He looted the drawers, and shelf,
Of the plate, and the clocks, and the watches, and cash,
From the cabinet, quick as an elf.
Slid everything down to his pal, with a rope,
And then he slid down it himself,
They drove with the swag, from the terrace amain,
In a couple of hired out traps;
And the city, was billed on the following day,
With the Special Editions in caps!
* * * * *
'Twas a reasonable period, from the incident above,
That a solemn deputation came down,
For the candidate to speak in a socialistic vein,
To the voters of the east of London town:
"We'll be looking for you there, on waggon No. I.
Near the arch, that's of marble, in the park,"
But he pointed to the door "O tell them that I'm dead;
For cram it! I am not up to the mark,"
[Illustration: A CANTABILE ON MUSIC, ART, AND LAW.]
Ho! there, pumps and castanets for three,
We would dance a brief measure.
O YOU will wonder why we're here,
And wish that we were far,
By wig, and gown, it doth appear,
We're members of the bar,
And tho' we are, we say to you,
We all of us opine,
That we may justly claim our due,
In an artistic line.
We are the type of one, you know,
As well as we can tell,
He is a burly splendid beau,
A stately howling swell!--
A signor of the lyric stage,
An operatic Don,--
And by similitude, we'll wage
That he, and we are one!
'Tis true, tho' he is mostly stout,
We're nearly always thin,
But if you turn us inside out,
We're stouter men within.
For he is all a puff, and smoke,
A sound that dies away;
But we are they who crack a joke,
That lasts for many a day.
He has his crotchets; we do harp,
On clients, this, and that,
He has his sharps, and we are sharp,
His flats, and they are flat;
He blows away his notes, but we,
Are shrewder men by far,
The notes we get professionly,
We stick them to the Bar!
His quavers, they are nothing to
The rallantando thrills,
That shake our clients, when we screw
The rosin on their bills.
They often simulate, as deaf,
When we do charge a case,
Our time is on the treble cleff,
And their's is on the base.
We make a loud fortissimo,
When pleading in the wrong,
And often pianissimo,
When we should put it strong,
But still we pull our fees the same,
Tho' suits may not be won,
And by our tongue, we conquer fame,
Like that conceited Don.
And to the jury, we do plaint,
Upon a mauling stick,
And from our pallets, clap the paint,
Around their craniums thick,
We mould them from their purpose dense,
Like hods of plastic wax,
And sculp into their common sense,
And then climb down their backs!
Our song is done, for we are brief,
And we will sing no more,--
And to my own intense relief,
I thought they'd take the door,
But no! they did not go, and each,
Put forth his kidded fist,
"While we've been trying thus to teach,
Our fees we almost missed!
Remember this is Christmas eve,
Three Chrismas waits we be,
The more the reason you should give,
Our consultation fee.
We have our instruments, and they
Are of the parchment tough,
With which we play, while men do pay,
We wot we've said enough.
And wherefore, and whereas for this,
Aforesaid, told to thee,
Moreover, we must have, we wis,
Our consultation fee.
Five guineas unto each of us,
Refreshers each, a pound,"--
I rose to kick them into bruss,
They bolted through the ground!
My future suppers, must be free
Of nightmare risk; the cause
Of that cantabile of glee,
On music, art, and laws;
Was merely this, that I did run,
The danger of such rig,
By feeding on a goose, they hatched,
Inside a lawyer's wig.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: WOMAN'S TEARS.]
THE tears were in her eye,
Said I "what makes you cry?"
And my sympathy was such, that I sighed;
For it gives my heart the creep,
To see a woman weep,--
Especially the one to be my Bride.
"Alas!" said I, "Ah! me,
It grieveth me, to see
That trickle, at your nostril, by the side."
"'Twas the onions, I was cutting," she replied.
[Illustration: HERADIC FRUITS OF A FAMILY TREE
By A Lyin' KING OF Arms]
[Illustration]
WHEN Cha, the first,
Was run to ground,
An Ancestorial
Mite was found;
By Rails in Pale,
At Dexter Chief,
From Judges' wig,
He pipes his grief.
HIS deeds, of later
Life, did tend,
To prove him of
The Sinister Bend;
As boozing Charge,
He takes his place,
From Sinister Chief,
To Dexter Base.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
HIS son, did Charge
In Sable Chief,
A Sword, or he
Had come to grief;
That Chief above,
From Sinister, part,
Has got,--per Fesse--
That Sword in Heart!
ANOTHER Son,
Of prudent parts,
Doth Pawn his Arms,
For peaceful arts;
From Dexter or,
On Shield of Gu,
In pale, reguardant
Sinister Jew.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ANOTHER Son,
From want appeald,
To art, for Charge,
On Argent Shield,
And so, upon
His Coat he drew
A Garb, that he
Might dare, and do
HE sought to Void
A hen-coup, he
Is Trussed above it,
On a tree;
Couchant, in Chief,
With Spade, in Fesse,
A sorry wight,
He must confess.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AT length, an Orient
Pile, he took,
Then Counterchanged,
His Coat for luck!
This Dexter treatment,
Is not right;
He's Or, on Ar,
The lawless wight!
BUT ah! at last,
His fate was healed
And by command,
Got Royal Shield;
A Dexter King,
Reguardant, won!
He dyed, and left
An "only Son."
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE POLIS AND THE PRINCESS GRANA UILLE]
THE man who confidently seeks to set up a new idea, by upsetting an old
theory, or tradition, is one who lives in advance of his time, whereby
he forfeits many valued amenities of contemporaneous courtesy. But he is
to be extolled for the moral heroism that impells him, to advance new
facts, into the study of history, or explode errors so steadfastly
grounded on the popular belief, that he finds himself, pen to pen with a
hostile army of Savants, Antiquarians, Historians, and Critics: some
stirred with spirit of envy, others with a craving for notoriety, but
all unanimous, and up in arms, with loaded pens and arsenal of inkpots.
In this regard I find myself, by placing the correct revision of a
popular tradition before my discerning readers.
I have to confess that it was not thro' deep and industrious research,
that I am thus enabled to challenge the truth, of the accepted records.
It was thro' the chance, afforded by an hour of breezing sea-scape
recreation, that I discovered the mysterious chronicle.
The popular tradition, is thus related by Dr. Walsh. "The celebrated
Grana Uille or Grace O'Mally, noted for her piratical depredations in
the reign of Elizabeth, returning on a certain time from England, where
she had paid a visit to the Queen, landed at Howth, and proceeded to the
castle. It was the hour of dinner--but the gates were shut. Shocked at
an exclusion so repugnant to her notions of Irish hospitality, she
immediately proceeded to the shore, where the young lord was at nurse,
and seizing the child, she embarked with, and sailed to Connaught, where
her own castle stood.
After a time, however, she restored the child; with the express
stipulation, that the gates should be thrown open, when the family went
to dinner--a practice which is observed to this day."
WHEN the Hill of Howth was covered, by a city great, and grand,
And nuggets still were gathered, like cockles on the strand;
On the shore, around by Sutton, a children's maid was met,
Who was wheeling of a baby, in a sky blue bassinet.
And as that maiden cycled that infant by the sea,
Down the boreen from the Bailey, came number 90 B;
And he sudden lit his eye on, he sudden had her set,
That slavey, with the baby, in the sky blue bassinet.
He held aloft his baton, saluted like a man,
Said he "I'm almost certain, you're name is Mary Anne,
The sergeant up the boreen, in the distance there is gone,
We'll make the distance greater, if you and I move on.
For fifty years I've ambushed, and watched around me bate,
But never met a sweetheart, that took me so complate,
And what's a bate? it's nothin' to a polis, whin he's gone!
I'm gone on you me darlin', let you and I move on."
"O hoky smoke! avourneen, I never seen yer like,
As sure's me name is Dooley, with the christian name of Mike,
I sware it, by this number, on my collar, which you see,
I'm shockin' fond of you agra," said No. 90 B.
He took that trusting maiden, to the adjacent strand,
"A punt is on the shingles, convaynient here to hand,
Put the bassinet into it," said the blue official fox,
"We'll go and look for winkles, thro' seaweed on the rocks."
Now whether or for winkles, or what it was they went,
They stayed away much longer than was their first intent,
A thoughtless time, that stranded them in a piteous plight,
The tide was in, O Moses! the punt was out of sight.
Upon that woeful morning, the fact we may not shunt,
The little Lord St. Lawrence, was kidnapped by a punt,
And reverbrated wailings, of his nurse is echoed still,
With oathings of the polis, around Ben Heder hill!
But then it struck that polis, a hopeful thought of mark,
And to the weeping servant, he muttered, "Whist! an' hark!"
Then put his index finger, abaft his coral nose,
"Howld on! I'll go, an' square it, I've got a schame, here goes!"
The crafty rogue departed, and told the specious tale,
Of how the child was stolen by the Princess Granauille,
He told the weeping mother, he almost thought he knew,
From information he received, that he had got a clew,
When Granauille was challenged, it struck her, she could make
A profitable bargain, in re her nephew's sake,
'Twas just before his teething; his nose was but a blob,
Like every other baby's, so she could work the job.
As tourist come from Connaught, she owned that it befel,
That she had left her galley, to find a cheap hotel,
But when she reached the castle, with appetite, it shocked
Her, when she found the outer door, at dinner time was locked!
She thought it mean, and stingy, the child she lifted then--
And told that subtle polis, she'd give the child again,
In safety to its father, if he would leave the door,
At dinner, always open, on the latch for evermore.
Upon Lord Howth, she fathered her nephew in this way,
That he might be ancestor of Viscount Howth to-day,
And if you want a dinner, I'll give you all a tip,
There's just a fleeting moment, I've always let it slip,--
The minute hand records it, upon the castle clock,
And if you're up that moment, you have no need to knock,
Walk in, the door is open, and make "a hearty male,"
And thank that crafty polis, and the Princess Granauille.
* * * * *
And now about the baby, his voyaging began,
Before he'd had his teething, and still he's not a man,
He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,
Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
[Illustration]
He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!
Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!
And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,
As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!
Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,
He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,
He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,
But of a human sinner, he's never heard a sound!
He lives without a purpose, an object or intent,
Three hundred years of waiting, in ignorance are spent,
He lives; and for this reason, because he never knew,
Of who he is, or where he is, or what he is to do!
He never saw a sailor! he never hailed a sail!
The pensive penguin harkened unto his lonely wail;
The albatross did follow he shrieked him for the clew,
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He pleaded to the swallow, and Mother Cary's chicks,
Of his expatriation, and in his devilish fix,
Besought the mild octopus, and all the ocean crew,
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He hailed the great sea serpent, the comprehensive whale,
The flying fish, to answer, the burden of his wail,
Of what the deuce had happened, that life was all so blue!
"O who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
[Illustration]
He is not dead, it's certain, I'll merely mention here,
He may be in mid ocean, or yet he may be near,
The north wall boat may hail him, it's prophesied that yet,
Hell be thrown up at Sutton, in the sky blue bassinet.
Be watching all the papers; for soon or late some day,
In leaded type, you'll see it, and with a big display
Of capitals above it, of claimant, who will know,
Of what to do, and do it, and one who'll have to go!
Now most of you will question, the record I recite,
To clear your doubts upon it, I think it's only right,
To tell you, I was searching for cockles at Blackrock,
When lo! my heart was fluttered with interesting shock!
I saw a feeding bottle, that lay upon the strand,
I stooped anon and gripped it, with sympathetic hand,
I thought it might be jetsam, of baby that was drowned,
But looking thro' the bottle, a manuscript I found.
And there in broken Irish, it states the fact, that he
Had sealed it in his bottle, and still he's on the sea,
With anxious intimation, that yet he seeks the clew,
Of who he is? and where he is? and what he is to do?
[Illustration: MARVELOUS RELIC
A MESSAGE FROM THE C----]
A HORROR OF LONDON TOWN.
ON London streets by a gin shop door,
In the blaze of a noontide sun,
With horrible zest of a thirst for gore,
Was a desperate murder done,
On the sainted flags of a Christian town,
I saw this outrage planned,
And three little boys, in crime, sere brown
Were there with a helping hand.
'Twas a group of seven--I counted them all,
A group of seven strong men,
And summing them up, with the criminals small,
Their total I think was ten,
With umbrellas, and sticks, and stones,
They hunted a sad wretch down,
Mid random of kicks, and ogerous groans,
A shame unto London town!
But while was fought the unequal fight,
That murder of ten to one,
There came an ominous venger of right,
They call him a copper for fun,
And I said he'll be pulling the lot of them; then
The villians ha! ha! shall see
There are dungeons dark for the murderous ten,
In the walls of the Old Bailee!
But no! He paused, and he gravely stood,
And the never a stir, stirred he,
As he saw them compass the deed of blood,
To its end with a ghastly glee,
And O 'twas pity to hear the tones,
Of the suppliant's voice in pain,
As he sought to fly from the sticks and stones,
And the yells of "Hit, hit him again!"
A drayman flourished the butt of his whip,
I am sure it was loaded with lead,
And his laugh was wild, as a terrible clip,
He aimed at the victim's head!
Alas! too sure, by the jugular vein,
He was struck, and he dropped and died,
And the drayman shook, as he laughed amain,
For blood was the caitiff's pride!
But O I proved, ere I wandered home,
There yet was a friend most true,
Who bore the corse to a silent tomb,
Ah! yes, and embalmed it too,
A kind purveyor came walking by,
And he stopped on the edge of the flag,
Then turned to his boy, and exclaimed with a sigh,
"Jim, slip the dead rat in your bag."
[Decoration]
[Illustration: A Confidential Sonnet]
I MET him one night there,
North east of Leicester Square,
Within about a quarter of a mile,
"I've confidence," said he,
"In all humanity,
I'll leave my bloomin' purse with thee awhile!"
He left it, went away
Then coming back, "I say,"
Said he, with an insinuating smile,
"Now lend your watch to me,
For I am like yourself without no guile,"
He took it, went away,
And from that evil day,
I keep that man's description on my file.
[Illustration: A TRAM CAR GHOST.]
THE last car at night, is a vehicle laden with varied symptoms of
mysterious hauntings that more or less oppress the fares, some toned
down by the lassitude of overwork, drop gratefully into their seats, and
quickly fall into fitful slumber, others seem to court a spasmodic
notoriety by loud and disjointed converse. A weary of world expression
clouds the features of a few with an unuttered protest, for the
disagreeable fact of their birth, whilst others seem by their grumpy
glances to suggest a jealous objection to other people's existence.
A select few, unconsciously advertise a flippant gratification at the
possession of life, and squeeze festivity from it, as colour from a blue
rag. But all are haunted with the mysterious workings of unseen spirits,
that usually accompany the fares, in the latest car at night.
THERE wasn't a soul in the tramway car,
Well not that myself could see,
But the sad conductor took my arm,
And steadfast gazed on me--
Then pointing up to the corner seat,
"Look! that's his regular game,
I'm sorry to have it to say of a ghost,
But he hasn't a tint of shame!"
You'll think the tram conductor was drunk,
His breath was sweet as mine,
Like the orris root, or a tint of mint,
Or scent of a similar line.
It might be a ginger cordial; but
The air of the night was strong,
And it wouldn't be proper to say I'm sure,
I might perhaps be wrong.
"Will you slack?" said I, but he caught my arm
"The man that I killed is there!
I hate to have it to say. But no,
I can't recover my fare!
I asked it from him one winter's night,
But full as a tick with drink,
The only answer he gave to me,
Was just a chuckle and wink.
With this American tink-a-ting,
I couldn't defraud the Co.,
So caught his collar, and chucked him off
The back of the tram car, so.
There wasn't a soul that saw the deed,
Not even the driver knew,
And there he lay on the tramway track,
Till the townward car was due.
It broke his neck, and his shoulder blade,
His legs, and arms, its broke,
And laid him out, a squirming trout,
'Twas then he awoke, and spoke!
Said he, "What's up? is the dancing done?
The waltz has made me sore!"
And wriggling out on the frosty ground,
He never spoke no more!
Heigho! the murder was caused by me,
Was never a soul who knew,
That I am the man, who chucked the man,
That the townward tram car slew!
And everybody on earth was done
With the murdered man, but me!
The very next night, in the corner seat,
I looked, and there was he!
I thought at first that he might be a twin,
And asked his thruppeny fare,
But he sneered at me, I turned away,
And left him sneering there!
Thinks I, I'll watch him, and jot my tot,
And when he is goin' to go,
I'll chuck him the same, as I did before,
For sake of the tramway co.
I calculated the list of fares,
Then turned around to look,
But hey! I'm blowed, if he hadn't gone off,
Gone! with his bloomin' hook!
But how it was done, or whither he went,
I never could guess, or think,
For the ventilators all were shut,
There wasn't an open chink!
And I was up at the door so tight,
He couldn't have passed me by,
I never did close an eye that night,
No lid of a bloomin' eye!
I hates to see the company done,
And that was a cheated fare,
I'd rather lose my regular meals,
Than wrong the company, there!
I'd rather work from ante M, six
Till three of the A.M. clock,
Than wrong the tramway co. of a coin,
That wasn't my legal stock.
There's nobody sees the ghost but me,
Because he's a sneaking sprite,
He always comes when I take my turn
On the latest car at night.
That's him! he's there in the corner seat,
The man that I killed is there,
I hate to have it to say, But no,
I can't recover my fare!
I've this American tink-a-ting,
And tickets of sortin's three,
But that embezzling raw will come
To cheat, and sneer at me.
I cawnt tell why, but he worry's me so,
I'd collar him if I could,
He hasn't a scruff, or any a crop,
O' the neck, or flesh or blood,
He hasn't a waistband, I could grip,
Nor anythink I could kick,
I'd like to fetch him a trip, but ah!
To think of it, makes me sick
He hasn't a face, to black his eye,
Or even a hat to block,
But all the same, in the corner there,
He gives the fares a shock!
He dosses himself in the favourite seat,
And while he's nestlin' there,
The passengers cawnt shove up to the end,
To make my regular fare.
For some insist that the seat is cold!
And others complain it's hot!
And some it's damp, and some remark,
It's a most infernal spot!
And some keep shovin' their sticks above,
To let in the atmosphere,
While others are closin' them up with a curse,
The thing is devilish queer.
It's pisonous hard on a man like me,
Who lives on what he can get,
But I'll have to try and see if I cawnt,
Jest manage to shuffle him yet.
Ha! there, he's gone! I knew that he would,
Waltz out of my bloomin' sight!
His regular trick with my thruppeny fare,
Now--jump with the car, good night."
[Decoration]
MARGATE SANDS.
SHE was five, or six, he four years old,
When they met on the Margate Sands,
And he gravely looked in her great blue eyes
With hold of her little fat hands,
And he said, "I love oo well Rosie;
I know, dat I'd rather have oo,
Dan all de lickel girls on de sands to-day,
Iss, even dan de girl in blue!"
"I'm glad oo do; and I love oo too!"
Thro' a heaven of golden hair,
Like silvery bells, was her sweet response,
On the ozoned rose lit air,
And then with his bucket, and spade, he built
For his love, on the sand, that day,
A castle, and pie, till the tide came in,
And washed his castle away.
* * * * *
In many a year thereafter 'twas,
In a box in Drury Lane,
Said a gent, as he used his opera glass,
"Yon lady's remarkably plain!"
And the lady exclaimed, at the self-same time,
When she saw his glass in hand,
"What an ugly fright!" they did not know,
They had loved, on the Margate sand!
[Illustration: JOHN MC KUNE]
O PADDY MURPHY--carman of the stand in College Green--
You've had your sudden ups and downs, and busy days you've seen,
We're waiting for your story; how the mare struck up the tune,
Of sparks amongst the gravel, on the road to Knockmaroon.
"O faith an' I may tell you, you will not be waitin' long,
Whin the piebald mare Asooker, is the sweetheart of me song,
For sure it was a mastherpiece, of how she dhragged McKune,
Behind her whiskin' tail, along the road, to Knockmaroon.
'Twas in the busy period, whin the Fenians wor at war,
I mopes'd around the Dargle, on a newly painted car;
Whin, creepin' from the ditches, like a bogey in the moon,
A man proposed the journey of a dhrive to Knockmaroon.
He might as well have axed me on the minute, for a run,
To Roosha or to Paykin, or the divil or the sun!
He might as well have axed me, for a Rocky Mountain jaunt;
So I bounced him with an answer of the sudden words, "I can't!"
The boys to-night are risin' an' I darn't go impugn
Me car into the danger, of a dhrive to Knockmaroon!"
[Illustration]
Thin spakin' wid the dacency, of a remorseful tone,
"In fact," siz I, "me car's engaged, in Bray, by Mick Malone;
Besides the mare is nervous, an' me wife expects me soon,
For the army's out, I hear, upon the road to Knockmaroon!"
He didn't stop to parley, but he jumped upon me car,
An' showed a livin' pixture, of the brakin' of the war,
By pointin' a revolver at me nose! "I'm John McKune,
Dhrive on," siz he, "I'll guard you on the road to Knockmaroon!"
I never knew that powdher smelt so flamin' strong before,
It smelt as if a whole review, was stinkin' from the bore!
The steel of that revolver shone, like bayonets in the moon,
Of all the British army on the road to Knockmaroon!
An' hauntin' round its barrel, the ghosts of every sin,
I done in all me life before, wor there, in thick an' thin!
So like a fiddler in a fight I quickly changed me tune,
"Bedad!" siz I, "It's I'm yer man, we're off to Knockmaroon."
"You see, I've got a takin' way," says he, an' with a grin,
He put his barker back into his breeches fob, agin,
"Now whail around, an' thro' the bog,--the featherbed,"--says he,
"I'll guard you, by the barracks of the Polis, at Glencree,
An' dhrive, as if yer car was late, to bring the Royal Mail!
Whip up! as if the divil sat upon your horse's tail!"
I gev the mare a coaxer, of the knots upon me whip,
An' rowlin thro' the darkness, where the road begins to dip,
I bowled upon me journey, with the load of John McKune,
An' fits of wondher, why he dhrove that night to Knockmaroon;
An' just as we were wheelin' out, beyond the feather bed,
The boys put up their lamplight, an' alightin' down, he said
Some hurried words an' whisperin's, then with a cheer for him,
Presentin' arms, "Dhrive on," they cried, "God speed you Wicklow
Jim!"
I dhrove as if the Phooka was the horse beneath me whip,
We flew, as if the jauntin' car was on a racin' thrip,
We scatthered dust, an' whizz of wheels, an' sparks upon the air,
When all at once, I pulled her up, at shout of "Who comes there?"
It was a throop of sojers, an' me heart began to croon,
Wid jigs, aginst me overcoat! siz he, "I'm John McKune,"--
He sprang from off the cushion, an' a little while was gone,
Then comin' back, a captain gev the password, to dhrive on!