The Bab Ballads - Part 1

By Various

Book Id: WPLBN0000711568
Format Type: PDF eBook
File Size: 157,297 KB.
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	The Bab Ballads - Part 1
Author:	Various
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Various,. (n.d.). The Bab Ballads - Part 1. Retrieved from http://www.gutenberg.us/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: Captain Reece // Of all the ships upon the blue, // No ship contained a better crew // Than that of worthy Captain Reece, // Commanding of The Mantelpiece. // He was adored by all his men, // For worthy Captain Reece, R.N., // Did all that lay within him to // Promote the comfort of his crew. // If ever they were dull or sad, // Their captain danced to them like mad, // Or told, to make the time pass by, // Droll legends of his infancy. // A feather bed had every man, // Warm slippers and hot-water can, // Brown windsor from the captain's store, // A valet, too, to every four. // Did they with thirst in summer burn, // Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, // And on all very sultry days // Cream ices handed round on trays. // Then currant wine and ginger pops // Stood handily on all the tops; // And also, with amusement rife, // A Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life. // New volumes came across the sea // From Mister Mudie's libraree; // The Times and Saturday Review // Beguiled the leisure of the crew. // Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N., // Was quite devoted to his men; // In point of fact, good Captain Reece // Beatified The Mantelpiece. // One summer eve, at half-past ten, // He said (addressing all his men): // Come, tell me, please, what I can do // To please and gratify my crew. // By any reasonable plan // I'll make you happy if I can; // My own convenience count as NIL: // It is my duty, and I will. // Then up and answered William Lee // (The kindly captain's coxswain he, // A nervous, shy, low-spoken man), // He cleared his throat and thus began: // You have a daughter, Captain Reece, // Ten female cousins and a niece, // A Ma, if what I'm told is true, // Six sisters, and an aunt or two. // Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, // More friendly-like we all should be, // If you united of 'em to // Unmarried members of the crew. // If you'd ameliorate our life, // Let each select from them a wife; // And as for nervous me, old pal, // Give me your own enchanting gal! // Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, // Debated on his coxswain's plan: // I quite agree, he said, O BILL; // It is my duty, and I will. // My daughter, that enchanting gurl, // Has just been promised to an Earl, // And all my other familee // To peers of various degree. // But what are dukes and viscounts to // The happiness of all my crew? // The word I gave you I'll fulfil; // It is my duty, and I will. // As you desire it shall befall, // I'll settle thousands on you all, // And I shall be, despite my hoard, // The only bachelor on board. // The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, // He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece: // I beg your honour's leave, he said; // If you would wish to go and wed, // I have a widowed mother who // Would be the very thing for you - // She long has loved you from afar: // She washes for you, Captain R. // The Captain saw the dame that day - // Addressed her in his playful way - // And did it want a wedding ring? // It was a tempting ickle sing! // 2 // Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, // We'll all be married this day week // At yonder church upon the hill; // It is my duty, and I will! // The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, // And widowed Ma of Captain Reece, // Attended there as they were bid; // It was their duty, and they did. // 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 cr“quet 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. // 3 // 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 cr“quet, 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 cr“quet? 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 - // 4 // They think him, all around, // The mildest curate going. // 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! // General John // The bravest names for fire and flames // And all that mortal durst, // 5 // 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. // 6 // 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! // 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: // 7 // 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. // 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. // 8 // A Coryph‚e, 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. // 9 // 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. // Haunted // Haunted? Ay, in a social way // By a body of ghosts in 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 dickey! // Mine are horrible, social ghosts, - // Speeches and women and guests and hosts, // Weddings and morning calls and toasts, // In every bad variety: // Ghosts who 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 school-room ink - // With its dismal boys that snivel and think // Of its nauseous messes to eat and drink, // And its 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 school-days scared: // If the classical ghost that Brutus dared // Was the ghost of his C‘sar 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 schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room 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, // 10 // And 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 chiefest 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 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, // 11 // 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...