Chapter I: CANNOT tell what this love may be (1)

That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they’d imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next your heart?
And if it be neither of these, say I,
Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

A RECIPE

TAKE a pair of sparkling eyes,
Hidden, ever and anon,
In a merciful eclipse—
Do not heed their mild surprise—
Having passed the Rubicon.
Take a pair of rosy lips;
Take a figure trimly planned—
Such as admiration whets
(Be particular in this);
Take a tender little hand,
Fringed with dainty fingerettes,
Press it—in parenthesis;—
Take all these, you lucky man—
Take and keep them, if you can.

Take a pretty little cot—
Quite a miniature affair—
Hung about with trellised vine,
Furnish it upon the spot
With the treasures rich and rare
I’ve endeavoured to define.
Live to love and love to live—
You will ripen at your ease,
Growing on the sunny side—
Fate has nothing more to give.
You’re a dainty man to please
If you are not satisfied.
Take my counsel, happy man:
Act upon it, if you can!

THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID

HE. I HAVE a song to sing, O!
SHE. Sing me your song, O!
HE. It is sung to the moon
By a love-lorn loon,
Who fled from the mocking throng, O!
It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

SHE. I have a song to sing, O!
HE. Sing me your song, O!
SHE. It is sung with the ring
Of the song maids sing
Who love with a love life-long, O!
It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

HE. I have a song to sing, O!
SHE. Sing me your song, O!
HE. It is sung to the knell
Of a churchyard bell,
And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!
It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

SHE. I have a song to sing, O!
HE. Sing me your song, O!
SHE. It is sung with a sigh
And a tear in the eye,
For it tells of a righted wrong, O!
It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,
Who turned on her heel and tripped away
From the peacock popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble heart that he did not prize;
And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes,
For the love of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
BOTH. Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more.
For he lived in the love of a ladye!

THE SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR

THE law is the true embodiment
Of everything that’s excellent.
It has no kind of fault or flaw,
And I, my lords, embody the Law.
The constitutional guardian I
Of pretty young Wards in Chancery,
All very agreeable girls—and none
Is over the age of twenty-one.
A pleasant occupation for
A rather susceptible Chancellor!

But though the compliment implied
Inflates me with legitimate pride,
It nevertheless can’t be denied
That it has its inconvenient side.
For I’m not so old, and not so plain,
And I’m quite prepared to marry again,
But there’d be the deuce to pay in the Lords
If I fell in love with one of my Wards:
Which rather tries my temper, for
I’m _such_ a susceptible Chancellor!

And every one who’d marry a Ward
Must come to me for my accord:
So in my court I sit all day,
Giving agreeable girls away,
With one for him—and one for he—
And one for you—and one for ye—
And one for thou—and one for thee—
But never, oh never a one for me!
Which is exasperating, for
A highly susceptible Chancellor!

WHEN A MERRY MAIDEN MARRIES

WHEN a merry maiden marries,
Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;
Every sound becomes a song,
All is right and nothing’s wrong!
From to-day and ever after
Let your tears be tears of laughter—
Every sigh that finds a vent
Be a sigh of sweet content!
When you marry merry maiden,
Then the air with love is laden;
Every flower is a rose,
Every goose becomes a swan,
Every kind of trouble goes
Where the last year’s snows have gone;
Sunlight takes the place of shade
When you marry merry maid!

When a merry maiden marries
Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;
Every sound becomes a song,
All is right, and nothing’s wrong.
Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,
Get ye gone until to-morrow;
Jealousies in grim array,
Ye are things of yesterday!
When you marry merry maiden,
Then the air with joy is laden;
All the corners of the earth
Ring with music sweetly played,
Worry is melodious mirth,
Grief is joy in masquerade;
Sullen night is laughing day—
All the year is merry May!

THE BRITISH TAR

A BRITISH tar is a soaring soul,
As free as a mountain bird,
His energetic fist should be ready to resist
A dictatorial word.
His nose should pant and his lip should curl,
His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl,
His bosom should heave and his heart should glow,
And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.

His eyes should flash with an inborn fire,
His brow with scorn be rung;
He never should bow down to a domineering frown,
Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.
His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,
His hair should twirl and his face should scowl;
His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,
And this should be his customary attitude!

A MAN WHO WOULD WOO A FAIR MAID

A MAN who would woo a fair maid,
Should ’prentice himself to the trade;
And study all day,
In methodical way,
How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.
He should ’prentice himself at fourteen
And practise from morning to e’en;
And when he’s of age,
If he will, I’ll engage,
He may capture the heart of a queen!
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

If he’s made the best use of his time,
His twig he’ll so carefully lime
That every bird
Will come down at his word.
Whatever its plumage and clime.
He must learn that the thrill of a touch
May mean little, or nothing, or much;
It’s an instrument rare,
To be handled with care,
And ought to be treated as such.
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack,
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

Then a glance may be timid or free;
It will vary in mighty degree,
From an impudent stare
To a look of despair
That no maid without pity can see.
And a glance of despair is no guide—
It may have its ridiculous side;
It may draw you a tear
Or a box on the ear;
You can never be sure till you’ve tried.
It is purely a matter of skill,
Which all may attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

THE SORCERER’S SONG

OH! my name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS—
I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever-filled purses,
In prophecies, witches, and knells!
If you want a proud foe to “make tracks”—
If you’d melt a rich uncle in wax—
You’ve but to look in
On our resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe.

We’ve a first-class assortment of magic;
And for raising a posthumous shade
With effects that are comic or tragic,
There’s no cheaper house in the trade.
Love-philtre—we’ve quantities of it;
And for knowledge if any one burns,
We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet
Who brings us unbounded returns:
For he can prophesy
With a wink _of_ his eye,
Peep with security
Into futurity,
Sum up your history,
Clear up a mystery,
Humour proclivity
For a nativity.
With mirrors so magical,
Tetrapods tragical,
Bogies spectacular,
Answers oracular,
Facts astronomical,
Solemn or comical,
And, if you want it, he
Makes a reduction on taking a quantity!
Oh!
If any one anything lacks,
He’ll find it all ready in stacks,
If he’ll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

He can raise you hosts,
Of ghosts,
And that without reflectors;
And creepy things
With wings,
And gaunt and grisly spectres!
He can fill you crowds
Of shrouds,
And horrify you vastly;
He can rack your brains
With chains,
And gibberings grim and ghastly.
Then, if you plan it, he
Changes organity
With an urbanity,
Full of Satanity,
Vexes humanity
With an inanity
Fatal to vanity—
Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.
Barring tautology,
In demonology,
’Lectro biology,
Mystic nosology,
Spirit philology,
High class astrology,
Such is his knowledge, he
Isn’t the man to require an apology
Oh!
My name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS,
I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever-filled purses—
In prophecies, witches, and knells.
If any one anything lacks,
He’ll find it all ready in stacks,
If he’ll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

THE FICKLE BREEZE

SIGHING softly to the river
Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
Laughs for very love,
While the poplars, in their pleasure,
Wave their arms above!
River, river, little river,
May thy loving prosper ever.
Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,
May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover,
When he wings away,
Brook and poplar mourn a lover!
Sighing well-a-day!
Ah, the doing and undoing
That the rogue could tell!
When the breeze is out a-wooing,
Who can woo so well?
Pretty brook, thy dream is over,
For thy love is but a rover!
Sad the lot of poplar trees,
Courted by the fickle breeze!

THE FIRST LORD’S SONG

WHEN I was a lad I served a term
As office boy to an Attorney’s firm;
I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,
And I polished up the handle of the big front door.
I polished up that handle so successfullee,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

As office boy I made such a mark
That they gave me the post of a junior clerk;
I served the writs with a smile so bland,
And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.
I copied all the letters in a hand so free,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

In serving writs I made such a name
That an articled clerk I soon became;
I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit
For the Pass Examination at the Institute:
And that Pass Examination did so well for me,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip
That they took me into the partnership,
And that junior partnership I ween,
Was the only ship that I ever had seen:
But that kind of ship so suited me,
That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

I grew so rich that I was sent
By a pocket borough into Parliament;
I always voted at my Party’s call,
And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.
I thought so little, they rewarded me,
By making me the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee!

Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be,
If you want to rise to the top of the tree—
If your soul isn’t fettered to an office stool,
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule—
Stick close to your desks and _never go to sea_,
And you all may be Rulers of the Queen’s Navee!

WOULD YOU KNOW?

WOULD you know the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a?
Eyes must be downcast and staid,
Cheeks must flush for shame-a!
She may neither dance nor sing,
But, demure in everything,
Hang her head in modest way
With pouting lips that seem to say,
“Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die of shame-a!”
Please you, that’s the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay
With a tongue goes clang-a,
Flaunting it in brave array,
Maiden may go hang-a!
Sunflower gay and hollyhock
Never shall my garden stock;
Mine the blushing rose of May,
With pouting lips that seem to say
“Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die for shame-a!”
Please you, that’s the kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a!

SPECULATION

COMES a train of little ladies
From scholastic trammels free,
Each a little bit afraid is,
Wondering what the world can be!

Is it but a world of trouble—
Sadness set to song?
Is its beauty but a bubble
Bound to break ere long?

Are its palaces and pleasures
Fantasies that fade?
And the glory of its treasures
Shadow of a shade?

Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under,
From scholastic trammels free,
And we wonder—how we wonder!—
What on earth the world can be!

AH ME!

WHEN maiden loves, she sits and sighs,
She wanders to and fro;
Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,
And to all questions she replies,
With a sad heigho!
’Tis but a little word—“heigho!”
So soft, ’tis scarcely heard—“heigho!”
An idle breath—
Yet life and death
May hang upon a maid’s “heigho!”

When maiden loves, she mopes apart,
As owl mopes on a tree;
Although she keenly feels the smart,
She cannot tell what ails her heart,
With its sad “Ah me!”
’Tis but a foolish sigh—“Ah me!”
Born but to droop and die—“Ah me!”
Yet all the sense
Of eloquence
Lies hidden in a maid’s “Ah me!”

THE DUKE OF PLAZA-TORO

IN enterprise of martial kind,
When there was any fighting,
He led his regiment from behind
(He found it less exciting).
But when away his regiment ran,
His place was at the fore, O—
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
You always found that knight, ha, ha!
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When, to evade Destruction’s hand,
To hide they all proceeded,
No soldier in that gallant band
Hid half as well as he did.
He lay concealed throughout the war,
And so preserved his gore, O!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In every doughty deed, ha, ha!
He always took the lead, ha, ha!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When told that they would all be shot
Unless they left the service,
That hero hesitated not,
So marvellous his nerve is.
He sent his resignation in,
The first of all his corps, O!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!
He always showed the way, ha, ha!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

THE ÆSTHETE

IF you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of
culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant
them everywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your
complicated state of mind
(The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter of a
transcendental kind).
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep
for _me_,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must
be!”

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since
passed away,
And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good QUEEN ANNE was
Culture’s palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare
it’s crude and mean,
And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the EMPRESS
JOSEPHINE.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for _me_,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your
languid spleen,
An attachment _à la_ Plato for a bashful young potato, or a
not-too-French French bean.
Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the
high æsthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval
hand.
And every one will say,
As you walk your flowery way,
“If he’s content with a vegetable love which would
certainly not suit _me_,
Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must
be!”

SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I

WHEN I went to the Bar as a very young man
(Said I to myself—said I),
I’ll work on a new and original plan
(Said I to myself—said I),
I’ll never assume that a rogue or a thief
Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief,
Because his attorney, has sent me a brief
(Said I to myself—said I!)

I’ll never throw dust in a juryman’s eyes
(Said I to myself—said I),
Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise
(Said I to myself—said I),
Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force
In Exchequer, Queen’s Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce,
Have perjured themselves as a matter of course
(Said I to myself—said I!)

Ere I go into court I will read my brief through
(Said I to myself—said I),
And I’ll never take work I’m unable to do
(Said I to myself—said I).
My learned profession I’ll never disgrace
By taking a fee with a grin on my face,
When I haven’t been there to attend to the case
(Said I to myself—said I!)

In other professions in which men engage
(Said I to myself—said I),
The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage,
(Said I to myself—said I),
Professional licence, if carried too far,
Your chance of promotion will certainly mar—
And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar
(Said I to myself—said I!)

SORRY HER LOT

SORRY her lot who loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—
Dark is the night to Earth’s poor daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY

WHEN all night long a chap remains
On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
That is, assuming that he’s got any.
Though never nurtured in the lap
Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
And think of things that would astonish you.
I often think it’s comical
How Nature always does contrive
That every boy and every gal,
That’s born into the world alive,
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!

When in that house M.P.’s divide,
If they’ve a brain and cerebellum, too,
They’ve got to leave that brain outside,
And vote just as their leaders tell ’em to.
But then the prospect of a lot
Of statesmen, all in close proximity,
A-thinking for themselves, is what
No man can face with equanimity.
Then let’s rejoice with loud Fal lal
That Nature wisely does contrive
That every boy and every gal,
That’s born into the world alive,
Is either a little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!

THE PHILOSOPHIC PILL

I’VE wisdom from the East and from the West,
That’s subject to no academic rule;
You may find it in the jeering of a jest,
Or distil it from the folly of a fool.
I can teach you with a quip, if I’ve a mind;
I can trick you into learning with a laugh;
Oh, winnow all my folly, and you’ll find
A grain or two of truth among the chaff!

I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,
The upstart I can wither with a whim;
He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,
But his laughter has an echo that is grim.
When they’ve offered to the world in merry guise,
Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—
For he who’d make his fellow-creatures wise
Should always gild the philosophic pill!

BLUE BLOOD

SPURN not the nobly born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well connected.
High rank involves no shame—
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
When virtuous love is sought,
Thy power is naught,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!

Spare us the bitter pain
Of stern denials,
Nor with low-born disdain
Augment our trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
Of what avail art thou
To serve me now?
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!

THE JUDGE’S SONG

WHEN I, good friends, was called to the Bar,
I’d an appetite fresh and hearty,
But I was, as many young barristers are,
An impecunious party.
I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—
A brief which was brought by a booby—
A couple of shirts and a collar or two,
And a ring that looked like a ruby!

In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,
Like a semi-despondent fury;
For I thought I should never hit on a chance
Of addressing a British Jury—
But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,
And dinners of bread and water;
So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s
Elderly, ugly daughter.

The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,
And replied to my fond professions:
“You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,
At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.
You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he,
“And a very nice girl you’ll find her—
She may very well pass for forty-three
In the dusk, with a light behind her!”

The rich attorney was as good as his word:
The briefs came trooping gaily,
And every day my voice was heard
At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.
All thieves who could my fees afford
Relied on my orations,
And many a burglar I’ve restored
To his friends and his relations.

At length I became as rich as the GURNEYS—
An incubus then I thought her,
So I threw over that rich attorney’s
Elderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney my character high
Tried vainly to disparage—
And now, if you please, I’m ready to try
This Breach of Promise of Marriage!

WHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ON

WHEN I first put this uniform on,
I said, as I looked in the glass,
“It’s one to a million
That any civilian
My figure and form will surpass.
Gold lace has a charm for the fair,
And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare,
While a lover’s professions,
When uttered in Hessians,
Are eloquent everywhere!”
A fact that I counted upon,
When I first put this uniform on!

I said, when I first put it on,
“It is plain to the veriest dunce
That every beauty
Will feel it her duty
To yield to its glamour at once.
They will see that I’m freely gold-laced
In a uniform handsome and chaste”—
But the peripatetics
Of long-haired æsthetics,
Are very much more to their taste—
Which I never counted upon
When I first put this uniform on!

SOLATIUM

COMES the broken flower—
Comes the cheated maid—
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers till they fade;
Happy be thy life, O maid!

O’er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone—
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are sun and shade:
Happy be thy life, O maid!

A NIGHTMARE

WHEN you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d
by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without
impropriety;
For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to
plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet
slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly
sharp is the pricking,
And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and toss till there’s
nothing ’twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick
’em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual
angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and
head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you’d very
much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a
steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small
second-class carriage;
And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of
friends and relations—
They’re a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at Sloane Square
and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that
morning from Devon);
He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised when he tells you
he’s only eleven.
Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the
ship’s now a four-wheeler),
And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you
tell him that “ties pay the dealer”;
But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find
you’re as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks),
crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they’ve somehow or other
invested in—
And he’s telling the tars all the particu_lars_ of a company he’s
interested in—
It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough
mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were
all vege_ta_bles—
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off
his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they’ll
blossom and bud like a fruit-tree—
From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower,
pineapple, and cranberries,
While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple puffs, and
three-corners, and banberries—
The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and
BARING,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder
despairing—
You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you
snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from
your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left
leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose,
and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst
that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in
clover;
But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night
has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and thank goodness they’re both of
them over!

DON’T FORGET!

NOW, Marco, dear,
My wishes hear:
While you’re away
It’s understood
You will be good,
And not too gay.
To every trace
Of maiden grace
You will be blind,
And will not glance
By any chance
On womankind!
If you are wise,
You’ll shut your eyes
Till we arrive,
And not address
A lady less
Than forty-five;
You’ll please to frown
On every gown
That you may see;
And O, my pet,
You won’t forget
You’ve married me!

O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don’t forget you’ve married me!

You’ll lay your head
Upon your bed
At set of sun.
You will not sing
Of anything
To any one:
You’ll sit and mope
All day, I hope,
And shed a tear
Upon the life
Your little wife
Is passing here!
And if so be
You think of me,
Please tell the moon;
I’ll read it all
In rays that fall
On the lagoon:
You’ll be so kind
As tell the wind
How you may be,
And send me words
By little birds
To comfort me!

And O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don’t forget you’ve married me!

THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE

ON a tree by a river a little tomtit
Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit
Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?
Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried,
“Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”
With a shake of his poor little head he replied,
“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,
Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,
Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!
He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,
Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,
And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave—
“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name
Isn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow,
That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,
“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And if you remain callous and obdurate, I
Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,
Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,
“Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

HE AND SHE

HE. I know a youth who loves a little maid—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he’s modest and afraid—
(Hey, but he’s timid as a youth can be!)
SHE. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
_She_ cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?

HE. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—
(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—
(Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!)
SHE. She’s very thin and she’s very pale—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—
(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?

SHE. If I were the youth I should offer her my name—
(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
HE. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—
(Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!)
SHE. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—
(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
HE. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—
(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
BOTH. I thank you much for your counsel true;
I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

THE MIGHTY MUST

COME mighty Must!
Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
Time weaves my coronal!
Go mocking Is!
Go disappointing Was!
That I am this
Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble Second shall be First,
I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
Has Been!

Oh weak Might Be!
Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
For evil or for good!
In every sense
Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate’er your tense
Ye are Imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown
In ye!
Away! The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!

A MIRAGE

WERE I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle-dove—
Were I thy bride!

This heart of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!

The silvery flute,
The melancholy lute,
Were night-owl’s hoot
To my low-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
The skylark’s trill
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I’d woo—
Were I thy bride!

The rose’s sigh
Were as a carrion’s cry
To lullaby
Such as I’d sing to thee—
Were I thy bride!
A feather’s press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I’m not thy bride!

THE GHOSTS’ HIGH NOON

WHEN the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the
moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—
When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black dogs bay
the moon,
Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the ghosts’ high noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low
on the fen,
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and
men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too
soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take
flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “good
night”;
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest
tune,
And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!

THE HUMANE MIKADO

A MORE humane Mikado never
Did in Japan exist;
To nobody second,
I’m certainly reckoned
A true philanthropist.
It is my very humane endeavour
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment.

My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
Of innocent merriment!

All prosy dull society sinners,
Who chatter and bleat and bore,
Are sent to hear sermons
From mystical Germans
Who preach from ten to four:
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies
All desire to shirk,
Shall, during off-hours,
Exhibit his powers
To Madame Tussaud’s waxwork:
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
Or stains her grey hair puce,
Or pinches her figger,
Is blacked like a nigger
With permanent walnut juice:
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
Scribbles on window panes,
We only suffer
To ride on a buffer
In Parliamentary trains.

My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
Of innocent merriment!

The advertising quack who wearies
With tales of countless cures,
His teeth, I’ve enacted,
Shall all be extracted
By terrified amateurs:
The music-hall singer attends a series
Of masses and fugues and “ops”
By Bach, interwoven
With Spohr and Beethoven,
At classical Monday Pops:
The billiard sharp whom any one catches
His doom’s extremely hard—
He’s made to dwell
In a dungeon cell
On a spot that’s always barred;
And there he plays extravagant matches
In fitless finger-stalls,
On a cloth untrue
With a twisted cue,
And elliptical billiard balls!

My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!

WILLOW WALY!

HE. PRITHEE, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true
(Hey, but I’m doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Have you e’er a lover a-dangling after you?
Hey, willow waly O!
I would fain discover
If you have a lover?
Hey, willow waly O!

SHE. Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—
(Hey, but he’s doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Nobody I care for comes a-courting me—
Hey, willow waly O!
Nobody I care for
Comes a-courting—therefore,
Hey, willow waly O!

HE. Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?
(Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
I may say, at once, I’m a man of propertee—
Hey, willow waly O!
Money, I despise it,
But many people prize it,
Hey, willow waly O!

SHE. Gentle sir, although to marry I design—
(Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.
Hey, willow waly O!
To other maidens go you—
As yet I do not know you,
Hey, willow waly O!

LIFE IS LOVELY ALL THE YEAR

WHEN the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day—
Life is love in merry May!

Spring is green—Fal lal la!
Summer’s rose—Fal lal la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn’s gold—Fal lal la!
Winter’s grey—Fal lal la!
Winter still is far away—
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!

In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.

Spring is hope—Fal lal la!
Summer’s joy—Fal lal la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil—Fal lal la!
Winter, rest—Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best—
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too—
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!

THE USHER’S CHARGE

NOW, Jurymen, hear my advice—
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern judicial frame of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!

Oh, listen to the plaintiff’s case:
Observe the features of her face—
The broken-hearted bride!
Condole with her distress of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!

And when amid the plaintiff’s shrieks,
The ruffianly defendant speaks—
Upon the other side;
What _he_ may say you need not mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!

THE GREAT OAK TREE

THERE grew a little flower
’Neath a great oak tree:
When the tempest ’gan to lower
Little heeded she:
No need had she to cower,
For she dreaded not its power—
She was happy in the bower
Of her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

When she found that he was fickle,
Was that great oak tree,
She was in a pretty pickle,
As she well might be—
But his gallantries were mickle,
For Death followed with his sickle,
And her tears began to trickle
For her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

Said she, “He loved me never,
Did that great oak tree,
But I’m neither rich nor clever,
And so why should he?
But though fate our fortunes sever,
To be constant I’ll endeavour,
Ay, for ever and for ever,
To my great oak tree!”
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

KING GOODHEART

THERE lived a King, as I’ve been told
In the wonder-working days of old,
When hearts were twice as good as gold,
And twenty times as mellow.
Good temper triumphed in his face,
And in his heart he found a place
For all the erring human race
And every wretched fellow.
When he had Rhenish wine to drink
It made him very sad to think
That some, at junket or at jink,
Must be content with toddy:
He wished all men as rich as he
(And he was rich as rich could be),
So to the top of every tree
Promoted everybody.

Ambassadors cropped up like hay,
Prime Ministers and such as they
Grew like asparagus in May,
And Dukes were three a penny:
Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,
And Bishops in their shovel hats
Were plentiful as tabby cats—
If possible, too many.
On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,
Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed,
With Admirals the ocean teemed,
All round his wide dominions;
And Party Leaders you might meet
In twos and threes in every street
Maintaining, with no little heat,
Their various opinions.

That King, although no one denies,
His heart was of abnormal size,
Yet he’d have acted otherwise
If he had been acuter.
The end is easily foretold,
When every blessed thing you hold
Is made of silver, or of gold,
You long for simple pewter.
When you have nothing else to wear
But cloth of gold and satins rare,
For cloth of gold you cease to care—
Up goes the price of shoddy:
In short, whoever you may be,
To this conclusion you’ll agree,
When every one is somebody,
Then no one’s anybody!

SLEEP ON!

FEAR no unlicensed entry,
Heed no bombastic talk,
While guards the British Sentry
Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.
Let European thunders
Occasion no alarms,
Though diplomatic blunders
May cause a cry “To arms!”
Sleep on, ye pale civilians;
All thunder-clouds defy:
On Europe’s countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!

Should foreign-born rapscallions
In London dare to show
Their overgrown battalions,
Be sure I’ll let you know.
Should Russians or Norwegians
Pollute our favoured clime
With rough barbaric legions,
I’ll mention it in time.
So sleep in peace, civilians,
The Continent defy;
While on its countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!

THE LOVE-SICK BOY

WHEN first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy!
No terms seemed too extravagant
Upon her to employ—
I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,
Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense;
And love unchanged will cloy,
And she became a bore intense
Unto her love-sick boy?
With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,
And I grew cold and coy,
At last, one morning, I became
Another’s love-sick boy!

POETRY EVERYWHERE

WHAT time the poet hath hymned
The writhing maid, lithe-limbed,
Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,
How can he paint her woes,
Knowing, as well he knows,
That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet’s plinth
The amorous colocynth
Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,
How can he hymn their throes
Knowing, as well he knows,
That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be,
Nature hath this decree,
Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?
Or that in all her works
Something poetic lurks,
Even in colocynth and calomel?

HE LOVES!

HE loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!

TRUE DIFFIDENCE

MY boy, you may take it from me,
That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man’s saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature’s the worst.
Though clever as clever can be—
A Crichton of early romance—
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.

Now take, for example, _my_ case:
I’ve a bright intellectual brain—
In all London city
There’s no one so witty—
I’ve thought so again and again.
I’ve a highly intelligent face—
My features cannot be denied—
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in—and why, sir?
I’m modesty personified!

As a poet, I’m tender and quaint—
I’ve passion and fervour and grace—
From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I’m diffident, modest, and shy!

THE TANGLED SKEIN

TRY we life-long, we can never
Straighten out life’s tangled skein,
Why should we, in vain endeavour,
Guess and guess and guess again?
Life’s a pudding full of plums
Care’s a canker that benumbs.
Wherefore waste our elocution
On impossible solution?
Life’s a pleasant institution,
Let us take it as it comes!

Set aside the dull enigma,
We shall guess it all too soon;
Failure brings no kind of stigma—
Dance we to another tune!
String the lyre and fill the cup,
Lest on sorrow we should sup;
Hop and skip to Fancy’s fiddle,
Hands across and down the middle—
Life’s perhaps the only riddle
That we shrink from giving up!

MY LADY

BEDECKED in fashion trim,
With every curl a-quiver;
Or leaping, light of limb,
O’er rivulet and river;
Or skipping o’er the lea
On daffodil and daisy;
Or stretched beneath a tree,
All languishing and lazy;
Whatever be her mood—
Be she demurely prude
Or languishingly lazy—
My lady drives me crazy!
In vain her heart is wooed,
Whatever be her mood!

What profit should I gain
Suppose she loved me dearly?
Her coldness turns my brain
To _verge_ of madness merely.
Her kiss—though, Heaven knows,
To dream of it were treason—
Would tend, as I suppose,
To utter loss of reason!
My state is not amiss;
I would not have a kiss
Which, in or out of season,
Might tend to loss of reason:
What profit in such bliss?
A fig for such a kiss!

ONE AGAINST THE WORLD

IT’S my opinion—though I own
In thinking so I’m quite alone—
In some respects I’m but a fright.
_You_ like my features, I suppose?
_I’m_ disappointed with my nose:
Some rave about it—perhaps they’re right.
My figure just sets off a fit;
But when they say it’s exquisite
(And they _do_ say so), that’s too strong.
I hope I’m not what people call
Opinionated! After all,
I’m but a goose, and may be wrong!

When charms enthral
There’s some excuse
For measures strong;
And after all
I’m but a goose,
And may be wrong!

My teeth are very neat, no doubt;
But after all they _may_ fall out:
_I_ think they will—some think they won’t.
My hands are small, as you may see,
But not as small as they might be,
At least, _I_ think so—others don’t.
But there, a girl may preach and prate
From morning six to evening eight,
And never stop to dine,
When all the world, although misled,
Is quite agreed on any head—
And it is quite agreed on mine!

All said and done,
It’s little I
Against a throng.
I’m only one,
And possibly
I may be wrong!

PUT A PENNY IN THE SLOT

IF my action’s stiff and crude,
Do not laugh, because it’s rude.
If my gestures promise larks,
Do not make unkind remarks.
Clockwork figures may be found
Everywhere and all around.
Ten to one, if I but knew,
You are clockwork figures too.
And the motto of the lot,
“Put a penny in the slot!”

Usurer, for money lent,
Making out his cent per cent—
Widow plump or maiden rare,
Deaf and dumb to suitor’s prayer—
Tax collectors, whom in vain
You implore to “call again”—
Cautious voter, whom you find
Slow in making up his mind—
If you’d move them on the spot,
Put a penny in the slot!

Bland reporters in the courts,
Who suppress police reports—
Sheriff’s yeoman, pen in fist,
Making out a jury list—
Stern policemen, tall and spare,
Acting all “upon the square”—
(Which in words that plainer fall,
Means that you can square them all)—
If you want to move the lot,
Put a penny in the slot!

GOOD LITTLE GIRLS

ALTHOUGH of native maids the cream,
We’re brought up on the English scheme—
The best of all
For great and small
Who modesty adore.
For English girls are good as gold,
Extremely modest (so we’re told),
Demurely coy—divinely cold—
And we are that—and more.
To please papa, who argues thus—
All girls should mould themselves on us,
Because we are,
By furlongs far,
The best of all the bunch;
We show ourselves to loud applause
From ten to four without a pause—
Which is an awkward time because
It cuts into our lunch.

Oh, maids of high and low degree,
Whose social code is rather free,
Please look at us and you will see
What good young ladies ought to be!

And as we stand, like clockwork toys,
A lecturer papa employs
To puff and praise
Our modest ways
And guileless character—
Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes—
Our famous look of mild surprise
(Which competition still defies)—
Our celebrated “Sir!!!”
Then all the crowd take down our looks
In pocket memorandum books.
To diagnose,
Our modest pose
The kodaks do their best:
If evidence you would possess
Of what is maiden bashfulness,
You only need a button press—
And _we_ do all the rest.

LIFE

FIRST you’re born—and I’ll be bound you
Find a dozen strangers round you.
“Hallo,” cries the new-born baby,
“Where’s my parents? which may they be?”
Awkward silence—no reply—
Puzzled baby wonders why!
Father rises, bows politely—
Mother smiles (but not too brightly)—
Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing—
Nurse is busy mixing something.—
Every symptom tends to show
You’re decidedly _de trop_—
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! he! ho! ho!
Time’s teetotum,
If you spin it,
Give its quotum
Once a minute:
I’ll go bail
You hit the nail,
And if you fail
The deuce is in it!

You grow up, and you discover
What it is to be a lover.
Some young lady is selected—
Poor, perhaps, but well-connected,
Whom you hail (for Love is blind)
As the Queen of Fairy-kind.
Though she’s plain—perhaps unsightly,
Makes her face up—laces tightly,
In her form your fancy traces
All the gifts of all the graces.
Rivals none the maiden woo,
So you take her and she takes you!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Joke beginning,
Never ceases,
Till your inning
Time releases;
On your way
You blindly stray,
And day by day
The joke increases!

Ten years later—Time progresses—
Sours your temper—thins your tresses;
Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;
Rates are facts and so are taxes.
Fairy Queen’s no longer young—
Fairy Queen has such a tongue!
Twins have probably intruded—
Quite unbidden—just as you did;
They’re a source of care and trouble—
Just as you were—only double.
Comes at last the final stroke—
Time has had his little joke!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Daily driven
(Wife as drover)
Ill you’ve thriven—
Ne’er in clover:
Lastly, when
Threescore and ten
(And not till then),
The joke is over!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Then—and then
The joke is over!

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