More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert

Transcribed by David Price, email MORE BAB BALLADS Contents: Mister William The Bumboat Woman’s Story The Two Ogres Little Oliver Pasha Bailey Ben Lieutenant-Colonel Flare Lost Mr. Blake The Baby’s Vengeance The Captain And The Mermaids Annie Protheroe. A Legend of Stratford-Le-Bow An Unfortunate Likeness Gregory Parable, LL.D. The King Of Canoodle-Dum First Love
This page contains affiliate links. As Amazon Associates we earn from qualifying purchases.
Buy it on Amazon FREE Audible 30 days

Transcribed by David Price, email



Mister William
The Bumboat Woman’s Story
The Two Ogres
Little Oliver
Pasha Bailey Ben
Lieutenant-Colonel Flare
Lost Mr. Blake
The Baby’s Vengeance
The Captain And The Mermaids
Annie Protheroe. A Legend of Stratford-Le-Bow An Unfortunate Likeness
Gregory Parable, LL.D.
The King Of Canoodle-Dum
First Love
Brave Alum Bey
Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo
The Modest Couple
The Martinet
The Sailor Boy To His Lass
The Reverend Simon Magus
Damon v. Pythias
My Dream
The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo Again
A Worm Will Turn
The Haughty Actor
The Two Majors
Emily, John, James, And I. A Derby Legend The Perils Of Invisibility
Old Paul And Old Tim
The Mystic Selvagee
The Cunning Woman
The Fairy Curate
The Way Of Wooing
Hongree And Mahry. A Recollection Of A Surrey Melodrama Etiquette

Ballad: Mister William

Oh, listen to the tale of MISTER WILLIAM, if you please, Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas. He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife, Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.

He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone, Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own. But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike– To plan ONE little wickedness–to see what it was like.

He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I; I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try! For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold, And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold!

“A baby who is wicked at the early age of one, And then reforms–and dies at thirty-six a spotless son, Is never, never saddled with his babyhood’s defect, But earns from worthy men consideration and respect.

“So one who never revelled in discreditable tricks Until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six, May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame, Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.

“That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true, But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue; And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll, Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.

“The common sin of babyhood–objecting to be drest– If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest, For anything you know, may represent, if you’re alive, A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.

“Still, I wouldn’t take advantage of this fact, but be content With some pardonable folly–it’s a mere experiment. The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin; So with something that’s particularly tempting I’ll begin.

“I would not steal a penny, for my income’s very fair– I do not want a penny–I have pennies and to spare– And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till, The sin would be enormous–the temptation being nil.

“But if I broke asunder all such pettifogging bounds, And forged a party’s Will for (say) Five Hundred Thousand Pounds, With such an irresistible temptation to a haul, Of course the sin must be infinitesimally small.

“There’s WILSON who is dying–he has wealth from Stock and rent– If I divert his riches from their natural descent, I’m placed in a position to indulge each little whim.” So he diverted them–and they, in turn, diverted him.

Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw, Temptation isn’t recognized by Britain’s Common Law; Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch, And WILLIAM got a “lifer,” which annoyed him very much.

For, ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol, He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale; He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him so That his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low.

And sympathetic gaolers would remark, “It’s very true, He ain’t been brought up common, like the likes of me and you.” So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops, And chocolate, and arrowroot, and buns, and malt and hops.

Kind Clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate, Affected by the details of his pitiable state. They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall, Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call.

“Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case: A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace; It’s telling on young WILLIAM, who’s reduced to skin and bone– Remember he’s a gentleman, with money of his own.

“He had an ample income, and of course he stands in need Of sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed; No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips– He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips.

“He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude; He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food. When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad, And other educational advantages he’s had.

“A burglar or garotter, or, indeed, a common thief Is very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef, Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,– A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward.

“But beef and mutton-broth don’t seem to suit our WILLIAM’S whim, A boon to other prisoners–a punishment to him. It never was intended that the discipline of gaol Should dash a convict’s spirits, sir, or make him thin or pale.”

“Good Gracious Me!” that sympathetic Secretary cried, “Suppose in prison fetters MISTER WILLIAM should have died! Dear me, of course! Imprisonment for LIFE his sentence saith: I’m very glad you mentioned it–it might have been For Death!

“Release him with a ticket–he’ll be better then, no doubt, And tell him I apologize.” So MISTER WILLIAM’S out. I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I’m sure, And not begin experimentalizing any more.

Ballad: The Bumboat Woman’s Story

I’m old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief, My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief! For terrible sights I’ve seen, and dangers great I’ve run– I’m nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done!

Ah! I’ve been young in my time, and I’ve played the deuce with men! I’m speaking of ten years past–I was barely sixty then: My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet, POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet!

A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships With apples and cakes, and fowls, and beer, and halfpenny dips, And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights, And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites.

Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay, By far the sweetest of all was kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.’ LIEUTENANT BELAYE commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun, She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun.

With a laudable view of enhancing his country’s naval pride, When people inquired her size, LIEUTENANT BELAYE replied, “Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Seventy-ones!” Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns.

Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below, “Come down, Little Buttercup, come” (for he loved to call me so), And he’d tell of the fights at sea in which he’d taken a part, And so LIEUTENANT BELAYE won poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S heart!

But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he, “I’m ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea.” And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day, For every Portsmouth maid loved good LIEUTENANT BELAYE.

And I went to a back back street, with plenty of cheap cheap shops, And I bought an oilskin hat and a second-hand suit of slops, And I went to LIEUTENANT BELAYE (and he never suspected ME!) And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea.

We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one,– Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun, I’m sorry to say that I’ve heard that sailors sometimes swear, But I never yet heard a BUN say anything wrong, I declare.

When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a “Messmate, ho! What cheer?” But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was “How do you do, my dear?” When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big D- But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild “Dear me!”

Yet, though they were all well-bred, you could scarcely call them slick:
Whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick; And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair, They spent more time than a sailor should on his back back hair.

They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run, And they screamed when LIEUTENANT BELAYE discharged his only gun. And as he was proud of his gun–such pride is hardly wrong– The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long.

They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said That BILL had a way of his own of making his lips look red– That JOE looked quite his age–or somebody might declare That BARNACLE’S long pig-tail was never his own own hair.

BELAYE would admit that his men were of no great use to him, “But, then,” he would say, “there is little to do on a gunboat trim I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too– And it IS such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew.”

I saw him every day. How the happy moments sped! Reef topsails! Make all taut! There’s dirty weather ahead! (I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun: In THAT case, I don’t know whatever we SHOULD have done!)

After a fortnight’s cruise, we put into port one day, And off on leave for a week went kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE, And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life), LIEUTENANT BELAYE returned to his ship with a fair young wife!

He up, and he says, says he, “O crew of the Hot Cross Bun, Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!” And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits, And all fell down in so many separate fainting-fits.

And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be, And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me, Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor’s blue array, To follow the shifting fate of kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.

* * * * * * * *

It’s strange to think that _I_ should ever have loved young men, But I’m speaking of ten years past–I was barely sixty then, And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow! And poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes have lost their lustre now!

Ballad: The Two Ogres

Good children, list, if you’re inclined, And wicked children too–
This pretty ballad is designed
Especially for you.

Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold–
Each TRAITS distinctive had:
The younger was as good as gold,
The elder was as bad.

A wicked, disobedient son
A contrast to the elder one,

M’ALPINE–brutes like him are few–
In greediness delights,
A melancholy victim to
Unchastened appetites.

Good, well-bred children every day
He ravenously ate,–
All boys were fish who found their way Into M’ALPINE’S net:

Boys whose good breeding is innate,
Whose sums are always right;
And boys who don’t expostulate
When sent to bed at night;

And kindly boys who never search
The nests of birds of song;
And serious boys for whom, in church, No sermon is too long.

Contrast with JAMES’S greedy haste
And comprehensive hand,
The nice discriminating taste

BLAND only eats bad boys, who swear– Who CAN behave, but DON’T–
Disgraceful lads who say “don’t care,” And “shan’t,” and “can’t,” and “won’t.”

Who wet their shoes and learn to box, And say what isn’t true,
Who bite their nails and jam their frocks, And make long noses too;

Who kick a nurse’s aged shin,
And sit in sulky mopes;
And boys who twirl poor kittens in
Distracting zoetropes.

But JAMES, when he was quite a youth, Had often been to school,
And though so bad, to tell the truth, He wasn’t quite a fool.

At logic few with him could vie;
To his peculiar sect
He could propose a fallacy
With singular effect.

So, when his Mentors said, “Expound– Why eat good children–why?”
Upon his Mentors he would round
With this absurd reply:

“I have been taught to love the good– The pure–the unalloyed–
And wicked boys, I’ve understood,
I always should avoid.

“Why do I eat good children–why?
Because I love them so!”
(But this was empty sophistry,
As your Papa can show.)

Now, though the learning of his friends Was truly not immense,
They had a way of fitting ends
By rule of common sense.

“Away, away!” his Mentors cried,
“Thou uncongenial pest!
A quirk’s a thing we can’t abide,
A quibble we detest!

“A fallacy in your reply
Our intellect descries,
Although we don’t pretend to spy
Exactly where it lies.

“In misery and penal woes
Must end a glutton’s joys;
And learn how ogres punish those
Who dare to eat good boys.

“Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain, And gagged securely–so–
You shall be placed in Drury Lane,
Where only good lads go.

“Surrounded there by virtuous boys,
You’ll suffer torture wus
Than that which constantly annoys
Disgraceful TANTALUS.

(“If you would learn the woes that vex Poor TANTALUS, down there,
Pray borrow of Papa an ex-
Purgated LEMPRIERE.)

“But as for BLAND who, as it seems,
Eats only naughty boys,
We’ve planned a recompense that teems With gastronomic joys.

“Where wicked youths in crowds are stowed He shall unquestioned rule,
And have the run of Hackney Road
Reformatory School!”

Ballad: Little Oliver

EARL JOYCE he was a kind old party
Whom nothing ever could put out,
Though eighty-two, he still was hearty, Excepting as regarded gout.

He had one unexampled daughter,
Fair MINNIE-HAHA, “Laughing Water,” So called from her melodious voice.

By Nature planned for lover-capture,
Her beauty every heart assailed;
The good old nobleman with rapture
Observed how widely she prevailed

Aloof from all the lordly flockings
Of titled swells who worshipped her, There stood, in pumps and cotton stockings, One humble lover–OLIVER.

He was no peer by Fortune petted,
His name recalled no bygone age;
He was no lordling coronetted–
Alas! he was a simple page!

With vain appeals he never bored her, But stood in silent sorrow by–
He knew how fondly he adored her,
And knew, alas! how hopelessly!

Well grounded by a village tutor
In languages alive and past,
He’d say unto himself, “Knee-suitor, Oh, do not go beyond your last!”

But though his name could boast no handle, He could not every hope resign;
As moths will hover round a candle, So hovered he about her shrine.

The brilliant candle dazed the moth well: One day she sang to her Papa
The air that MARIE sings with BOTHWELL In NEIDERMEYER’S opera.

(Therein a stable boy, it’s stated,
Devoutly loved a noble dame,
Who ardently reciprocated
His rather injudicious flame.)

And then, before the piano closing
(He listened coyly at the door),
She sang a song of her composing–
I give one verse from half a score:


Why, pretty page, art ever sighing?
Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying?
Come, set a-ringing
Thy laugh entrancing,
And ever singing
And ever dancing.
Ever singing, Tra! la! la!
Ever dancing, Tra! la! la!
Ever singing, ever dancing,
Ever singing, Tra! la! la!

He skipped for joy like little muttons, He danced like Esmeralda’s kid.
(She did not mean a boy in buttons, Although he fancied that she did.)

Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her, He wore out many pairs of soles;
He danced when taking down the dinner– He danced when bringing up the coals.

He danced and sang (however laden)
With his incessant “Tra! la! la!”
Which much surprised the noble maiden, And puzzled even her Papa.

He nourished now his flame and fanned it, He even danced at work below.
The upper servants wouldn’t stand it, And BOWLES the butler told him so.

At length on impulse acting blindly,
His love he laid completely bare;
The gentle Earl received him kindly And told the lad to take a chair.

“Oh, sir,” the suitor uttered sadly,
“Don’t give your indignation vent;
I fear you think I’m acting madly,
Perhaps you think me insolent?”

The kindly Earl repelled the notion;
His noble bosom heaved a sigh,
His fingers trembled with emotion,
A tear stood in his mild blue eye:

For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly The half-forgotten time when he,
A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly A governess of forty-three!

“My boy,” he said, in tone consoling, “Give up this idle fancy–do–
The song you heard my daughter trolling Did not, indeed, refer to you.

“I feel for you, poor boy, acutely;
I would not wish to give you pain;
Your pangs I estimate minutely,–
I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.

“But still your humble rank and station For MINNIE surely are not meet”–
He said much more in conversation
Which it were needless to repeat.

Now I’m prepared to bet a guinea,
Were this a mere dramatic case,
The page would have eloped with MINNIE, But, no–he only left his place.

The simple Truth is my detective,
With me Sensation can’t abide;
The Likely beats the mere Effective, And Nature is my only guide.

Ballad: Pasha Bailey Ben

A proud Pasha was BAILEY BEN,
His wives were three, his tails were ten; His form was dignified, but stout,
Men called him “Little Roundabout.”

His Importance

Pale Pilgrims came from o’er the sea
To wait on PASHA BAILEY B.,
All bearing presents in a crowd,
For B. was poor as well as proud.

His Presents

They brought him onions strung on ropes, And cold boiled beef, and telescopes,
And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns, And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns.

More of them

They brought him white kid gloves, and pails, And candlesticks, and potted quails,
And capstan-bars, and scales and weights, And ornaments for empty grates.

Why I mention these

My tale is not of these–oh no!
I only mention them to show
The divers gifts that divers men
Brought o’er the sea to BAILEY BEN.

His Confidant

A confidant had BAILEY B.,
A gay Mongolian dog was he;
I am not good at Turkish names,
And so I call him SIMPLE JAMES.

His Confidant’s Countenance

A dreadful legend you might trace
In SIMPLE JAMES’S honest face,
For there you read, in Nature’s print, “A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint.”

His Character

A deed of blood, or fire, or flames,
Was meat and drink to SIMPLE JAMES: To hide his guilt he did not plan,
But owned himself a bad young man.

The Author to his Reader

And why on earth good BAILEY BEN
(The wisest, noblest, best of men)
Made SIMPLE JAMES his right-hand man Is quite beyond my mental span.

The same, continued

But there–enough of gruesome deeds!
My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds; And so let SIMPLE JAMES take wing,–
‘Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Pasha’s Clerk

Good PASHA BAILEY kept a clerk
(For BAILEY only made his mark),
A man of nearly forty-two.

His Accomplishments

No person that I ever knew
Could “yodel” half as well as COO,
And Highlanders exclaimed, “Eh, weel!” When COO began to dance a reel.

His Kindness to the Pasha’s Wives

He used to dance and sing and play
In such an unaffected way,
He cheered the unexciting lives
Of PASHA BAILEY’S lovely wives.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I encumber you
With histories of MATTHEW COO?
Let MATTHEW COO at once take wing,– ‘Tis not of COO I’m going to sing.

The Author’s Muse

Let me recall my wandering Muse;
She SHALL be steady if I choose–
She roves, instead of helping me
To tell the deeds of BAILEY B.

The Pasha’s Visitor

One morning knocked, at half-past eight, A tall Red Indian at his gate.
In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware,
Red Indians are extremely rare.

The Visitor’s Outfit

Mocassins decked his graceful legs,
His eyes were black, and round as eggs, And on his neck, instead of beads,
Hung several Catawampous seeds.

What the Visitor said

“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one, Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,
You’ve NEVER seen the Red Man skip
Upon the banks of Mississip!”

The Author’s Moderation

To say that BAILEY oped his eyes
Would feebly paint his great surprise– To say it almost made him die
Would be to paint it much too high.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I ransack my head
To tell you all that Indian said;
We’ll let the Indian man take wing,– ‘Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Reader to the Author

Come, come, I say, that’s quite enough Of this absurd disjointed stuff;
Now let’s get on to that affair

Ballad: Lieutenant-Colonel Flare

The earth has armies plenty,
And semi-warlike bands,
I dare say there are twenty
In European lands;
But, oh! in no direction
You’d find one to compare
In brotherly affection
With that of COLONEL FLARE.

His soldiers might be rated
As military Pearls.
As unsophisticated
As pretty little girls!
They never smoked or ratted,
Or talked of Sues or Polls;
The Sergeant-Major tatted,
The others nursed their dolls.

He spent his days in teaching
These truly solemn facts;
There’s little use in preaching,
Or circulating tracts.
(The vainest plan invented
For stifling other creeds,
Unless it’s supplemented
With charitable DEEDS.)

He taught his soldiers kindly
To give at Hunger’s call:
“Oh, better far give blindly,
Than never give at all!
Though sympathy be kindled
By Imposition’s game,
Oh, better far be swindled
Than smother up its flame!”

His means were far from ample
For pleasure or for dress,
Yet note this bright example
Of single-heartedness:
Though ranking as a Colonel,
His pay was but a groat,
While their reward diurnal
Was–each a five-pound note.

Moreover,–this evinces
His kindness, you’ll allow,–
He fed them all like princes,
And lived himself on cow.
He set them all regaling
On curious wines, and dear,
While he would sit pale-ale-ing,
Or quaffing ginger-beer.

Then at his instigation
(A pretty fancy this)
Their daily pay and ration
He’d take in change for his;
They brought it to him weekly,
And he without a groan,
Would take it from them meekly
And give them all his own!

Though not exactly knighted
As knights, of course, should be,
Yet no one so delighted
In harmless chivalry.
If peasant girl or ladye
Beneath misfortunes sank,
Whate’er distinctions made he,
They were not those of rank.

No maiden young and comely
Who wanted good advice
(However poor or homely)
Need ask him for it twice.
He’d wipe away the blindness
That comes of teary dew;
His sympathetic kindness
No sort of limit knew.

He always hated dealing
With men who schemed or planned;
A person harsh–unfeeling–
The Colonel could not stand.
He hated cold, suspecting,
Official men in blue,
Who pass their lives detecting
The crimes that others do.

For men who’d shoot a sparrow,
Or immolate a worm
Beneath a farmer’s harrow,
He could not find a term.
Humanely, ay, and knightly
He dealt with such an one;
He took and tied him tightly,
And blew him from a gun.

The earth has armies plenty,
And semi-warlike bands,
I’m certain there are twenty
In European lands;
But, oh! in no direction
You’d find one to compare
In brotherly affection
With that of COLONEL FLARE.

Ballad: Lost Mr. Blake

MR. BLAKE was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner, Who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak, He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking a glass of grog on a Sunday after dinner,
And seldom thought of going to church more than twice or–if Good Friday or Christmas Day happened to come in it–three times a week.

He was quite indifferent as to the particular kinds of dresses That the clergyman wore at church where he used to go to pray, And whatever he did in the way of relieving a chap’s distresses, He always did in a nasty, sneaking, underhanded, hole-and-corner sort of way.

I have known him indulge in profane, ungentlemanly emphatics, When the Protestant Church has been divided on the subject of the proper width of a chasuble’s hem;
I have even known him to sneer at albs–and as for dalmatics, Words can’t convey an idea of the contempt he expressed for THEM.

He didn’t believe in persons who, not being well off themselves, are obliged to confine their charitable exertions to collecting money from wealthier people,
And looked upon individuals of the former class as ecclesiastical hawks;
He used to say that he would no more think of interfering with his priest’s robes than with his church or his steeple, And that he did not consider his soul imperilled because somebody over whom he had no influence whatever, chose to dress himself up like an exaggerated GUY FAWKES.

This shocking old vagabond was so unutterably shameless That he actually went a-courting a very respectable and pious middle- aged sister, by the name of BIGGS.
She was a rather attractive widow, whose life as such had always been particularly blameless;
Her first husband had left her a secure but moderate competence, owing to some fortunate speculations in the matter of figs.

She was an excellent person in every way–and won the respect even of MRS. GRUNDY,
She was a good housewife, too, and wouldn’t have wasted a penny if she had owned the Koh-i-noor.
She was just as strict as he was lax in her observance of Sunday, And being a good economist, and charitable besides, she took all the bones and cold potatoes and broken pie-crusts and candle-ends (when she had quite done with them), and made them into an excellent soup for the deserving poor.

I am sorry to say that she rather took to BLAKE–that outcast of society,
And when respectable brothers who were fond of her began to look dubious and to cough,
She would say, “Oh, my friends, it’s because I hope to bring this poor benighted soul back to virtue and propriety, And besides, the poor benighted soul, with all his faults, was uncommonly well off.

And when MR. BLAKE’S dissipated friends called his attention to the frown or the pout of her,
Whenever he did anything which appeared to her to savour of an unmentionable place,
He would say that “she would be a very decent old girl when all that nonsense was knocked out of her,”
And his method of knocking it out of her is one that covered him with disgrace.

She was fond of going to church services four times every Sunday, and, four or five times in the week, and never seemed to pall of them, So he hunted out all the churches within a convenient distance that had services at different hours, so to speak; And when he had married her he positively insisted upon their going to all of them,
So they contrived to do about twelve churches every Sunday, and, if they had luck, from twenty-two to twenty-three in the course of the week.

She was fond of dropping his sovereigns ostentatiously into the plate, and she liked to see them stand out rather conspicuously against the commonplace half-crowns and shillings,
So he took her to all the charity sermons, and if by any extraordinary chance there wasn’t a charity sermon anywhere, he would drop a couple of sovereigns (one for him and one for her) into the poor-box at the door;
And as he always deducted the sums thus given in charity from the housekeeping money, and the money he allowed her for her bonnets and frillings,
She soon began to find that even charity, if you allow it to interfere with your personal luxuries, becomes an intolerable bore.

On Sundays she was always melancholy and anything but good society, For that day in her household was a day of sighings and sobbings and wringing of hands and shaking of heads:
She wouldn’t hear of a button being sewn on a glove, because it was a work neither of necessity nor of piety,
And strictly prohibited her servants from amusing themselves, or indeed doing anything at all except dusting the drawing-rooms, cleaning the boots and shoes, cooking the parlour dinner, waiting generally on the family, and making the beds.
But BLAKE even went further than that, and said that people should do their own works of necessity, and not delegate them to persons in a menial situation,
So he wouldn’t allow his servants to do so much as even answer a bell. Here he is making his wife carry up the water for her bath to the second floor, much against her inclination,– And why in the world the gentleman who illustrates these ballads has put him in a cocked hat is more than I can tell.

After about three months of this sort of thing, taking the smooth with the rough of it,
(Blacking her own boots and peeling her own potatoes was not her notion of connubial bliss),
MRS. BLAKE began to find that she had pretty nearly had enough of it, And came, in course of time, to think that BLAKE’S own original line of conduct wasn’t so much amiss.

And now that wicked person–that detestable sinner (“BELIAL BLAKE” his friends and well-wishers call him for his atrocities), And his poor deluded victim, whom all her Christian brothers dislike and pity so,
Go to the parish church only on Sunday morning and afternoon and occasionally on a week-day, and spend their evenings in connubial fondlings and affectionate reciprocities, And I should like to know where in the world (or rather, out of it) they expect to go!

Ballad: The Baby’s Vengeance

Weary at heart and extremely ill
Was PALEY VOLLAIRE of Bromptonville, In a dirty lodging, with fever down,
Close to the Polygon, Somers Town.

PALEY VOLLAIRE was an only son
(For why? His mother had had but one), And PALEY inherited gold and grounds
Worth several hundred thousand pounds.

But he, like many a rich young man,
Through this magnificent fortune ran, And nothing was left for his daily needs But duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds.

Shabby and sorry and sorely sick,
He slept, and dreamt that the clock’s “tick, tick,” Was one of the Fates, with a long sharp knife, Snicking off bits of his shortened life.

He woke and counted the pips on the walls, The outdoor passengers’ loud footfalls,
And reckoned all over, and reckoned again, The little white tufts on his counterpane.

A medical man to his bedside came.
(I can’t remember that doctor’s name), And said, “You’ll die in a very short while If you don’t set sail for Madeira’s isle.”

“Go to Madeira? goodness me!
I haven’t the money to pay your fee!” “Then, PALEY VOLLAIRE,” said the leech, “good bye; I’ll come no more, for your’re sure to die.”

He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast; “Oh, send,” said he, “for FREDERICK WEST, Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim:
I’ve a terrible tale to whisper him!”

Poor was FREDERICK’S lot in life,–
A dustman he with a fair young wife, A worthy man with a hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds–or more.

FREDERICK came, and he said, “Maybe
You’ll say what you happened to want with me?” “Wronged boy,” said PALEY VOLLAIRE, “I will, But don’t you fidget yourself–sit still.”


“‘Tis now some thirty-seven years ago Since first began the plot that I’m revealing, A fine young woman, whom you ought to know, Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing. Herself by means of mangling reimbursing, And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.

“Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot: One was her own–the other only lent to her: HER OWN SHE SLIGHTED. Tempted by a lot
Of gold and silver regularly sent to her, She ministered unto the little other
In the capacity of foster-mother.

“I WAS HER OWN. Oh! how I lay and sobbed In my poor cradle–deeply, deeply cursing The rich man’s pampered bantling, who had robbed My only birthright–an attentive nursing! Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother, I gnashed my gums–which terrified my mother.

“One day–it was quite early in the week– I IN MY CRADLE HAVING PLACED THE BANTLING– Crept into his! He had not learnt to speak, But I could see his face with anger mantling. It was imprudent–well, disgraceful maybe, For, oh! I was a bad, blackhearted baby!

“So great a luxury was food, I think
No wickedness but I was game to try for it. NOW if I wanted anything to drink
At any time, I only had to cry for it! ONCE, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking, My blubbering involved a serious smacking!

“We grew up in the usual way–my friend, My foster-brother, daily growing thinner, While gradually I began to mend,
And thrived amazingly on double dinner. And every one, besides my foster-mother, Believed that either of us was the other.

“I came into HIS wealth–I bore HIS name, I bear it still–HIS property I squandered– I mortgaged everything–and now (oh, shame!) Into a Somers Town shake-down I’ve wandered! I am no PALEY–no, VOLLAIRE–it’s true, my boy! The only rightful PALEY V. is YOU, my boy!

“And all I have is yours–and yours is mine. I still may place you in your true position: Give me the pounds you’ve saved, and I’ll resign My noble name, my rank, and my condition. So far my wickedness in falsely owning
Your vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!”

* * * * * * *

FREDERICK he was a simple soul,
He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll, And gave to PALEY his hard-earned store, A hundred and seventy pounds or more.

PALEY VOLLAIRE, with many a groan,
Gave FREDERICK all that he called his own,– Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean, A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane.

And FRED (entitled to all things there) He took the fever from MR. VOLLAIRE,
Which killed poor FREDERICK WEST. Meanwhile VOLLAIRE sailed off to Madeira’s isle.

Ballad: The Captain And The Mermaids

I sing a legend of the sea,
So hard-a-port upon your lee!
A ship on starboard tack!
She’s bound upon a private cruise– (This is the kind of spice I use
To give a salt-sea smack).

Behold, on every afternoon
(Save in a gale or strong Monsoon)
(Great morally, though rather short) Sat at an open weather-port
And aired his shapely legs.

And Mermaids hung around in flocks,
On cable chains and distant rocks,
To gaze upon those limbs;
For legs like those, of flesh and bone, Are things “not generally known”
To any Merman TIMBS.

But Mermen didn’t seem to care
Much time (as far as I’m aware)
With CLEGGS’S legs to spend;
Though Mermaids swam around all day And gazed, exclaiming, “THAT’S the way
A gentleman should end!

“A pair of legs with well-cut knees,
And calves and ankles such as these Which we in rapture hail,
Are far more eloquent, it’s clear
(When clothed in silk and kerseymere), Than any nasty tail.”

And CLEGGS–a worthy kind old boy–
Rejoiced to add to others’ joy,
And, when the day was dry,
Because it pleased the lookers-on,
He sat from morn till night–though con- Stitutionally shy.

At first the Mermen laughed, “Pooh! pooh!” But finally they jealous grew,
And sounded loud recalls;
But vainly. So these fishy males
Declared they too would clothe their tails In silken hose and smalls.

They set to work, these water-men,
And made their nether robes–but when They drew with dainty touch
The kerseymere upon their tails,
They found it scraped against their scales, And hurt them very much.

The silk, besides, with which they chose To deck their tails by way of hose
(They never thought of shoon),
For such a use was much too thin,– It tore against the caudal fin,
And “went in ladders” soon.

So they designed another plan:
They sent their most seductive man
This note to him to show–
“Our Monarch sends to CAPTAIN CLEGGS His humble compliments, and begs
He’ll join him down below;

“We’ve pleasant homes below the sea– Besides, if CAPTAIN CLEGGS should be
(As our advices say)
A judge of Mermaids, he will find
Our lady-fish of every kind
Inspection will repay.”

Good CAPEL sent a kind reply,
For CAPEL thought he could descry
An admirable plan
To study all their ways and laws–
(But not their lady-fish, because
He was a married man).

The Merman sank–the Captain too
Jumped overboard, and dropped from view Like stone from catapult;
And when he reached the Merman’s lair, He certainly was welcomed there,
But, ah! with what result?

They didn’t let him learn their law,
Or make a note of what he saw,
Or interesting mem.:
The lady-fish he couldn’t find,
But that, of course, he didn’t mind– He didn’t come for them.

For though, when CAPTAIN CAPEL sank,
The Mermen drawn in double rank
Gave him a hearty hail,
Yet when secure of CAPTAIN CLEGGS,
They cut off both his lovely legs,
And gave him SUCH a tail!

When CAPTAIN CLEGGS returned aboard,
His blithesome crew convulsive roar’d, To see him altered so.
The Admiralty did insist
That he upon the Half-pay List
Immediately should go.

In vain declared the poor old salt,
“It’s my misfortune–not my fault,” With tear and trembling lip–
In vain poor CAPEL begged and begged. “A man must be completely legged
Who rules a British ship.”

So spake the stern First Lord aloud– He was a wag, though very proud,
And much rejoiced to say,
“You’re only half a captain now–
And so, my worthy friend, I vow
You’ll only get half-pay!”

Ballad: Annie Protheroe. A Legend of Stratford-Le-Bow

Oh! listen to the tale of little ANNIE PROTHEROE. She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of BOW; She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day– A gentle executioner whose name was GILBERT CLAY.

I think I hear you say, “A dreadful subject for your rhymes!” O reader, do not shrink–he didn’t live in modern times! He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance) That all his actions glitter with the lime-light of Romance.

In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day– “No doubt you mean his Cal-craft,” you amusingly will say– But, no–he didn’t operate with common bits of string, He was a Public Headsman, which is quite another thing.

And when his work was over, they would ramble o’er the lea, And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree, And ANNIE’S simple prattle entertained him on his walk, For public executions formed the subject of her talk.

And sometimes he’d explain to her, which charmed her very much, How famous operators vary very much in touch, And then, perhaps, he’d show how he himself performed the trick, And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick.

Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look At his favourable notices, all pasted in a book, And then her cheek would flush–her swimming eyes would dance with joy In a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy.

One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle GILBERT said (As he helped his pretty ANNIE to a slice of collared head), “This reminds me I must settle on the next ensuing day The hash of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY.”

He saw his ANNIE tremble and he saw his ANNIE start, Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart; Young GILBERT’S manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear, And he said, “O gentle ANNIE, what’s the meaning of this here?”

And ANNIE answered, blushing in an interesting way, “You think, no doubt, I’m sighing for that felon PETER GRAY: That I was his young woman is unquestionably true, But not since I began a-keeping company with you.”

Then GILBERT, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore He’d know the reason why if she refused to tell him more; And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes) “You mustn’t ask no questions, and you won’t be told no lies!

“Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you, Of chopping off a rival’s head and quartering him too! Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!” And GILBERT ground his molars as he answered her, “I will!”

Young GILBERT rose from table with a stern determined look, And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook; And ANNIE watched his movements with an interested air– For the morrow–for the morrow he was going to prepare!

He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill, He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, until This terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

And ANNIE said, “O GILBERT, dear, I do not understand Why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?’ He said, “It is intended for to lacerate and flay The neck of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY!”

“Now, GILBERT,” ANNIE answered, “wicked headsman, just beware– I won’t have PETER tortured with that horrible affair; If you appear with that, you may depend you’ll rue the day.” But GILBERT said, “Oh, shall I?” which was just his nasty way.

He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart, For ANNIE was a woman, and had pity in her heart! She wished him a good evening–he answered with a glare; She only said, “Remember, for your ANNIE will be there!”

* * * * * * * *

The morrow GILBERT boldly on the scaffold took his stand, With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand, And all the people noticed that the Engine of the Law Was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.

The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock, And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block. The hatchet was uplifted for to settle PETER GRAY, When GILBERT plainly heard a woman’s voice exclaiming, “Stay!”

‘Twas ANNIE, gentle ANNIE, as you’ll easily believe. “O GILBERT, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve, It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago, And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.

“I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, GILBERT CLAY, And as I’d quite surrendered all idea of PETER GRAY, I quietly suppressed it, as you’ll clearly understand, For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.

“In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before), To lacerate poor PETER GRAY vindictively you swore; I told you if you used that blunted axe you’d rue the day, And so you will, young GILBERT, for I’ll marry PETER GRAY!”

[And so she did.

Ballad: An Unfortunate Likeness

I’ve painted SHAKESPEARE all my life– “An infant” (even then at “play”!)
“A boy,” with stage-ambition rife,
Then “Married to ANN HATHAWAY.”

“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”), His “First appearance on the stage,”
His “Call before the curtain”–then “Rejoicings when he came of age.”

The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk.
The bard a lawyer {1}–parson {2}–groom {3}– The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

The bard a tradesman {4}–and a Jew {5}– The bard a botanist {6}–a beak {7}–
The bard a skilled musician {8} too– A sheriff {9} and a surgeon {10} eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though it’s evident I try,
Yet even _I_ can barely mock
The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard: “My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,
“How very like my dear old bard!

“Oh, what a model he would make!”
I rushed outside–impulsive me!–
“Forgive the liberty I take,
But you’re so very”–“Stop!” said he.

“You needn’t waste your breath or time,– I know what you are going to say,–
That you’re an artist, and that I’m Remarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh?

“You wish that I would sit to you?”
I clasped him madly round the waist, And breathlessly replied, “I do!”
“All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”

I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,–
There never was a nobler face!

“Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grand
Is yours, by dint of merest chance,– To sport HIS brow at second-hand,
To wear HIS cast-off countenance!

“To rub HIS eyes whene’er they ache– To wear HIS baldness ere you’re old–
To clean HIS teeth when you awake– To blow HIS nose when you’ve a cold!”

His eyeballs glistened in his eyes–
I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; “Bravo!” I said, “I recognize
The phrensy of your prototype!”

His scanty hair he wildly tore:
“That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.” He danced–he stamped–he wildly swore– “Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”

“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy (Continuing to blaze away),
“You think my face a source of joy; That shows you know not what you say.

“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: I’m always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps This wretched man congratulate.

“For, oh! this face–this pointed chin– This nose–this brow–these eyeballs too, Have always been the origin
Of all the woes I ever knew!

“If to the play my way I find,
To see a grand Shakesperian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
Until the author’s puppets cease.

“Men nudge each other–thus–and say, ‘This certainly is SHAKESPEARE’S son,’
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.

“In church the people stare at me,
Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
And thoughts of SHAKESPEARE fill their minds.

“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with BROWN’S insipid smile,
Or TOMKINS’S unmannered frown,

“Yet boldly make my face their own,
When (oh, presumption!) they require To animate a paving-stone
With SHAKESPEARE’S intellectual fire.

“At parties where young ladies gaze,
And I attempt to speak my joy,
‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says, ‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’

“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung
With these or some such whisperings: ”Tis pity that a SHAKESPEARE’S tongue
Should say such un-Shakesperian things!’

“I should not thus be criticised
Had I a face of common wont:
Don’t envy me–now, be advised!”
And, now I think of it, I don’t!

Ballad: Gregory Parable, LL.D.

A leafy cot, where no dry rot
Had ever been by tenant seen,
Where ivy clung and wopses stung,
Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed, Where treeses grew and breezes blew–
A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,
Where countless herds of dicky-birds Built twiggy beds to lay their heads
(My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,” But though it’s true that dickies do
Construct a nest with chirpy noise, With view to rest their eggy joys,
‘Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds, As I explain to her in vain
Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes). ‘Neath such a cot, built on a plot
Of freehold land, dwelt MARY and
Her worthy father, named by me

He knew no guile, this simple man,
No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,
Except that plot of freehold land
That held the cot, and MARY, and
Her worthy father, named by me

A grave and learned scholar he,
Yet simple as a child could be.
He’d shirk his meal to sit and cram A goodish deal of Eton Gram.
No man alive could him nonplus
With vocative of filius;
No man alive more fully knew
The passive of a verb or two;
None better knew the worth than he
Of words that end in b, d, t.
Upon his green in early spring
He might be seen endeavouring
To understand the hooks and crooks
Of HENRY and his Latin books;
Or calling for his “Caesar on
The Gallic War,” like any don;
Or, p’raps, expounding unto all
How mythic BALBUS built a wall.
So lived the sage who’s named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

To him one autumn day there came
A lovely youth of mystic name:
He took a lodging in the house,
And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse, For, oh! that mild scholastic one
Let shooting for a single gun.

By three or four, when sport was o’er, The Mystic One laid by his gun,
And made sheep’s eyes of giant size, Till after tea, at MARY P.
And MARY P. (so kind was she),
She, too, made eyes of giant size,
Whose every dart right through the heart Appeared to run that Mystic One.
The Doctor’s whim engrossing him,
He did not know they flirted so.
For, save at tea, “musa musae,”
As I’m advised, monopolised
And rendered blind his giant mind.
But looking up above his cup
One afternoon, he saw them spoon.
“Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass! As quaint old OVID says, ‘Amas!'”

The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,
And, claiming ruth, he said, “In sooth I love your daughter, aged man:
Refuse to join us if you can.
Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn, I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.”
“Young sir,” the aged scholar said, “I never thought you meant to wed:
Engrossed completely with my books, I little noticed lovers’ looks.
I’ve lived so long away from man,
I do not know of any plan
By which to test a lover’s worth,
Except, perhaps, the test of birth. I’ve half forgotten in this wild
A father’s duty to his child.
It is his place, I think it’s said, To see his daughters richly wed
To dignitaries of the earth–
If possible, of noble birth.
If noble birth is not at hand,
A father may, I understand
(And this affords a chance for you), Be satisfied to wed her to
Means any one who’s very rich.
Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,– My child and I will go and try
If he will make the maid his bride– If not, to you she shall be tied.”

They sought the Earl that very day;
The Sage began to say his say.
The Earl (a very wicked man,
Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban) Cut short the scholar’s simple tale,
And said in voice to make them quail, “Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt– Here, PETERS, turn these people out!”

The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,
Returning, met the Mystic Youth.
“My darling boy,” the Scholar said, “Take MARY–blessings on your head!”

The Mystic Boy undid his vest,
And took a parchment from his breast, And said, “Now, by that noble brow,
I ne’er knew father such as thou!
The sterling rule of common sense
Now reaps its proper recompense.
Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen, For I am DUKE OF GRETNA GREEN!”

Ballad: The King Of Canoodle-Dum

A mariner of the sea,
Who quitted his ship, the Howler,
A-sailing in Caribbee.
For many a day he wandered,
Till he met in a state of rum
The King of Canoodle-Dum.

That monarch addressed him gaily,
“Hum! Golly de do to-day?
Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee”–
(You notice his playful way?)–
“What dickens you doin’ here, sar?
Why debbil you want to come?
Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn’t no sea
In City Canoodle-Dum!”

And GOWLER he answered sadly,
“Oh, mine is a doleful tale!
They’ve treated me werry badly
In Lunnon, from where I hail.
I’m one of the Family Royal–
No common Jack Tar you see;
I’m WILLIAM THE FOURTH, far up in the North, A King in my own countree!”

Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered! Bang-bang! How they thumped this gongs!
Bang-bang! How the people wondered! Bang-bang! At it hammer and tongs!
Alliance with Kings of Europe
Is an honour Canoodlers seek,
Her monarchs don’t stop with PEPPERMINT DROP Every day in the week!

FRED told them that he was undone,
For his people all went insane,
And fired the Tower of London,
And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane.
And some of them racked St. James’s, And vented their rage upon
The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall, And the Angel at Islington.

CALAMITY POP implored him
In his capital to remain
Till those people of his restored him To power and rank again.
CALAMITY POP he made him
A Prince of Canoodle-Dum,
With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves, And the run of the royal rum.

Pop gave him his only daughter,
FRED vowed that if over the water
He went, in an English ship,
He’d make her his Queen,–though truly It is an unusual thing
For a Caribbee brat who’s as black as your hat To be wife of an English King.

And all the Canoodle-Dummers
They copied his rolling walk,
His method of draining rummers,
His emblematical talk.
For his dress and his graceful breeding, His delicate taste in rum,
And his nautical way, were the talk of the day In the Court of Canoodle-Dum.

CALAMITY POP most wisely
Determined in everything
To model his Court precisely
On that of the English King;
And ordered that every lady
And every lady’s lord
Should masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy), And scatter its juice abroad.

They signified wonder roundly
At any astounding yarn,
By darning their dear eyes roundly
(‘T was all they had to darn).
They “hoisted their slacks,” adjusting Garments of plantain-leaves
With nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches, Instead of a dress like EVE’S!)

They shivered their timbers proudly,
At a phantom forelock dragged,
And called for a hornpipe loudly
Whenever amusement flagged.
“Hum! Golly! him POP resemble,
Him Britisher sov’reign, hum!
De King of Canoodle-Dum!”

The mariner’s lively “Hollo!”
Enlivened Canoodle’s plain
(For blessings unnumbered follow
In Civilization’s train).
But Fortune, who loves a bathos,
A terrible ending planned,
Placed foot on Canoodle land!

That rebel, he seized KING GOWLER,
He threatened his royal brains,
And put him aboard the Howler,
And fastened him down with chains.
The Howler she weighed her anchor,
With FREDERICK nicely nailed,
And off to the North with WILLIAM THE FOURTH These horrible pirates sailed.

CALAMITY said (with folly),
“Hum! nebber want him again–
Him civilize all of us, golly!
CALAMITY suck him brain!”
The people, however, were pained when They saw him aboard his ship,
But none of them wept for their FREDDY, except HUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP.

Ballad: First Love

A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,
And in his church there weekly knelt At least a hundred souls.

There little ELLEN you might see,
The modest rustic belle;
In maidenly simplicity,
She loved her BERNARD well.

Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown
Untrimmed with lace or fur,
Yet not a husband in the town
But wished his wife like her.

Though sterner memories might fade,
You never could forget
The child-form of that baby-maid,
The Village Violet!

A simple frightened loveliness,
Whose sacred spirit-part
Shrank timidly from worldly stress, And nestled in your heart.

POWLES woo’d with every well-worn plan And all the usual wiles
With which a well-schooled gentleman A simple heart beguiles.

The hackneyed compliments that bore
World-folks like you and me,
Appeared to her as if they wore
The crown of Poesy.

His winking eyelid sang a song
Her heart could understand,
Eternity seemed scarce too long
When BERNARD squeezed her hand.

He ordered down the martial crew
Of GODFREY’S Grenadiers,
And COOTE conspired with TINNEY to
Ecstaticise her ears.

Beneath her window, veiled from eye,
They nightly took their stand;
On birthdays supplemented by
The Covent Garden band.

And little ELLEN, all alone,
Enraptured sat above,
And thought how blest she was to own The wealth of POWLES’S love.

I often, often wonder what
Poor ELLEN saw in him;
For calculated he was NOT
To please a woman’s whim.

He wasn’t good, despite the air
An M.B. waistcoat gives;
Indeed, his dearest friends declare No greater humbug lives.

No kind of virtue decked this priest, He’d nothing to allure;
He wasn’t handsome in the least,–
He wasn’t even poor.

No–he was cursed with acres fat
(A Christian’s direst ban),
And gold–yet, notwithstanding that, Poor ELLEN loved the man.

As unlike BERNARD as could be
Was poor old AARON WOOD
(Disgraceful BERNARD’S curate he):
He was extremely good.

A BAYARD in his moral pluck
Without reproach or fear,
A quiet venerable duck
With fifty pounds a year.

No fault had he–no fad, except
A tendency to strum,
In mode at which you would have wept, A dull harmonium.

He had no gold with which to hire
The minstrels who could best
Convey a notion of the fire
That raged within his breast.

And so, when COOTE and TINNEY’S Own
Had tootled all they knew,
And when the Guards, completely blown, Exhaustedly withdrew,

And NELL began to sleepy feel,
Poor AARON then would come,
And underneath her window wheel
His plain harmonium.

He woke her every morn at two,
And having gained her ear,
In vivid colours AARON drew
The sluggard’s grim career.

He warbled Apiarian praise,
And taught her in his chant
To shun the dog’s pugnacious ways,
And imitate the ant.

Still NELL seemed not, how much he played, To love him out and out,
Although the admirable maid
Respected him, no doubt.

She told him of her early vow,
And said as BERNARD’S wife
It might be hers to show him how
To rectify his life.

“You are so pure, so kind, so true,
Your goodness shines so bright,
What use would ELLEN be to you?
Believe me, you’re all right.”

She wished him happiness and health,
And flew on lightning wings
To BERNARD with his dangerous wealth And all the woes it brings.

Ballad: Brave Alum Bey

Oh, big was the bosom of brave ALUM BEY, And also the region that under it lay,
In safety and peril remarkably cool, And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.

Each morning he went to his garden, to cull A bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul,
And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom, To BACKSHEESH, the daughter of RAHAT LAKOUM.

No maiden like BACKSHEESH could tastily cook A kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk, As ALUM, brave fellow! sat pensively by, With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye.

Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day– (A ship’s supercargo was brave ALUM BEY)– To pretty young BACKSHEESH he made a salaam, And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam.

“O ALUM,” said she, “think again, ere you go– Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow; You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!” But ALUM embraced her and spoke to her thus:

“Cease weeping, fair BACKSHEESH! I willingly swear Cork jackets and trousers I always will wear, And I also throw in a large number of oaths That I never–no, NEVER–will take off my clothes!”

* * * * *

They left Madagascar away on their right, And made Clapham Common the following night, Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two, Becalmed in the ocean of Honololu.

One day ALUM saw, with alarm in his breast, A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west; The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream, For they knew it–they knew it!–the dreaded Hareem!!

The mast it went over, and so did the sails, Brave ALUM threw over his casks and his bales; The billows arose as the weather grew thick, And all except ALUM were terribly sick.

The crew were but three, but they holloa’d for nine, They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine: The skipper he fainted away in the fore, For he hadn’t the heart for to skip any more.

“Ho, coward!” said ALUM, “with heart of a child! Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled! Is ALUM in terror? is ALUM afeard?
Ho! ho! If you had one I’d laugh at your beard.”

His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke; He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke; He daringly felt for the corks on his chest, And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast.

For he knew, the brave ALUM, that, happen what might, With belts and cork-jacketing, HE was all right; Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,– No Hareem whatever had terrors for him!

They begged him to spare from his personal store A single cork garment–they asked for no more; But he couldn’t, because of the number of oaths That he never–no, never!–would take off his clothes.

The billows dash o’er them and topple around, They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned. A terrible wave o’er the quarter-deck breaks, And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes!

The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow, Expends all its strength in a minute or so; When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed, The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed.

One seized on a cork with a yelling “Ha! ha!” (Its bottle had ‘prisoned a pint of Pacha)– Another a toothpick–another a tray–
“Alas! it is useless!” said brave ALUM BEY.

“To holloa and kick is a very bad plan: Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can; You’d better lay hold of a good lump of lead, And cling to it tightly until you are dead.

“Just raise your hands over your pretty heads–so– Right down to the bottom you’re certain to go. Ta! ta! I’m afraid we shall not meet again”– For the truly courageous are truly humane.

Brave ALUM was picked up the very next day– A man-o’-war sighted him smoking away;
With hunger and cold he was ready to drop, So they sent him below and they gave him a chop.

O reader, or readress, whichever you be, You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea? O reader, or readress, read farther, and dry The bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye.

That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,– It’s lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes! They haul it aboard with a British “heave-ho!” And what it has fished the drawing will show.

There was WILSON, and PARKER, and TOMLINSON, too– (The first was the captain, the others the crew)– As lively and spry as a Malabar ape,
Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape.

And ALUM, brave fellow, who stood in the fore, And never expected to look on them more, Was really delighted to see them again,
For the truly courageous are truly humane.

Ballad: Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo

Last of a noble race,
BARNABY BAMPTON, coming to woo,
All at a deuce of a pace.
Here is a health to you:
Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck– BARNABY BAMPTON BOO!