Transcribed from the 1884 and 1891 George Routledge and Sons editions by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk



FIFTY "BAB" BALLADS—MUCH SOUND AND LITTLE SENSE



PREFACE.



The "BAB BALLADS" appeared originally in the columns of "FUN," when that periodical was under the editorship of the late TOM HOOD. They were subsequently republished in two volumes, one called "THE BAB BALLADS," the other "MORE BAB BALLADS." The period during which they were written extended over some three or four years; many, however, were composed hastily, and under the discomforting necessity of having to turn out a quantity of lively verse by a certain day in every week. As it seemed to me (and to others) that the volumes were disfigured by the presence of these hastily written impostors, I thought it better to withdraw from both volumes such Ballads as seemed to show evidence of carelessness or undue haste, and to publish the remainder in the compact form under which they are now presented to the reader.

It may interest some to know that the first of the series, "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell," was originally offered to "PUNCH,"—to which I was, at that time, an occasional contributor. It was, however, declined by the then Editor, on the ground that it was "too cannibalistic for his readers' tastes."

W. S. GILBERT.

24 The Boltons, South Kensington, August, 1876.



Ballad: CAPTAIN REECE.



Of all the ships upon the blue, No ship contained a better crew Than that of worthy CAPTAIN REECE, Commanding of The Mantelpiece.

He was adored by all his men, For worthy CAPTAIN REECE, R.N., Did all that lay within him to Promote the comfort of his crew.

If ever they were dull or sad, Their captain danced to them like mad, Or told, to make the time pass by, Droll legends of his infancy.

A feather bed had every man, Warm slippers and hot-water can, Brown windsor from the captain's store, A valet, too, to every four.

Did they with thirst in summer burn, Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, And on all very sultry days Cream ices handed round on trays.

Then currant wine and ginger pops Stood handily on all the "tops;" And also, with amusement rife, A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."

New volumes came across the sea From MISTER MUDIE'S libraree; The Times and Saturday Review Beguiled the leisure of the crew.

Kind-hearted CAPTAIN REECE, R.N., Was quite devoted to his men; In point of fact, good CAPTAIN REECE Beatified The Mantelpiece.

One summer eve, at half-past ten, He said (addressing all his men): "Come, tell me, please, what I can do To please and gratify my crew.

"By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can; My own convenience count as nil: It is my duty, and I will."

Then up and answered WILLIAM LEE (The kindly captain's coxswain he, A nervous, shy, low-spoken man), He cleared his throat and thus began:

"You have a daughter, CAPTAIN REECE, Ten female cousins and a niece, A Ma, if what I'm told is true, Six sisters, and an aunt or two.

"Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, More friendly-like we all should be, If you united of 'em to Unmarried members of the crew.

"If you'd ameliorate our life, Let each select from them a wife; And as for nervous me, old pal, Give me your own enchanting gal!"

Good CAPTAIN REECE, that worthy man, Debated on his coxswain's plan: "I quite agree," he said, "O BILL; It is my duty, and I will.

"My daughter, that enchanting gurl, Has just been promised to an Earl, And all my other familee To peers of various degree.

"But what are dukes and viscounts to The happiness of all my crew? The word I gave you I'll fulfil; It is my duty, and I will.

"As you desire it shall befall, I'll settle thousands on you all, And I shall be, despite my hoard, The only bachelor on board."

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, He blushed and spoke to CAPTAIN REECE: "I beg your honour's leave," he said; "If you would wish to go and wed,

"I have a widowed mother who Would be the very thing for you - She long has loved you from afar: She washes for you, CAPTAIN R."

The Captain saw the dame that day - Addressed her in his playful way - "And did it want a wedding ring? It was a tempting ickle sing!

"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, We'll all be married this day week At yonder church upon the hill; It is my duty, and I will!"

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, And widowed Ma of CAPTAIN REECE, Attended there as they were bid; It was their duty, and they did.



Ballad: THE RIVAL CURATES.



List while the poet trolls Of MR. CLAYTON HOOPER, Who had a cure of souls At Spiffton-extra-Sooper.

He lived on curds and whey, And daily sang their praises, And then he'd go and play With buttercups and daisies.

Wild croquet HOOPER banned, And all the sports of Mammon, He warred with cribbage, and He exorcised backgammon.

His helmet was a glance That spoke of holy gladness; A saintly smile his lance; His shield a tear of sadness.

His Vicar smiled to see This armour on him buckled: With pardonable glee He blessed himself and chuckled.

"In mildness to abound My curate's sole design is; In all the country round There's none so mild as mine is!"

And HOOPER, disinclined His trumpet to be blowing, Yet didn't think you'd find A milder curate going.

A friend arrived one day At Spiffton-extra-Sooper, And in this shameful way He spoke to Mr. HOOPER:

"You think your famous name For mildness can't be shaken, That none can blot your fame - But, HOOPER, you're mistaken!

"Your mind is not as blank As that of HOPLEY PORTER, Who holds a curate's rank At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

"HE plays the airy flute, And looks depressed and blighted, Doves round about him 'toot,' And lambkins dance delighted.

"HE labours more than you At worsted work, and frames it; In old maids' albums, too, Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!"

The tempter said his say, Which pierced him like a needle - He summoned straight away His sexton and his beadle.

(These men were men who could Hold liberal opinions: On Sundays they were good - On week-days they were minions.)

"To HOPLEY PORTER go, Your fare I will afford you - Deal him a deadly blow, And blessings shall reward you.

"But stay—I do not like Undue assassination, And so before you strike, Make this communication:

"I'll give him this one chance - If he'll more gaily bear him, Play croquet, smoke, and dance, I willingly will spare him."

They went, those minions true, To Assesmilk-cum-Worter, And told their errand to The REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER.

"What?" said that reverend gent, "Dance through my hours of leisure? Smoke?—bathe myself with scent? - Play croquet? Oh, with pleasure!

"Wear all my hair in curl? Stand at my door and wink—so - At every passing girl? My brothers, I should think so!

"For years I've longed for some Excuse for this revulsion: Now that excuse has come - I do it on compulsion!!!"

He smoked and winked away - This REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER - The deuce there was to pay At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.

And HOOPER holds his ground, In mildness daily growing - They think him, all around, The mildest curate going.



Ballad: ONLY A DANCING GIRL.



Only a dancing girl, With an unromantic style, With borrowed colour and curl, With fixed mechanical smile, With many a hackneyed wile, With ungrammatical lips, And corns that mar her trips.

Hung from the "flies" in air, She acts a palpable lie, She's as little a fairy there As unpoetical I! I hear you asking, Why - Why in the world I sing This tawdry, tinselled thing?

No airy fairy she, As she hangs in arsenic green From a highly impossible tree In a highly impossible scene (Herself not over-clean). For fays don't suffer, I'm told, From bunions, coughs, or cold.

And stately dames that bring Their daughters there to see, Pronounce the "dancing thing" No better than she should be, With her skirt at her shameful knee, And her painted, tainted phiz: Ah, matron, which of us is?

(And, in sooth, it oft occurs That while these matrons sigh, Their dresses are lower than hers, And sometimes half as high; And their hair is hair they buy, And they use their glasses, too, In a way she'd blush to do.)

But change her gold and green For a coarse merino gown, And see her upon the scene Of her home, when coaxing down Her drunken father's frown, In his squalid cheerless den: She's a fairy truly, then!



Ballad: TO A LITTLE MAID—BY A POLICEMAN.



Come with me, little maid, Nay, shrink not, thus afraid - I'll harm thee not! Fly not, my love, from me - I have a home for thee - A fairy grot, Where mortal eye Can rarely pry, There shall thy dwelling be!

List to me, while I tell The pleasures of that cell, Oh, little maid! What though its couch be rude, Homely the only food Within its shade? No thought of care Can enter there, No vulgar swain intrude!

Come with me, little maid, Come to the rocky shade I love to sing; Live with us, maiden rare - Come, for we "want" thee there, Thou elfin thing, To work thy spell, In some cool cell In stately Pentonville!



Ballad: THE TROUBADOUR.



A troubadour he played Without a castle wall, Within, a hapless maid Responded to his call.

"Oh, willow, woe is me! Alack and well-a-day! If I were only free I'd hie me far away!"

Unknown her face and name, But this he knew right well, The maiden's wailing came From out a dungeon cell.

A hapless woman lay Within that dungeon grim - That fact, I've heard him say, Was quite enough for him.

"I will not sit or lie, Or eat or drink, I vow, Till thou art free as I, Or I as pent as thou."

Her tears then ceased to flow, Her wails no longer rang, And tuneful in her woe The prisoned maiden sang:

"Oh, stranger, as you play, I recognize your touch; And all that I can say Is, thank you very much."

He seized his clarion straight, And blew thereat, until A warden oped the gate. "Oh, what might be your will?"

"I've come, Sir Knave, to see The master of these halls: A maid unwillingly Lies prisoned in their walls."'

With barely stifled sigh That porter drooped his head, With teardrops in his eye, "A many, sir," he said.

He stayed to hear no more, But pushed that porter by, And shortly stood before SIR HUGH DE PECKHAM RYE.

SIR HUGH he darkly frowned, "What would you, sir, with me?" The troubadour he downed Upon his bended knee.

"I've come, DE PECKHAM RYE, To do a Christian task; You ask me what would I? It is not much I ask.

"Release these maidens, sir, Whom you dominion o'er - Particularly her Upon the second floor.

"And if you don't, my lord" - He here stood bolt upright, And tapped a tailor's sword - "Come out, you cad, and fight!"

SIR HUGH he called—and ran The warden from the gate: "Go, show this gentleman The maid in Forty-eight."

By many a cell they past, And stopped at length before A portal, bolted fast: The man unlocked the door.

He called inside the gate With coarse and brutal shout, "Come, step it, Forty-eight!" And Forty-eight stepped out.

"They gets it pretty hot, The maidens what we cotch - Two years this lady's got For collaring a wotch."

"Oh, ah!—indeed—I see," The troubadour exclaimed - "If I may make so free, How is this castle named?

The warden's eyelids fill, And sighing, he replied, "Of gloomy Pentonville This is the female side!"

The minstrel did not wait The Warden stout to thank, But recollected straight He'd business at the Bank.



Ballad: FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA; OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN.



PART I.

At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper One whom I will call ELVIRA, and we talked of love and TUPPER,

MR. TUPPER and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing, For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto, And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.

Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking; If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."

There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins, There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.

Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing, Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle, Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling- bottle.

So I whispered, "Dear ELVIRA, say,—what can the matter be with you? Does anything you've eaten, darling POPSY, disagree with you?"

But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing, And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me, And she whispered, "FERDINANDO, do you really, REALLY love me?"

"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly - For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly.

"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure, On a scientific goose-chase, with my COXWELL or my GLAISHER!

"Tell me whither I may hie me—tell me, dear one, that I may know - Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"

But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes: Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!"

PART II.

"Tell me, HENRY WADSWORTH, ALFRED POET CLOSE, or MISTER TUPPER, Do you write the bon bon mottoes my ELVIRA pulls at supper?"

But HENRY WADSWORTH smiled, and said he had not had that honour; And ALFRED, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

"MISTER MARTIN TUPPER, POET CLOSE, I beg of you inform us;" But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.

MISTER CLOSE expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me; And MISTER MARTIN TUPPER sent the following reply to me:

"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit," - Which I know was very clever; but I didn't understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway, Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle, So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy, And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty - He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

But he answered, "I'm so happy—no profession could be dearer - If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing 'Tirer, lirer!'

"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies, Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is;

"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers; Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers." -

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!" Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him - And I rushed away exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling, "'Tira, lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"

But until I reached ELVIRA'S home, I never, never waited, And ELVIRA to her FERDINAND'S irrevocably mated!



Ballad: TO MY BRIDE—(WHOEVER SHE MAY BE.)



Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution I'll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame! (As one of these must be your present portion) Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you, And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.

You'll marry soon—within a year or twain - A bachelor of circa two and thirty: Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain, And when you're intimate, you'll call him "BERTIE." Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.

You'll find him working mildly at the Bar, After a touch at two or three professions, From easy affluence extremely far, A brief or two on Circuit—"soup" at Sessions; A pound or two from whist and backing horses, And, say three hundred from his own resources.

Quiet in harness; free from serious vice, His faults are not particularly shady, You'll never find him "SHY"—for, once or twice Already, he's been driven by a lady, Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him - Because she hasn't any further use for him.

Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair! Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden, I've told YOUR fortune; solved the gravest care With which your mind has hitherto been laden. I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it; Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!

You—only you—can tell me, an' you will, To whom I'm destined shortly to be mated, Will she run up a heavy modiste's bill? If so, I want to hear her income stated (This is a point which interests me greatly). To quote the bard, "Oh! have I seen her lately?"

Say, must I wait till husband number one Is comfortably stowed away at Woking? How is her hair most usually done? And tell me, please, will she object to smoking? The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention: Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I'm all attention.



Ballad: SIR MACKLIN.



Of all the youths I ever saw None were so wicked, vain, or silly, So lost to shame and Sabbath law, As worldly TOM, and BOB, and BILLY.

For every Sabbath day they walked (Such was their gay and thoughtless natur) In parks or gardens, where they talked From three to six, or even later.

SIR MACKLIN was a priest severe In conduct and in conversation, It did a sinner good to hear Him deal in ratiocination.

He could in every action show Some sin, and nobody could doubt him. He argued high, he argued low, He also argued round about him.

He wept to think each thoughtless youth Contained of wickedness a skinful, And burnt to teach the awful truth, That walking out on Sunday's sinful.

"Oh, youths," said he, "I grieve to find The course of life you've been and hit on - Sit down," said he, "and never mind The pennies for the chairs you sit on.

"My opening head is 'Kensington,' How walking there the sinner hardens, Which when I have enlarged upon, I go to 'Secondly'—its 'Gardens.'

"My 'Thirdly' comprehendeth 'Hyde,' Of Secresy the guilts and shameses; My 'Fourthly'—'Park'—its verdure wide - My 'Fifthly' comprehends 'St. James's.'

"That matter settled, I shall reach The 'Sixthly' in my solemn tether, And show that what is true of each, Is also true of all, together.

"Then I shall demonstrate to you, According to the rules of WHATELY, That what is true of all, is true Of each, considered separately."

In lavish stream his accents flow, TOM, BOB, and BILLY dare not flout him; He argued high, he argued low, He also argued round about him.

"Ha, ha!" he said, "you loathe your ways, You writhe at these my words of warning, In agony your hands you raise." (And so they did, for they were yawning.)

To "Twenty-firstly" on they go, The lads do not attempt to scout him; He argued high, he argued low, He also argued round about him.

"Ho, ho!" he cries, "you bow your crests - My eloquence has set you weeping; In shame you bend upon your breasts!" (And so they did, for they were sleeping.)

He proved them this—he proved them that - This good but wearisome ascetic; He jumped and thumped upon his hat, He was so very energetic.

His Bishop at this moment chanced To pass, and found the road encumbered; He noticed how the Churchman danced, And how his congregation slumbered.

The hundred and eleventh head The priest completed of his stricture; "Oh, bosh!" the worthy Bishop said, And walked him off as in the picture.



Ballad: THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." {1}



'Twas on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand However you can be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says TOM; 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be, - 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear JAMES, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook ME, While I can—and will—cook YOU!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot. And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And—as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see!

* * * *

"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have—which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!'"



Ballad: THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO.



From east and south the holy clan Of Bishops gathered to a man; To Synod, called Pan-Anglican, In flocking crowds they came. Among them was a Bishop, who Had lately been appointed to The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo, And PETER was his name.

His people—twenty-three in sum - They played the eloquent tum-tum, And lived on scalps served up, in rum - The only sauce they knew. When first good BISHOP PETER came (For PETER was that Bishop's name), To humour them, he did the same As they of Rum-ti-Foo.

His flock, I've often heard him tell, (His name was PETER) loved him well, And, summoned by the sound of bell, In crowds together came. "Oh, massa, why you go away? Oh, MASSA PETER, please to stay." (They called him PETER, people say, Because it was his name.)

He told them all good boys to be, And sailed away across the sea, At London Bridge that Bishop he Arrived one Tuesday night; And as that night he homeward strode To his Pan-Anglican abode, He passed along the Borough Road, And saw a gruesome sight.

He saw a crowd assembled round A person dancing on the ground, Who straight began to leap and bound With all his might and main. To see that dancing man he stopped, Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, Then down incontinently dropped, And then sprang up again.

The Bishop chuckled at the sight. "This style of dancing would delight A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite. I'll learn it if I can, To please the tribe when I get back." He begged the man to teach his knack. "Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack! Replied that dancing man.

The dancing man he worked away, And taught the Bishop every day - The dancer skipped like any fay - Good PETER did the same. The Bishop buckled to his task, With battements, and pas de basque. (I'll tell you, if you care to ask, That PETER was his name.)

"Come, walk like this," the dancer said, "Stick out your toes—stick in your head, Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread - Your fingers thus extend; The attitude's considered quaint." The weary Bishop, feeling faint, Replied, "I do not say it ain't, But 'Time!' my Christian friend!"

"We now proceed to something new - Dance as the PAYNES and LAURIS do, Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two." The Bishop, never proud, But in an overwhelming heat (His name was PETER, I repeat) Performed the PAYNE and LAURI feat, And puffed his thanks aloud.

Another game the dancer planned - "Just take your ankle in your hand, And try, my lord, if you can stand - Your body stiff and stark. If, when revisiting your see, You learnt to hop on shore—like me - The novelty would striking be, And must attract remark."

"No," said the worthy Bishop, "no; That is a length to which, I trow, Colonial Bishops cannot go. You may express surprise At finding Bishops deal in pride - But if that trick I ever tried, I should appear undignified In Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes.

"The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Are well-conducted persons, who Approve a joke as much as you, And laugh at it as such; But if they saw their Bishop land, His leg supported in his hand, The joke they wouldn't understand - 'T would pain them very much!"



Ballad: THE PRECOCIOUS BABY. A VERY TRUE TALE. (To be sung to the Air of the "Whistling Oyster.")



An elderly person—a prophet by trade - With his quips and tips On withered old lips, He married a young and a beautiful maid; The cunning old blade! Though rather decayed, He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.

She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be, With her tempting smiles And maidenly wiles, And he was a trifle past seventy-three: Now what she could see Is a puzzle to me, In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three!

Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad) With their loud high jinks And underbred winks, None thought they'd a family have—but they had; A dear little lad Who drove 'em half mad, For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.

For when he was born he astonished all by, With their "Law, dear me!" "Did ever you see?" He'd a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye, A hat all awry - An octagon tie - And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye.

He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap, With his "Oh, dear, oh!" And his "Hang it! 'oo know!" And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap - "My friends, it's a tap Dat is not worf a rap." (Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)

He'd chuck his nurse under the chin, and he'd say, With his "Fal, lal, lal" - "'Oo doosed fine gal!" This shocking precocity drove 'em away: "A month from to-day Is as long as I'll stay - Then I'd wish, if you please, for to toddle away."

His father, a simple old gentleman, he With nursery rhyme And "Once on a time," Would tell him the story of "Little Bo-P," "So pretty was she, So pretty and wee, As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be."

But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox, With his "C'ck! Oh, my! - Go along wiz 'oo, fie!" Would exclaim, "I'm afraid 'oo a socking ole fox." Now a father it shocks, And it whitens his locks, When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.

The name of his father he'd couple and pair (With his ill-bred laugh, And insolent chaff) With those of the nursery heroines rare - Virginia the Fair, Or Good Goldenhair, Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.

"There's Jill and White Cat" (said the bold little brat, With his loud, "Ha, ha!") "'Oo sly ickle Pa! Wiz 'oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and 'oo Mrs. Jack Sprat! I've noticed 'oo pat MY pretty White Cat - I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!"

He early determined to marry and wive, For better or worse With his elderly nurse - Which the poor little boy didn't live to contrive: His hearth didn't thrive - No longer alive, He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!

MORAL.

Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew, With wrinkled hose And spectacled nose, Don't marry at all—you may take it as true If ever you do The step you will rue, For your babes will be elderly—elderly too.



Ballad: TO PHOEBE. {2}



"Gentle, modest little flower, Sweet epitome of May, Love me but for half an hour, Love me, love me, little fay." Sentences so fiercely flaming In your tiny shell-like ear, I should always be exclaiming If I loved you, PHOEBE dear.

"Smiles that thrill from any distance Shed upon me while I sing! Please ecstaticize existence, Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!" Words like these, outpouring sadly You'd perpetually hear, If I loved you fondly, madly; - But I do not, PHOEBE dear.



Ballad: BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN.



Of all the good attorneys who Have placed their names upon the roll, But few could equal BAINES CAREW For tender-heartedness and soul.

Whene'er he heard a tale of woe From client A or client B, His grief would overcome him so He'd scarce have strength to take his fee.

It laid him up for many days, When duty led him to distrain, And serving writs, although it pays, Gave him excruciating pain.

He made out costs, distrained for rent, Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye - No bill of costs could represent The value of such sympathy.

No charges can approximate The worth of sympathy with woe; - Although I think I ought to state He did his best to make them so.

Of all the many clients who Had mustered round his legal flag, No single client of the crew Was half so dear as CAPTAIN BAGG.

Now, CAPTAIN BAGG had bowed him to A heavy matrimonial yoke - His wifey had of faults a few - She never could resist a joke.

Her chaff at first he meekly bore, Till unendurable it grew. "To stop this persecution sore I will consult my friend CAREW.

"And when CAREW'S advice I've got, Divorce a mensa I shall try." (A legal separation—not A vinculo conjugii.)

"Oh, BAINES CAREW, my woe I've kept A secret hitherto, you know;" - (And BAINES CAREW, ESQUIRE, he wept To hear that BAGG HAD any woe.)

"My case, indeed, is passing sad. My wife—whom I considered true - With brutal conduct drives me mad." "I am appalled," said BAINES CAREW.

"What! sound the matrimonial knell Of worthy people such as these! Why was I an attorney? Well - Go on to the saevitia, please."

"Domestic bliss has proved my bane, - A harder case you never heard, My wife (in other matters sane) Pretends that I'm a Dicky bird!

"She makes me sing, 'Too-whit, too-wee!' And stand upon a rounded stick, And always introduces me To every one as 'Pretty Dick'!"

"Oh, dear," said weeping BAINES CAREW, "This is the direst case I know." "I'm grieved," said BAGG, "at paining you - "To COBB and POLTHERTHWAITE I'll go -

"To COBB'S cold, calculating ear, My gruesome sorrows I'll impart" - "No; stop," said BAINES, "I'll dry my tear, And steel my sympathetic heart."

"She makes me perch upon a tree, Rewarding me with 'Sweety—nice!' And threatens to exhibit me With four or five performing mice."

"Restrain my tears I wish I could" (Said BAINES), "I don't know what to do." Said CAPTAIN BAGG, "You're very good." "Oh, not at all," said BAINES CAREW.

"She makes me fire a gun," said BAGG; "And, at a preconcerted word, Climb up a ladder with a flag, Like any street performing bird.

"She places sugar in my way - In public places calls me 'Sweet!' She gives me groundsel every day, And hard canary-seed to eat."

"Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!" (Said BAINES). "Be good enough to stop." And senseless on the floor he fell, With unpremeditated flop!

Said CAPTAIN BAGG, "Well, really I Am grieved to think it pains you so. I thank you for your sympathy; But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!"

But BAINES lay flat upon the floor, Convulsed with sympathetic sob; - The Captain toddled off next door, And gave the case to MR. COBB.



Ballad: THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.



In all the towns and cities fair On Merry England's broad expanse, No swordsman ever could compare With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew A silken handkerchief in twain, Divide a leg of mutton too - And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick, His sabre sometimes he'd employ - No bar of lead, however thick, Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare To hew and slash, behind, before - Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE, Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance, The sight annoyed and vexed him so; He was the bravest man in France - He said so, and he ought to know.

"Regardez donc, ce cochon gros - Ce polisson! Oh, sacre bleu! Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie Give no retaliating whack - Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi - Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad Cut lead and mutton more and more; And every day poor PIERRE, half mad, Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

HANCE had a mother, poor and old, A simple, harmless village dame, Who crowed and clapped as people told Of WINTERBOTTOM'S rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot To see my TOMMY'S sabre-play;" And so she left her leafy cot, And walked to Dover in a day.

PIERRE had a doating mother, who Had heard of his defiant rage; HIS Ma was nearly ninety-two, And rather dressy for her age.

At HANCE'S doings every morn, With sheer delight HIS mother cried; And MONSIEUR PIERRE'S contemptuous scorn Filled HIS mamma with proper pride.

But HANCE'S powers began to fail - His constitution was not strong - And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale, Grew thin from shouting all day long.

Their mothers saw them pale and wan, Maternal anguish tore each breast, And so they met to find a plan To set their offsprings' minds at rest.

Said MRS. HANCE, "Of course I shrinks From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware, But still they'd better meet, I thinks." "Assurement!" said MADAME PIERRE.

A sunny spot in sunny France Was hit upon for this affair; The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE, The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE.

Said MRS. H., "Your work you see - Go in, my noble boy, and win." "En garde, mon fils!" said MADAME P. "Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"

(The mothers were of decent size, Though not particularly tall; But in the sketch that meets your eyes I've been obliged to draw them small.)

Loud sneered the doughty man of France, "Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha! "The French for 'Pish'" said THOMAS HANCE. Said PIERRE, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"

Said MRS. H., "Come, one! two! three! - We're sittin' here to see all fair." "C'est magnifique!" said MADAME P., "Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"

"Je scorn un foe si lache que vous," Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France. "I fight not coward foe like you!" Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.

"The French for 'Pooh!'" our TOMMY cried. "L'Anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed. And so, with undiminished pride, Each went on his respective road.



Ballad: A DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKER.



A gentleman of City fame Now claims your kind attention; East India broking was his game, His name I shall not mention: No one of finely-pointed sense Would violate a confidence, And shall I go And do it? No! His name I shall not mention.

He had a trusty wife and true, And very cosy quarters, A manager, a boy or two, Six clerks, and seven porters. A broker must be doing well (As any lunatic can tell) Who can employ An active boy, Six clerks, and seven porters.

His knocker advertised no dun, No losses made him sulky, He had one sorrow—only one - He was extremely bulky. A man must be, I beg to state, Exceptionally fortunate Who owns his chief And only grief Is—being very bulky.

"This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear; I'm nineteen stone or twenty! Henceforward I'll go in for air And exercise in plenty." Most people think that, should it come, They can reduce a bulging tum To measures fair By taking air And exercise in plenty.

In every weather, every day, Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty, He took to dancing all the way From Brompton to the City. You do not often get the chance Of seeing sugar brokers dance From their abode In Fulham Road Through Brompton to the City.

He braved the gay and guileless laugh Of children with their nusses, The loud uneducated chaff Of clerks on omnibuses. Against all minor things that rack A nicely-balanced mind, I'll back The noisy chaff And ill-bred laugh Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money chink, And saw the house he rented, And knew his wife, could never think What made him discontented. It never entered their pure minds That fads are of eccentric kinds, Nor would they own That fat alone Could make one discontented.

"Your riches know no kind of pause, Your trade is fast advancing; You dance—but not for joy, because You weep as you are dancing. To dance implies that man is glad, To weep implies that man is sad; But here are you Who do the two - You weep as you are dancing!"

His mania soon got noised about And into all the papers; His size increased beyond a doubt For all his reckless capers: It may seem singular to you, But all his friends admit it true - The more he found His figure round, The more he cut his capers.

His bulk increased—no matter that - He tried the more to toss it - He never spoke of it as "fat," But "adipose deposit." Upon my word, it seems to me Unpardonable vanity (And worse than that) To call your fat An "adipose deposit."

At length his brawny knees gave way, And on the carpet sinking, Upon his shapeless back he lay And kicked away like winking. Instead of seeing in his state The finger of unswerving Fate, He laboured still To work his will, And kicked away like winking.

His friends, disgusted with him now, Away in silence wended - I hardly like to tell you how This dreadful story ended. The shocking sequel to impart, I must employ the limner's art - If you would know, This sketch will show How his exertions ended.

MORAL.

I hate to preach—I hate to prate - - I'm no fanatic croaker, But learn contentment from the fate Of this East India broker. He'd everything a man of taste Could ever want, except a waist; And discontent His size anent, And bootless perseverance blind, Completely wrecked the peace of mind Of this East India broker.



Ballad: THE PANTOMIME "SUPER" TO HIS MASK.



Vast empty shell! Impertinent, preposterous abortion! With vacant stare, And ragged hair, And every feature out of all proportion! Embodiment of echoing inanity! Excellent type of simpering insanity! Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! I ring thy knell!

To-night thou diest, Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity! Nine weeks of nights, Before the lights, Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity, I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally, Credited for the smile you wear externally - I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally, As there thou liest!

I've been thy brain: I'VE been the brain that lit thy dull concavity! The human race Invest MY face With thine expression of unchecked depravity, Invested with a ghastly reciprocity, I'VE been responsible for thy monstrosity, I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity - But not again!

'T is time to toll Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical: A nine weeks' run, And thou hast done All thou canst do to make thyself inimical. Adieu, embodiment of all inanity! Excellent type of simpering insanity! Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! Freed is thy soul!

(The Mask respondeth.)

Oh! master mine, Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me. Art thou aware Of nothing there Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me? A brain that mourns THINE unredeemed rascality? A soul that weeps at THY threadbare morality? Both grieving that THEIR individuality Is merged in thine?



Ballad: THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLIN.



O'er unreclaimed suburban clays Some years ago were hobblin' An elderly ghost of easy ways, And an influential goblin. The ghost was a sombre spectral shape, A fine old five-act fogy, The goblin imp, a lithe young ape, A fine low-comedy bogy.

And as they exercised their joints, Promoting quick digestion, They talked on several curious points, And raised this delicate question: "Which of us two is Number One - The ghostie, or the goblin?" And o'er the point they raised in fun They fairly fell a-squabblin'.

They'd barely speak, and each, in fine, Grew more and more reflective: Each thought his own particular line By chalks the more effective. At length they settled some one should By each of them be haunted, And so arrange that either could Exert his prowess vaunted.

"The Quaint against the Statuesque" - By competition lawful - The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque, The ghost the Grandly Awful. "Now," said the goblin, "here's my plan - In attitude commanding, I see a stalwart Englishman By yonder tailor's standing.

"The very fittest man on earth My influence to try on - Of gentle, p'r'aps of noble birth, And dauntless as a lion! Now wrap yourself within your shroud - Remain in easy hearing - Observe—you'll hear him scream aloud When I begin appearing!

The imp with yell unearthly—wild - Threw off his dark enclosure: His dauntless victim looked and smiled With singular composure. For hours he tried to daunt the youth, For days, indeed, but vainly - The stripling smiled!—to tell the truth, The stripling smiled inanely.

For weeks the goblin weird and wild, That noble stripling haunted; For weeks the stripling stood and smiled, Unmoved and all undaunted. The sombre ghost exclaimed, "Your plan Has failed you, goblin, plainly: Now watch yon hardy Hieland man, So stalwart and ungainly.

"These are the men who chase the roe, Whose footsteps never falter, Who bring with them, where'er they go, A smack of old SIR WALTER. Of such as he, the men sublime Who lead their troops victorious, Whose deeds go down to after-time, Enshrined in annals glorious!

"Of such as he the bard has said 'Hech thrawfu' raltie rorkie! Wi' thecht ta' croonie clapperhead And fash' wi' unco pawkie!' He'll faint away when I appear, Upon his native heather; Or p'r'aps he'll only scream with fear, Or p'r'aps the two together."

The spectre showed himself, alone, To do his ghostly battling, With curdling groan and dismal moan, And lots of chains a-rattling! But no—the chiel's stout Gaelic stuff Withstood all ghostly harrying; His fingers closed upon the snuff Which upwards he was carrying.

For days that ghost declined to stir, A foggy shapeless giant - For weeks that splendid officer Stared back again defiant. Just as the Englishman returned The goblin's vulgar staring, Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned The ghost's unmannered scaring.

For several years the ghostly twain These Britons bold have haunted, But all their efforts are in vain - Their victims stand undaunted. This very day the imp, and ghost, Whose powers the imp derided, Stand each at his allotted post - The bet is undecided.



Ballad: THE PHANTOM CURATE. A FABLE.



A Bishop once—I will not name his see - Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional; From pulpit shackles never set them free, And found a sin where sin was unintentional. All pleasures ended in abuse auricular - The Bishop was so terribly particular.

Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man, He sought to make of human pleasures clearances; And form his priests on that much-lauded plan Which pays undue attention to appearances. He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em, Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em.

Enraged to find a deacon at a dance, Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity, He sought by open censure to enhance Their dread of joining harmless social jollity. Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety) The ordinary pleasures of society.

One evening, sitting at a pantomime (Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him), Roaring at jokes, sans metre, sense, or rhyme, He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him, His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it, A curate, also heartily enjoying it.

Again, 't was Christmas Eve, and to enhance His children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking, He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance; When something checked the current of his frolicking: That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly, Stood up and figured with him in the "Coverley!"

Once, yielding to an universal choice (The company's demand was an emphatic one, For the old Bishop had a glorious voice), In a quartet he joined—an operatic one. Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of grace in it, When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!

One day, when passing through a quiet street, He stopped awhile and joined a Punch's gathering; And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet, To see that gentleman his Judy lathering; And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty, That phantom curate laughing all hyaenally.

Now at a picnic, 'mid fair golden curls, Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly, A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls; And he, consenting, speaks of croquet praisingly; But suddenly declines to play at all in it - The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it!

Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed From cares episcopal and ties monarchical, He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed, In manner anything but hierarchical - He sees—and fixes an unearthly stare on it - That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it!

At length he gave a charge, and spake this word: "Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may; To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd; What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may." He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him, The curate vanished—no one since has heard of him.



Ballad: KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO.



KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO Was a man-eating African swell; His sigh was a hullaballoo, His whisper a horrible yell - A horrible, horrible yell!

Four subjects, and all of them male, To BORRIA doubled the knee, They were once on a far larger scale, But he'd eaten the balance, you see ("Scale" and "balance" is punning, you see).

There was haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH, There was lumbering DOODLE-DUM-DEY, Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH, And good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH - Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH.

One day there was grief in the crew, For they hadn't a morsel of meat, And BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO Was dying for something to eat - "Come, provide me with something to eat!

"ALACK-A-DEY, famished I feel; Oh, good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH, Where on earth shall I look for a meal? For I haven't no dinner to-day! - Not a morsel of dinner to-day!

"Dear TOOTLE-TUM, what shall we do? Come, get us a meal, or, in truth, If you don't, we shall have to eat you, Oh, adorable friend of our youth! Thou beloved little friend of our youth!"

And he answered, "Oh, BUNGALEE BOO, For a moment I hope you will wait, - TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO Is the Queen of a neighbouring state - A remarkably neighbouring state.

"TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO, She would pickle deliciously cold - And her four pretty Amazons, too, Are enticing, and not very old - Twenty-seven is not very old.

"There is neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH, There is rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH, There is jocular WAGGETY-WEH, There is musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH - There's the nightingale DOH-REH-MI-FAH!"

So the forces of BUNGALEE BOO Marched forth in a terrible row, And the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOO Prepared to encounter the foe - This dreadful, insatiate foe!

But they sharpened no weapons at all, And they poisoned no arrows—not they! They made ready to conquer or fall In a totally different way - An entirely different way.

With a crimson and pearly-white dye They endeavoured to make themselves fair, With black they encircled each eye, And with yellow they painted their hair (It was wool, but they thought it was hair).

And the forces they met in the field:- And the men of KING BORRIA said, "Amazonians, immediately yield!" And their arrows they drew to the head - Yes, drew them right up to the head.

But jocular WAGGETY-WEH Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong), And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH Said, "TOOTLE-TUM, you go along! You naughty old dear, go along!"

And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her fan; And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH Said, "PISH, go away, you bad man! Go away, you delightful young man!"

And the Amazons simpered and sighed, And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed, And they opened their pretty eyes wide, And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed (At least, if they could, they'd have blushed).

But haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH Said, "ALACK-A-DEY, what does this mean?" And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH Said, "They think us uncommonly green! Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!"

Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEY Was insensible quite to their leers, And said good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH, "It's your blood we desire, pretty dears - We have come for our dinners, my dears!"

And the Queen of the Amazons fell To BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO, - In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell, TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO - The pretty QUEEN TOL-THE-ROL-LOO.

And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH Was eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH, And light-hearted WAGGETY-WEH By dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH - Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH.

And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH Was eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEY, And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH By good little TOOTLE-DUM-TEH - Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH!



Ballad: BOB POLTER.



BOB POLTER was a navvy, and His hands were coarse, and dirty too, His homely face was rough and tanned, His time of life was thirty-two.

He lived among a working clan (A wife he hadn't got at all), A decent, steady, sober man - No saint, however—not at all.

He smoked, but in a modest way, Because he thought he needed it; He drank a pot of beer a day, And sometimes he exceeded it.

At times he'd pass with other men A loud convivial night or two, With, very likely, now and then, On Saturdays, a fight or two.

But still he was a sober soul, A labour-never-shirking man, Who paid his way—upon the whole A decent English working man.

One day, when at the Nelson's Head (For which he may be blamed of you), A holy man appeared, and said, "Oh, ROBERT, I'm ashamed of you."

He laid his hand on ROBERT'S beer Before he could drink up any, And on the floor, with sigh and tear, He poured the pot of "thruppenny."

"Oh, ROBERT, at this very bar A truth you'll be discovering, A good and evil genius are Around your noddle hovering.

"They both are here to bid you shun The other one's society, For Total Abstinence is one, The other, Inebriety."

He waved his hand—a vapour came - A wizard POLTER reckoned him; A bogy rose and called his name, And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster's salient points to sum, - His heavy breath was portery: His glowing nose suggested rum: His eyes were gin-and-WORtery.

His dress was torn—for dregs of ale And slops of gin had rusted it; His pimpled face was wan and pale, Where filth had not encrusted it.

"Come, POLTER," said the fiend, "begin, And keep the bowl a-flowing on - A working man needs pints of gin To keep his clockwork going on."

BOB shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss If you take me for one of you: You filthy beast, get out of this - BOB POLTER don't wan't none of you."

The demon gave a drunken shriek, And crept away in stealthiness, And lo! instead, a person sleek, Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

"In me, as your adviser hints, Of Abstinence you've got a type - Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints I am the happy prototype.

"If you abjure the social toast, And pipes, and such frivolities, You possibly some day may boast My prepossessing qualities!"

BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink: "You almost make me tremble, you! If I abjure fermented drink, Shall I, indeed, resemble you?

"And will my whiskers curl so tight? My cheeks grow smug and muttony? My face become so red and white? My coat so blue and buttony?

"Will trousers, such as yours, array Extremities inferior? Will chubbiness assert its sway All over my exterior?

"In this, my unenlightened state, To work in heavy boots I comes; Will pumps henceforward decorate My tiddle toddle tootsicums?

"And shall I get so plump and fresh, And look no longer seedily? My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?"

The phantom said, "You'll have all this, You'll know no kind of huffiness, Your life will be one chubby bliss, One long unruffled puffiness!"

"Be off!" said irritated BOB. "Why come you here to bother one? You pharisaical old snob, You're wuss almost than t'other one!

"I takes my pipe—I takes my pot, And drunk I'm never seen to be: I'm no teetotaller or sot, And as I am I mean to be!"



Ballad: THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB.



Strike the concertina's melancholy string! Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything! Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!

Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes, Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens: His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls - Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight, Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite. He would diligently play On the Zoetrope all day, And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter—I am shaky in my dates - Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates; Oh, ALLAH be obeyed, How infernally they played! I remember that they called themselves the "Ouaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in; Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin. And when (as snobs would say) They had "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before, - The consequences true Of that awful interview, FOR I LISTENED AT THE KEYHOLE IN THE DOOR!

They played him a sonata—let me see! "Medulla oblongata"—key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel; "Oh, PRINCE," he says, says he, "IF A PRINCE INDEED YOU BE, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you saith: No 'Ouaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be, For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK—this is BETH!"

Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!" BETH gave a dreadful shriek - But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more, They fastened me full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat, I was walloped with a cat For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will

They branded me and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page



Ballad: ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.



MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN Was the son of an elderly labouring man; You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight, And p'r'aps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside, Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde, There wasn't a child or a woman or man Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.

No other could wake such detestable groans, With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones: All day and ill night he delighted the chiels With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, And the neighbouring maidens would gather around To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een, Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute, Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot; He dressed himself up in a Highlander way, Tho' his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.

TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense To make him a Scotchman in every sense; But this is a matter, you'll readily own, That isn't a question of tailors alone.

A Sassenach chief may be bonily built, He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt; Stick a skean in his hose—wear an acre of stripes - But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

CLONGLOCKETY'S pipings all night and all day Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY; The girls were amused at his singular spleen, Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,

"MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad, With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad. If you really must play on that cursed affair, My goodness! play something resembling an air."

Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN - The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man; For all were enraged at the insult, I ween - Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

"Let's show," said McCLAN, "to this Sassenach loon That the bagpipes CAN play him a regular tune. Let's see," said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat, "'IN MY COTTAGE' is easy—I'll practise at that."

He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will, For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until (You'll hardly believe it) McCLAN, I declare, Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze - It wandered about into several keys; It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware; But still it distinctly suggested an air.

The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced; He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced; And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene - Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around; And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound. An air fra' the bagpipes—beat that if ye can! Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!"

The fame of his piping spread over the land: Respectable widows proposed for his hand, And maidens came flocking to sit on the green - Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore He'd stand it no longer—he drew his claymore, And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste) Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.

Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN, Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man; The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene - Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY To find them "take on" in this serious way; He pitied the poor little fluttering birds, And solaced their souls with the following words:

"Oh, maidens," said PATTISON, touching his hat, "Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that; Observe, I'm a very superior man, A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN."

They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears," And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears, A pleasanter gentleman never was seen - Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.



Ballad: PETER THE WAG.



Policeman PETER FORTH I drag From his obscure retreat: He was a merry genial wag, Who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day, By country bumpkins green, He not unfrequently would say, "A quarter past thirteen."

If ever you by word of mouth Inquired of MISTER FORTH The way to somewhere in the South, He always sent you North. With little boys his beat along He loved to stop and play; He loved to send old ladies wrong, And teach their feet to stray.

He would in frolic moments, when Such mischief bent upon, Take Bishops up as betting men - Bid Ministers move on. Then all the worthy boys he knew He regularly licked, And always collared people who Had had their pockets picked.

He was not naturally bad, Or viciously inclined, But from his early youth he had A waggish turn of mind. The Men of London grimly scowled With indignation wild; The Men of London gruffly growled, But PETER calmly smiled.

Against this minion of the Crown The swelling murmurs grew - From Camberwell to Kentish Town - From Rotherhithe to Kew. Still humoured he his wagsome turn, And fed in various ways The coward rage that dared to burn, But did not dare to blaze.

Still, Retribution has her day, Although her flight is slow: ONE DAY THAT CRUSHER LOST HIS WAY NEAR POLAND STREET, SOHO. The haughty boy, too proud to ask, To find his way resolved, And in the tangle of his task Got more and more involved.

The Men of London, overjoyed, Came there to jeer their foe, And flocking crowds completely cloyed The mazes of Soho. The news on telegraphic wires Sped swiftly o'er the lea, Excursion trains from distant shires Brought myriads to see.

For weeks he trod his self-made beats Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear- Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets, And into Golden Square. But all, alas! in vain, for when He tried to learn the way Of little boys or grown-up men, They none of them would say.

Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind - Their lips would tightly curl - They'd say, "Thy way thyself must find, Thou misdirecting churl!" And, similarly, also, when He tried a foreign friend; Italians answered, "Il balen" - The French, "No comprehend."

The Russ would say with gleaming eye " Sevastopol!" and groan. The Greek said, [Greek text which cannot be reproduced]." To wander thus for many a year That Crusher never ceased - The Men of London dropped a tear, Their anger was appeased

At length exploring gangs were sent To find poor FORTH'S remains - A handsome grant by Parliament Was voted for their pains. To seek the poor policeman out Bold spirits volunteered, And when they swore they'd solve the doubt, The Men of London cheered.

And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear, They found him, on the floor - It leads from Richmond Buildings—near The Royalty stage-door. With brandy cold and brandy hot They plied him, starved and wet, And made him sergeant on the spot - The Men of London's pet!



Ballad: TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. BY A MISERABLE WRETCH.



Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of Space Roll on! What though I'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never YOU mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It's true I've got no shirts to wear; It's true my butcher's bill is due; It's true my prospects all look blue - But don't let that unsettle you! Never YOU mind! Roll on!

[IT ROLLS ON.



Ballad: GENTLE ALICE BROWN.



It was a robber's daughter, and her name was ALICE BROWN, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing.

As ALICE was a-sitting at her window-sill one day, A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, "I could be happy with a gentleman like you!"

And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen, She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten; A sorter in the Custom-house, it was his daily road (The Custom-house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode).

But ALICE was a pious girl, who knew it wasn't wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes; So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed.

"Oh, holy father," ALICE said, "'t would grieve you, would it not, To discover that I was a most disreputable lot? Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one!" The padre said, "Whatever have you been and gone and done?"

"I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad, I've planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!"

The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear, And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear: It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece.

"Girls will be girls—you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks - Let's see—five crimes at half-a-crown—exactly twelve-and-six."

"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap - Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh! there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!

"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be - I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me!"

"For shame!" said FATHER PAUL, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!

"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors: I never knew so criminal a family as yours!

"The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of FATHER PAUL?"

The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to ROBBER BROWN - To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.

Good ROBBER BROWN he muffled up his anger pretty well: He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits.

"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two: Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do - A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."

He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And MRS. BROWN dissected him before she went to bed.

And pretty little ALICE grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good ROBBER BROWN bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.



Ballad: MISTER WILLIAM.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: THE BUMBOAT WOMAN'S STORY.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * * *

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



Ballad: LOST MR. BLAKE.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: THE BABY'S VENGEANCE.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TERRIBLE TALE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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



Ballad: THE CAPTAIN AND THE MERMAIDS.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Ballad: ANNIE PROTHEROE. A LEGEND OF STRATFORD-LE-BOW.



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