Chapter VII: Part II (5)

No need to use a casuist's pen
To prove that they were merchantmen;
No sailor of the Royal N.
Would use such awful terms.

And so, when Bishop PETER came
(That was the kindly Bishop's name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,
And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell--a bangle rare--
A feather here--a feather there--
The South Pacific negroes wear
Their native nothingness.)

He taught them that a Bishop loathes
To listen to unseemly oaths,
He gave them all his left-off clothes--
They bent them to his will.

The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;
In PETER'S left-off clothes they bound
(His three-and-twenty suits they found
In fair condition still).

The Bishop's eyes with water fill,
Quite overjoyed to find them still
Obedient to his sovereign will,
And said, "Good Rum-ti-foo!
Half-way to meet you I'll prepare:
I'll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fasten feathers in my hair,
And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo'!"

And to conciliate his see
He married PICCADILLILLEE,
The youngest of his twenty-three,
Tall--neither fat nor thin.
(And though the dress he made her don
Looks awkwardly a girl upon,
It was a great improvement on
The one he found her in.)

The Bishop in his gay canoe
(His wife, of course, went with him too),
To some adjacent island flew,
To spend his honeymoon.
Some day in sunny Rum-ti-foo
A little PETER'll be on view;
And that (if people tell me true)
Is like to happen soon.

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!

A WORM WILL TURN

I love a man who'll smile and joke
When with misfortune crowned;
Who'll pun beneath a pauper's yoke,
And as he breaks his daily toke,
Conundrums gay propound.

Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP,
He scoffed at Fortune's frown;
He gaily drained his bitter cup--
Though Fortune often threw him up,
It never cast him down.

Though years their share of sorrow bring,
We know that far above
All other griefs, are griefs that spring
From some misfortune happening
To those we really love.

E'en sorrow for another's woe
Our BERNARD failed to quell;
Though by this special form of blow
No person ever suffered so,
Or bore his grief so well.

His father, wealthy and well clad,
And owning house and park.
Lost every halfpenny he had,
And then became (extremely sad!)
A poor attorney's clerk.

All sons it surely would appal,
Except the passing meek,
To see a father lose his all,
And from an independence fall
To one pound ten a week!

But JUPP shook off this sorrow's weight
And, like a Christian son,
Proved Poverty a happy fate--
Proved Wealth to be a devil's bait,
To lure poor sinners on.

With other sorrows BERNARD coped,
For sorrows came in packs;
His cousins with their housemaids sloped--
His uncles forged--his aunts eloped--
His sisters married blacks.

But BERNARD, far from murmuring
(Exemplar, friends, to us),
Determined to his faith to cling,--
He made the best of everything,
And argued softly thus:

"'Twere harsh my uncles' forging knack
Too rudely to condemn--
My aunts, repentant, may come back,
And blacks are nothing like as black
As people colour them!"

Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,
Maintained relentless fight:
His grandmamma next lost her life,
Then died the mother of his wife,
But still he seemed all right.

His brother fond (the only link
To life that bound him now)
One morning, overcome by drink,
He broke his leg (the right, I think)
In some disgraceful row.

But did my BERNARD swear and curse?
Oh no--to murmur loth,
He only said, "Go, get a nurse:
Be thankful that it isn't worse;
You might have broken both!"

But worms who watch without concern
The cockchafer on thorns,
Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn
If, walking through the slippery fern,
You tread upon their corns.

One night as BERNARD made his track
Through Brompton home to bed,
A footpad, with a vizor black,
Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack
On BERNARD'S saint-like head.

It was too much--his spirit rose,
He looked extremely cross.
Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,
But no--he bowed to countless blows,
But kicked against this loss.

He finally made up his mind
Upon his friends to call;
Subscription lists were largely signed,
For men were really glad to find
Him mortal, after all!

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 painted with vigour
And 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!

THE HAUGHTY ACTOR

An actor--GIBBS, of Drury Lane--
Of very decent station,
Once happened in a part to gain
Excessive approbation;
It sometimes turns a fellow's brain
And makes him singularly vain
When he believes that he receives
Tremendous approbation.

His great success half drove him mad,
But no one seemed to mind him;
Well, in another piece he had
Another part assigned him.

This part was smaller, by a bit,
Than that in which he made a hit.
So, much ill-used, he straight refused
To play the part assigned him.

* * * * *

_That night that actor slept, and I'll attempt
To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt:_

THE DREAM

In fighting with a robber band
(A thing he loved sincerely)
A sword struck GIBBS upon the hand
And wounded it severely.
At first he didn't heed it much,
He thought it was a simple touch,
But soon he found the weapon's bound
Had wounded him severely.

To Surgeon COBB he made a trip,
Who'd just effected featly
An amputation at the hip
Particularly neatly.
A rising man was Surgeon COBB,
But this extremely ticklish job
He had achieved (as he believed)
Particularly neatly.

The actor rang the surgeon's bell.
"Observe my wounded finger:
Be good enough to strap it well,
And prithee do not linger,
That I, dear sir, may fill again
The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane
This very night I have to fight--
So prithee do not linger."

"I don't strap fingers up for doles,"
Replied the haughty surgeon;
"To use your cant, I don't play _rôles_
'Utility' that verge on.
'First amputation'--nothing less--
That is my line of business:
We surgeon nobs despise all jobs
Utility that verge on.

"When in your hip there lurks disease"
(So dreamt this lively dreamer),
"Or devastating _caries_
In _humerus_ or _femur_,
If you can pay a handsome fee,
Oh, then you may remember me,
With joy elate I'll amputate
Your _humerus_ or _femur_."

The disconcerted actor ceased
The haughty leech to pester,
But when the wound in size increased,
And then began to fester,
He sought a learned Counsel's lair,
And told that Counsel, then and there,
How COBB'S neglect of his defect
Had made his finger fester.

"Oh, bring my action, if you please,
The case I pray you urge on,
And win me thumping damages
From COBB, that haughty surgeon.
He culpably neglected me
Although I proffered him his fee,
So pray come down, in wig and gown,
On COBB that haughty surgeon!"

That Counsel, learned in the laws,
With passion almost trembled,
He just had gained a mighty cause
Before the Peers assembled!
Said he, "How dare you have the face
To come with Common Jury case
To one who wings rhetoric flings
Before the Peers assembled?"

Dispirited became our friend--
Depressed his moral pecker--
"But stay! a thought! I'll gain my end,
And save my poor exchequer.
I won't be placed upon the shelf,
I'll take it into Court myself,
And legal lore display before
The Court of the Exchequer."

He found a Baron--one of those
Who with our laws supply us--
In wig and silken gown and hose,
As if at _Nisi Prius_.
But he'd just given, off the reel,
A famous judgment on Appeal:
It scarce became his heightened fame
To sit at _Nisi Prius_.

Our friend began, with easy wit,
That half concealed his terror:
"Pooh!" said the Judge, "I only sit
In _Banco_ or in Error.
Can you suppose, my man, that I'd
O'er _Nisi Prius_ Courts preside,
Or condescend my time to spend
On anything but Error?"

"Too bad," said GIBBS, "my case to shirk!
You must be bad innately,
To save your skill for mighty work
Because it's valued greatly!"
But here he woke, with sudden start.

* * * * *

He wrote to say he'd play the part.
I've but to tell he played it well--
The author's words--his native wit
Combined, achieved a perfect "hit"--
The papers praised him greatly.

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!

THE TWO MAJORS

An excellent soldier who's worthy the name,
Loves officers dashing and strict:
When good, he's content with escaping all blame,
When naughty, he likes to be licked.

He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,
Or imprisoned for several days;
And hates, for a duty correctly performed,
To be slavered with sickening praise.

No officer sickened with praises his corps
So little as MAJOR LA GUERRE--
No officers swore at his warriors more
Than MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE.

Their soldiers adored them, and every grade
Delighted to hear them abuse;
Though whenever these officers came on parade,
They shivered and shook in their shoes.

"No doubt we deserve it--no mercy we crave--
Go on--you're conferring a boon;
We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave
Than praised by a wretched poltroon!"

MAKREDI would say that in battle's fierce rage
True happiness only was met:
Poor MAJOR MAKREDI, though fifty his age,
Had never known happiness yet!

LA GUERRE would declare, "With the blood of a foe
No tipple is worthy to clink."
Poor fellow! he hadn't, though sixty or so,
Yet tasted his favourite drink!

They agreed at their mess--they agreed in the glass--
They agreed in the choice of their "set,"
And they also agreed in adoring, alas!
The Vivandière, pretty FILLETTE.

Agreement, we know, may be carried too far,
And after agreeing all round
For years--in this soldierly "maid of the bar,"
A bone of contention they found.

"On the day that you marry her," muttered PREPERE
(With a pistol he quietly played),
"I'll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,
All over the stony parade!"

"I cannot do _that_ to you," answered LA GUERRE,
"Whatever events may befall;
But this _I can_ do--if you wed her, _mon cher_!
I'll eat you, moustachios and all!

The rivals, although they would never engage,
Yet quarrelled whenever they met;
They met in a fury and left in a rage,
But neither took pretty FILLETTE.

"I am not afraid," thought MAKREDI PREPERE:
"For my country I'm ready to fall;
But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,
To be eaten, moustachios and all!

"Besides, though LA GUERRE has his faults, I'll allow
He's one of the bravest of men:
My goodness! if I disagree with him now,
I might disagree with him then!"

"No coward am I," said LA GUERRE, "as you guess--
I sneer at an enemy's blade;
But I don't want PREPERE to get into a mess
For splashing the stony parade!"

One day on parade to PREPERE and LA GUERRE
Came CORPORAL JACOT DEBETTE,
And, trembling all over, he prayed of them there
To give him the pretty FILLETTE.

"You see, I am willing to marry my bride
Until you've arranged this affair;
I will blow out my brains when your honours decide
Which marries the sweet Vivandière!"

"Well, take her," said both of them in a duet
(A favourite form of reply),
"But when I am ready to marry FILLETTE,
Remember you've promised to die!"

He married her then: from the flowery plains
Of existence the roses they cull:
He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains
Are reposing in peace in his skull.

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!

EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I

A DERBY LEGEND

EMILY JANE was a nursery maid--
JAMES was a bold Life Guard,
And JOHN was a constable, poorly paid
(And I am a doggerel bard).

A very good girl was EMILY JANE,
JIMMY was good and true,
And JOHN was a very good man in the main
(And I am a good man, too).

Rivals for EMMIE were JOHNNY and JAMES,
Though EMILY liked them both;
She couldn't tell which had the strongest claims
(And _I_ couldn't take my oath).

But sooner or later you're certain to find
Your sentiments can't lie hid--
JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind
(And I think it was time she did).

Said JANE, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
"I'll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!"
(Which _I_ would have done, with joy.)

From JOHNNY escaped an expression of pain,
But JIMMY said, "Done with you!
I'll take you with pleasure, my EMILY JANE"
(And I would have said so too).

JOHN lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
(For JOHNNY was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
(Which _I_ often do, when vexed).

For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force,
To punish all Epsom crimes;
Some people _will_ cross, when they're clearing the course
(I do it myself, sometimes).

* * * * *

The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads
(For I, with my harp, was there).

And JIMMY went down with his JANE that day,
And JOHN by the collar or nape
Seized everybody who came in his way
(And _I_ had a narrow escape).

He noticed his EMILY JANE with JIM,
And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered "Oh, dim!"
(I often say "dim!" myself.)

JOHN dogged them all day, without asking their leaves:
For his sergeant he told, aside,
That JIMMY and JANE were notorious thieves
(And I think he was justified).

But JAMES wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork,
And JENNY would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
(A bottle I think fair game).

But, ah! there's another more serious crime!
They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
(I pointed them out to JOHN).

The crusher came down on the pair in a crack--
And then, with a demon smile,
_Let JENNY cross over, but sent JIMMY back_
(I played on my harp the while).

Stern JOHNNY their agony loud derides
With a very triumphant sneer--
They weep and they wail from the opposite sides
(And _I_ shed a silent tear).

And JENNY is crying away like mad,
And JIMMY is swearing hard;
And JOHNNY is looking uncommonly glad
(And I am a doggerel bard).

But JIMMY he ventured on crossing again
The scenes of our Isthmian Games--
JOHN caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
(I felt very much for JAMES).

JOHN led him away with a victor's hand,
And JIMMY was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
(As many a time _I've_ been).

And JIMMY, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,
Though EMILY pleaded hard;
And JOHNNY had EMILY JANE to wife
(And I am a doggerel bard).

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 PERILS OF INVISIBILITY

Old PETER led a wretched life--
Old PETER had a furious wife;
Old PETER, too, was truly stout,
He measured several yards about.

The little fairy PICKLEKIN
One summer afternoon looked in,
And said, "Old PETER, how-de-do?
Can I do anything for you?

"I have three gifts--the first will give
Unbounded riches while you live;
The second, health where'er you be;
The third, invisibility."

"O, little fairy PICKLEKIN,"
Old PETER answered, with a grin,
"To hesitate would be absurd,--
Undoubtedly I choose the third."

"'Tis yours," the fairy said; "be quite
Invisible to mortal sight
Whene'er you please. Remember me
Most kindly, pray, to MRS. P."

Old MRS. PETER overheard
Wee PICKLEKIN'S concluding word,
And, jealous of her girlhood's choice,
Said, "That was some young woman's voice!"

Old PETER let her scold and swear--
Old PETER, bless him, didn't care.
"My dear, your rage is wasted quite--
Observe, I disappear from sight!"

A well-bred fairy (so I've heard)
Is always faithful to her word:
Old PETER vanished like a shot,
But then--_his suit of clothes did not_.

For when conferred the fairy slim
Invisibility on him,
She popped away on fairy wings,
Without referring to his "things."

So there remained a coat of blue,
A vest and double eyeglass too,
His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,
His pair of--no, I must not tell.

Old MRS. PETER soon began
To see the failure of his plan,
And then resolved (I quote the bard)
To "hoist him with his own petard."

Old PETER woke next day and dressed,
Put on his coat and shoes and vest,
His shirt and stock--_but could not find
His only pair of_--never mind!

Old PETER was a decent man,
And though he twigged his lady's plan,
Yet, hearing her approaching, he
Resumed invisibility.

"Dear MRS. P., my only joy,"
Exclaimed the horrified old boy;
"Now give them up, I beg of you--
You know what I'm referring to!"

But no; the cross old lady swore
She'd keep his--what I said before--
To make him publicly absurd;
And MRS. PETER kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest;
His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest,
Were all that now met mortal eye--
The rest, invisibility!

"Now, madam, give them up, I beg--
I've bad rheumatics in my leg;
Besides, until you do, it's plain
I cannot come to sight again!

"For though some mirth it might afford
To see my clothes without their lord,
Yet there would rise indignant oaths
If he were seen without his clothes!"

But no; resolved to have her quiz,
The lady held her own--and his--
And PETER left his humble cot
To find a pair of--you know what.

But--here's the worst of this affair---
Whene'er he came across a pair
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train,
And walked and walked with all his main;
For years he paced this mortal earth,
To bring himself to decent girth.

At night, when all around is still,
You'll find him pounding up a hill;
And shrieking peasants whom he meets,
Fall down in terror on the peats!

Old PETER walks through wind and rain
Resolved to train, and train, and train,
Until he weighs twelve stone or so--
And when he does, I'll let you know.

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!

OLD PAUL AND OLD TIM

When rival adorers come courting a maid,
There's something or other may often be said,
Why _he_ should be pitched upon rather than _him_.
This wasn't the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.

No soul could discover a reason at all
For marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL;
Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,
Against marrying either--or marrying both.

They were equally wealthy and equally old,
They were equally timid and equally bold;
They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes--
Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.

Had I been young EMILY, I should have said,
"You're both much too old for a pretty young maid,
Threescore at the least you are verging upon";
But I wasn't young EMILY. Let us get on.

No coward's blood ran in young EMILY'S veins,
Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;
At the rumours of battles all over the globe
He pricked up his ears like the war-horse in "Job."

He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise--
Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy's spies,
Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee--
For an eminent army-contractor was he.

So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,
Implored her between them at once to decide,
She told them she'd marry whichever might bring
Good proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.

They both went away with a qualified joy:
That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy,
And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,
He set to work boxing that little boy's ears.

The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,
But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn't care;
He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kicked
Till the poor little beggar was royally licked.

Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that,
So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.
"I'll cover myself with cheap glory--I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!

"The German invader is ravaging France
With infantry rifle and cavalry lance,
And beautiful Paris is fighting her best
To shake herself free from her terrible guest.

"The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,
Have all run away from the summons to arms;
They haven't the pluck of a pigeon--I'll go
And wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!"

Old TIMOTHY tried it and found it succeed:
That day he caused many French noses to bleed;
Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,
And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.

He took care to abstain from employing his fist
On the old and the crippled, for they might resist;
A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,
But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.

Old TIM and Old PAUL, with the list of their foes,
Prostrated themselves at their EMILY'S toes:
"Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?"
And EMILY answered and EMILY said:

"Old TIM has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores
Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;
Old PAUL has made little chaps' noses to bleed--
Old PAUL has accomplished the pluckier deed!"

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-Lieutenant 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!

THE MYSTIC SELVAGEE

Perhaps already you may know
SIR BLENNERHASSET PORTICO?
A Captain in the Navy, he--
A Baronet and K.C.B.
You do? I thought so!
It was that captain's favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That RODNEY was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
He had been taught so.

"BENBOW? CORNWALLIS? HOOD?--Belay!
Compared with RODNEY"--he would say--
"No other tar is worth a rap;
The great LORD RODNEY was the chap
The French to polish!

"Though, mind you, I respect LORD HOOD;
CORNWALLIS, too, was rather good;
BENBOW could enemies repel;
LORD NELSON, too, was pretty well--
That is, tol-lol-ish!"

SIR BLENNERHASSET spent his days
In learning RODNEY'S little ways,
And closely imitated, too,
His mode of talking to his crew--
His port and paces.
An ancient tar he tried to catch
Who'd served in RODNEY'S famous batch;
But since his time long years have fled,
And RODNEY'S tars are mostly dead:
_Eheu fugaces!_

But after searching near and far,
At last he found an ancient tar
Who served with RODNEY and his crew
Against the French in 'eighty-two
(That gained the peerage)
He gave him fifty pounds a year,
His rum, his baccy, and his beer;
And had a comfortable den
Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,
Is called the steerage.

"Now, JASPER"--'twas that sailor's name--
"Don't fear that you'll incur my blame
By saying, when it seems to you,
That there is anything I do
That RODNEY wouldn't."

The ancient sailor turned his quid,
Prepared to do as he was bid:
"Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,
You've done away with 'swifting in'--
Well, sir, you shouldn't!

"Upon your spars I see you've clapped
Peak-halliard blocks, all iron-capped;
I would not christen that a crime,
But 'twas not done in RODNEY'S time.
It looks half-witted!
Upon your maintop-stay, I see,
You always clap a selvagee;
Your stays, I see, are equalised--
No vessel, such as RODNEY prized,
Would thus be fitted.

"And RODNEY, honoured sir, would grin
To see you turning deadeyes in,
Not _up_, as in the ancient way,
But downwards, like a cutter's stay--
You didn't oughter!
Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,
Breast backstays you have quite ignored;
Great RODNEY kept unto the last
Breast backstays on topgallant mast--
They make it tauter."

SIR BLENNERHASSET "swifted in,"
Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin
To strip (as told by JASPER KNOX)
The iron capping from his blocks,
Where there was any.

SIR BLENNERHASSET does away
With selvagees from maintop-stay;
And though it makes his sailors stare,
He rigs breast backstays everywhere--
In fact, too many.

One morning, when the saucy craft
Lay calmed, old JASPER toddled aft.
"My mind misgives me, sir, that we
Were wrong about that selvagee--
I should restore it."
"Good," said the captain, and that day
Restored it to the maintop-stay.
Well-practised sailors often make
A much more serious mistake,
And then ignore it.

Next day old JASPER came once more.
"I think, sir, I was right before."
Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,
The selvagee was soon unshipped,
And all were merry.
Again a day, and JASPER came:
"I p'raps deserve your honour's blame,
I can't make up my mind," said he,
"About that cursed selvagee--
It's foolish--very.

"On Monday night I could have sworn
That maintop-stay it should adorn,
On Tuesday morning I could swear
That selvagee should not be there.
The knot's a rasper!"
"Oh, you be hanged!" said CAPTAIN P.,
"Here, go ashore at Caribbee,
Get out--good-bye--shove off--all right!"
Old JASPER soon was out of sight--
Farewell, old JASPER!

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 CUNNING WOMAN

On all Arcadia's sunny plain,
On all Arcadia's hill,
None were so blithe as BILL and JANE,
So blithe as JANE and BILL.

No social earthquake e'er occurred
To rack their common mind:
To them a Panic was a word--
A Crisis, empty wind.

No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad
With overwhelming shocks--
BILL ploughed with all the shares he had,
JANE planted all her stocks.

And learn in what a simple way
Their pleasures they enhanced--
JANE danced like any lamb all day,
BILL piped as well as danced.

Surrounded by a twittling crew,
Of linnet, lark, and thrush,
BILL treated his young lady to
This sentimental gush:

"Oh, JANE, how true I am to you!
How true you are to me!
And how we woo, and how we coo!
So fond a pair are we!

"To think, dear JANE, that anyways,
Your chiefest end and aim
Is, one of these fine summer days,
To bear my humble name!"

Quoth JANE, "Well, as you put the case,
I'm true enough, no doubt,
But then, you see, in this here place
There's none to cut you out.

"But, oh! if anybody came--
A Lord or any such--
I do not think your humble name
Would fascinate me much.

"For though your mates, you often boast
You distance out-and-out;
Still, in the abstract, you're a most
Uncompromising lout!"

Poor BILL, he gave a heavy sigh,
He tried in vain to speak--
A fat tear started to each eye
And coursed adown each cheek.

For, oh! right well in truth he knew
That very self-same day,
The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOO
Was coming there to stay!

The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOO
All proper maidens shun--
He loves all women, it is true,
But never marries one.

Now JANE, with all her mad self-will,
Was no coquette--oh no!
She really loved her faithful BILL,
And thus she tuned her woe:

"Oh, willow, willow, o'er the lea!
And willow once again!
The Peer will fall in love with me!
Why wasn't I made plain?"

* * * * *

A cunning woman lived hard by,
A sorceressing dame,
MACCATACOMB DE SALMON-EYE
Was her uncommon name.

To her good JANE, with kindly yearn
For BILL'S increasing pain,
Repaired in secrecy to learn
How best to make her plain.

"Oh, JANE," the worthy woman said,
"This mystic phial keep,
And rub its liquor in your head
Before you go to sleep.

"When you awake next day, I trow,
You'll look in form and hue
To others just as you do now--But
not to PILLALOO!

"When you approach him, you will find
He'll think you coarse--unkempt--
And rudely bid you get behind,
With undisguised contempt."

The LORD DE PILLALOO arrived
With his expensive train,
And when in state serenely hived,
He sent for BILL and JANE.

"Oh, spare her, LORD OF PILLALOO!
(Said BILL) if wed you be,
There's anything _I'd_ rather do
Than flirt with LADY P."

The Lord he gazed in Jenny's eyes,
He looked her through and through:
The cunning woman's prophecies
Were clearly coming true.

LORD PILLALOO, the Rustic's Bane
(Bad person he, and proud),
_He laughed Ha! ha! at pretty_ JANE,
_And sneered at her aloud!_

He bade her get behind him then,
And seek her mother's stye--
Yet to her native countrymen
She was as fair as aye!

MACCATACOMB, continue green!
Grow, SALMON-EYE, in might,
Except for you, there might have been
The deuce's own delight!

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!

PHRENOLOGY

"Come, collar this bad man--
Around the throat he knotted me
Till I to choke began--
In point of fact, garrotted me!"

So spake SIR HERBERT WHITE
To JAMES, Policeman Thirty-two--
All ruffled with his fight
SIR HERBERT was, and dirty too.

Policeman nothing said
(Though he had much to say on it),
But from the bad man's head
He took the cap that lay on it.

"No, great SIR HERBERT WHITE--
Impossible to take him up.
This man is honest quite--
Wherever did you rake him up?

"For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,
Indeed I'm no apologist;
But I, some years ago,
Assisted a Phrenologist.

"Observe his various bumps,
His head as I uncover it;
His morals lie in lumps
All round about and over it."

"Now take him," said SIR WHITE,
"Or you will soon be rueing it;
Bless me! I must be right,--
I caught the fellow doing it!"

Policeman calmly smiled,
"Indeed you are mistaken, sir,
You're agitated--riled--
And very badly shaken, sir.

"Sit down, and I'll explain
My system of Phrenology,
A second, please, remain"--
(A second is horology).

Policeman left his beat--
(The Bart., no longer furious,
Sat down upon a seat,
Observing, "This is curious!")

"Oh, surely here are signs
Should soften your rigidity,
This gentleman combines
Politeness with timidity.

"Of Shyness here's a lump--
A hole for Animosity--
And like my fist his bump
Of Generenerosity.

"Just here the bump appears
Of Innocent Hilarity,
And just behind his ear
Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.

"He of true Christian ways
As bright example sent us is--
This maxim he obeys,
'_Sorte tuâ contentus sis_.'

"There, let him go his ways,
He needs no stern admonishing."
The Bart., in blank amaze,
Exclaimed, "This is astonishing!

"I _must_ have made a mull,
This matter I've been blind in it:
Examine, please, _my_ skull,
And tell me what you find in it."

Policeman looked, and said,
With unimpaired urbanity,
"SIR HERBERT, you've a head
That teems with inhumanity.

"Here's Murder, Envy, Strife
(Propensity to kill any),
And Lies as large as life,
And heaps of Social Villainy:

"Here's Love of Bran New Clothes,
Embezzling--Arson--Deism--
A taste for Slang and Oaths,
And Fraudulent Trusteeism.

"Here's Love of Groundless Charge--
Here's Malice, too, and Trickery,
Unusually large
Your bump of Pocket-Pickery----"

"Stop!" said the Bart., "my cup
Is full--I'm worse than him in all--
Policeman, take me up--
No doubt I am some criminal!"

That Policeman's scorn grew large
(Phrenology had nettled it),
He took that Bart. in charge--
I don't know how they settled it.

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?

THE FAIRY CURATE

Once a fairy
Light and airy
Married with a mortal;
Men, however,
Never, never
Pass the fairy portal.
Slyly stealing,
She to Ealing
Made a daily journey;
There she found him,
Clients round him
(He was an attorney).

Long they tarried,
Then they married.
When the ceremony
Once was ended,
Off they wended
On their moon of honey.

Twelvemonth, maybe,
Saw a baby
(Friends performed an orgie)
Much they prized him,
And baptized him
By the name of GEORGIE.

GEORGIE grew up;
Then he flew up
To his fairy mother.
Happy meeting
Pleasant greeting--
Kissing one another.
"Choose a calling
Most enthralling,
I sincerely urge ye."
"Mother," said he
(Rev'rence made he),
"I would join the clergy"

"Give permission
In addition--
Pa will let me do it:
There's a living
In his giving,
He'll appoint me to it.
Dreams of coff'ring
Easter off'ring,
Tithe and rent and pew-rate,
So inflame me
(Do not blame me),
That I'll be a curate."

She, with pleasure,
Said, "My treasure,
Tis my wish precisely.

Do your duty,
There's a beauty;
You have chosen wisely.
Tell your father
I would rather
As a churchman rank you.

You, in clover,
I'll watch over."
GEORGIE said, "Oh, thank you!"

GEORGIE scudded,
Went and studied,
Made all preparations,
And with credit
(Though he said it)
Passed examinations.
(Do not quarrel)
With him, moral
Scrupulous digestions--
But his mother,
And no other,
Answered all the questions.

Time proceeded;
Little needed
GEORGIE admonition:
He, elated,
Vindicated
Clergyman's position.
People round him
Always found him
Plain and unpretending;
Kindly teaching,
Plainly preaching--
All his money lending.

So the fairy,
Wise and wary,
Felt no sorrow rising--
No occasion
For persuasion,
Warning, or advising.
He, resuming
Fairy pluming
(That's not English, is it?)

Oft would fly up,
To the sky up,
Pay mamma a visit.

* * * * *

Time progressing,
GEORGIE'S blessing
Grew more Ritualistic--
Popish scandals,
Tonsures--sandals--
Genuflections mystic;
Gushing meetings--
Bosom-beatings--
Heavenly ecstatics--
Broidered spencers--
Copes and censers--
Rochets and dalmatics.

This quandary
Vexed the fairy--
Flew she down to Ealing.
"GEORGIE, stop it!
Pray you, drop it;
Hark to my appealing:
To this foolish
Papal rule-ish
Twaddle put an ending;
This a swerve is
From our Service
Plain and unpretending."

He, replying,
Answered, sighing,
Hawing, hemming, humming,

"It's a pity--
They're so pritty;
Yet in mode becoming,
Mother tender,
I'll surrender--
I'll be unaffected--"
Then his Bishop
Into _his_ shop
Entered unexpected:

"Who is this, sir,--
Ballet miss, sir?"
Said the Bishop coldly.
"'Tis my mother,
And no other,"
GEORGIE answered boldly.

"Go along, sir!
You are wrong, sir,
You have years in plenty;
While this hussy
(Gracious mussy!)
Isn't two-and-twenty!"

(Fairies clever
Never, never
Grow in visage older;
And the fairy,
All unwary,
Leant upon his shoulder!)
Bishop grieved him,
Disbelieved him,
GEORGE the point grew warm on;
Changed religion,
Like a pigeon,[11]
And became a Mormon.

[Footnote 11: "Like a Bird."]

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!

THE WAY OF WOOING

A maiden sat at her window wide,
Pretty enough for a prince's bride,
Yet nobody came to claim her.
She sat like a beautiful picture there,
With pretty bluebells and roses fair,
And jasmine leaves to frame her.
And why she sat there nobody knows;
But thus she sang as she plucked a rose,
The leaves around her strewing:
"I've time to lose and power to choose;
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"

A lover came riding by awhile,
A wealthy lover was he, whose smile
Some maids would value greatly--
A formal lover, who bowed and bent,
With many a high-flown compliment,
And cold demeanour stately.

"You've still," said she to her suitor stern,
"The 'prentice-work of your craft to learn.
If thus you come a-cooing.
I've time to lose and power to choose;
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"

A second lover came ambling by--
A timid lad with a frightened eye
And a colour mantling highly.
He muttered the errand on which he'd come,
Then only chuckled and bit his thumb,
And simpered, simpered shyly.
"No," said the maiden, "go your way,
You dare but think what a man would say,
Yet dare come a-suing!
I've time to lose and power to choose;
'Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"

A third rode up at a startling pace--
A suitor poor, with a homely face--
No doubts appeared to bind him.
He kissed her lips and he pressed her waist,
And off he rode with the maiden, placed
On a pillion safe behind him.

And she heard the suitor bold confide
This golden hint to the priest who tied
The knot there's no undoing:
"With pretty young maidens who can choose
"Tis not so much the gallant who woos
As the gallant's way of wooing!"

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 can not 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!

HONGREE AND MAHRY

A RICHARDSONIAN MELODRAMA

The sun was setting in its wonted west,
When HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Met MAHRY DAUBIGNY, the Village Rose,
Under the Wizard's Oak--old trysting-place
Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.

They thought themselves unwatched, but they were not
For HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Found in LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC
A rival, envious and unscrupulous,
Who thought it not foul scorn to dog his steps,
And listen, unperceived, to all that passed
Between the simple little Village Rose
And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

A clumsy barrack-bully was DUBOSC,
Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact
That actuates a proper gentleman
In dealing with a girl of humble rank.
You'll understand his coarseness when I say
He would have married MAHRY DAUBIGNY,
And dragged the unsophisticated girl
Into the whirl of fashionable life,
For which her singularly rustic ways,
Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude),
Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical),
Would absolutely have unfitted her.
No such intention lurked within the breast
Of HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores!

Contemporary with the incident
Related in our opening paragraph,
Was that sad war 'twixt Gallia and ourselves
That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;
And so LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC
(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)
And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Were sent by CHARLES of France against the lines
Of our Sixth HENRY (Fourteen twenty-nine),
To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.

When HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Returned (suspecting nothing) to his camp,
After his meeting with the Village Rose,
He found inside his barrack letter-box
A note from the commanding-officer,
Requiring his attendance at headquarters.

He went, and found LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES.
"Young HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
This night we shall attack the English camp:
Be the 'forlorn hope' yours--you'll lead it sir,

And lead it too with credit, I've no doubt"
(These last words with a cruelly obvious sneer).
"As every soul must certainly be killed
(For you are twenty 'gainst two thousand men),
It is not likely that you will return;
But what of that? you'll have the benefit
Of knowing that you die a soldier's death."

Obedience was young HONGREE'S strongest point,
But he imagined that he only owed
Allegiance to his MAHRY and his King.
"If MAHRY bade me lead these fated men,
I'd lead them--but I do not think she would.
If CHARLES, my King, said, 'Go, my son, and die,'
I'd go, of course--my duty would be clear.
But MAHRY is in bed asleep (I hope),
And CHARLES, my King, a hundred leagues from this,
As for LIEUTENANT-COLONEL JOOLES DUBOSC,

How know I that our monarch would approve
The order he has given me to-night?
My King I've sworn in all things to obey--
I'll only take my orders from my King!"
Thus HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Interpreted the terms of his commission.

And HONGREE, who was wise as he was good,
Disguised himself that night in ample cloak,
Round flapping hat, and visor mask of black,
And made, unnoticed, for the English camp.
He passed the unsuspecting sentinels
(Who little thought a man in this disguise
Could be a proper object of suspicion),
And ere the curfew-bell had boomed "lights out,"
He found in audience Bedford's haughty Duke.

"Your Grace," he said, "start not--be not alarmed,
Although a Frenchman stands before your eyes.
I'm HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
My colonel will attack your camp to-night,
And orders me to lead the hope forlorn.
Now I am sure our excellent KING CHARLES
Would not approve of this; but he's away
A hundred leagues, and rather more than that.
So, utterly devoted to my King,
Blinded by my attachment to the throne,
And having but its interest at heart,
I feel it is my duty to disclose
All schemes that emanate from COLONEL JOOLES,
If I believe that they are not the kind
Of schemes that our good monarch could approve."
"But how," said Bedford's Duke, "do you propose

That we should overthrow your colonel's scheme?"
And HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Replied at once with never-failing tact:
"Oh, sir, I know this cursed country well.
Entrust yourself and all your host to me;
I'll lead you safely by a secret path
Into the heart of COLONEL JOOLES' array,
And you can then attack them unprepared,
And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed."

The thing was done. The DUKE OF BEDFORD gave
The order, and two thousand fighting-men
Crept silently into the Gallic camp,
And killed the Frenchmen as they lay asleep;
And Bedford's haughty Duke slew COLONEL JOOLES,
And married MAHRY, pride of Aquitaine,
To HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

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!

THE REVEREND MICAH SOWLS

The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS,
He shouts and yells and howls,
He screams, he mouths, he bumps,
He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage
The regulation war against the Stage;
And warns his congregation all to shun
"The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One."

The subject's sad enough
To make him rant and puff,
And fortunately, too,
His Bishop's in a pew.

So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam,
His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,
He is as energetic as can be,
For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it's o'er,
Goes through the vestry door,
Where MICAH, very red,
Is mopping of his head.

"Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS' excessive zeal,
It is a theme on which I strongly feel."
(The sermon somebody had sent him down
From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)

The Bishop bowed his head,
And, acquiescing, said,
"I've heard your well-meant rage
Against the Modern Stage.