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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 humor 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-Foozle-ite.
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, cuts, 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 must striking be,
And must excite 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—
'Twould pain them very much!"
 

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.)

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 favorite 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 notion we
Were cruelly changed at birth.
 
 
"I've a strange idea, each other's names
That we have each 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.
 

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 at Aden,
Her mother she played in burlesque.
 
 
A coryphee 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—
Ecstaticized 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,
Set 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.
Stand idly and sob.
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 armor,
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.
 

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-Deh,
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 neighboring state—
A remarkably neighboring 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 endeavored 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-Deh (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-Deh
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-Deh-Ah—
Despairing Alack-a-Deh-Ah.
 
 
And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah
Was eaten by Doodle-Dum-Deh,
And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah
By good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—
Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh!
 

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.
 

THE FORCE OF ARGUMENT

 
Lord B. was a nobleman bold,
Who came of illustrious stocks,
He was thirty or forty years old,
And several feet in his socks.
To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea
This elegant nobleman went,
For that was a borough that he
Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.
At local assemblies he danced
Until he felt thoroughly ill—
He waltzed, and he galloped, and lanced,
And threaded the mazy quadrille.
The maidens of Turniptopville
Were simple—ingenuous—pure—
And they all worked away with a will
The nobleman's heart to secure.
Two maidens all others beyond
Imagined their chances looked well—
The one was the lively Ann Pond,
The other sad Mary Morell.
Ann Pond had determined to try
And carry the Earl with a rush.
Her principal feature was eye,
Her greatest accomplishment—gush.
And Mary chose this for her play,
Whenever he looked in her eye
She'd blush and turn quickly away,
And flitter and flutter and sigh.
It was noticed he constantly sighed
As she worked out the scheme she had planned—
A fact he endeavored to hide
With his aristocratical hand.
Old Pond was a farmer, they say,
And so was old Tommy Morell,
In a humble and pottering way
They were doing exceedingly well.
They both of them carried by vote
The Earl was a dangerous man,
So nervously clearing his throat,
One morning old Tommy began:
"My darter's no pratty young doll—
I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man—
Now what do 'ee mean by my Poll,
And what do 'ee mean by his Ann?"
Said B., "I will give you my bond
I mean them uncommonly well,
Believe me, my excellent Pond,
And credit me, worthy Morell.
"It's quite indisputable, for
I'll prove it with singular ease,
You shall have it in 'Barbara' or
'Celarent'—whichever you please.
"You see, when an anchorite bows
To the yoke of intentional sin—
If the state of the country allows,
Homogeny always steps in.
"It's a highly æsthetical bond,
As any mere ploughboy can tell"—
"Of course," replied puzzled old Pond.
"I see," said old Tommy Morell.
"Very good then," continued the lord,
"When its fooled to the top of its bent,
With a sweep of a Damocles sword
The web of intention is rent.
"That's patent to all of us here,
As any mere schoolboy can tell."
Pond answered, "Of course it's quite clear;"
And so did that humbug Morell.
"It's tone esoteric in force—
I trust that I make myself clear?"—
Morell only answered "Of course,"—
While Pond slowly muttered, "Hear, hear."
"Volition—celestial prize,
Pellucid as porphyry cell—
Is based on a principle wise."
"Quite so," exclaimed Pond and Morell.
"From what I have said, you will see
That I couldn't wed either—in fine,
By nature's unchanging decree
Your daughters could never be mine.
"Go home to your pigs and your ricks,
My hands of the matter I've rinsed."
So they take up their hats and their sticks,
And exeunt ambo, convinced.