The Ballad of Eliza Davis. W. Makepeace Thackeray
Galliant gents and lovely ladies,
List a tail vich late befel,
Vich I heard it, bein on duty,
At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.
Praps you know the Fondling Chapel,
Vere the little children sings:
(Lord I likes to hear on Sundies
Them there pooty little things!)
In this street there lived a housemaid,
If you particklarly ask me where—
Vy, it was at four-and-tventy,
Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square
Vich her name was Eliza Davis,
And she went to fetch the beer:
In the street she met a party
As was quite surprized to see her.
Vich he vas a British Sailor,
For to judge him by his look:
Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies,
Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.
Presently this Mann accostes
Of this hinnocent young gal—
Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom,
You’re so like my Sister Sal!
You’re so like my Sister Sally,
Both in valk and face and size;
Miss, that—dang my old lee scuppers,
It brings tears into my hyes!
I’m a mate on board a wessel,
I’m a sailor bold and true;
Shiver up my poor old timbers,
Let me be a mate for you!
What’s your name, my beauty, tell me?
And she faintly hansers, “Lore,
Sir, my name’s Eliza Davis,
And I live at tventy-four.”
Hofttimes came this British seaman,
This deluded gal to meet:
And at tventy-four was welcome,
Tventy-four in Guilford Street
And Eliza told her Master
(Kinder they than Missuses are),
How in marridge he had ast her,
Like a galliant Brittish Tar.
And he brought his landlady vith him
(Vich vas all his hartful plan),
And she told how Charley Thompson
Reely was a good young man.
And how she herself had lived in
Many years of union sweet,
Vith a gent she met promiskous,
Valkin in the public street.
And Eliza listened to them,
And she thought that soon their bands
Vould be published at the Fondlin.
Hand the clergyman jine their ands.
And he ast about the lodgers
(Vich her master let some rooms),
likevise vere they kep their things, and
Vere her master kep his spoons.
Hand this vicked Charley Thompson
Came on Sundy veek to see her,
And he sent Eliza Davis
Hout to vetch a pint of beer.
Hand while poor Eliza vent to
Fetch the beer, devoid of sin,
This etrocious Charley Thompson
Let his wile accomplish him.
To the lodgers, their apartments,
This abandingd female goes,
Prigs their shirts and umberellas:
Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes
Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson,
Lest his wictim should escape,
Hocust her vith rum and vater,
Like a fiend in huming shape.
But a hi was fixt upon ’em
Vich these raskles little sore;
Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord
Of the house at tventy-four.
He vas valkin in his garden,
Just afore he vent to sup;
And on looking up he sor the
Lodger’s vinders lighted hup.
Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;
Something’s going wrong, he said;
And he caught the vicked voman
Underneath the lodger’s bed.
And he called a brother Pleaseman,
Vich vas passing on his beat,
Like a true and galliant feller,
Hup and down in Guildford Street.
And that Pleaseman, able-bodied,
Took this voman to the cell;
To the cell vere she was quodded,
In the Close of Clerkenwell.
And though vicked Charley Thompson
Boulted like a miscrant base,
Presently another Pleaseman
Took him to the self-same place.
And this precious pair of raskles
Tuesday last came up for doom;
By the beak they was committed,
Vich his name was Mr. Combe.
Has for poor Eliza Davia,
Simple gurl of tventy-four,
She, I ope, will never listen
In the streets to sailors moar.
But if she must ave a sweet-art
(Vich most every gurl expex),
Let her take a jolly Pleaseman,
Vich is name peraps is—X.
LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.
1
BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE).
W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.
I paced upon my beat
With steady step and slow,
All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street;
Ran’lagh, St. Pimlico.
While marching huppandownd
Upon that fair May morn,
Beold the booming cannings sound,
A royal child is born!
The Ministers of State
Then presnly I sor,
They gallops to the Pallis gate,
In carridges and for.
With anxious looks intent,
Before the gate they stop,
There comes the good Lord President,
And there the Archbishopp.
Lord John he next elights;
And who comes here in haste?
’Tis the ero of one underd fights,
The caudle for to taste.
Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,
Toward them steps with joy;
Say the brave old Duke, “Come tell to us
Is it a gal or a boy?”
Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,
“Your Grace, it is a PRINCE.”
And at that nuss’s bold rebuke,
He did both laugh and wince.
He vews with pleasant look
This pooty flower of May,
Then says the wenerable Duke,
“Egad, its my buthday.”
By memory backards borne,
Peraps his thoughts did stray
To that old place where he was born
Upon the first of May.
Peraps he did recal
The ancient towers of Trim;
And County Meath and Dangan Hall
They did rewisit him.
I phansy of him so
His good old thoughts employin;
Fourscore years and one ago
Beside the flowin’ Boyne.
His father praps he sees,
Most musicle of Lords,
A playing maddrigles and glees
Upon the Arpsicords.
Jest phansy this old Ero
Upon his mother’s knee!
Did ever lady in this land
Ave greater sons than she?
And I shouldn be surprise
While this was in his mind,
If a drop there twinkled in his eyes
Of unfamiliar brind.
To Hapsly Ouse next day
Drives up a Broosh and for,
A gracious prince sits in that Shay
(I mention him with Hor!)
They ring upon the bell,
The Porter shows his ed,
(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,
And vears a veskit red.)
To see that carriage come
The people round it press:
“And is the galliant Duke at ome?”
“Your Royal Ighness, yes.”
He stepps from out the Broosh
And in the gate is gone,
And X, although the people push,
Says wery kind “Move hon.”
The Royal Prince unto
The galliant Duke did say,
“Dear Duke, my little son and you
Was born the self-same day.
“The lady of the land,
My wife and Sovring dear,
It is by her horgust command
I wait upon you here.
“That lady is as well
As can expected be;
And to your Grace she bid me tell
This gracious message free.
“That offspring of our race,
Whom yesterday you see,
To show our honor for your Grace,
Prince Arthur he shall be.
“That name it rhymes to fame;
All Europe knows the sound;
And I couldn’t find a better name
If you’d give me twenty pound.
“King Arthur had his knights
That girt his table round,
But you have won a hundred fights,
Will match ’em, I’ll be bound.
“You fought with Bonypart,
And likewise Tippoo Saib;
I name you then, with all my heart,
The Godsire of this babe.”
That Prince his leave was took,
His hinterview was done.
So let us give the good old Duke
Good luck of his god-son,
And wish him years of joy
In this our time of Schism,
And hope he’ll hear the royal boy
His little catechism.
And my pooty little Prince
That’s come our arts to cheer,
Let me my loyal powers ewince
A welcomin of you ere.
And the Poit-Laureat’s crownd,
I think, in some respex,
Egstremely shootable might be found
For honest Pleaseman X.
Notes
1 The Birth of Prince Arthur