Chapter 6
The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear-- And said, "You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear-- It's wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece."
"Girls will be girls--you're very young, and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks-- Let's see--five crimes at half-a-crown--exactly twelve-and-six."
"Oh, father," little Alice cried, "your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap-- Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But O there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet!"
"A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes, I've noticed at my window, as I've sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be-- I blush to say I've winked at him and he has winked at me!"
"For shame," said Father Paul, "my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band!"
"This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many many years they've kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours!"
"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood Have nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good; And if you marry any one respectable at all, Why, you'll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?"
The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who now was for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it.
Good Robber Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, "I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits."
"I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two, Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do-- A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small."
He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life-preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed.
And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.
_W.S. Gilbert_.
THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB
Strike the concertina's melancholy string! Blow the spirit-stirring harp like any thing! Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!
Of Agib, who amid Tartaric scenes, Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens: His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls-- Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means
Of Agib, who could readily, at sight, Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite: He would diligently play On the Zoetrope all day, And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter--I am shaky in my dates-- Came two starving minstrels to his gates, Oh, Allah be obeyed, How infernally they played! I remember that they called themselves the "Oiiaits."
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!
Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in! Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scents, and tin. And when (as snobs would say) They "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin.
Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before, The consequences true Of that awful interview, _For I listened at the key-hole in the door_!
They played him a sonata--let me see! "_Medulla oblongata_"--key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, "Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."
He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent, from a most ingenious little fount, More beer, in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount.
Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For, even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!
The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All-overish it made me for to feel! "Oh Prince," he says, says he, "_If a Prince indeed you be_, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!"
"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you, saith: No 'Oiiaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be, For (ter-remble) I am Aleck--this is Beth!"
Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that you are men of evil mind!" Beth gave a dreadful shriek-- But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve or even more, They fastened me, full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat I was walloped with a cat For listening at the key-hole of the door.
Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill! (I can feel the place in frosty weather still). For a week from ten to four I was fastened to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will!
They branded me, and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal; And, upon my solemn word, I have never never heard What those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page!
_W.S. Gilbert_.
FERDINANDO AND ELVIRA, OR THE GENTLE PIEMAN
* * * * *
"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly-- For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly--
"Tell me whither I may his me, tell me, dear one, that I may know-- Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"
But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes, Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes."
Seven weary years I wandered--Patagonia, China, Norway, Till at last I sank exhausted, at a pastrycook his doorway.
And he chirped and sang and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty, He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.
And I said, "Oh, gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"
* * * * *
"Then I polish all the silver which a supper-table lacquers; Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers."
"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!" Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.
And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him, And I rushed away, exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"
_W.S. Gilbert_.
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.
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 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 it is 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.
_W.S. Gilbert_
LITTLE BILLEE
There were three sailors of Bristol City Who took a boat and went to sea, But first with beef and captain's biscuits, And pickled pork they loaded she.
There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, And the youngest he was little Billee. Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, They'd nothing left but one split pea.
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "I am extremely hungaree." To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, "We've nothing left, us must eat we."
Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, "With one another we shouldn't agree! There's little Bill, he's young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he."
"O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the button of your chemie." When Bill received this information, He used his pocket-handkerchie,
"First let me say my catechism, Which my poor mother taught to me." "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, While Jack pulled out his snicker-snee.
Then Bill went up to the main-top-gallant-mast, And down he fell on his bended knee, He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment When up he jumps--"There's land I see!"
"Jerusalem and Madagascar, And North and South Amerikee, There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, With Admiral Napier, K.C.B."
So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, But as for little Bill, he made him The captain of a Seventy-three.
_W. M. Thackeray_.
_THE WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE_"
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below-- For de win' she blow lak hurricane; Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre Wan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck, An' walk de him' deck too-- He call de crew from up de hole, He call de cook also. De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge, On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor'-eas'-wes',-- De sout' win' she blow too, Wen Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne, Mon cher, w'at I shall do?" Den de captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can't pass on de shore, Becos he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak wan black cat, De wave run high an' fas', Wen de captinne tak' de Rosie girl An' tie her to de mas'. Den he also tak' de life preserve, An' jomp off on de lak', An' say, "Good-by, ma Rosie dear, I go down for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early 'Bout ha'f-pas' two--t'ree--four-- De captinne--scow--an' de poor Rosie Was corpses on de shore. For de win' she blow lak' hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow, bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now all good wood scow sailor man Tak' warning by dat storm An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' live on wan beeg farm. De win' can blow lak' hurricane An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre So long you stay on shore.
_William H. Drummond_.
THE SHIPWRECK
Upon the poop the captain stands, As starboard as may be; And pipes on deck the topsail hands To reef the topsail-gallant strands Across the briny sea.
"Ho! splice the anchor under-weigh!" The captain loudly cried; "Ho! lubbers brave, belay! belay! For we must luff for Falmouth Bay Before to-morrow's tide."
The good ship was a racing yawl, A spare-rigged schooner sloop, Athwart the bows the taffrails all In grummets gay appeared to fall, To deck the mainsail poop.
But ere they made the Foreland Light, And Deal was left behind, The wind it blew great gales that night, And blew the doughty captain tight, Full three sheets in the wind.
And right across the tiller head The horse it ran apace, Whereon a traveller hitched and sped Along the jib and vanished To heave the trysail brace.
What ship could live in such a sea? What vessel bear the shock? "Ho! starboard port your helm-a-lee! Ho! reef the maintop-gallant-tree, With many a running block!"
And right upon the Scilly Isles The ship had run aground; When lo! the stalwart Captain Giles Mounts up upon the gaff and smiles, And slews the compass round.
"Saved! saved!" with joy the sailors cry, And scandalize the skiff; As taut and hoisted high and dry They see the ship unstoppered lie Upon the sea-girt cliff.
And since that day in Falmouth Bay, As herring-fishers trawl, The younkers hear the boatswains say How Captain Giles that awful day Preserved the sinking yawl.
_E.H. Palmer_.
_A SAILOR'S YARN_
_As narrated by the second mate to one of the marines_.
This is the tale that was told to me, By a battered and shattered son of the sea: To me and my messmate, Silas Green, When I was a guileless young marine.
"'T was the good ship 'Gyacutus,' All in the China seas; With the wind a lee, and the capstan free, To catch the summer breeze."
"'T was Captain Porgie on the deck To the mate in the mizzen hatch, While the boatswain bold, in the for'ard hold, Was winding his larboard watch."
"'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night? How heads our gallant craft?' 'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N. And the binnacle lies abaft.'"
"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate? And how does the sextant stand?' 'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point And the quadrant's lost a hand.'"
"'Oh, if the quadrant's lost a hand, And the sextant falls so low, It's our body and bones to Davy Jones This night are bound to go."
"'Oh, fly aloft to the garboard-strake, And reef the spanker boom, Bend a stubbing sail on the martingale To give her weather room."
"'Oh, boatswain, down in the for'ard hold What water do you find?' 'Four foot and a half by the royal gaff And rather more behind.'"
"'Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes And each belaying pin; Come, stir your stumps to spike the pumps, Or more will be coming in.'"
"'They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps They spliced the mizzen brace; Aloft and alow they worked, but, oh! The water gained apace."
"They bored a hole below her line To let the water out, But more and more with awful roar The water in did spout."
"Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship-- And he was a lubber brave-- 'I've several wives in various ports, And my life I'd like to save.'"
"Then up spoke the captain of marines, Who dearly loved his prog: 'It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry, And I move we pipes to grog.'"
"Oh, then 'twas the gallant second-mate As stopped them sailors' jaw, 'Twas the second-mate whose hand had weight In laying down the law."
"He took the anchor on his back, And leapt into the main; Through foam and spray he clove his way, And sunk, and rose again."
"Through foam and spray a league away The anchor stout he bore, Till, safe at last, I made it fast, And warped the ship ashore."
This is the tale that was told to me, By that modest and truthful son of the sea. And I envy the life of a second mate, Though captains curse him and sailors hate; For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, As would go and lie to a poor marine.
_J.J. Rache_.
THE WALLOPING WINDOW-BLIND
A capital ship for an ocean trip Was the "Walloping Window-blind"-- No gale that blew dismayed her crew Or troubled the captain's mind. The man at the wheel was taught to feel Contempt for the wildest blow, And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared, That he'd been in his bunk below.
The boatswain's mate was very sedate, Yet fond of amusement, too; And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch, While the captain tickled the crew. And the gunner we had was apparently mad, For he sat on the after rail, And fired salutes with the captain's boots, In the teeth of the booming gale.
The captain sat in a commodore's hat And dined in a royal way On toasted pigs and pickles and figs And gummery bread each day. But the cook was Dutch and behaved as such: For the food that he gave the crew Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns Chopped up with sugar and glue.
And we all felt ill as mariners will, On a diet that's cheap and rude; And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook In a tub of his gluesome food. Then nautical pride we laid aside, And we cast the vessel ashore On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles, And the Anagazanders roar.
Composed of sand was that favored land, And trimmed with cinnamon straws; And pink and blue was the pleasing hue Of the Tickletoeteaser's claws. And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge And shot at the whistling bee; And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats As they danced in the sounding sea.
On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark, We fed, till we all had grown Uncommonly shrunk,--when a Chinese junk Came by from the torriby zone. She was stubby and square, but we didn't much care, And we cheerily put to sea; And we left the crew of the junk to chew The bark of the rubagub tree.
_Charles E. Carryl_.
THE ROLLICKING MASTODON
A rollicking Mastodon lived in Spain, In the trunk of a Tranquil Tree. His face was plain, but his jocular vein Was a burst of the wildest glee. His voice was strong and his laugh so long That people came many a mile, And offered to pay a guinea a day For the fractional part of a smile.
The Rollicking Mastodon's laugh was wide-- Indeed, 't was a matter of family pride; And oh! so proud of his jocular vein Was the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
The Rollicking Mastodon said one day, "I feel that I need some air, For a little ozone's a tonic for bones, As well as a gloss for the hair." So he skipped along and warbled a song In his own triumphulant way. His smile was bright and his skip was light As he chirruped his roundelay.
The Rollicking Mastodon tripped along, And sang what Mastodons call a song; But every note of it seemed to pain The Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
A Little Peetookle came over the hill, Dressed up in a bollitant coat; And he said, "You need some harroway seed, And a little advice for your throat." The Mastodon smiled and said, "My child, There's a chance for your taste to grow. If you polish your mind, you'll certainly find How little, how little you know."
The Little Peetookle, his teeth he ground At the Mastodon's singular sense of sound; For he felt it a sort of a musical stain On the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain. "Alas! and alas! has it come to this pass?" Said the Little Peetookle. "Dear me! It certainly seems your horrible screams Intended for music must be!"
The Mastodon stopped, his ditty he dropped, And murmured, "Good morning, my dear! I never will sing to a sensitive thing That shatters a song with a sneer!" The Rollicking Mastodon bade him "adieu." Of course 't was a sensible thing to do; For Little Peetookle is spared the strain Of the Rollicking Mastodon over in Spain.
_Arthur Macy_.
THE SILVER QUESTION
The Sun appeared so smug and bright, One day, that I made bold To ask him what he did each night With all his surplus gold.
He flushed uncomfortably red, And would not meet my eye. "I travel round the world," he said, "And travelling rates are high."
With frigid glance I pierced him through. He squirmed and changed his tune. Said he: "I will be frank with you: I lend it to the Moon."
"Poor thing! You know she's growing old And hasn't any folk. She suffers terribly from cold, And half the time she's broke."
* * * * *
That evening on the beach I lay Behind a lonely dune, And as she rose above the bay I buttonholed the Moon.
"Tell me about that gold," said I. I saw her features fall. "You see, it's useless to deny; The Sun has told me all."
"Sir!" she exclaimed, "how _can_ you try An honest Moon this way? As for the gold, I put it by Against a rainy day."
I smiled and shook my head. "All right, If you _must_ know," said she, "I change it into silver bright Wherewith to tip the Sea."
"He is so faithful and so good, A most deserving case; If he should leave, I fear it would Be hard to fill his place."
* * * * *
When asked if they accepted tips, The waves became so rough; I thought of those at sea in ships, And felt I'd said enough.
For if one virtue I have learned, 'Tis _tact_; so I forbore To press the matter, though I burned To ask one question more.
I hate a scene, and do not wish To be mixed up in gales, But, oh, I longed to ask the Fish Whence came their silver scales!
_Oliver Herfora_.
THE SINGULAR SANGFROID OF BABY BUNTING
Bartholomew Benjamin Bunting Had only three passions in life, And one of the trio was hunting, The others his babe and his wife. And always, so rigid his habits, He frolicked at home until two, And then started hunting for rabbits, And hunted till fall of the dew.
Belinda Bellonia Bunting, Thus widowed for half of the day, Her duty maternal confronting, With baby would patiently play. When thus was her energy wasted, A patented food she'd dispense. (She had bought it the day that they pasted The posters all over her fence.)
But Bonaparte Buckingham Bunting, The infant thus blindly adored, Replied to her worship by grunting, Which showed he was brutally bored. 'Twas little he cared for the troubles Of life. Like a crab on the sands, From his sweet little mouth he blew bubbles, And threatened the air with his hands.