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.
THE ENGLISHMAN
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it’s greatly to his credit,
That he is an Englishman!
For he might have been a Roosian,
A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an!
But in spite of all temptations,
To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman!
Hurrah!
For the true-born Englishman!
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!
THE DISAGREEABLE MAN
If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:
I’m a genuine philanthropist—all other kinds are sham.
Each little fault of temper and each social defect
In my erring fellow-creatures, I endeavour to correct.
To all their little weaknesses I open people’s eyes,
And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;
I love my fellow-creatures—I do all the good I can—
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
To compliments inflated I’ve a withering reply,
And vanity I always do my best to mortify;
A charitable action I can skilfully dissect;
And interested motives I’m delighted to detect.
I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns,
And I carefully compare it with the income-tax returns;
But to benefit humanity however much I plan,
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
I’m sure I’m no ascetic; I’m as pleasant as can be;
You’ll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;
I’ve an irritating chuckle, I’ve a celebrated sneer,
I’ve an entertaining snigger, I’ve a fascinating leer;
To everybody’s prejudice I know a thing or two;
I can tell a woman’s age in half a minute—and I do—
But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can.
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
GENERAL JOHN
The bravest names for fire and flames
And all that mortal durst,
Were General John and Private James,
Of the Sixty-seventy-first.
General John was a soldier tried,
A chief of warlike dons;
A haughty stride and a withering pride
Were Major-General John’s.
A sneer would play on his martial phiz,
Superior birth to show;
“Pish!” was a favourite word of his,
And he often said “Ho! ho!”
Full-Private James described might be
As a man of a mournful mind;
No characteristic trait had he
Of any distinctive kind.
From the ranks, one day, cried Private James,
“Oh! Major-General John,
I’ve doubts of our respective names
My mournful mind upon.
“A glimmering thought occurs to me
(Its source I can’t unearth),
But I’ve a kind of a notion we
Were cruelly changed at birth.
“I’ve a strange idea that each other’s names
We’ve each of us here got on.
Such things have been,” said Private James.
“They have!” sneered General John.
“My General John, I swear upon
My oath I think ’tis so——”
“Pish!” proudly sneered his General John
And he also said “Ho! ho!”
“My General John! my General John!
My General John!” quoth he,
“This aristocratical sneer upon
Your face I blush to see!
“No truly great or generous cove
Deserving of them names
Would sneer at a fixed idea that’s drove
In the mind of a Private James!”
Said General John, “Upon your claims
No need your breath to waste;
If this is a joke, Full-Private James,
It’s a joke of doubtful taste.
“But, being a man of doubtless worth,
If you feel certain quite
That we were probably changed at birth,
I’ll venture to say you’re right.”
So General John as Private James
Fell in, parade upon;
And Private James, by change of names,
Was Major-General John.
THE COMING BY-AND-BY
Sad is that woman’s lot who, year by year,
Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear;
As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs,
Impatiently begins to “dim her eyes “!—
Herself compelled, in life’s uncertain gloamings,
To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well-saved “combings”—
Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey,
To “make up” for lost time, as best she may!
Silvered is the raven hair,
Spreading is the parting straight,
Mottled the complexion fair,
Halting is the youthful gait,
Hollow is the laughter free,
Spectacled the limpid eye,
Little will be left of me,
In the coming by-and-by!
Fading is the taper waist—
Shapeless grows the shapely limb,
And although securely laced,
Spreading is the figure trim!
Stouter than I used to be,
Still more corpulent grow I—
There will be too much of me
In the coming by-and-by!
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!
THE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIER
I stole the Prince, and I brought him here,
And left him, gaily prattling
With a highly respectable Gondolier,
Who promised the Royal babe to rear,
And teach him the trade of a timoneer
With his own beloved bratling.
Both of the babes were strong and stout,
And, considering all things, clever.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.
Time sped, and when at the end of a year
I sought that infant cherished,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—
I dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear—
That Gondolier had perished!
A taste for drink, combined with gout,
Had doubled him up for ever.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.
But owing, I’m much disposed to fear,
To his terrible taste for tippling,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Could never declare with a mind sincere
Which of the two was his offspring dear,
And which the Royal stripling!
Which was which he could never make out,
Despite his best endeavour.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.
The children followed his old career—
(This statement can’t be parried)
Of a highly respectable Gondolier:
Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—
But which of the two is not quite clear—
Is the Royal Prince you married!
Search in and out and round about
And you’ll discover never
A tale so free from every doubt—
All probable, possible shadow of doubt—
All possible doubt whatever!
JOHN AND FREDDY
John courted lovely Mary Ann,
So likewise did his brother, Freddy.
Fred was a very soft young man,
While John, though quick, was most unsteady
Fred was a graceful kind of youth,
But John was very much the strongest.
“Oh, dance away,” said she, “in truth,
I’ll marry him who dances longest.”
John tries the maiden’s taste to strike
With gay, grotesque, outrageous dresses,
And dances comically, like
Clodoche and Co., at the Princess’s.
But Freddy tries another style,
He knows some graceful steps and does ’em—
A breathing Poem—Woman’s smile—
A man all poesy and buzzem.
Now Freddy’s operatic pas—
Now Johnny’s hornpipe seems entrapping:
Now Freddy’s graceful entrechats—
Now Johnny’s skilful “cellar-flapping.”
For many hours—for many days—
For many weeks performed each brother,
For each was active in his ways,
And neither would give in to t’other.
After a month of this, they say
(The maid was getting bored and moody)
A wandering curate passed that way
And talked a lot of goody-goody.
“Oh my,” said he, with solemn frown,
“I tremble for each dancing frater,
Like unregenerated clown
And harlequin at some the-ayter.”
He showed that men, in dancing, do
Both impiously and absurdly,
And proved his proposition true,
With Firstly, Secondly, and Thirdly.
For months both John and Freddy danced,
The curate’s protests little heeding;
For months the curate’s words enhanced
The sinfulness of their proceeding
At length they bowed to Nature’s rule—
Their steps grew feeble and unsteady,
Till Freddy fainted on a stool,
And Johnny on the top of Freddy.
“Decide!” quoth they, “let him be named,
Who henceforth as his wife may rank you.”
“I’ve changed my views,” the maiden said,
“I only marry curates, thank you!”
Says Freddy, “Here is goings on!
To bust myself with rage I’m ready.”
“I’ll be a curate!” whispers John—
“And I,” exclaimed poetic Freddy.
But while they read for it, these chaps,
The curate booked the maiden bonny—
And when she’s buried him, perhaps,
She’ll marry Frederick or Johnny.
THE FAIRY QUEEN’S SONG
Oh, foolish fay,
Think you because
Man’s brave array
My bosom thaws
I’d disobey
Our fairy laws?
Because I fly
In realms above,
In tendency
To fall in love
Resemble I
The amorous dove?
Oh, amorous dove!
Type of Ovidius Naso!
This heart of mine
Is soft as thine,
Although I dare not say so!
On fire that glows
With heat intense
I turn the hose
Of Common Sense,
And out it goes
At small expense!
We must maintain
Our fairy law;
That is the main
On which to draw—
In that we gain
A Captain Shaw.
Oh, Captain Shaw!
Type of true love kept under!
Could thy Brigade
With cold cascade
Quench my great love, I wonder!
SIR GUY THE CRUSADER
Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,
A muscular knight,
Ever ready to fight,
A very determined invader,
And Dickey de Lion’s delight.
Lenore was a Saracen maiden,
Brunette, statuesque,
The reverse of grotesque,
Her pa was a bagman from Aden,
Her mother she played in burlesque.
A coryphée, pretty and loyal,
In amber and red
The ballet she led;
Her mother performed at the Royal,
Lenore at the Saracen’s Head.
Of face and of figure majestic,
She dazzled the cits—
Ecstaticised pits;—
Her troubles were only domestic,
But drove her half out of her wits.
Her father incessantly lashed her,
On water and bread
She was grudgingly fed;
Whenever her father he thrashed her
Her mother sat down on her head.
Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason,
For beauty so bright
Sent him mad with delight;
He purchased a stall for the season,
And sat in it every night.
His views were exceedingly proper,
He wanted to wed,
So he called at her shed
And saw her progenitor whop her—
Her mother sit down on her head.
“So pretty,” said he, “and so trusting!
You brute of a dad,
You unprincipled cad,
Your conduct is really disgusting,
Come, come, now admit it’s too bad!
“You’re a turbaned old Turk, and malignant—
Your daughter Lenore
I intensely adore,
And I cannot help feeling indignant.
A fact that I hinted before;
“To see a fond father employing
A deuce of a knout
For to bang her about,
To a sensitive lover’s annoying.”
Said the bagman, “Crusader, get out.”
Says Guy, “Shall a warrior laden
With a big spiky knob,
Sit in peace on his cob
While a beautiful Saracen maiden
Is whipped by a Saracen snob?
“To London I’ll go from my charmer.”
Which he did, with his loot
(Seven hats and a flute),
And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour
At Mr. Ben-Samuel’s suit.
Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter,
Her pa, in a rage,
Died (don’t know his age),
His daughter, she married the prompter,
Grew bulky and quitted the stage.
IS LIFE A BOON
Is life a boon?
If so, it must befall
That Death, whene’er he call,
Must call too soon.
Though fourscore years he give,
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I,
Who perish in July?
I might have had to die
Perchance in June!
Is life a thorn?
Then count it not a whit!
Man is well done with it:
Soon as he’s born
He should all means essay
To put the plague away;
And I, war-worn,
Poor captured fugitive,
My life most gladly give—
I might have had to live
Another morn!
HAUNTED
Haunted? Ay, in a social way,
By a body of ghosts in a 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 dicky!
Mine are horrible social ghosts,
Speeches and women and guests and hosts,
Weddings and morning calls and toasts,
In every bad variety:
Ghosts that 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 schoolroom ink—
With its dismal boys that snivel and think
Of nauseous messes to eat and drink,
And a 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 schooldays scared
If the classical ghost that Brutus dared
Was the ghost of his “Cæsar” 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 school-girl decked in her nursery 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),
When 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 only 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.
THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL
I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,
I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral;
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical;
About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’ news,
With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
I’m very good at integral and differential calculus,
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.
I know our mythic history—King Arthur’s and Sir Caradoc’s,
I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for paradox;
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.
I tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the “Frogs” of Aristophanes;
Then I can hum a fugue, of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense “Pinafore.”
Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you every detail of Caractacus’s uniform.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.
In fact, when I know what is meant by “mamelon” and “ravelin,”
When I can tell at sight a Chassepot rifle from a javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I’m more wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,
In short, when I’ve a smattering of elementary strategy,
You’ll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee—
For my military knowledge, though I’m plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century.
But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral!
THE BISHOP AND THE ‘BUSMAN
It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about
And zealous as could be.
It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney ’bus—
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.
His name was Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon—-
This ’bus-directing Jew.
The Bishop said, said he,
“I’ll see what I can do
To Christianise and make you wise,
You poor benighted Jew.”
So every blessed day
That ’bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:
“His name is Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon—
This ’bus-directing Jew.”
At first the ‘busman smiled,
And rather liked the fun—
He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,
And said, “Eccentric one!”
And gay young dogs would wait
To see the ’bus go by
(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),
To hear the Bishop cry:
“Observe his grisly beard,
His race it clearly shows,
He sticks no fork in ham or pork—
Observe, my friends, his nose.
“His name is Hash Baz Ben,
And Jedediah too,
And Solomon and Zabulon—
This ’bus-directing Jew.”
But though at first amused,
Yet after seven years,
This Hebrew child got rather riled,
And melted into tears.
He really almost feared
To leave his poor abode,
His nose, and name, and beard became
A byword on that road.
At length he swore an oath,
The reason he would know—
“I’ll call and see why ever he
Does persecute me so!”
The good old Bishop sat
On his ancestral chair,
The ‘busman came, sent up his name,
And laid his grievance bare.
“Benighted Jew,” he said
(The good old Bishop did),
“Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—
Become a Christian kid!
“I’ll ne’er annoy you more.”
“Indeed?” replied the Jew;
“Shall I be freed?” “You will, indeed!”
Then “Done!” said he, “with you!”
The organ which, in man,
Between the eyebrows grows,
Fell from his face, and in its place
He found a Christian nose.
His tangled Hebrew beard,
Which to his waist came down.
Was now a pair of whiskers fair—
His name Adolphus Brown!
He wedded in a year
That prelate’s daughter Jane,
He’s grown quite fair—has auburn hair—
His wife is far from plain.
THE HEAVY DRAGOON
If you want a receipt for that popular mystery,
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
Rattle them off to a popular tune!
The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—
Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;
The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—
Coolness of Paget about to trepan—
The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico—
Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—
The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—
Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—
The dash of a D’Orsay, divested of quackery—
Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—
Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—
Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—
Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot!
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,
Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—
Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—
A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—
Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—
The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—
Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—
The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal—
Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibal—
Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—
Little of Manfred (but not very much of him)—
Beadle of Burlington—Richardson’s show—
Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!
Take of these elements all that is fusible—
Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible—
Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
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 prison 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 recognise your touch;
And all that I can say,
Is thank you very much!”
He seized his clarion straight,
And blew thereat, until
A warder 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 at once 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 passed
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 wot 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.
PROPER PRIDE
The Sun, whose rays
Are all ablaze
With ever-living glory,
Will not deny
His majesty—
He scorns to tell a story:
He won’t exclaim,
“I blush for shame,
So kindly be indulgent,”
But, fierce and bold,
In fiery gold,
He glories all effulgent!
I mean to rule the earth,
As he the sky—
We really know our worth,
The Sun and I!
Observe his flame,
That placid dame,
The Moon’s Celestial Highness;
There’s not a trace
Upon her face
Of diffidence or shyness:
She borrows light
That, through the night,
Mankind may all acclaim her!
And, truth to tell,
She lights up well,
So I, for one, don’t blame her!
Ah, pray make no mistake,
We are not shy;
We’re very wide awake,
The Moon and I!
FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA OR, THE GENTLE PIEMAN