To men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch;
He taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leaven
Of gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in Heaven;
But man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not bless
The Earl of Masherdudom, so he wasn't a success.
One day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club,
"My politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub,
I was a high conservative; I am, what am I now?
An India rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow,
Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,
A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"
He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,
He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,
Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightway
He lit a weed,--he was a man who never smoked a clay,--
"Oddsbodkins to that liberal!"--He swore in antient guise
Of quaintly oath--"He's more than I, I wot, for he is wise
Unto the leading, and the light
That gives to men a glim
Of what they know is just, I'm but
A farthing dip to him,"
Twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slip
And coined so rude a simile,--in re the farthing dip;
"I find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let,
But ha! I've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet,
I'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes,
And in a mask I'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!"
[Illustration]
He quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strong
Nor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrong
To steal another's brains. He then invested in some crape,
And putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape;
He turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim,
And got a life preserver "now I'll go and burgle him!"
[Illustration]
That night
He sneaked the toepath o'er,
With serpentine device,
And round a postal pillar red,
He scouted slyly twice,
Until on india rubber soles,
At length he reached the goal,
And up the garden wall
He clomb,
And down the wall he stole!
Then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain,
He slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane,
He crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there;
He took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair;
He sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist;
But headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed!
And lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose,
From girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes,
And full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase,
Of "ho! Police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho Police!"
The butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit!
The boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit!
The groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire,
And a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?"
He put his bull's eye on him "Ha! well here's a putty case!
You needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face;
I'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three,
So don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me,"
They put him on his country, and the evidence was queer,
But said his Lordship solemnly,
"The crime that we have here,
Is rare in English jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goes
With mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose,
To burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head,
Mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead!
Now this is queer; but I have here, a very antient law,
And from its context, you will mark, I this deduction draw,
That should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away,
From curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay,
And if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring,
Do burgle his own home, It's just a similar sort of thing,
And so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years,
I sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: AN ILL WIND BLEW HIM GOOD!]
I WAS to the windward walking,
Of love and marriage talking,
When, zephyr like a feather,
Took my topper on its wing
And I hollo'd! and I hollo'd!
While another fellow followed,
It stopped, they came together,
With his foot upon the thing!
Æsthetic oaths I uttered,
A threat for damage muttered,
And my popping of the question,
Had also lifted wing.
* * * * *
She's wedded to another,
And now I cannot smother,
My blessing on that zephyr,
And that fugitive top hat,
For had I not been checked,
My happiness was wrecked,
I wouldn't be so rosy
To-day, and round and fat.
THE GHOST OF HIRAM SMIKE.
SHE was a dainty lady, with golden hair, and cream
Of roses, her complexion, belike a charming dream.
Her eyes were sapphire lighted, her lips, with peachen bloom,
Paterre of pearls were framing, but in her heart a tomb;
For many loves lay buried, that cemet'ry below--
O fie on it for ladies, with love, to trifle so.
At last unto a stranger, her stony heart, did strike,
His wealth was most romantic, his name was Hiram Smike.
'Twas on her mother's sofa he looked at her, said he,
"I'm kinder sweet on you, love, will you accept of me?
I've travelled half this orange, and never saw your likes;
I calculate you oughter join the wigwams of the Smikes."
His wealth was most romantic, she answered him with tact,
Said he, "I'm off to-morrow, my trunk is ready packed;
I must be off to 'Frisco, to see my corn is barned,
Don't marry in my absence, for if you do, I'm darned!
Now play some tune, that's proper, to show that you're engaged,
Expressive of your promise, and how your heart is caged;
Strike up some soothin ballad, to tell how you'll be true,
And I'll work in a chorus, of Yankee-doodle-do."
Her fairy fingers wandered, along the ivory keys,
Of her new rosewood cottage, like warble thro' the trees;
She sang, that she'd be faithful, all in a soothing strain,
While he worked in a chorus--and then he crossed the main.
It was a level twelve months, a fortnight, and a day,
Since Hiram Smike departed, and yet he stayed away;
But she did wait no longer, and they were back from church,
It was the wedding breakfast, she's left him in the lurch.
"A health unto the bridegroom," and up they rose to drink;
When hark! a cry was uttered that made the lady think;
A voice of an old woman, employed upon that day,
To do some extra tending, "look here," said she, "I say,
I guess you do not know me because I've shaved my chin,
I'm dressed like an old woman, but I'm a man within;
I'm Hiram Smike, your lover, who left the Yankee shore,
To come back here to wed you, I'm darned for evermore.
You've lifted me like thunder, but you shall never boast
Of how you jilted Hiram--I'm off to make a ghost!"
He said, tucked up his flounces, and, fluttering through the door,
He left them all astounded, and he was seen no more.
Next morning in the Dodder, upon the city side,
A man beheld a woman, come floating down the tide.
And far away in London, a bride, and bridegroom fled
From their hotel at midnight--a ghost was round the bed!
They sought a second lodging, but in the room, as host,
Was waiting to receive them that sad, intruding ghost.
They tried a cabman's shelter, but it was all in vain,
That tantalizing spectre was by their sides again.
Aye, even in the daylight, in Rotten Row, aloud
They heard an awful murmur like water thro' the crowd;
A moan as from neuralgia did on each tympan strike,
"His ghost is on the war path avenging Hiram Smike."
They tried the penny steam-boats, the railway underground,
The busses and the tramcars, but still they always found
That busy ghost around them, their lives could not be worse.
"O thunder!" shrieked the bridegroom, "I'll seek for a divorce."
But when the court was opened, the judge refused to sit,
For every pleading lawyer had got a sneezing fit;
And then there came the earthquake, the ruddy sunsets came,
When lo! quite unexpected, one night, they saw a flame.
A flash like a vesuvian, did by the table strike,
With a Satanic whisper, "You're wanted, Hiram Smike."
And from that curious moment, there is no more to tell,
They're having every comfort, I hear they're doing well.
[Decoration]
[Illustration: WHY DID YE DIE?]
"O PAT, the blush is on your face,
You're white, an' cowld an' still,
I'm all alone, an' by your side,
Upon the bleak damp hill.
The beatin' from your heart is gone!
The starlight from your eye,
Mavrone Asthore, O Pat agra!
Arrah! why did ye die?
A sthrake of blood is on your breast,
An' blood is on your brow,
O let me die meself, an' rest,
It's all I care for now.
I want to go where you are gone,
An' in your grave to lie!
Ah! Pat avrone, I'm all alone,
Arrah! why did ye die?
Me curse is on the men avick!
That brought you out this night,
That took you off an' made me sick,
An' coaxed ye to the fight,
O sure 'twas wrong to give your life,
An' lave your wife to cry,
Ah! Pat you should have stayed at home,
Arrah! why did ye die?
You wouldn't take me warnin', Pat,
An' shun the moonlight boys,"--
"Ah! Biddy whisht! wake out of that,
You're dhramin'! stop yer noise!
Ye've dhragged the blankets off of me,
I'm jammed against the wall,
An' you're bawlin' all for nothin' for
I'm not dead at all!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: A PRETTY LITTLE LAND I KNOW]
A PRETTY little land I know,
Surrounded by the pearly spray;
It's where the em'rald shamrocks grow
In fertile propagation.
The great bear in the polar sky
Can see it at the fall of day,
When peeping with his glistening eye,
Towards Britain's mighty nation.
For when the sun is rolling down
Into the ocean for the night,
In all his radiant golden crown,
And purple-flecker'd rays;
While tucking on his dreaming cap,
Inside the crimson curtains bright,
The great warm-hearted kingly chap,
Looks back with loving gaze.
And where the shining waters dance
Across the wild Atlantic deeps,
He takes a sudden, pleasing glance;
And when the twilight cometh grey
On other shores, with coaxing glow,
He winks his eye before he sleeps,
Upon that charming land I know,
That's jewel'd in the pearly spray.
There, lore of bravest deeds enshrine
Great phantoms of historic days;
There, myrtle wreaths of memory twine
O'er many storied graves;
There, many marble brows are bound
By sculpture of the poet's bays,
The while their souls are still in sound
From harp strings to the waves.
With glorious wealth of hair in curls,
And beauty, real elating, boys,
It's there you'll find most darling girls
In plentiful diffusion.
And Cupid, with his bow and darts,
His murders perpetrating, boys,
Don't care at all what crowds of hearts
He slays by love's delusion.
[Illustration: HOW THEY ENLIST]
TWO guardsmen, and a Dublin boy
Were drinking in a bar
The Dublin boy was standing treat,
Unto the men of War,
And thus to one, he speaketh so--
The taller of the two--
"I wonder how men come to go
And list, now how did you?
The soldier grinned a stately grin,
In military style,
He meant it for the Dublin boy
As patronising smile!
"It kind of sort like worries me,--
This was the cause of that,
I always liked to feed on lean,
I couldn't bolt the fat!
"One day, it was at dinner, see,
A big disgustin' lump
Of fat, was dumped upon my plate,
I got the bloomin' hump!
I merely took the thing upon
My fork, and with a sigh,
I let my father have the fat
Whop in his bloomin' eye!
"A sign of partnership dissolved
Between my boss, and me,
I took the shillin', and became
A guardsman, as you see,
But there! my appetite has been
Most tricky like, and mean,
Now I can eat a pound of fat,
And I detest the lean!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE KINDERGARTEN WAY.]
IN a perfumed orange grove, ajacent to Cordova,
I taught the English Grammar unto a lady gay;
The verb "to osculate"
I taught to conjugate,
Corporeally depicted, in kindergarten way.
But by eavesdropping trick,
A caballero quick,
With lapse of condescension,--
But where I may not mention,--
In dexter handed flick,
The Spanish verb to "stick"
Corporeally inflicted, in kindergarten way.
The verb "to do," he did it,
For Spanish laws forbid it;
To translate free,
Corporeallee,
The verb "to love," and practice it,
Upon the pupil, 'tis unfit,
To illustrate,
Its active state,
When passive hate,
Behind a gate,
Doth lie in wait,
To teach the verb "to suffer,"
In kindergarten way;
He taught the verb "to suffer,"
By impromt sword display,
I learnt the verb "to suffer!"
And would not, could not stay,
So left upon that day,
My fee he did not pay,
His ingrate, Spanish way!
[Illustration: Curtain]
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS ON THE BARNEY BRADEY BROCHURES BY WM. THEODORE
PARKES.
"It is pleasant to turn from these gloomy details to the hearty,
rollicking, honest, joyous spirit of Barney Bradey. He sings the
Prince's Installation to the tune to which _Ingoldsby_ sang the Queen's
Coronation, and with very much of the same spirit and success. The
details are full of real good humour, and are thus picturesquely
concluded with a touch of the Ulster King at Arms.... Barney Bradey's
eye was pretty well everywhere but it failed to see one incident of the
day.... All this is worthy of being sung by such a bard as the author of
'St. Patrick's Ruction.'"--_Athenæum._
"Most people know Barney Bradey, and the more you know of him the better
you like him. Perhaps very few of your comic poets have achieved such
legitimate success as Barney, whether in 'St. Patrick's Ruction' or, the
'Queer Papers,' or even in the fugitive pieces which come to us from
time to time. The whole story of Napoleon's war is told in verse, with a
genuine Irish humour, abounding in good points and suggestive images.
The fun is quite of an original kind, and is really _sui generis_. The
author has great command of language, expressive yet simple, and manages
meter with uncommon skill. The strange inversions, provoking hyberbole,
and quaint terms characteristic of Irish humour, are here lavishly
displayed; and the man who would not laugh with Barney, while yet
appreciating his satirical truth, must be unhappy indeed. The range of
thought, though extensive, is very germane, and the humourist discovers
a tinge of that Byronic happiness in soaring high and still keeping the
game in sight. We regret that we cannot quote a stanza or two from 'The
Christening Cake' to prove to our readers that our praise is as well
deserved as it is genuine."--_Freeman's Journal._
"This is a humourous extravaganza, by the author of 'St. Patrick's
Ruction' and other comic rhymes, and is characterized by the same
cleverness and quaint drollery. The 'baptism of fire,' the
proclamations, letters, telegrams, projects, and incidents of the war,
are represented in fantastic forms of illustration. The effect is as
ridiculous as the author intends it to be."--_Daily Express._
"Welcome Barney!--In many a quaint, merry, and most grotesque "fytte,"
our rollicking Irish Rabelais runs over the most marked opening
incidents of the Franco-Prussian war. All the outlandishness of diction;
the funniness of Hibernian phonetic spelling; the strange, wild, yet
always true, similes and comparisons; the madcap, boisterous,
merry-making that characterized 'St. Patrick's Ruction,' and the 'Queer
Papers,' are repeated, equalled, aye, surpassed in the CHRISTENING CAKE.
Barney's history of the war ends at Saarbruck. We long to hear him on
Weissembourg, Sedan, Strasbourg, Metz, and Paris. We lately noticed 'St.
Patrick's Ruction,' a work as full of real Irish witticisms as any we
ever perused, and one that has won its author unstinted praise. The
orthography of the present brochure is as comically outrageous, the
similes and comparisons as far-fetched, and yet as true to nature--the
whole dainty tome as full of genuine, rollicking, open-hearted Irish fun
and humour as 'The Installation' or 'Sods from Puncherstown.' It is
pathetic, comical--true to nature, true to art."--_Tyrone Constitution._
"It is seldom in these days that one comes upon anything thoroughly and
undeniably Irish in the matter of witty writing. But the productions of
'Barney Bradey' are a refreshing exception to this doleful rule. In 'St.
Patrick's Ruction,' and the 'Queer Papers,' we rejoiced to find that an
original had arisen among us; and now, in another production, we are
pleased to see our first opinion verified. The design of the piece lies
in the combination of fifteen poems in one 'harmonious whole.' The story
ends with the capture of Saarbruck, and all throughout runs a vein of
most pungent and telling satire."--_Post._
"The clever author of 'St. Patrick's Ruction has presented the public
with another exceedingly witty pamphlet. The language is well chosen,
and is sure heartily to amuse the reader; there is a vein of
well-directed satire in every line that exhibits the thoughtfulness of
the apparent careless writer."--_Limerick Chronicle._
"Barney sings in Anglo-Irish doggrel of the most exquisite and original
kind. His readers, whose name is legion, will find him quite as
entertaining in those 'Queer Papers' as when his comet-like genius first
blazed upon the world in 'St. Patrick's Ruction."--_Limerick Reporter._
"Barney Bradey is a poet of no ordinary powers. It is not going too far
to say that he has acquitted himself to his own satisfaction, and also
to that of others. His orthography is peculiar, and his fun and wit are
thoroughly Irish. The droll and clever Barney is a queer character, but
he is so full of humour and says so many witty things that he must
become a favourite with every one."--_Dundalk Democrat._
"This poem under notice is merry in the extreme, and displays an
accurate knowledge of Irish character, and of the peculiar English in
which it likes to display itself. The author wishes everybody to be
agreeable, and sets a good example himself. Here is a description of the
ladies present at the installation service, full of the gentlest
satire.... In addition, there is prose, entitled 'Sods from the Turf of
Puncherstown.' It makes merry, but most good-humouredly, with everybody
and everything, and by many readers will be regarded as fully equal to
most of Artemus Ward's attempts. We have not seen his 'Tails and
Ballids,' but it is spoken of highly, and we do not think the present
attempt is deserving of less praise."--_Portadown News._
"This is a whimsical and clever little production, written in a style of
orthography peculiarly its own, and conveying a vast amount of humour.
The lines entitled 'O Law! there's a Star from the Sky,' are rich and
full of humorous comicality, greatly heightened by their droll
versification."--_Derry Journal._
"The grand processions, crushing, crowding, cheering, are all
graphically detailed by the poetic 'Barney.' Altogether, a very pleasant
hour may be spent in company with our facetious friend, 'Barney
Bradey.'"--_Carlow Sentinel._
"Barney Bradey has acquired considerable success in his treatment of
Irish wit and character, partly in prose and partly in poetry: the
latter runs on in a clear stream of merriment, while the former, with
rollicking fun, possesses an undercurrent of light wit, and occasionally
of caustic sarcasm. Taken as a whole the little book is exceedingly
readable, and as a bold venture on a very delicate field of literature,
may be looked on as a decided success."--_Herald._
"Barney Bradey will cause a merry laugh to many by his piquant humour
and droll conceits. They display at times an acuteness of observation
and a pungency of wit which is heightened by the quaint mode of
expression used."--_King's County Chronicle._
"Over Barney Bradey's Papers every reader is sure to laugh. They are
full of fun and jollity. The only fault is their brevity."--_Malvern
News._
"Barney Bradey is one gem of the Isle. He understands the
'boys,' and expresses their opinions in a very cute sensible
way."--_Kirkcudbrightshire Advertiser._
"Barney Bradey's Papers are so droll that we cannot do better than give
our readers the one 'Matrimonial.'"--_Eastern Post._
"Barney Bradey's Papers will afford considerable amusement.'--_Ayrshire
Express._
"Barney Bradey's Papers are full of genuine humour."--_Greenwich
Gazette._
"The facetious style has an excellent exponent in the person of Barney
Bradey."--_Brighton Daily News._
"Prose or verse come equally facile to his exceedingly humorous and racy
pen."--_Ecclesiastical Gazette._
End of Project Gutenberg's The Spook Ballads, by William Theodore Parkes