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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

[AND SO SHE DID.



Ballad: AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS.



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

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

The bard play-writing in his room, The bard a humble lawyer's clerk. The bard a lawyer {3}—parson {4}—groom {5} - The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

The bard a tradesman {6}—and a Jew {7} - The bard a botanist {8}—a beak {9} - The bard a skilled musician {10} too - A sheriff {11} and a surgeon {12} eke!

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

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

"Oh, what a model he would make!" I rushed outside—impulsive me! - "Forgive the liberty I take, But you're so very"—"Stop!" said he.

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

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

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

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

"To rub HIS eyes whene'er they ache - To wear HIS baldness ere you're old - To clean HIS teeth when you awake - To blow HIS nose when you've a cold!"

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

His scanty hair he wildly tore: "That's right," said I, "it shows your breed." He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore - "Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I should not thus be criticised Had I a face of common wont: Don't envy me—now, be advised!" And, now I think of it, I don't!



Ballad: THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM.



The story of FREDERICK GOWLER, A mariner of the sea, Who quitted his ship, the Howler, A-sailing in Caribbee. For many a day he wandered, Till he met in a state of rum CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP, The King of Canoodle-Dum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mariner's lively "Hollo!" Enlivened Canoodle's plain (For blessings unnumbered follow In Civilization's train). But Fortune, who loves a bathos, A terrible ending planned, For ADMIRAL D. CHICKABIDDY, C.B., Placed foot on Canoodle land!

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

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



Ballad: THE MARTINET.



Some time ago, in simple verse I sang the story true Of CAPTAIN REECE, the Mantelpiece, And all her happy crew.

I showed how any captain may Attach his men to him, If he but heeds their smallest needs, And studies every whim.

Now mark how, by Draconic rule And hauteur ill-advised, The noblest crew upon the Blue May be demoralized.

When his ungrateful country placed Kind REECE upon half-pay, Without much claim SIR BERKELY came, And took command one day.

SIR BERKELY was a martinet - A stern unyielding soul - Who ruled his ship by dint of whip And horrible black-hole.

A sailor who was overcome From having freely dined, And chanced to reel when at the wheel, He instantly confined!

And tars who, when an action raged, Appeared alarmed or scared, And those below who wished to go, He very seldom spared.

E'en he who smote his officer For punishment was booked, And mutinies upon the seas He rarely overlooked.

In short, the happy Mantelpiece, Where all had gone so well, Beneath that fool SIR BERKELY'S rule Became a floating hell.

When first SIR BERKELY came aboard He read a speech to all, And told them how he'd made a vow To act on duty's call.

Then WILLIAM LEE, he up and said (The Captain's coxswain he), "We've heard the speech your honour's made, And werry pleased we be.

"We won't pretend, my lad, as how We're glad to lose our REECE; Urbane, polite, he suited quite The saucy Mantelpiece.

"But if your honour gives your mind To study all our ways, With dance and song we'll jog along As in those happy days.

"I like your honour's looks, and feel You're worthy of your sword. Your hand, my lad—I'm doosid glad To welcome you aboard!"

SIR BERKELY looked amazed, as though He didn't understand. "Don't shake your head," good WILLIAM said, "It is an honest hand.

"It's grasped a better hand than yourn - Come, gov'nor, I insist!" The Captain stared—the coxswain glared - The hand became a fist!

"Down, upstart!" said the hardy salt; But BERKELY dodged his aim, And made him go in chains below: The seamen murmured "Shame!"

He stopped all songs at 12 p.m., Stopped hornpipes when at sea, And swore his cot (or bunk) should not Be used by aught than he.

He never joined their daily mess, Nor asked them to his own, But chaffed in gay and social way The officers alone.

His First Lieutenant, PETER, was As useless as could be, A helpless stick, and always sick When there was any sea.

This First Lieutenant proved to be His foster-sister MAY, Who went to sea for love of he In masculine array.

And when he learnt the curious fact, Did he emotion show, Or dry her tears or end her fears By marrying her? No!

Or did he even try to soothe This maiden in her teens? Oh, no!—instead he made her wed The Sergeant of Marines!

Of course such Spartan discipline Would make an angel fret; They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shot This fearful martinet.

The Admiralty saw how ill They'd treated CAPTAIN REECE; He was restored once more aboard The saucy Mantelpiece.



Ballad: THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS.



I go away this blessed day, To sail across the sea, MATILDA! My vessel starts for various parts At twenty after three, MATILDA. I hardly know where we may go, Or if it's near or far, MATILDA, For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confide In any 'fore-mast tar, MATILDA!

Beneath my ban that mystic man Shall suffer, coute qui coute, MATILDA! What right has he to keep from me The Admiralty route, MATILDA? Because, forsooth! I am a youth Of common sailors' lot, MATILDA! Am I a man on human plan Designed, or am I not, MATILDA?

But there, my lass, we'll let that pass! With anxious love I burn, MATILDA. I want to know if we shall go To church when I return, MATILDA? Your eyes are red, you bow your head; It's pretty clear you thirst, MATILDA, To name the day—What's that you say? - "You'll see me further first," MATILDA?

I can't mistake the signs you make, Although you barely speak, MATILDA; Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue Right in your pretty cheek, MATILDA! My dear, I fear I hear you sneer - I do—I'm sure I do, MATILDA! With simple grace you make a face, Ejaculating, "Ugh!" MATILDA.

Oh, pause to think before you drink The dregs of Lethe's cup, MATILDA! Remember, do, what I've gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA! Recall again the mental pain Of what I've had to do, MATILDA! And be assured that I've endured It, all along of you, MATILDA!

Do you forget, my blithesome pet, How once with jealous rage, MATILDA, I watched you walk and gaily talk With some one thrice your age, MATILDA? You squatted free upon his knee, A sight that made me sad, MATILDA! You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak, Which almost drove me mad, MATILDA!

I knew him not, but hoped to spot Some man you thought to wed, MATILDA! I took a gun, my darling one, And shot him through the head, MATILDA! I'm made of stuff that's rough and gruff Enough, I own; but, ah, MATILDA! It DID annoy your sailor boy To find it was your pa, MATILDA!

I've passed a life of toil and strife, And disappointments deep, MATILDA; I've lain awake with dental ache Until I fell asleep, MATILDA! At times again I've missed a train, Or p'rhaps run short of tin, MATILDA, And worn a boot on corns that shoot, Or, shaving, cut my chin, MATILDA.

But, oh! no trains—no dental pains - Believe me when I say, MATILDA, No corns that shoot—no pinching boot Upon a summer day, MATILDA - It's my belief, could cause such grief As that I've suffered for, MATILDA, My having shot in vital spot Your old progenitor, MATILDA.

Bethink you how I've kept the vow I made one winter day, MATILDA - That, come what could, I never would Remain too long away, MATILDA. And, oh! the crimes with which, at times, I've charged my gentle mind, MATILDA, To keep the vow I made—and now You treat me so unkind, MATILDA!

For when at sea, off Caribbee, I felt my passion burn, MATILDA, By passion egged, I went and begged The captain to return, MATILDA. And when, my pet, I couldn't get That captain to agree, MATILDA, Right through a sort of open port I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!

Remember, too, how all the crew With indignation blind, MATILDA, Distinctly swore they ne'er before Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA. And how they'd shun me one by one - An unforgiving group, MATILDA - I stopped their howls and sulky scowls By pizening their soup, MATILDA!

So pause to think, before you drink The dregs of Lethe's cup, MATILDA; Remember, do, what I've gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA. Recall again the mental pain Of what I've had to do, MATILDA, And be assured that I've endured It, all along of you, MATILDA!



Ballad: THE REVEREND SIMON MAGUS.



A rich advowson, highly prized, For private sale was advertised; And many a parson made a bid; The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.

He sought the agent's: "Agent, I Have come prepared at once to buy (If your demand is not too big) The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge."

"Ah!" said the agent, "THERE'S a berth - The snuggest vicarage on earth; No sort of duty (so I hear), And fifteen hundred pounds a year!

"If on the price we should agree, The living soon will vacant be; The good incumbent's ninety five, And cannot very long survive.

See—here's his photograph—you see, He's in his dotage." "Ah, dear me! Poor soul!" said SIMON. "His decease Would be a merciful release!"

The agent laughed—the agent blinked - The agent blew his nose and winked - And poked the parson's ribs in play - It was that agent's vulgar way.

The REVEREND SIMON frowned: "I grieve This light demeanour to perceive; It's scarcely comme il faut, I think: Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.

"Don't dig my waistcoat into holes - Your mission is to sell the souls Of human sheep and human kids To that divine who highest bids.

"Do well in this, and on your head Unnumbered honours will be shed." The agent said, "Well, truth to tell, I HAVE been doing very well."

"You should," said SIMON, "at your age; But now about the parsonage. How many rooms does it contain? Show me the photograph again.

"A poor apostle's humble house Must not be too luxurious; No stately halls with oaken floor - It should be decent and no more.

" No billiard-rooms—no stately trees - No croquet-grounds or pineries." "Ah!" sighed the agent, "very true: This property won't do for you."

"All these about the house you'll find." - "Well," said the parson, "never mind; I'll manage to submit to these Luxurious superfluities.

"A clergyman who does not shirk The various calls of Christian work, Will have no leisure to employ These 'common forms' of worldly joy.

"To preach three times on Sabbath days - To wean the lost from wicked ways - The sick to soothe—the sane to wed - The poor to feed with meat and bread;

"These are the various wholesome ways In which I'll spend my nights and days: My zeal will have no time to cool At croquet, archery, or pool."

The agent said, "From what I hear, This living will not suit, I fear - There are no poor, no sick at all; For services there is no call."

The reverend gent looked grave, "Dear me! Then there is NO 'society'? - I mean, of course, no sinners there Whose souls will be my special care?"

The cunning agent shook his head, "No, none—except"—(the agent said) - "The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B., The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D.

"But you will not be quite alone, For though they've chaplains of their own, Of course this noble well-bred clan Receive the parish clergyman."

"Oh, silence, sir!" said SIMON M., "Dukes—Earls! What should I care for them? These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!" "Of course," the agent said, "no doubt!"

"Yet I might show these men of birth The hollowness of rank on earth." The agent answered, "Very true - But I should not, if I were you."

"Who sells this rich advowson, pray?" The agent winked—it was his way - "His name is HART; 'twixt me and you, He is, I'm grieved to say, a Jew!"

"A Jew?" said SIMON, "happy find! I purchase this advowson, mind. My life shall be devoted to Converting that unhappy Jew!"



Ballad: MY DREAM.



The other night, from cares exempt, I slept—and what d'you think I dreamt? I dreamt that somehow I had come To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom -

Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice: Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice: Where right is wrong and wrong is right - Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise, Are born astonishingly wise; With every Science on their lips, And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them They crow binomial theorem, With views (it seems absurd to us) On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said, Is born with learning in his head, He must forget it, if he can, Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here, Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; The wisdom we so highly prize Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way, Must learn some nonsense every day; And cut, to carry out this view, His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils, Intent on giant-killers' toils; And sages close their aged eyes To other sages' lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound, Commit all robbers who are found; But there the Beaks (so people said) Commit all robberies instead.

Our Judges, pure and wise in tone, Know crime from theory alone, And glean the motives of a thief From books and popular belief.

But there, a Judge who wants to prime His mind with true ideas of crime, Derives them from the common sense Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away Who practise virtue every day - Of course, I mean to say, you know, What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do What we consider just and true, And only good men do, in fact, What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls, The girls are boys—the boys are girls! The men are women, too—but then, Per contra, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings This seems an awkward state of things, But if to think it out you try, It doesn't really signify.

With them, as surely as can be, A sailor should be sick at sea, And not a passenger may sail Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck) Is always shot for showing pluck (That is, if others can be found With pluck enough to fire a round).

"How strange!" I said to one I saw; "You quite upset our every law. However can you get along So systematically wrong?"

"Dear me!" my mad informant said, "Have you no eyes within your head? You sneer when you your hat should doff: Why, we begin where you leave off!

"Your wisest men are very far Less learned than our babies are!" I mused awhile—and then, oh me! I framed this brilliant repartee:

"Although your babes are wiser far Than our most valued sages are, Your sages, with their toys and cots, Are duller than our idiots!"

But this remark, I grieve to state, Came just a little bit too late For as I framed it in my head, I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, 'stead of here, My lot were in that favoured sphere! - Where greatest fools bear off the bell I ought to do extremely well.



Ballad: THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN.



I often wonder whether you Think sometimes of that Bishop, who From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo Last summer twelvemonth came. Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring Remembrance of the man I sing To-day, by simply mentioning That PETER was his name.

Remember how that holy man Came with the great Colonial clan To Synod, called Pan-Anglican; And kindly recollect How, having crossed the ocean wide, To please his flock all means he tried Consistent with a proper pride And manly self-respect.

He only, of the reverend pack Who minister to Christians black, Brought any useful knowledge back To his Colonial fold. In consequence a place I claim For "PETER" on the scroll of Fame (For PETER was that Bishop's name, As I've already told).

He carried Art, he often said, To places where that timid maid (Save by Colonial Bishops' aid) Could never hope to roam. The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught As he had learnt it; for he thought The choicest fruits of Progress ought To bless the Negro's home.

And he had other work to do, For, while he tossed upon the Blue, The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Forgot their kindly friend. Their decent clothes they learnt to tear - They learnt to say, "I do not care," Though they, of course, were well aware How folks, who say so, end.

Some sailors, whom he did not know, Had landed there not long ago, And taught them "Bother!" also, "Blow!" (Of wickedness the germs). 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 disgraceful 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 I'll meet you, I declare: I'll dress myself in cowries rare, And fasten feathers in my hair, And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo!'" {13}

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.



Ballad: 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 roles 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.



Ballad: 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 officer swore at his warriors more Than MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE.

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

For, oh! if LA GUERRE could all praises withhold, Why, so could MAKREDI PREPERE, And, oh! if MAKREDI could bluster and scold, Why, so could the mighty LA GUERRE.

"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 Vivandiere, pretty FILLETTE.

Agreement, you see, 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!

It may seem improper to call such a pet - By a metaphor, even—a bone; But though they agreed in adoring her, yet Each wanted to make her his own.

"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 country I'm ready to fall; But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandiere, 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 Vivandiere!"

"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.



Ballad: EMILY, JOHN, JAMES, AND I. A DERBY LEGEND.



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

A very good girl was EMILY JANE, JIMMY was good and true, 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; Young 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 constable fell 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).



Ballad: 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, Put 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 stick, his shoes, his vest, Were all that now met mortal eye - The rest, invisibility!

"Now, madam, give them up, I beg - I've had 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 the 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.



Ballad: 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"—'t was 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 equalized - 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'r'aps 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!



Ballad: PHRENOLOGY.



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

So spake SIR HERBERT WRITE 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 Impecuniosity.

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

He of true Christian ways As bright example sent us is - This maxim he obeys, 'Sorte tua 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."

That Crusher 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 Villany.

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



Ballad: 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, 'T is 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 - 'Twas 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—" But his Bishop Into HIS shop Entered unexpected!

"Who is this, sir, - Ballet miss, sir?" Said the Bishop coldly. "'T is 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, {14} And became a Mormon!



Ballad: 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 this she sang as she plucked a rose, The leaves around her strewing: "I've time to lose and power to choose; 'T is not so much the gallant who woos, But 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; 'T is 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 to come a-suing! I've time to lose and power to choose; 'T is 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, 'T is not so much the gallant who woos, As the gallant's WAY of wooing!"



Ballad: HONGREE AND MAHRY. A RECOLLECTION OF A SURREY 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 dodge 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 animates 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. How different to this unreflecting boor Was 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 head-quarters. 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. As every man 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 vizor 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 would 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 slew the Frenchmen as they lay asleep; And Bedford's haughty Duke slew COLONEL JOOLES, And gave fair MAHRY, pride of Aquitaine, To HONGREE, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.



Ballad: ETIQUETTE. {15}



The Ballyshannon foundered off the coast of Cariboo, And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew; Down went the owners—greedy men whom hope of gain allured: Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.

Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew, The passengers were also drowned excepting only two: Young PETER GRAY, who tasted teas for BAKER, CROOP, AND CO., And SOMERS, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.

These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast, Upon a desert island were eventually cast. They hunted for their meals, as ALEXANDER SELKIRK used, But they couldn't chat together—they had not been introduced.

For PETER GRAY, and SOMERS too, though certainly in trade, Were properly particular about the friends they made; And somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth - That GRAY should take the northern half, while SOMERS took the south.

On PETER'S portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare, But oysters were a delicacy PETER couldn't bear. On SOMERS' side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick, Which SOMERS couldn't eat, because it always made him sick.

GRAY gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore. The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved, For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And SOMERS sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south, For the thought of PETER'S oysters brought the water to his mouth. He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff: He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had When on board the Ballyshannon! And it drove them nearly mad To think how very friendly with each other they might get, If it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for the mus ridiculus, GRAY overheard his fellow-man soliloquizing thus: "I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on, M'CONNELL, S. B. WALTERS, PADDY BYLES, and ROBINSON?"

These simple words made PETER as delighted as could be, Old chummies at the Charterhouse were ROBINSON and he! He walked straight up to SOMERS, then he turned extremely red, Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:

I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold, But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old. You spoke aloud of ROBINSON—I happened to be by. You know him?" "Yes, extremely well." "Allow me, so do I."

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on, For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew ROBINSON! And Mr. SOMERS' turtle was at PETER'S service quite, And Mr. SOMERS punished PETER'S oyster-beds all night.

They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs: They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs; They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives; On several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night, And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light; Each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon, And all because it happened that they both knew ROBINSON!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore, And day by day they learned to love each other more and more. At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day, They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

To PETER an idea occurred. "Suppose we cross the main? So good an opportunity may not be found again." And SOMERS thought a minute, then ejaculated, "Done! I wonder how my business in the City's getting on?"

"But stay," said Mr. PETER: "when in England, as you know, I earned a living tasting teas for BAKER, CROOP, AND CO., I may be superseded—my employers think me dead!" "Then come with me," said SOMERS, "and taste indigo instead."

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found The vessel was a convict ship from Portland, outward bound; When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind, To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke, They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke: 'Twas ROBINSON—a convict, in an unbecoming frock! Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for SOMERS thought he had been rather rash In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash; And PETER thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon In making the acquaintance of a friend of ROBINSON.

At first they didn't quarrel very openly, I've heard; They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word: The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head, And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth, And PETER takes the north again, and SOMERS takes the south; And PETER has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick, And SOMERS has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.



Ballad: AT A PANTOMIME. BY A BILIOUS ONE.



An Actor sits in doubtful gloom, His stock-in-trade unfurled, In a damp funereal dressing-room In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-time, And braves its icy breath, To play in that favourite pantomime, Harlequin Life and Death.

A hoary flowing wig his weird Unearthly cranium caps, He hangs a long benevolent beard On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features down The actor's art he cribs, - A long and a flowing padded gown. Bedecks his rattling ribs.

He cries, "Go on—begin, begin! Turn on the light of lime - I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in A favourite pantomime!"

The curtain's up—the stage all black - Time and the year nigh sped - Time as an advertising quack - The Old Year nearly dead.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo! Revealed Old Christmas stands, And little children chuckle and crow, And laugh and clap their hands.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens up At the death of the Olden Year, And he waves a gorgeous golden cup, And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King, - No thought can make them sad. Their laughter comes with a sounding ring, They clap and crow like mad!

They only see in the humbug old A holiday every year, And handsome gifts, and joys untold, And unaccustomed cheer.

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar, Their breasts in anguish beat - They've seen him seventy times before, How well they know the cheat!

They've seen that ghastly pantomime, They've felt its blighting breath, They know that rollicking Christmas-time Meant Cold and Want and Death, -

Starvation—Poor Law Union fare - And deadly cramps and chills, And illness—illness everywhere, And crime, and Christmas bills.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween, Those men of ripened age; They've often, often, often seen That Actor off the stage!

They see in his gay rotundity A clumsy stuffed-out dress - They see in the cup he waves on high A tinselled emptiness.

Those aged men so lean and wan, They've seen it all before, They know they'll see the charlatan But twice or three times more.

And so they bear with dance and song, And crimson foil and green, They wearily sit, and grimly long For the Transformation Scene.



Ballad: HAUNTED.



Haunted? Ay, in a social way By a body of ghosts in dread array; But no conventional spectres they - Appalling, grim, and tricky: I quail at mine as I'd never quail At a fine traditional spectre pale, With a turnip head and a ghostly wail, And a splash of blood on the dickey!

Mine are horrible, social ghosts, - Speeches and women and guests and hosts, Weddings and morning calls and toasts, In every bad variety: Ghosts who hover about the grave Of all that's manly, free, and brave: You'll find their names on the architrave Of that charnel-house, Society.

Black Monday—black as its school-room ink - With its dismal boys that snivel and think Of its nauseous messes to eat and drink, And its frozen tank to wash in. That was the first that brought me grief, And made me weep, till I sought relief In an emblematical handkerchief, To choke such baby bosh in.

First and worst in the grim array- Ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way, Which I wouldn't revive for a single day For all the wealth of PLUTUS - Are the horrible ghosts that school-days scared: If the classical ghost that BRUTUS dared Was the ghost of his "Caesar" unprepared, I'm sure I pity BRUTUS.

I pass to critical seventeen; The ghost of that terrible wedding scene, When an elderly Colonel stole my Queen, And woke my dream of heaven. No schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room curls Was my gushing innocent Queen of Pearls; If she wasn't a girl of a thousand girls, She was one of forty-seven!

I see the ghost of my first cigar, Of the thence-arising family jar - Of my maiden brief (I was at the Bar, And I called the Judge "Your wushup!") Of reckless days and reckless nights, With wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights, Unholy songs and tipsy fights, Which I strove in vain to hush up.

Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks, Ghosts of "copy, declined with thanks," Of novels returned in endless ranks, And thousands more, I suffer. The only line to fitly grace My humble tomb, when I've run my race, Is, "Reader, this is the resting-place Of an unsuccessful duffer."

I've fought them all, these ghosts of mine, But the weapons I've used are sighs and brine, And now that I'm nearly forty-nine, Old age is my chiefest bogy; For my hair is thinning away at the crown, And the silver fights with the worn-out brown; And a general verdict sets me down As an irreclaimable fogy.



Footnotes:

{1} A version of this ballad is published as a Song, by Mr. Jeffreys, Soho Square.

{2} This ballad is published as a Song, under the title "If," by Messrs. Cramer and Co.

{3} "Go with me to a Notary—seal me there Your single bond."—Merchant of Venice, Act I., sc. 3.

{4} "And there shall she, at Friar Lawrence' cell, Be shrived and married."—Romeo and Juliet, Act II., sc. 4.

{5} "And give the fasting horses provender."—Henry the Fifth, Act IV., sc. 2.

{6} "Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares."—Troilus and Cressida, Act I., sc. 3.

{7} "Then must the Jew be merciful."—Merchant of Venice, Act IV., sc. 1.

{8} "The spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries."—Midsummer Night Dream, Act IV., sc. 1.

{9} "In the county of Glo'ster, justice of the peace and coram." Merry Wives of Windsor, Act I., sc. 1.

{10} "What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?"—King John, Act V., sc. 2.

{11} "And I'll provide his executioner."—Henry the Sixth (Second Part), Act III., sc. 1.

{12} "The lioness had torn some flesh away, Which all this while had bled."—As You Like It, Act IV., sc. 3.

{13} Described by MUNGO PARK.

{14} "Like a bird."—Slang expression.

{15} Reprinted from the "The Graphic," by permission of the proprietors.

THE END