O is it with pills, or senna and salts, your 'shake up the bottle'
and mess
Of slops, to avenge for the deed I've done? have mercy and
I'll confess!
O pester me not to swallow your stuff, I will not allow you to bleed!
O spare me Tommins, I'm guilty, guilt, is what I'm about to plead!"
The doctor shrank with a searching gaze, that clung to the
startled ghost,
In doubt awhile, for the rounded lines of his manhood's prime
were lost,
Till memory striking the evil past, the doctor's eye did trace,
With a shock to his heart, the Writ MacFee of the most remarkable case!
His memory jarred on the Probate Court, with all its sorrowful shame,
Disastrous check, to his early hopes, of honor, and medical fame,
And with a potion of pity, and hate, he knew the furrowy face
Of the grim, of the Writ MacFee, Q.C., of the most remarkable case.
The bloom of his pampered nose was gone, 'twas shrivelled,
and pinched, and shrunk!
His adipose peach of cheek, was fled, 'twas lean, and withered,
and sunk,
A derelict there; by the prosperous port of wealth, and power,
and place,
He lay the identical Writ MacFee, of the most remarkable case!
[Illustration]
"O spare me doctor! for I'll confess,--I should have been in
your place.
As the treacherous co-respondent, of the most remarkable case,
T'was I, was the homestead wrecker, but never as Writ MacFee,
I played me, a knave's deception, as Tommins, L.R.C.P.!
I bought from a needy super, the beard, moustaches, and wig,
I managed to coach my tailor, to model me in your rig,
And thus I received a welcome, to lunch, and dinner, and tea,
As Tommins the medical doctor, but never as Writ MacFee.
O Doctor Tommins have mercy! I beg to legacy thee,
With thirty tickets of pawn to name, of Writ MacFee, Q.C.
In a brief bag under the bed, tied up in a worn-out wig,
You will find a memento there, of mock æsthetical rig,
The spats and the collar and vest, I wore when I went to see,
The Lady Monica Pendigrew, as Tommins, L.R.C.P.
O Doctor Tommins forgive! the cost and the foul disgrace,
Of debt, for the illsome guilt, of the most remarkable case,
O Doctor Tommins have grace!" he rose with a greedy stare,
And gripped with his reedy fists, the mat of his weedy hair!
Then moaning a hungry sigh, for life, with a choking breath,
He fell with accusing cry, "O Tommins you've brought me death!
But I won't have a pauper's coffin! so give me a decent show--
Whew!--eh--what's this? O thunder thun--un--der and lightning----Oh!
Ah!--mercy me Lud! O mercy! thun--un--der an' light--ning----Oh!!
It's a sine die, the morrow for me, Ah! mercy me Lud, Oh!----Oh!"
The girl ran out of the two pair back, and down the stairs she ran,
With shouts, as she took three steps at a time, "The lodger
has kicked the can!
Mother, O mother, we've lost the rent, the lodger has kicked
the can!
It's just what you said of the two pair back, he's gone an
he's kicked the can!"
[Decoration]
[Illustration: A Tour to Svitserland]
SAID she, "The Parkinses have gone, and all the Doolys, too,
The Mcriartys, and the Dunns, and Mrs. old MacHugh;
The Dalys and Fitzpatricks, with all their kin, and kinds,
Have mounted crumpled papers, on all their window blinds.
Ah! stop that old piano, you ding it all the day,
It's only when your pupils are here, you make it pay;
And all your pupils' parents, and all their kin, and kinds,
Have all got crumpled papers, on all their cotton blinds."
He stopped the old piano, and "Vot of zat?" said he,
"Regarding which, we'll have to do exact the same," said she.
"For if we don't, we'll be the talk for many a day to come,
That when all others went abroad, the Zazels kept at home.
It's positively foolish, affects your daughter's hopes--"
"Vel, zhere," said he, "go pack ze thronk, I'll tie it vit ze ropes;
And you discharge ze servong, ze moment zat you find,
She's pinned ze crumpled papers, on all ze cotton blind:
And put ze gossip on her tongue, for Svitzerland ve sail,
Ze-morrow in ze Dover boat, vot brings ze voreign mail;
And say, its Oh, so secret, by shings, but she vill blow
Ze news, around ze town, until ze all ze people know."
* * * * *
[Illustration]
The Dover boat had started, when, lo! prospecting round,
A man upon the windows, those crumpled papers found.
"Hello!" said he, "such houses are always left for me,"
And crept into the fanlight, and foraged round with glee.
He stole away the silver, he stole away the clocks,
He augured out the secret, of the children's savings' box;
He laughed, and he did chuckle, and cackling "Ha!" said he,
"The men who leave their houses thus, are men who toil for me."
Alas! that in my ballads, I have to tune my song,
To many flats, and minors, to show where sharps go wrong.
[Illustration]
He donned a suit, next morning,
And sought an auctioneer--
"I'm ordered out to China, so harken, and look here;
Bring up your ivory hammer to the house, where you will see,
The blinds in crumpled papers, and cant the lot for me."
He auctioned off the carpets, the suites of every room,
He canted to a builder, the villa for its doom;
He made him sign a docket, to take down every brick,
Within the shortest notice, so he commenced it quick.
They first upset the chimneys, and then unstitched the slates,
They lifted off the rafters, and rooted out the grates;
The door, and window casings, they took in several hauls,
And carted off, the debris of bricks, that made the walls.
[Illustration]
At length a workman picking with crowbar, in the rear,
Let fall his pipe in terror, his knees went loose with fear,
A chill of woe electric, begirt his heart, like lead,
He found a row of corpses, and every corpse was dead!
I've sketched him, with the crowbar, and falling pipe, to show
His awful fright, and sorrow, the fact is, such a blow
Might paralize his senses, unfit him for his trade--
I hope some kindly ladies, will have collections made.
But yet a glamoured beauty was on them all, so nice,
He felt like pins and needles, in glass of strawberry ice,
He shambled round a corner, "O Constable!" he said,
"I've found a row of corpses, and every corpse is dead!"
I like that honest fellow, tho' poor, with eye forlorn,
Said he, "O Mister Pleeceman, I wish I wasn't born"--
I've sought again to sketch him, above their ghastly rest,
He indicates a label, on every corpse's breast.
[Illustration]
'Twas down an empty cellar, below the bottle shelves,
They looked as they were sleeping, in fact, they looked themselves,
The daughters of Herr Zazel, the wife of Zazel, and
The Pleeceman asked for Zazel, was he in Switzerland?
The oldest native, answered a deputating clutch
Of specials, that there never before did happen such,
And so they wrote sensations, and from the civic band,
A posse of detectives, went scoot for Switzerland.
[Illustration]
The crowner's Morgue was opened, the jurymen were caught,
And every man protested, although he didn't ought,
They went to view the corpses.
"Mein gott, vots them?" said one,
"Votever has there happened, vots been, and gone, and done?
I could'nt spare ze money, avay mit me, so many,
And so tinks I, I'll mesmer zem all, I vont brings any,
I wraps 'em up mit labels, vots tied upon zem zare,
Ven I comes home, to vake 'em, and sorts 'em up mit care.
I vos in my purse, only ze cash enough to stand,
For vot you calls, von single man, avay in Svitzerland.
And so I mesmerised my vife, my daughters, von by von,
And now I'll vake 'em all, and zen, by shings, you zee me run!"
He party pumped his arms, he made a maze of passes,
With flashing eyes of flame, that lit his pinc nez glasses.
He clawed with his phalanges as he were going to seize
Some hidden ghost, when lo! at length, his wife began to sneeze,
His wife commenced the sneezing, the girls took up the que,
"Now zee me run, or you vill find, too moosh vor me to do,"
He cried, and off he started, and took the tram for home,
When peering thro' the twilight, of autumn's evening gloam,
He saw a shocking poster, that curdled up his blood,
"This ground to let for building," on which his house had stood,
He laughed a weird, and woful, idiotic laugh at fate,
He took a second tram-car, and sought a barber straight,
And sitting down, he uttered a low despairing groan,
"I'm vot you calls vor Bedlam, so shaves me to ze bone!!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: JOY! ON SEEING A FLYING SPRING.]
I MADE him quite at home,
In a villa just by Rome,--
An Italian, of the antient noble style,--
But I saw him 'neath a star,
And the tink of his guitar,
Was an irritating thing, that made me smile,
His object, was my spouse for to beguile,
But when he caught it hot,
With sporting gun, and shot,
He took a flying spring, across a stile!
His object, was my spouse for to beguile.
[Illustration: The Mate of the Mary Anne]
"I'M the Mate," quoth he, "Of the 'Mary Anne,'"
As she opened the door to him,
And I'm all the way from the state of New York,
With a present, I've got from Jim!"
"O dear!" said she, "It's a pleasure to see
A friend, who has known my son,
We've a party, enjoying the evening tea,
And you're just in time for fun."
"Ah! thank you," said he, "I would like to explain,
The chest, is a cumbersome weight,
I'd have brought it myself; but I hadn't the dimes,
To cover the cost of the freight.
"It's a matter of seventeen shillings and six,
But you see, I am one of the crew,
I'd have paid it myself, for sake of your son,
If I could have lifted my screw."
"Ah! Jim was the very best pal that I knew,"
She got out the cash for him,
"Now hang up your hat, and come in to the tea,
And tell us a lot about Jim."
He hung up his hat, and went in to the tea,
Said he to a girl, who was there,
"You're the livin' dead image of my chum Jim,
Regardin' yer figure, and hair."
Said he to another, "Yer like yer mother,
But still the expression of Jim,
Is a playin' around yer beautiful smile,
A perfeck sister of him.
"I guess you are soft, on the ring that I wear,"
And he 'splayed his horney fist,
"I'd like you to wear it, for honor of Jim,
'Twould almost bangle your wrist!
"For savin' his wife, from a shark, I got
The trinket, at Scooperaboo,
From a Monarch, who gave it me, out of his nose,
I'm proud to present it to you.
"The ring is too grand, for my tanned hand,
It's a valuable old gew gaw,
I'm skeered, I'd be robbed o' the thing some night,
In the grip of a lawless claw.
"It's a putty gay keepsake, that you've got there,
I'd be glad for sake of poor Jim--"
And he paused, "O yes you may have it," said she,
"Ah! thanks! when I'm back with him.
"I guess he'll be proud to see it, and hear,
That I have presented to you,
The ring that I got, for savin' the wife,
Of the Monarch of Scooperaboo.
"I've a bauble that's here, on a link of my chain,
It's made of a nugget I got,
I never can know it, I'll maybe be darned!
Or drowned! or skivered! or shot!
"It's a nugget to waste, with a fellow like me,
To be sportin' it out of the shop,
Here! take it by gum! you're the mother of Jim!
Or maybe I'd put it in pop."
"Ah! Sir" said the mother "You're far too kind!"
As he fastened it on to her chain,
"Will you keep this locket in place of it? there,
I will never require it again,"
"Aha!" said he, "It's a moral, to see
You're the spirit of Jim all out,
I'll have it, and wear it, for honour of Jim,
Without no manner of doubt.
"Eh! what's the time, I am bound to an hour,
I'd like to remain, if I can,
But the captain's keepin' the cable taut,
On the men of the 'Mary Anne.'
"Let somebody travel with me to-night,
Who will carry the luggage ashore,
I'll bring all your compliments out to Jim,
If I may not see you no more."
Said a girl, who was there, with auburn hair,
Who hadn't been talking free,
"The weather is dark, and you say the ship,
Is out some yards at sea,
"It's better that two, should travel with you,
The journey's a little too far,
And one'll take charge of the present from Jim,
The other, can go for a car."
So two of the gentlemen, offered to go,
Who had been at the evening tea,
And they all shook hands, and the three took tramp,
To the wall, by the wailing sea.
"I guess that we ought to be havin' a quench,"
Said the Mate, "For I always do,
I never go thirsty, aboard at night,"
So he went, and treated the two.
They sat in a room, at the back of the bar,
Discussing three tumblers hot,
"I'm darned, if we won't have a couple of smokes!"
Said he, "And I'll settle the shot."
"You'll pull a cigar with me, by gum!
I'll get them 'and jest you set,'"
He went with his purse, to the bar to pay,
And they have not seen him yet!
But whether he's shot, or whether he's drowned,
Or darned, the Host did say,
Behind the bar, as he pulled a pint,
That "the drink was still to pay!"
* * * * *
She laughed a laugh, when the twain returned,
"You're a mighty discerning pair!"
And she posed her nose, with a tilted tip,
Did the girl, with the auburn hair.
They all suggested, a different way,
Of finding the missing Mate,
"Put out your brains," said the auburn hair,
"On a clean, blue pattern plate.
"And twig a few of the cobwebs off,
From Scooperaboo, look there!
We've Brumagem trinkets, of glass, and brass!"
Said the girl, of the auburn hair.
[Illustration: AN UMBRELLA CASE.]
I saw a dress! 'twas of my wife,
She stepped along with frivol rife,
And by her side, a man of strife
A guardsman of the line.
Ha ha! So ho! was here a cause,
To agitate the Probate laws,
For a divorce, I did not pause,
With guardsman of the line,
I had an umbrella stout,
I lifted it, I flung it out,
In semicircle, with a shout,
At guardsman of the line!
Ah! me, for an unlucky wight!
Beneath the sick electric light,
She turned, O shock unto my sight!
She was no wife of mine!
He didn't draw, I wasn't slain,
But of that blow, he did complain,
And made me wipe away the stain,
With legal brief, and twine.
A Story TOLD BY JONES
[Illustration: The Spook of Rotten Row]
ONE evening, as in troubled mood,
I sampled Rotten Row,
Across my scapula, I got
A sharp conclusive blow!
A flat concussion of a palm,
Was quick, and deftly laid,
With rude familiar frowardness,
Against my shoulder blade!
The impact curled up my blood;
And almost in a thrice,
My heart refrigerated, to
An imprompt lump of ice!
I feared it was a bailiff, and
I sprang from off the sod!
"I'm but a ghost!" said he, "you need
Not start" said I "thank God!
"I must confess, that I eschew
A bailiff's companie,
"A ghost, is much more welcome, to
A person fixed like me."
Thus into swift acquaintanship,
Familiarly did glide,
The spook of Rotten Row, and I,
And walking side by side,
We chatted in a varied way,
And slowly sauntered round,
Until we came upon a lone,
And sparsy plot of ground,
Then halting there, the spectre cried,
In accents like a knell,
"T'was here I fought a duel once,
And there it was I fell!
Behold a thistle growing there,
And yon a shamrock too,
And there in every season past,
A little wild rose grew,
A nursery in miniature,
Of sign of Kingdoms three,
That sprang spontaneous thro' the sod,
From blood, that flowed from me,
For lo! my sire was Rupert Smith,
My mater was a Lynch;
My grandmother per pater, was
A Flora Jane Mac Tinch,
An uncle, on the mother's side,
A Belfast Macinfee,
This made the union perfect,
And embodied thus in me,
Was typed the British Empire,
Per my consanguinitee.
And it's an interesting fact,
That Wales can share the fame,
And pride, of my nativity,
For, Jones, it was the name,
My mother first accepted, as
A matrimonial claim;
But Jones was testily inclined,
And all about a myth,
In jealous hate, he fell before
The blade, of Rupert Smith!
Then Rupert Smith, he minded of
The widow's wail, and tear,
And in remorse, he married her,
As consequence, I'm here!
The record of my gallant sire,
To hot complexion grew,
In me, till I was minded of
A cause, for fighting too.
I knew a maid, and for her sake,
My daily life was fuss,
It is not always for a maid,
A man's affected thus;
But when she wasn't by my side,
I felt how lonely, space
Would be, if man could not behold,
A single woman's face.
And so I fondled, petted her,
And worried, wrote some rhymes,
And even got them published, in
A small, suburban times,
I took some pestilential pains,
To learn the minuet,
And trained my voice, to harmonise,
With her's, in the duet.
[Illustration]
We married were, I faith! it was
A festal day, for hope,
To care we gave the congè, and
To pleasure, extra scope,
Until one day, my joy was washed
Away, like scented soap!
'Twas on this wise,--
In Rotten Row,
Midst fashionable life,
I found a promenader there,
In converse, with my wife!
I parleyed not a moment, but
Asserting manhood's law,
[Illustration]
I tweaked him by the nose, and cried,
"Defend thyself and draw!"
Resenting my impetuous way,
The old command, to teach,
He roused him to impromptu fire,
Of indignation speech,
And with a sneer, that galled my quick,
He swore me, I must die!
But with a rough right royal oath,
I sneered him back the lie!
"Thy name?" quoth I, "I am," said he,
"A man of Deeds, and Loans,
And auction sales,
I come from Wales,
My name is Mervyn Jones!"
"What?
Mervyn Jones of Pontypridd?"
"Exactly so, the same,"
Said he,--I heard of him before,
And quivered at his name!
For 'twas the name, thro' which the world
Had come to hear of me,
By pruning blade of Smith, on Jones;
His genealogic tree,
"Yes I am Jones!"
Quoth he, "By loans,
And mortgaged, for her life,
Thro' debts to me, attorney's power,
I hold upon thy wife,
So skin thy blade, I'll give thee cause,
To tweak my nose!" he saith,
"I'll auction thee, unto the bid,
Of good old broker death!"--
Hereditary fate it seemed,
That I must fight with Jones,
I would have shirked it, but for those,
His irritating tones,
I feared a compensating fate,
Might strike an even deal,
Betwixt the house of Smith, and Jones,
But skinning forth my steel,
I smote at him, by hip, and thigh,
By carte, and aye by tierce,
I held him to his guard, with quick,
Aggressive strokes, and fierce,
But lo! the cunning of my wrist,
A moment lapsed! with art
Of subtle fencer, past my guard,
He pinked me, in the heart!
It skivered me, just like the fork,
That spoils a grilling steak,
I shivered, with a yell, and then,
A woman's cry,--and crake
Of joy from him, with mighty pang,
I leaped in air, and fell!
A muffled music thrilled my brain;
For me, the passing knell,
From numbing toe, and finger tip,
The graduating thrill
Of life's collapse, crept over me,
I wriggled, and lay still!
Then, from the chrysolid of flesh,
Light spirited I rose,
And gazed upon my corse, as on
A suit of cast off clothes,
My widow shrieked, and fainted, but
A golden vinagarette,
My slayer lifted from his fob,
And to her nose, he set
The bauble, while he pinched her, slapped
Her hands, and brought her to,
Then speaking to my mortal wreck,
Said he, "Now as for you,
I have avenged the slur upon
My nose, thy tweak hath wrought,
Thou art the loser, in the game
Of combat, that thou sought,
But lo! thy widow, will not weep
It long, for I may say,
She'll shed her weeds, and she will wed
With me, the first of May!
Then, with my spouse upon his arm,
He turned, and sneaked away,
And left me here, a widowed ghost,
Aye, even to this day!"
My indignation at his wrongs,
I told the grateful spook:
"Gramercy!" cried he, as with misty
Fist, my hand he shook,
And charged me thus, with eager verve,
Of deep revengeful tones,
"If ever thou dost meet a man,
Who deals in deeds, and loans,
Who bears the patronymic, and
The shield, of Mervyn Jones,
I care not how, by forgery!
By fist, or aye by knife!
By sneaking of his fiancée,
Or mayhap of his wife!
By burgling of his premises,
Or pelting him with stones!
Avenge me, on the offspring, of
The man, called Mervyn Jones!"
I sware him, if such christened man,
Did ever dare my sight,
In widest open day, or from
The nooks, of darkest night!
It mattered not, if extra tall,
Or what his weight, or width,
_I'd borrow from him_, to avenge
The wrongs, of Rupert Smith!
"I thank thee well!" the spectre cried,
With chuckle, sad, and grim,
"Adieu!"
And lo! he vanished thro'
The hazy gloaming dim:
He vanished, and I thanked my luck,
He left no aching bones!
For I'm a male descendant, of
The man, called Mervyn Jones!
And Mervyn, haps my christian name,
A broker, I am he,
A windfall fructifaction, of
That genealogic tree.
* * * * *
Next evening, when I told this tale,
To Doctor Bolus Chuff,
Incredulous, and unimpressed,
With mien, erect, and tough,
Presenting a prescription, for
Some tonic tempered pills,
Said he "Thro' too much spirits, you
Have got D.T.'s and chills!"
[Illustration: THE MAGIC SPECS]
he WROUGHT a specs, with magic rim, of strange, and subtle parts,
For by those optics made by him, he saw men's inmost hearts,
The grim old sage, 'twas of his fads, to wear those wrysome lamps,
For evermore, and find the lads, the worldly-wise, and scamps.
He saw the plottings, and the strife, he saw the woes, and tears!
The murky glooms of unknown life, the spring of hopes, and fears,
The sham of face, the sham of name, the sham of heart within;
He sifted all, and wrote for fame, record of unknown sin.
"Ho, ho!" cried he at length, "I wis, the dross of men is such,
'Tis surfeit, thus to seek for this, it palls me overmuch;
I'll seek a gem of human hearts, and find it, if I can,"--
He sought at home, and foreign parts, to meet an honest man.
In that pursuit, a year and seven, did on his labours fall;
"Heigho!" cried he, "outside of Heaven, they're masks, and faces all!
They're masks, and faces all!" quoth he, and from the world he went
To bide alone, beside the sea, in selfish self-content.
Now, this old sage, thro' many a year, had never thought of self,
Before he used the specs: in fear, his mirror, on a shelf,
He set, with face down evermore, lest by a glance, that he
Should pry into the evil store, of his own villainie.
But, fishing in a pool one day, the sage forgot his specs--
To take it from his nose,--and hey! a horror, to perplex
His soul with fear, was under him; for, in the glassy wave,
He saw his heart reflected grim! he saw his new-made grave:
He saw, that he himself was worst, of all that he had seen;
By sight of conscience, he was curst, the evil deeds, had been
Dry rotting in his blackened heart, the place he feared to search,
And self-reproach, did send a dart, that knocked him off his perch;
The rod and line, fell from his hand, the specs fell off his nose:
And he was drowned, in sight of land, in all his Sunday clothes.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Ye Curious Tayle of Ye Uncivil Fight of Ye Civil Warre]
ODDZOOKS! ye civil war was rough,
'Twixt cavalier, and roundhead tough,
Thence, for thy pale
Of cheek, and wail,
Now hearken, to ye curious tayle,
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Fanatick Fytte]
THEY met, to meet, was cause for strife
And hunger, for each other's life!
Alack ah! me,
That such should be,
Where posies, pied beneath ye tree,
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Fytte of ye Blude Thurst]
IN derring do, they straightway play,
And cut, and slash, ye time away;
Ye evil grue,
This derring do,
When earth, was wide enough for two,
Ah! me.
LO! one at length, in bonds did pine,
Ye squirrel came, and nipped ye twine;
Reproof of spite,
From woodland mite,
For truce to ye fanatic fight,
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Refreshment Fytte]
BUT hey alack! again they rise,
And swish their blades, in murderous wise;
'Tis pain, to sing,
Of sword, in swing,
Where butterflies, did spread ye wing,
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Fytte of ye Seconde Bout.]
[Illustration: Ye Retaliation Fytte.]
AT length, one trussed his foe, but lo!
A bat, did cut ye cord, ho! ho!
Ye moral flat,
Of gracious bat,
That men, should drop ye hate, like that--
Ah! me.
YE wrath of wrong, is still to do,
Ye loathsome vengeance, starts anew,
O pity! wrong,
Should wreak so strong,
Where birds, did pipe ye evensong,
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Nervous Fytte.]
YE strife waxed hot, in air they spring,--
No fiercer fray, did minstrel sing,--
But why spill here,
Ye tender tear,
For Roundhead, or ye Cavalier?
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Fytte of Ye Timely Spring.]
[Illustration: Ye Fytte of Ye Discovery]
THEY scuffle, till each wig, and nose,
Fell off, and nature's truths, disclose,
Ye wild surprise,
Doth swiftly rise,
Ye brows, above ye startled eyes!
Ah! me.
FOR lo! they recognise each one,
Each was his father's other son!
Ye clasping spree,
Of filial glee,
Is here depicted, as you see,
Ah! me.
[Illustration: Ye Fraternal Fytte.]
[Illustration: Leather Versus LAW]