--his aunts eloped--
His sisters married blacks.
[Illustration]
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.
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!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE HUMANE MIKADO
A more humane Mikado never
Did in Japan exist;
To nobody second,
I'm certainly reckoned
A true philanthropist.
It is my very humane endeavour
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time--
To let the punishment fit the crime--
The punishment fit the crime:
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment--
Of innocent merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners,
Who chatter and bleat and bore,
Are sent to hear sermons
From mystical Germans
Who preach from ten to four:
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies
All desire to shirk,
Shall, during off-hours,
Exhibit his powers
To Madame Tussaud's waxwork:
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
Or stains her grey hair puce,
Or pinches her figger,
Is painted with vigour
And permanent walnut juice:
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
Scribbles on window panes,
We only suffer
To ride on a buffer
In Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time--
To let the punishment fit the crime--
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment--
Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who wearies
With tales of countless cures,
His teeth, I've enacted,
Shall all be extracted
By terrified amateurs:
The music-hall singer attends a series
Of masses and fugues and "ops"
By Bach, interwoven
With Spohr and Beethoven,
At classical Monday Pops:
The billiard sharp whom any one catches,
His doom's extremely hard--
He's made to dwell
In a dungeon cell
On a spot that's always barred;
And there he plays extravagant matches
In fitless finger-stalls,
On a cloth untrue,
With a twisted cue
And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time--
To let the punishment fit the crime--
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
[Illustration]
THE HAUGHTY ACTOR
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!"
[Illustration]
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_.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WILLOW WALY!
HE. PRITHEE, pretty maiden--prithee, tell me true
(Hey, but I'm doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you?
Hey, willow waly O!
I would fain discover
If you have a lover?
Hey, willow waly O!
SHE. Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free--
(Hey, but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Nobody I care for comes a-courting me--
Hey, willow waly O!
Nobody I care for
Comes a-courting--therefore,
Hey, willow waly O!
HE. Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?
(Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
I may say, at once, I'm a man of propertee--
Hey, willow waly O!
Money, I despise it,
But many people prize it,
Hey, willow waly O!
SHE. Gentle sir, although to marry I design--
(Hey, but he's hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.
Hey, willow waly O!
To other maidens go you--
As yet I do not know you,
Hey, willow waly O!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE TWO MAJORS
An excellent soldier who's worthy the name,
Loves officers dashing and strict:
When good, he's content with escaping all blame,
When naughty, he likes to be licked.
He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,
Or imprisoned for several days;
And hates, for a duty correctly performed,
To be slavered with sickening praise.
No officer sickened with praises his corps
So little as MAJOR LA GUERRE--
No officers swore at his warriors more
Than MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE.
Their soldiers adored them, and every grade
Delighted to hear them abuse;
Though whenever these officers came on parade,
They shivered and shook in their shoes.
"No doubt we deserve it--no mercy we crave--
Go on--you're conferring a boon;
We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave
Than praised by a wretched poltroon!"
MAKREDI would say that in battle's fierce rage
True happiness only was met:
Poor MAJOR MAKREDI, though fifty his age,
Had never known happiness yet!
LA GUERRE would declare, "With the blood of a foe
No tipple is worthy to clink."
Poor fellow! he hadn't, though sixty or so,
Yet tasted his favourite drink!
They agreed at their mess--they agreed in the glass--
They agreed in the choice of their "set,"
And they also agreed in adoring, alas!
The Vivandière, pretty FILLETTE.
Agreement, we know, may be carried too far,
And after agreeing all round
For years--in this soldierly "maid of the bar,"
A bone of contention they found.
"On the day that you marry her," muttered PREPERE
(With a pistol he quietly played),
"I'll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,
All over the stony parade!"
"I cannot do _that_ to you," answered LA GUERRE,
"Whatever events may befall;
But this _I can_ do--if you wed her, _mon cher_!
I'll eat you, moustachios and all!
[Illustration]
The rivals, although they would never engage,
Yet quarrelled whenever they met;
They met in a fury and left in a rage,
But neither took pretty FILLETTE.
"I am not afraid," thought MAKREDI PREPERE:
"For my country I'm ready to fall;
But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,
To be eaten, moustachios and all!
"Besides, though LA GUERRE has his faults, I'll allow
He's one of the bravest of men:
My goodness! if I disagree with him now,
I might disagree with him then!"
"No coward am I," said LA GUERRE, "as you guess--
I sneer at an enemy's blade;
But I don't want PREPERE to get into a mess
For splashing the stony parade!"
One day on parade to PREPERE and LA GUERRE
Came CORPORAL JACOT DEBETTE,
And, trembling all over, he prayed of them there
To give him the pretty FILLETTE.
[Illustration]
"You see, I am willing to marry my bride
Until you've arranged this affair;
I will blow out my brains when your honours decide
Which marries the sweet Vivandière!"
"Well, take her," said both of them in a duet
(A favourite form of reply),
"But when I am ready to marry FILLETTE,
Remember you've promised to die!"
He married her then: from the flowery plains
Of existence the roses they cull:
He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains
Are reposing in peace in his skull.
[Illustration]
LIFE IS LOVELY ALL THE YEAR
When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day--
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green--Fal lal la!
Summer's rose--Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn's gold--Fal lal la!
Winter's grey--Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away--
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope--Fal lal la!
Summer's joy--Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil--Fal lal la!
Winter, rest--Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best--
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too--
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
[Illustration]
EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I
A DERBY LEGEND
EMILY JANE was a nursery maid--
JAMES was a bold Life Guard,
And JOHN was a constable, poorly paid
(And I am a doggerel bard).
A very good girl was EMILY JANE,
JIMMY was good and true,
And JOHN was a very good man in the main
(And I am a good man, too).
Rivals for EMMIE were JOHNNY and JAMES,
Though EMILY liked them both;
She couldn't tell which had the strongest claims
(And _I_ couldn't take my oath).
But sooner or later you're certain to find
Your sentiments can't lie hid--
JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind
(And I think it was time she did).
[Illustration]
Said JANE, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
"I'll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!"
(Which _I_ would have done, with joy.)
From JOHNNY escaped an expression of pain,
But JIMMY said, "Done with you!
I'll take you with pleasure, my EMILY JANE"
(And I would have said so too).
JOHN lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
(For JOHNNY was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
(Which _I_ often do, when vexed).
[Illustration]
For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force,
To punish all Epsom crimes;
Some people _will_ cross, when they're clearing the course
(I do it myself, sometimes).
* * * * *
The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads
(For I, with my harp, was there).
And JIMMY went down with his JANE that day,
And JOHN by the collar or nape
Seized everybody who came in his way
(And _I_ had a narrow escape).
He noticed his EMILY JANE with JIM,
And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered "Oh, dim!"
(I often say "dim!" myself.)
JOHN dogged them all day, without asking their leaves:
For his sergeant he told, aside,
That JIMMY and JANE were notorious thieves
(And I think he was justified).
But JAMES wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork,
And JENNY would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
(A bottle I think fair game).
[Illustration]
But, ah! there's another more serious crime!
They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
(I pointed them out to JOHN).
The crusher came down on the pair in a crack--
And then, with a demon smile,
_Let JENNY cross over, but sent JIMMY back_
(I played on my harp the while).
Stern JOHNNY their agony loud derides
With a very triumphant sneer--
They weep and they wail from the opposite sides
(And _I_ shed a silent tear).
And JENNY is crying away like mad,
And JIMMY is swearing hard;
And JOHNNY is looking uncommonly glad
(And I am a doggerel bard).
[Illustration]
But JIMMY he ventured on crossing again
The scenes of our Isthmian Games--
JOHN caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
(I felt very much for JAMES).
JOHN led him away with a victor's hand,
And JIMMY was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
(As many a time _I've_ been).
And JIMMY, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,
Though EMILY pleaded hard;
And JOHNNY had EMILY JANE to wife
(And I am a doggerel bard).
[Illustration]
THE USHER'S CHARGE
Now, Jurymen, hear my advice--
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern judicial frame of mind--
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:
Observe the features of her face--
The broken-hearted bride!
Condole with her distress of mind--
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks,
The ruffianly defendant speaks--
Upon the other side;
What _he_ may say you need not mind--
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
[Illustration]
THE PERILS OF INVISIBILITY
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?
[Illustration]
"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!
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE GREAT OAK TREE