Kitabı oku: «More Bab Ballads», sayfa 4

Ballad: Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo

 
This is SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO,
Last of a noble race,
BARNABY BAMPTON, coming to woo,
All at a deuce of a pace.
BARNABY BAMPTON BOO,
Here is a health to you:
Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck—
BARNABY BAMPTON BOO!
 
 
The excellent women of Tuptonvee
Knew SIR BARNABY BOO;
One of them surely his bride would be,
But dickens a soul knew who.
Women of Tuptonvee,
Here is a health to ye
For a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears,
Women of Tuptonvee!
 
 
Here are old MR. and MRS. DE PLOW
(PETER his Christian name),
They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow—
Farming it was their game.
Worthy old PETER DE PLOW,
Here is a health to thou:
Your race isn’t run, though you’re seventy-one,
Worthy old PETER DE PLOW!
 
 
To excellent MR. and MRS. DE PLOW
Came SIR BARNABY BOO,
He asked for their daughter, and told ’em as how
He was as rich as a Jew.
BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth,
Here is your jolly good health:
I’d never repine if you came to be mine,
BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth!
 
 
“O great SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO”
(Said PLOW to that titled swell),
“My missus has given me daughters two—
AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!”
AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL,
I hope you’re uncommonly well:
You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls—
AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!
 
 
“AMELIA is passable only, in face,
But, oh! she’s a worthy girl;
Superior morals like hers would grace
The home of a belted Earl.”
Morality, heavenly link!
To you I’ll eternally drink:
I’m awfully fond of that heavenly bond,
Morality, heavenly link!
 
 
“Now NELLY’S the prettier, p’raps, of my gals,
But, oh! she’s a wayward chit;
She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals,
And doesn’t read TUPPER a bit!”
O TUPPER, philosopher true,
How do you happen to do?
A publisher looks with respect on your books,
For they do sell, philosopher true!
 
 
The Bart.  (I’ll be hanged if I drink him again,
Or care if he’s ill or well),
He sneered at the goodness of MILLY THE PLAIN,
And cottoned to VOLATILE NELL!
O VOLATILE NELLY DE P.!
Be hanged if I’ll empty to thee:
I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades,
VOLATILE NELLY DE P.!
 
 
They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear,
And MILLY was left to pout;
For years they’ve got on very well, as I hear,
But soon he will rue it, no doubt.
O excellent MILLY DE PLOW,
I really can’t drink to you now;
My head isn’t strong, and the song has been long,
Excellent MILLY DE PLOW!
 

Ballad: The Modest Couple

 
When man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye,
I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy.
I’m also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns,
For modesty’s a quality that womankind adorns.
 
 
Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid,
My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid;
I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red,
For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred.
 
 
But still in all these matters, as in other things below,
There is a proper medium, as I’m about to show.
I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try
To carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH.
 
 
Betrothed they were when very young—before they’d learnt to speak
(For SARAH was but six days old, and PETER was a week);
Though little more than babies at those early ages, yet
They bashfully would faint when they occasionally met.
 
 
They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of nine,
When PETER’S good papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine)
Determined to endeavour some sound argument to find
To bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind.
 
 
He told them that as SARAH was to be his PETER’S bride,
They might at least consent to sit at table side by side;
He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was hoarse,
Which SARAH thought indelicate, and PETER very coarse.
 
 
And PETER in a tremble to the blushing maid would say,
“You must excuse papa, MISS BLIGH,—it is his mountain way.”
Says SARAH, “His behaviour I’ll endeavour to forget,
But your papa’s the coarsest person that I ever met.
 
 
“He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young,
Before we had begun articulating with the tongue.
His underbred suggestions fill your SARAH with alarm;
Why, gracious me! he’ll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!”
 
 
At length when SARAH reached the legal age of twenty-one,
The Baron he determined to unite her to his son;
And SARAH in a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay,
And PETER blushed so hard you might have heard him miles away.
 
 
And when the time arrived for taking SARAH to his heart,
They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart
(Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff),
And the service was conducted by electric telegraph.
 
 
And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say,
Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away,
They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn,
For he waited in the attic, and she waited on the lawn.
 
 
At length, when four o’clock arrived, and it was time to go,
The carriage was announced, but decent SARAH answered “No!
Upon my word, I’d rather sleep my everlasting nap,
Than go and ride alone with MR. PETER in a trap.”
 
 
And PETER’S over-sensitive and highly-polished mind
Wouldn’t suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind;
And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocks
At the bare idea of having any coachman on the box.
 
 
So PETER into one turn-out incontinently rushed,
While SARAH in a second trap sat modestly and blushed;
And MR. NEWMAN’S coachman, on authority I’ve heard,
Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third.
 
 
Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the car
Were very likely carrying a principle too far,
I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in them
Than that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM.
 
 
ALPHONSO, who in cool assurance all creation licks,
He up and said to EMMIE (who had impudence for six),
“MISS EMILY, I love you—will you marry?  Say the word!”
And EMILY said, “Certainly, ALPHONSO, like a bird!”
 
 
I do not recommend a newly-married pair to try
To carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH,
But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in them
Than that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM.
 

Ballad: The Martinet

 
Some time ago, in simple verse
I sang the story true
Of CAPTAIN REECE, the Mantelpiece,
And all her happy crew.
 
 
I showed how any captain may
Attach his men to him,
If he but heeds their smallest needs,
And studies every whim.
 
 
Now mark how, by Draconic rule
And hauteur ill-advised,
The noblest crew upon the Blue
May be demoralized.
 
 
When his ungrateful country placed
Kind REECE upon half-pay,
Without much claim SIR BERKELY came,
And took command one day.
 
 
SIR BERKELY was a martinet—
A stern unyielding soul—
Who ruled his ship by dint of whip
And horrible black-hole.
 
 
A sailor who was overcome
From having freely dined,
And chanced to reel when at the wheel,
He instantly confined!
 
 
And tars who, when an action raged,
Appeared alarmed or scared,
And those below who wished to go,
He very seldom spared.
 
 
E’en he who smote his officer
For punishment was booked,
And mutinies upon the seas
He rarely overlooked.
 
 
In short, the happy Mantelpiece,
Where all had gone so well,
Beneath that fool SIR BERKELY’S rule
Became a floating hell.
 
 
When first SIR BERKELY came aboard
He read a speech to all,
And told them how he’d made a vow
To act on duty’s call.
 
 
Then WILLIAM LEE, he up and said
(The Captain’s coxswain he),
“We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made,
And werry pleased we be.
 
 
“We won’t pretend, my lad, as how
We’re glad to lose our REECE;
Urbane, polite, he suited quite
The saucy Mantelpiece.
 
 
“But if your honour gives your mind
To study all our ways,
With dance and song we’ll jog along
As in those happy days.
 
 
“I like your honour’s looks, and feel
You’re worthy of your sword.
Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid glad
To welcome you aboard!”
 
 
SIR BERKELY looked amazed, as though
He didn’t understand.
“Don’t shake your head,” good WILLIAM said,
“It is an honest hand.
 
 
“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn—
Come, gov’nor, I insist!”
The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—
The hand became a fist!
 
 
“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt;
But BERKELY dodged his aim,
And made him go in chains below:
The seamen murmured “Shame!”
 
 
He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,
Stopped hornpipes when at sea,
And swore his cot (or bunk) should not
Be used by aught than he.
 
 
He never joined their daily mess,
Nor asked them to his own,
But chaffed in gay and social way
The officers alone.
 
 
His First Lieutenant, PETER, was
As useless as could be,
A helpless stick, and always sick
When there was any sea.
 
 
This First Lieutenant proved to be
His foster-sister MAY,
Who went to sea for love of he
In masculine array.
 
 
And when he learnt the curious fact,
Did he emotion show,
Or dry her tears or end her fears
By marrying her?  No!
 
 
Or did he even try to soothe
This maiden in her teens?
Oh, no!—instead he made her wed
The Sergeant of Marines!
 
 
Of course such Spartan discipline
Would make an angel fret;
They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shot
This fearful martinet.
 
 
The Admiralty saw how ill
They’d treated CAPTAIN REECE;
He was restored once more aboard
The saucy Mantelpiece.
 

Ballad: The Sailor Boy To His Lass

 
I go away this blessed day,
To sail across the sea, MATILDA!
My vessel starts for various parts
At twenty after three, MATILDA.
I hardly know where we may go,
Or if it’s near or far, MATILDA,
For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confide
In any ’fore-mast tar, MATILDA!
 
 
Beneath my ban that mystic man
Shall suffer, coûte qui coûte, MATILDA!
What right has he to keep from me
The Admiralty route, MATILDA?
Because, forsooth! I am a youth
Of common sailors’ lot, MATILDA!
Am I a man on human plan
Designed, or am I not, MATILDA?
 
 
But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass!
With anxious love I burn, MATILDA.
I want to know if we shall go
To church when I return, MATILDA?
Your eyes are red, you bow your head;
It’s pretty clear you thirst, MATILDA,
To name the day—What’s that you say?
– “You’ll see me further first,” MATILDA?
 
 
I can’t mistake the signs you make,
Although you barely speak, MATILDA;
Though pure and young, you thrust your tongue
Right in your pretty cheek, MATILDA!
My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—
I do—I’m sure I do, MATILDA!
With simple grace you make a face,
Ejaculating, “Ugh!” MATILDA.
 
 
Oh, pause to think before you drink
The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA!
Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,
Before you give me up, MATILDA!
Recall again the mental pain
Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA!
And be assured that I’ve endured
It, all along of you, MATILDA!
 
 
Do you forget, my blithesome pet,
How once with jealous rage, MATILDA,
I watched you walk and gaily talk
With some one thrice your age, MATILDA?
You squatted free upon his knee,
A sight that made me sad, MATILDA!
You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,
Which almost drove me mad, MATILDA!
 
 
I knew him not, but hoped to spot
Some man you thought to wed, MATILDA!
I took a gun, my darling one,
And shot him through the head, MATILDA!
I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruff
Enough, I own; but, ah, MATILDA!
It did annoy your sailor boy
To find it was your pa, MATILDA!
 
 
I’ve passed a life of toil and strife,
And disappointments deep, MATILDA;
I’ve lain awake with dental ache
Until I fell asleep, MATILDA!
At times again I’ve missed a train,
Or p’rhaps run short of tin, MATILDA,
And worn a boot on corns that shoot,
Or, shaving, cut my chin, MATILDA.
 
 
But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—
Believe me when I say, MATILDA,
No corns that shoot—no pinching boot
Upon a summer day, MATILDA—
It’s my belief, could cause such grief
As that I’ve suffered for, MATILDA,
My having shot in vital spot
Your old progenitor, MATILDA.
 
 
Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow
I made one winter day, MATILDA—
That, come what could, I never would
Remain too long away, MATILDA.
And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,
I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA,
To keep the vow I made—and now
You treat me so unkind, MATILDA!
 
 
For when at sea, off Caribbee,
I felt my passion burn, MATILDA,
By passion egged, I went and begged
The captain to return, MATILDA.
And when, my pet, I couldn’t get
That captain to agree, MATILDA,
Right through a sort of open port
I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!
 
 
Remember, too, how all the crew
With indignation blind, MATILDA,
Distinctly swore they ne’er before
Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA.
And how they’d shun me one by one—
An unforgiving group, MATILDA—
I stopped their howls and sulky scowls
By pizening their soup, MATILDA!
 
 
So pause to think, before you drink
The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA;
Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,
Before you give me up, MATILDA.
Recall again the mental pain
Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA,
And be assured that I’ve endured
It, all along of you, MATILDA!
 

Ballad: The Reverend Simon Magus

 
A rich advowson, highly prized,
For private sale was advertised;
And many a parson made a bid;
The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.
 
 
He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I
Have come prepared at once to buy
(If your demand is not too big)
The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”
 
 
“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—
The snuggest vicarage on earth;
No sort of duty (so I hear),
And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
 
 
“If on the price we should agree,
The living soon will vacant be;
The good incumbent’s ninety five,
And cannot very long survive.
 
 
See—here’s his photograph—you see,
He’s in his dotage.”  “Ah, dear me!
Poor soul!” said SIMON.  “His decease
Would be a merciful release!”
 
 
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—
The agent blew his nose and winked—
And poked the parson’s ribs in play—
It was that agent’s vulgar way.
 
 
The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieve
This light demeanour to perceive;
It’s scarcely comme il faut, I think:
Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
 
 
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—
Your mission is to sell the souls
Of human sheep and human kids
To that divine who highest bids.
 
 
“Do well in this, and on your head
Unnumbered honours will be shed.”
The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,
I have been doing very well.”
 
 
“You should,” said SIMON, “at your age;
But now about the parsonage.
How many rooms does it contain?
Show me the photograph again.
 
 
“A poor apostle’s humble house
Must not be too luxurious;
No stately halls with oaken floor—
It should be decent and no more.
 
 
“ No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—
No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”
“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:
This property won’t do for you.”
 
 
“All these about the house you’ll find.”—
“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;
I’ll manage to submit to these
Luxurious superfluities.
 
 
“A clergyman who does not shirk
The various calls of Christian work,
Will have no leisure to employ
These ‘common forms’ of worldly joy.
 
 
“To preach three times on Sabbath days—
To wean the lost from wicked ways—
The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—
The poor to feed with meat and bread;
 
 
 “These are the various wholesome ways
In which I’ll spend my nights and days:
My zeal will have no time to cool
At croquet, archery, or pool.”
 
 
The agent said, “From what I hear,
This living will not suit, I fear—
There are no poor, no sick at all;
For services there is no call.”
 
 
The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me!
Then there is no ‘society’?—
I mean, of course, no sinners there
Whose souls will be my special care?”
 
 
The cunning agent shook his head,
“No, none—except”—(the agent said)—
“The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B.,
The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D.
 
 
“But you will not be quite alone,
For though they’ve chaplains of their own,
Of course this noble well-bred clan
Receive the parish clergyman.”
 
 
“Oh, silence, sir!” said SIMON M.,
“Dukes—Earls!  What should I care for them?
These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!”
“Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!”
 
 
“Yet I might show these men of birth
The hollowness of rank on earth.”
The agent answered, “Very true—
But I should not, if I were you.”
 
 
“Who sells this rich advowson, pray?”
The agent winked—it was his way—
“His name is HART; ’twixt me and you,
He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!”
 
 
“A Jew?” said SIMON, “happy find!
I purchase this advowson, mind.
My life shall be devoted to
Converting that unhappy Jew!”
 

Ballad: Damon v. Pythias

 
Two better friends you wouldn’t pass
Throughout a summer’s day,
Than DAMON and his PYTHIAS,—
Two merchant princes they.
 
 
At school together they contrived
All sorts of boyish larks;
And, later on, together thrived
As merry merchants’ clerks.
 
 
And then, when many years had flown,
They rose together till
They bought a business of their own—
And they conduct it still.
 
 
They loved each other all their lives,
Dissent they never knew,
And, stranger still, their very wives
Were rather friendly too.
 
 
Perhaps you think, to serve my ends,
These statements I refute,
When I admit that these dear friends
Were parties to a suit?
 
 
But ’twas a friendly action, for
Good PYTHIAS, as you see,
Fought merely as executor,
And DAMON as trustee.
 
 
They laughed to think, as through the throng
Of suitors sad they passed,
That they, who’d lived and loved so long,
Should go to law at last.
 
 
The junior briefs they kindly let
Two sucking counsel hold;
These learned persons never yet
Had fingered suitors’ gold.
 
 
But though the happy suitors two
Were friendly as could be,
Not so the junior counsel who
Were earning maiden fee.
 
 
They too, till then, were friends.  At school
They’d done each other’s sums,
And under Oxford’s gentle rule
Had been the closest chums.
 
 
But now they met with scowl and grin
In every public place,
And often snapped their fingers in
Each other’s learned face.
 
 
It almost ended in a fight
When they on path or stair
Met face to face.  They made it quite
A personal affair.
 
 
And when at length the case was called
(It came on rather late),
Spectators really were appalled
To see their deadly hate.
 
 
One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,
And swollen frontal veins:
To all his powers of eloquence
He gave the fullest reins.
 
 
His argument was novel—for
A verdict he relied
On blackening the junior
Upon the other side.
 
 
“Oh,” said the Judge, in robe and fur,
“The matter in dispute
To arbitration pray refer—
This is a friendly suit.”
 
 
And PYTHIAS, in merry mood,
Digged DAMON in the side;
And DAMON, tickled with the feud,
With other digs replied.
 
 
But oh! those deadly counsel twain,
Who were such friends before,
Were never reconciled again—
They quarrelled more and more.
 
 
At length it happened that they met
On Alpine heights one day,
And thus they paid each one his debt,
Their fury had its way—
 
 
They seized each other in a trice,
With scorn and hatred filled,
And, falling from a precipice,
They, both of them, were killed.