Kitabı oku: «More Bab Ballads», sayfa 5

Ballad: My Dream

 
The other night, from cares exempt,
I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt?
I dreamt that somehow I had come
To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom—
 
 
Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:
Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:
Where right is wrong and wrong is right—
Where white is black and black is white.
 
 
Where babies, much to their surprise,
Are born astonishingly wise;
With every Science on their lips,
And Art at all their finger-tips.
 
 
For, as their nurses dandle them
They crow binomial theorem,
With views (it seems absurd to us)
On differential calculus.
 
 
But though a babe, as I have said,
Is born with learning in his head,
He must forget it, if he can,
Before he calls himself a man.
 
 
For that which we call folly here,
Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;
The wisdom we so highly prize
Is blatant folly in their eyes.
 
 
A boy, if he would push his way,
Must learn some nonsense every day;
And cut, to carry out this view,
His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.
 
 
Historians burn their midnight oils,
Intent on giant-killers’ toils;
And sages close their aged eyes
To other sages’ lullabies.
 
 
Our magistrates, in duty bound,
Commit all robbers who are found;
But there the Beaks (so people said)
Commit all robberies instead.
 
 
Our Judges, pure and wise in tone,
Know crime from theory alone,
And glean the motives of a thief
From books and popular belief.
 
 
But there, a Judge who wants to prime
His mind with true ideas of crime,
Derives them from the common sense
Of practical experience.
 
 
Policemen march all folks away
Who practise virtue every day—
Of course, I mean to say, you know,
What we call virtue here below.
 
 
For only scoundrels dare to do
What we consider just and true,
And only good men do, in fact,
What we should think a dirty act.
 
 
But strangest of these social twirls,
The girls are boys—the boys are girls!
The men are women, too—but then,
Per contra, women all are men.
 
 
To one who to tradition clings
This seems an awkward state of things,
But if to think it out you try,
It doesn’t really signify.
 
 
With them, as surely as can be,
A sailor should be sick at sea,
And not a passenger may sail
Who cannot smoke right through a gale.
 
 
A soldier (save by rarest luck)
Is always shot for showing pluck
(That is, if others can be found
With pluck enough to fire a round).
 
 
“How strange!” I said to one I saw;
“You quite upset our every law.
However can you get along
So systematically wrong?”
 
 
“Dear me!” my mad informant said,
“Have you no eyes within your head?
You sneer when you your hat should doff:
Why, we begin where you leave off!
 
 
“Your wisest men are very far
Less learned than our babies are!”
I mused awhile—and then, oh me!
I framed this brilliant repartee:
 
 
“Although your babes are wiser far
Than our most valued sages are,
Your sages, with their toys and cots,
Are duller than our idiots!”
 
 
But this remark, I grieve to state,
Came just a little bit too late
For as I framed it in my head,
I woke and found myself in bed.
 
 
Still I could wish that, ’stead of here,
My lot were in that favoured sphere!—
Where greatest fools bear off the bell
I ought to do extremely well.
 

Ballad: The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo Again

 
I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo
Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
That PETER was his name.
 
 
Remember how that holy man
Came with the great Colonial clan
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;
And kindly recollect
How, having crossed the ocean wide,
To please his flock all means he tried
Consistent with a proper pride
And manly self-respect.
 
 
He only, of the reverend pack
Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back
To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim
For “PETER” on the scroll of Fame
(For PETER was that Bishop’s name,
As I’ve already told).
 
 
He carried Art, he often said,
To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid)
Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught
As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought
To bless the Negro’s home.
 
 
And he had other work to do,
For, while he tossed upon the Blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—
They learnt to say, “I do not care,”
Though they, of course, were well aware
How folks, who say so, end.
 
 
Some sailors, whom he did not know,
Had landed there not long ago,
And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!”
(Of wickedness the germs).
No need to use a casuist’s pen
To prove that they were merchantmen;
No sailor of the Royal N.
Would use such awful terms.
 
 
And so, when BISHOP PETER came
(That was the kindly Bishop’s name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,
And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell—a bangle rare—
A feather here—a feather there
The South Pacific Negroes wear
Their native nothingness.)
 
 
He taught them that a Bishop loathes
To listen to disgraceful oaths,
He gave them all his left-off clothes—
They bent them to his will.
The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round;
In PETER’S left-off clothes they bound
(His three-and-twenty suits they found
In fair condition still).
 
 
The Bishop’s eyes with water fill,
Quite overjoyed to find them still
Obedient to his sovereign will,
And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo!
Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare:
I’ll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fasten feathers in my hair,
And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’”¹¹
 
 
And to conciliate his See
He married PICCADILLILLEE,
The youngest of his twenty-three,
Tall—neither fat nor thin.
(And though the dress he made her don
Looks awkwardly a girl upon,
It was a great improvement on
The one he found her in.)
 
 
The Bishop in his gay canoe
(His wife, of course, went with him too)
To some adjacent island flew,
To spend his honeymoon.
Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo
A little PETER’ll be on view;
And that (if people tell me true)
Is like to happen soon.
 

Ballad: A Worm Will Turn

 
I love a man who’ll smile and joke
When with misfortune crowned;
Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke,
And as he breaks his daily toke,
Conundrums gay propound.
 
 
Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP,
He scoffed at Fortune’s frown;
He gaily drained his bitter cup—
Though Fortune often threw him up,
It never cast him down.
 
 
Though years their share of sorrow bring,
We know that far above
All other griefs, are griefs that spring
From some misfortune happening
To those we really love.
 
 
E’en sorrow for another’s woe
Our BERNARD failed to quell;
Though by this special form of blow
No person ever suffered so,
Or bore his grief so well.
 
 
His father, wealthy and well clad,
And owning house and park,
Lost every halfpenny he had,
And then became (extremely sad!)
A poor attorney’s clerk.
 
 
All sons it surely would appal,
Except the passing meek,
To see a father lose his all,
And from an independence fall
To one pound ten a week!
 
 
But JUPP shook off this sorrow’s weight,
And, like a Christian son,
Proved Poverty a happy fate—
Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait,
To lure poor sinners on.
 
 
With other sorrows BERNARD coped,
For sorrows came in packs;
His cousins with their housemaids sloped—
His uncles forged—his aunts eloped—
His sisters married blacks.
 
 
But BERNARD, far from murmuring
(Exemplar, friends, to us),
Determined to his faith to cling,—
He made the best of everything,
And argued softly thus:
 
 
“’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knack
Too rudely to condemn—
My aunts, repentant, may come back,
And blacks are nothing like as black
As people colour them!”
 
 
Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,
Maintained relentless fight:
His grandmamma next lost her life,
Then died the mother of his wife,
But still he seemed all right.
 
 
His brother fond (the only link
To life that bound him now)
One morning, overcome by drink,
He broke his leg (the right, I think)
In some disgraceful row.
 
 
But did my BERNARD swear and curse?
Oh no—to murmur loth,
He only said, “Go, get a nurse:
Be thankful that it isn’t worse;
You might have broken both!”
 
 
But worms who watch without concern
The cockchafer on thorns,
Or beetles smashed, themselves will turn
If, walking through the slippery fern,
You tread upon their corns.
 
 
One night as BERNARD made his track
Through Brompton home to bed,
A footpad, with a vizor black,
Took watch and purse, and dealt a crack
On BERNARD’S saint-like head.
 
 
It was too much—his spirit rose,
He looked extremely cross.
Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,
But no—he bowed to countless blows,
But kicked against this loss.
 
 
He finally made up his mind
Upon his friends to call;
Subscription lists were largely signed,
For men were really glad to find
Him mortal, after all!
 

Ballad: The Haughty Actor

 
An actor—GIBBS, of Drury Lane—
Of very decent station,
Once happened in a part to gain
Excessive approbation:
It sometimes turns a fellow’s brain
And makes him singularly vain
When he believes that he receives
Tremendous approbation.
 
 
His great success half drove him mad,
But no one seemed to mind him;
Well, in another piece he had
Another part assigned him.
This part was smaller, by a bit,
Than that in which he made a hit.
So, much ill-used, he straight refused
To play the part assigned him.
 

* * * * * * * *

 
That night that actor slept, and I’ll attempt
To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt.
 

THE DREAM

 
In fighting with a robber band
(A thing he loved sincerely)
A sword struck GIBBS upon the hand,
And wounded it severely.
At first he didn’t heed it much,
He thought it was a simple touch,
But soon he found the weapon’s bound
Had wounded him severely.
 
 
To Surgeon COBB he made a trip,
Who’d just effected featly
An amputation at the hip
Particularly neatly.
A rising man was Surgeon COBB
But this extremely ticklish job
He had achieved (as he believed)
Particularly neatly.
 
 
The actor rang the surgeon’s bell.
“Observe my wounded finger,
Be good enough to strap it well,
And prithee do not linger.
That I, dear sir, may fill again
The Theatre Royal Drury Lane:
This very night I have to fight—
So prithee do not linger.”
 
 
“I don’t strap fingers up for doles,”
Replied the haughty surgeon;
“To use your cant, I don’t play rôles
Utility that verge on.
First amputation—nothing less—
That is my line of business:
We surgeon nobs despise all jobs
Utility that verge on
 
 
“When in your hip there lurks disease”
(So dreamt this lively dreamer),
“Or devastating caries
In humerus or femur,
If you can pay a handsome fee,
Oh, then you may remember me—
With joy elate I’ll amputate
Your humerus or femur.”
 
 
The disconcerted actor ceased
The haughty leech to pester,
But when the wound in size increased,
And then began to fester,
He sought a learned Counsel’s lair,
And told that Counsel, then and there,
How COBB’S neglect of his defect
Had made his finger fester.
 
 
“Oh, bring my action, if you please,
The case I pray you urge on,
And win me thumping damages
From COBB, that haughty surgeon.
He culpably neglected me
Although I proffered him his fee,
So pray come down, in wig and gown,
On COBB, that haughty surgeon!”
 
 
That Counsel learned in the laws,
With passion almost trembled.
He just had gained a mighty cause
Before the Peers assembled!
Said he, “How dare you have the face
To come with Common Jury case
To one who wings rhetoric flings
Before the Peers assembled?”
 
 
Dispirited became our friend—
Depressed his moral pecker—
“But stay! a thought!—I’ll gain my end,
And save my poor exchequer.
I won’t be placed upon the shelf,
I’ll take it into Court myself,
And legal lore display before
The Court of the Exchequer.”
 
 
He found a Baron—one of those
Who with our laws supply us—
In wig and silken gown and hose,
As if at Nisi Prius.
But he’d just given, off the reel,
A famous judgment on Appeal:
It scarce became his heightened fame
To sit at Nisi Prius.
 
 
Our friend began, with easy wit,
That half concealed his terror:
“Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sit
In Banco or in Error.
Can you suppose, my man, that I’d
O’er Nisi Prius Courts preside,
Or condescend my time to spend
On anything but Error?”
 
 
“Too bad,” said GIBBS, “my case to shirk!
You must be bad innately,
To save your skill for mighty work
Because it’s valued greatly!”
But here he woke, with sudden start.
 

* * * * * * * *

 
He wrote to say he’d play the part.
I’ve but to tell he played it well—
The author’s words—his native wit
Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”—
The papers praised him greatly.
 

Ballad: The Two Majors

 
An excellent soldier who’s worthy the name
Loves officers dashing and strict:
When good, he’s content with escaping all blame,
When naughty, he likes to be licked.
 
 
He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,
Or imprisoned for several days,
And hates, for a duty correctly performed,
To be slavered with sickening praise.
 
 
No officer sickened with praises his corps
So little as MAJOR LA GUERRE—
No officer swore at his warriors more
Than MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE.
 
 
Their soldiers adored them, and every grade
Delighted to hear their abuse;
Though whenever these officers came on parade
They shivered and shook in their shoes.
 
 
For, oh! if LA GUERRE could all praises withhold,
Why, so could MAKREDI PREPERE,
And, oh! if MAKREDI could bluster and scold,
Why, so could the mighty LA GUERRE.
 
 
“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—
Go on—you’re conferring a boon;
We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave,
Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”
 
 
MAKREDI would say that in battle’s fierce rage
True happiness only was met:
Poor MAJOR MAKREDI, though fifty his age,
Had never known happiness yet!
 
 
LA GUERRE would declare, “With the blood of a foe
No tipple is worthy to clink.”
Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so,
Yet tasted his favourite drink!
 
 
They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—
They agreed in the choice of their “set,”
And they also agreed in adoring, alas!
The Vivandière, pretty FILLETTE.
 
 
Agreement, you see, may be carried too far,
And after agreeing all round
For years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,”
A bone of contention they found!
 
 
It may seem improper to call such a pet—
By a metaphor, even—a bone;
But though they agreed in adoring her, yet
Each wanted to make her his own.
 
 
“On the day that you marry her,” muttered PREPERE
(With a pistol he quietly played),
“I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,
All over the stony parade!”
 
 
“I cannot do that to you,” answered LA GUERRE,
“Whatever events may befall;
But this I can do—if you wed her, mon cher!
I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”
 
 
The rivals, although they would never engage,
Yet quarrelled whenever they met;
They met in a fury and left in a rage,
But neither took pretty FILLETTE.
 
 
“I am not afraid,” thought MAKREDI PREPERE:
“For country I’m ready to fall;
But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,
To be eaten, moustachios and all!
 
 
“Besides, though LA GUERRE has his faults, I’ll allow
He’s one of the bravest of men:
My goodness! if I disagree with him now,
I might disagree with him then.”
 
 
“No coward am I,” said LA GUERRE, “as you guess—
I sneer at an enemy’s blade;
But I don’t want PREPERE to get into a mess
For splashing the stony parade!”
 
 
One day on parade to PREPERE and LA GUERRE
Came CORPORAL JACOT DEBETTE,
And trembling all over, he prayed of them there
To give him the pretty FILLETTE.
 
 
“You see, I am willing to marry my bride
Until you’ve arranged this affair;
I will blow out my brains when your honours decide
Which marries the sweet Vivandière!”
 
 
“Well, take her,’ said both of them in a duet
(A favourite form of reply),
“But when I am ready to marry FILLETTE.
Remember you’ve promised to die!”
 
 
He married her then: from the flowery plains
Of existence the roses they cull:
He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains
Are reposing in peace in his skull.
 

Ballad: Emily, John, James, And I.  A Derby Legend

 
EMILY JANE was a nursery maid,
JAMES was a bold Life Guard,
JOHN was a constable, poorly paid
(And I am a doggerel bard).
 
 
A very good girl was EMILY JANE,
JIMMY was good and true,
JOHN was a very good man in the main
(And I am a good man too).
 
 
Rivals for EMMIE were JOHNNY and JAMES,
Though EMILY liked them both;
She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims
(And I couldn’t take my oath).
 
 
But sooner or later you’re certain to find
Your sentiments can’t lie hid—
JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind
(And I think it was time she did).
 
 
Said JANE, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
“I’ll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!”
(Which I would have done, with joy).
 
 
From JOHNNY escaped an expression of pain,
But Jimmy said, “Done with you!
I’ll take you with pleasure, my EMILY JANE!”
(And I would have said so too).
 
 
JOHN lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
(For JOHNNY was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
(Which I often do, when vexed).
 
 
For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force,
To punish all Epsom crimes;
Young people will cross when they’re clearing the course
(I do it myself, sometimes).
 

* * * * * * * *

 
The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads,
(For I, with my harp, was there).
 
 
And JIMMY went down with his JANE that day,
And JOHN by the collar or nape
Seized everybody who came in his way
(And I had a narrow escape).
 
 
He noticed his EMILY JANE with JIM,
And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!”
(I often say “dim!” myself).
 
 
JOHN dogged them all day, without asking their leaves;
For his sergeant he told, aside,
That JIMMY and JANE were notorious thieves
(And I think he was justified).
 
 
But JAMES wouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork,
And JENNY would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
(A bottle I think fair game).
 
 
But, ah! there’s another more serious crime!
They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
(I pointed them out to JOHN).
 
 
The constable fell on the pair in a crack—
And then, with a demon smile,
Let JENNY cross over, but sent JIMMY back
(I played on my harp the while).
 
 
Stern JOHNNY their agony loud derides
With a very triumphant sneer—
They weep and they wail from the opposite sides
(And I shed a silent tear).
 
 
And JENNY is crying away like mad,
And JIMMY is swearing hard;
And JOHNNY is looking uncommonly glad
(And I am a doggerel bard).
 
 
But JIMMY he ventured on crossing again
The scenes of our Isthmian Games—
JOHN caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
(I felt very much for JAMES).
 
 
JOHN led him away with a victor’s hand,
And JIMMY was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
(As many a time I’ve been).
 
 
And JIMMY, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,
Though EMILY pleaded hard;
And JOHNNY had EMILY JANE to wife
(And I am a doggerel bard).