BABETTE she was a fisher gal,
With jupon striped and cap in crimps.
She passed her days inside the Halle,
Or catching little nimble shrimps.
Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,
With no professional bouquet.
JACOT was, of the Customs bold,
An officer, at gay Boulogne,
He loved BABETTE—his love he told,
And sighed, “Oh, soyez vous my own!”
But “Non!” said she, “JACOT, my pet,
Vous êtes trop scraggy pour BABETTE.
“Of one alone I nightly dream,
An able mariner is he,
And gaily serves the Gen’ral Steam-
Boat Navigation Companee.
I’ll marry him, if he but will—
His name, I rather think, is BILL.
“I see him when he’s not aware,
Upon our hospitable coast,
Reclining with an easy air
Upon the _Port_ against a post,
A-thinking of, I’ll dare to say,
His native Chelsea far away!”
“Oh, mon!” exclaimed the Customs bold,
“Mes yeux!” he said (which means “my eye”)
“Oh, chère!” he also cried, I’m told,
“Par Jove,” he added, with a sigh.
“Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove!
Je n’aime pas cet enticing cove!”
The _Panther’s_ captain stood hard by,
He was a man of morals strict
If e’er a sailor winked his eye,
Straightway he had that sailor licked,
Mast-headed all (such was his code)
Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.
He wept to think a tar of his
Should lean so gracefully on posts,
He sighed and sobbed to think of this,
On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.
“It’s human natur’, p’raps—if so,
Oh, isn’t human natur’ low!”
He called his BILL, who pulled his curl,
He said, “My BILL, I understand
You’ve captivated some young gurl
On this here French and foreign land.
Her tender heart your beauties jog—
They do, you know they do, you dog.
“You have a graceful way, I learn,
Of leaning airily on posts,
By which you’ve been and caused to burn
A tender flame on these here coasts.
A fisher gurl, I much regret,—
Her age, sixteen—her name, BABETTE.
“You’ll marry her, you gentle tar—
Your union I myself will bless,
And when you matrimonied are,
I will appoint her stewardess.”
But WILLIAM hitched himself and sighed,
And cleared his throat, and thus replied:
“Not so: unless you’re fond of strife,
You’d better mind your own affairs,
I have an able-bodied wife
Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs;
If all this here to her I tell,
She’ll larrup you and me as well.
“Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,
Is beauty such as VENUS owns—
_Her_ beauty is beneath her skin,
And lies in layers on her bones.
The other sailors of the crew
They always calls her ‘Whopping Sue!’”
“Oho!” the Captain said, “I see!
And is she then so very strong?”
“She’d take your honour’s scruff,” said he
“And pitch you over to Bolong!”
“I pardon you,” the Captain said,
“The fair BABETTE you needn’t wed.”
Perhaps the Customs had his will,
And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,
Perhaps the Captain and his BILL,
And WILLIAM’S little wife are dead;
Or p’raps they’re all alive and well:
I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.
TO MY BRIDE
(WHOEVER SHE MAY BE)
OH! little maid!—(I do not know your name
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain—
A bachelor of _circa_ two and thirty:
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And when you’re intimate, you’ll call him “BERTIE.”
Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified.
You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar,
After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far,
A brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions;
A pound or two from whist and backing horses,
And, say three hundred from his own resources.
Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,
His faults are not particularly shady,
You’ll never find him “_shy_”—for, once or twice
Already, he’s been driven by a lady,
Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—
Because she hasn’t any further use for him.
Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!
Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,
I’ve told _your_ fortune; solved the gravest care
With which your mind has hitherto been laden.
I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it;
Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!
You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will,
To whom I’m destined shortly to be mated,
Will she run up a heavy _modiste’s_ bill?
If so, I want to hear her income stated
(This is a point which interests me greatly).
To quote the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?”
Say, must I wait till husband number one
Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?
How is her hair most usually done?
And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?
The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:
Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all attention.
THE FOLLY OF BROWN
BY A GENERAL AGENT
I KNEW a boor—a clownish card
(His only friends were pigs and cows and
The poultry of a small farmyard),
Who came into two hundred thousand.
Good fortune worked no change in BROWN,
Though she’s a mighty social chymist;
He was a clown—and by a clown
I do not mean a pantomimist.
It left him quiet, calm, and cool,
Though hardly knowing what a crown was—
You can’t imagine what a fool
Poor rich uneducated BROWN was!
He scouted all who wished to come
And give him monetary schooling;
And I propose to give you some
Idea of his insensate fooling.
I formed a company or two—
(Of course I don’t know what the rest meant,
I formed them solely with a view
To help him to a sound investment).
Their objects were—their only cares—
To justify their Boards in showing
A handsome dividend on shares
And keep their good promoter going.
But no—the lout sticks to his brass,
Though shares at par I freely proffer:
Yet—will it be believed?—the ass
Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!
He adds, with bumpkin’s stolid grin
(A weakly intellect denoting),
He’d rather not invest it in
A company of my promoting!
“You have two hundred ‘thou’ or more,”
Said I. “You’ll waste it, lose it, lend it;
Come, take my furnished second floor,
I’ll gladly show you how to spend it.”
But will it be believed that he,
With grin upon his face of poppy,
Declined my aid, while thanking me
For what he called my “philanthroppy”?
Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice
In doubting friends who wouldn’t harm them;
They will not hear the charmer’s voice,
However wisely he may charm them!
I showed him that his coat, all dust,
Top boots and cords provoked compassion,
And proved that men of station must
Conform to the decrees of fashion.
I showed him where to buy his hat
To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;
But no—he wouldn’t hear of that—
“He didn’t think the style would suit him!”
I offered him a county seat,
And made no end of an oration;
I made it certainty complete,
And introduced the deputation.
But no—the clown my prospect blights—
(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)
“Why should I want to spend my nights
In Parliament, a-making speeches?
“I haven’t never been to school—
I ain’t had not no eddication—
And I should surely be a fool
To publish that to all the nation!”
I offered him a trotting horse—
No hack had ever trotted faster—
I also offered him, of course,
A rare and curious “old master.”
I offered to procure him weeds—
Wines fit for one in his position—
But, though an ass in all his deeds,
He’d learnt the meaning of “commission.”
He called me “thief” the other day,
And daily from his door he thrusts me;
Much more of this, and soon I may
Begin to think that BROWN mistrusts me.
So deaf to all sound Reason’s rule
This poor uneducated clown is,
You can_not_ fancy what a fool
Poor rich uneducated BROWN is.