Part 1

ABSURD DITTIES

THESE TO MY FRIEND T. FRANCIS VERE FOSTER.

G. E. F.

ABSURD DITTIES

BY

G. E. FARROW

_Author of "The Wallypug of Why" etc._

WITH PICTORIAL ABSURDITIES BY JOHN HASSALL

LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LTD. NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON AND CO. 1903

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

I. THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR 1

II. THAT OF THE LATE MR. BROWN 5

III. THAT OF OUR OLD FRIEND, BISHOP P. 9

IV. THAT OF CAPTAIN ARCHIBALD MCKAN 15

V. THAT OF MATILDA 20

VI. THAT OF "DOCTHOR" PATRICK O'DOOLEY 25

VII. THAT OF MY AUNT BETSY 31

VIII. THAT OF THE TUCK-SHOP WOMAN 37

IX. THAT OF S. P. IDERS WEBBE, SOLICITOR 43

X. THAT OF MONSIEUR ALPHONSE VERT 50

XI. THAT OF LORD WILLIAM OF PURLEIGH 55

XII. THAT OF PASHA ABDULLA BEY 60

XIII. THAT OF ALGERNON CROKER 65

XIV. THAT OF——? 69

XV. THAT OF THE RIVAL HAIRDRESSERS 75

XVI. THAT OF THE AUCTIONEER'S DREAM 80

XVII. THAT OF THE PLAIN COOK 86

XVIII. THAT OF TWO MEDDLESOME PARTIES AND THEIR RESPECTIVE FATES 91

XIX. THAT OF THE HOOLIGAN AND THE PHILANTHROPIST 98

XX. THAT OF THE SOCIALIST AND THE EARL 104

XXI. THAT OF THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK 109

XXII. THAT OF THE POET AND THE BUCCANEERS 115

XXIII. THAT OF THE UNDERGROUND "SULPHUR CURE" 121

XXIV. THAT OF THE FAIRY GRANDMOTHER AND THE COMPANY PROMOTER 127

XXV. THAT OF THE GEISHA AND THE JAPANESE WARRIOR 132

XXVI. THAT OF THE INDISCREET HEN AND THE RESOURCEFUL ROOSTER 137

XXVII. THAT OF A DUEL IN FRANCE 141

XXVIII. THAT OF THE ASTUTE NOVELIST 146

XXIX. THAT OF THE ABSENT-MINDED LADY 151

XXX. THAT OF THE GERMAN BAKER AND THE COOK 155

XXXI. THAT OF THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS 160

XXXII. THAT OF A FRUITLESS ENDEAVOUR 164

XXXIII. THAT OF THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER 168

XXXIV. THAT OF THE FEMALE GORILLY 174

XXXV. THAT OF THE ARTIST AND THE MOTOR-CAR. (A TRAGEDY) 179

XXXVI. THAT OF THE INCONSIDERATE NABOB AND THE LADY WHO DESIRED TO BE A BEGUM 184

XXXVII. THAT OF DR. FARLEY, M.D., SPECIALIST IN LITTLE TOES 188

XXXVIII. THAT OF JEREMIAH SCOLES, MISER 192

XXXIX. THAT OF THE HIGH-SOULED YOUTH 196

LX. THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR'S LITTLE JOKE AND THE UNFORTUNATE MAN WHO COULD NOT SEE IT 201

LXI. THAT OF THE LADIES OF ASCENSION ISLAND 205

LXII. THAT OF THE ARTICULATING SKELETON 208

LXIII. THAT OF YE LOVE PHILTRE: (AN OLD-ENGLISH LEGEND) 211

LXIV. THAT OF THE BARGAIN SALE 216

LXV. THAT OF A DECEASED FLY (A BALLADE) 221

EPILOGUE 224

ABSURD DITTIES.

I. THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR.

"'Tis really very, _very_ queer!" Ejaculated Justice Dear, "That, day by day, I'm sitting here Without a single 'case.' This is the twenty-second pair Of white kid gloves, I do declare, I've had this month. I can _not_ wear White kids at such a pace."

His Lordship thought the matter o'er. "Crimes ne'er have been so few before; Not long ago, I heard a score Of charges every day; And now—dear me! how _can_ it be?— And, pondering thus, went home to tea. (He lives Bayswater way.)

A frugal mind has Justice Dear (Indeed, I've heard folks call him "near"), And, caring naught for jibe or jeer, He rides home on a bus. It singularly came to pass, _This_ day, he chanced to ride, alas! Beside two of the burglar class; And one addressed him thus:

"We knows yer, Mr. Justice Dear, You've often giv' us 'time'—d'ye hear?— And now your pitch we're going to queer, We criminals has _struck_! We're on the 'honest livin' tack, An' not another crib we'll crack, So Justices will get the sack! How's _that_, my legal buck?"

This gave his Lordship quite a fright, He had not viewed it in that light. "Dear me!" he thought, "these men are right, I'd better smooth them down. "Let's not fall out, my friends," said he, "Continue with your burglarie; Your point of view I clearly see. Ahem! Here's half-a-crown."

The morning sun shone bright and clear On angry Mr. Justice Dear; His language was not good to hear; With rage he'd like to burst. His watch and chain, and several rings, His silver-plate, and other things, Had disappeared on magic wings— _They'd burgled his house first_!

II. THAT OF THE LATE MR. BROWN.

Life has its little ups, and downs, As has been very truly said, And Mr. Brown, Of Camden Town (Alas! the gentleman is dead), Found out how quickly Fortune's smile May turn to Fortune's frown; And how a sudden rise in life May bring a person down.

He lived—as I remarked before— Within a highly genteel square At Camden Town, Did Mr. Brown (He had been born and brought up there); But—waxing richer year by year— Grew prosperous and fat, And left the square at Camden Town To take a West End flat.

It was a very stylish flat, With such appointments on each floor As Mr. Brown At Camden Town Had never, never seen before: Electric lights; hydraulic lifts, To take one up and down; And telephones _to everywhere_. (These quite bewildered Brown.)

The elevator pleased him most; To ride in it was perfect bliss. "I say!" cried Brown, "At Camden Town We'd nothing half as good as this." From early morn till dewy eve He spent his time—did Brown— In being elevated up, And elevated down.

One night—I cannot tell you why— When all the household soundly slept, Poor Mr. Brown (Late Camden Town) Into the elevator stept; It stuck midway 'twixt floor and floor, And when they got it down, They found that it was all U.—P. With suffocated Brown.

Yes, life _is_ full of ups and downs, As someone said in days of yore. They buried Brown At Camden Town (The place where he had lived before); And now, alas! a-lack-a-day! In black and solemn gowns, Disconsolate walk Mrs. Brown And all the little Browns.

III. THAT OF OUR OLD FRIEND BISHOP P.

(With many thanks to Mr. W. S. Gilbert for his kind assurances that the inclusion of these verses causes him no offence.)

Twice Mr. Gilbert sang to you Of Bishop P., of Rum-ti-foo; Now, by your leave, I'll do that too, Altho' I'm bound to fail (So you will tell me to my face) In catching e'en the slightest trace Of true Gilbertian charm, or grace, To decorate my tale.

Still, I will tell, as best I can, How Bishop Peter—worthy man— Is getting on by now. Now where shall I begin? Let's see? You know, I think, that Bishop P. (Wishful to please his flock was he) Once took the bridegroom's vow.

You doubtless recollect, His Grace Wed Piccadil'lee of that place, And Peterkins were born apace, When she became his bride. In fact I'm told that there were three, When dusky Piccadillillee, In odour of sanctittittee, Incontinently died.

Some years have passed since her demise But Bishop Peter—bless his eyes— That saintly prelate, kind, and wise, Is excellently well. And, not so very long ago, He sought to wed—this gallant beau (His faithful flock desired it so)— Another Island belle.

There was one difficulty, this: Our Peter wooed a dusky Miss Who (tho' inclined to married bliss) Declared him rather old; Who giggled at his bald, bald head, And even went so far, 'tis said, As to decline His Grace to wed, Did Lollipoppee bold.

But, one day, on that far-off reef, A merchant vessel came to grief, And all the cargo—to be brief— Was washed upon the shore. Most of the crew, I grieve to state, Except the Bos'un and the Mate, Were lost. Theirs was a woesome fate, And one we all deplore.

Amongst the wreckage on the strand, A box of "Tatcho" came to land, Which, there half buried in the sand, The Bishop—singing hymns Amongst his flock down by the shore— Discovered, and they open tore The case. Behold! The contents bore The magic name of Sims.

"What! G. R. Sims?" quoth Bishop P. (Visions of "Billy's Rose" had he), "Good gracious now! It Sims to me I've heard that name before." (Oh, well bred flock! there was not one Who did not laugh at this poor pun; They revelled in their Bishop's fun. They even cried "Encore!")

Then spake the Mate (whose name was Ted): "Now this 'ere stuff, so I've 'eard said, Will make the 'air grow on yer 'ead As thick as any mat." "Indeed?" quoth worthy Bishop P.; "Then 'tis the very thing for me, For I am bald, as you may see." His Grace removed his hat.

The Bo'sun quickly broke the neck Of one large bottle from the wreck, Proceeding then His Grace to deck With towels (careful man, This was to save his coat of black, For "Tatcho" running down one's back Is clearly off its proper tack). And then the fun began.

For Ted he rubbed the liquid through, As hard as ever he could do. And worthy Jack rubbed some in too (The Bo'sun's name was Jack). And day by day they did the same. Now "Tatcho" ne'er belies its fame, And soon a little hair there came (His Lordship's hair is black).

Miss Lollipoppee views with glee The change in worthy Bishop P. _Now_ quite agreed to wed is she (The banns were called to-day). No "just cause or impediment" Can interfere with their content; The natives' loyal sentiment Is summed up in "Hooray!"

IV. THAT OF CAPTAIN ARCHIBALD McKAN.

There never lived a worthier man Than Captain Archibald McKan. I knew him well some time ago (I speak of twenty years or so); _Sans peur et sans reproche_ was he; He was the soul of chivalry, Was Captain Archibald McKan.

True greatness showed in all his mien, No haughty pride in him was seen, Though, captain of a steamer, he, From Greenwich unto far Chelsea, That, spite of weather, wind, and tide, From early Spring to Autumn plied, Brave, modest Captain A. McKan.

However sternly might his roar Reverberate from shore to shore Of "Ease her! Back her! Hard astern!" His duty done, with smile he'd turn And be most affable and mild To every woman, man, or child Aboard, would Captain A. McKan.

He reassured the anxious fears Of nervous ladies—pretty dears!— He in his pocket carried toys And sweets for little girls and boys; He talked in quite familiar way With men who voyaged day by day, Did Captain Archibald McKan.

In fact, as I've already said, No man alive—or even dead— Was freer from reproach than he; And yet of Fortune's irony (Though such a very decent sort) This worthy man was e'en the sport. Alas! was Captain A. McKan!

"_Cherchez la femme._" The phrase is trite, Yet here, as usual, 'twas right. Our Captain noted every day A certain girl rode all the way From Greenwich Pier to Wapping Stair. "It _cannot_ be to take the air," Thought Captain Archibald McKan.

She calmly sat, with downcast eye; And looking both demure and shy; Yet, once, he caught a roving glance, Which made his pulses wildly dance; And,—though as modest as could be— "I do believe she's gone on me," Considered Captain A. McKan.

"Why else should she persistently Select _my_ boat alone?" thought he; "I _wonder_ why she comes? I'll ask, Though 'tis a very ticklish task." So, walking forward with a smile, Beside the lass he stood awhile, Then coughed, did Captain A. McKan.

"You're frequently aboard my boat," Began he; "she's the best afloat; But, pray, may I enquire, _do_ you So _very_ much admire the view?" "Er—moderately, sir," said she. "Exactly so! It _must_ be _me_!" Decided Captain A. McKan.

"Come, tell me, Miss, now no one's by," He whispered; "Won't you tell me why You come so oft? There's naught to dread." The lady looked surprised, and said: "My husband works at Wapping Stair, I daily take his dinner there." _Poor_ Captain Archibald McKan!

V. THAT OF MATILDA.

Yes, I love you, dear Matilda, But you may not be my bride, And the obstacles are many Which have caused me to decide. Firstly, what is _most_ annoying, And I'm not above confessing, Is, that I think you indolent, And over-fond of dressing. I've known you spend an hour or two In a-sitting on a chair, And a-fussing and attending To your toilet or your hair.

There's another little matter— You may say a simple thing— Yet, Matilda, I must own it, I object to hear you sing. For the sounds you make in singing Are so _very_ much like squalling, That the only term appropriate To them is caterwauling. Indeed, I've never _heard_ such horrid Noises in my life, And I'd _certainly_ not tolerate Such singing in a wife.

And, Matilda dear, your language! It is really _very_ bad; The expressions which you use at times, They make me feel quite sad. It is very, very shocking, But I do not mind declaring That I've heard some sounds proceeding From your lips so much like swearing, That I've had to raise a finger, And to close at least _one_ ear, For I couldn't feel quite certain _What_ bad words I mightn't hear.

But worse than this, Matilda: I hear, with pious grief, Many rumours that Matilda Is no better than a thief And I'm shocked to find my darling So entirely lost to feeling, As to go and give her mind up Unto picking and a-stealing. Oh, Matilda! pray take warning, For a prison cell doth yearn For a person that appropriates And takes what isn't her'n.

And the culminating blow is this: _You stay out late at night_. Now, Matilda dear, you must confess To do this is _not_ right. Where you go to, dear, or what you do, There really is _no_ telling, And with rage and indignation My fond foolish heart is swelling. Yet the faults which I've enumera- Ted can't be wondered at, When one realises clearly That "Matilda"—is a _cat_.

VI. THAT OF "DOCTHOR" PATRICK O'DOOLEY.

In the South Pacific Ocean In an oiland called Koodoo, An' the monarch ov thot oiland Iz King Hulla-bulla-loo. Oi wuz docthor to thot monarch Wonct. Me name iz Pat O'Dooley. Yis, you're roight. Oi come from Oirland, From the County Ballyhooly.

An' Oi'll tell yez how Oi came to be A docthor in Koodoo; May the Divil burn the ind ov me, If ivery word's not thrue. Oi wuz sailin' to Ameriky, Aboard the "Hilly Haully," Which wuz drounded in the ocean, For the toime ov year wuz squally.

An' Oi floated on a raft, sor, For some twinty days or more, Till Oi cum to Koodoo Island, Phwich Oi'd niver seen before. But the natives ov thot counthry, Sure, would take a lot ov batin', For a foine young sthrappin' feller They think moighty pleasint atin'.

An' they wint an' told the King, sor, Him called Hulla-bulla-loo. "Ye come from Oirland, sor?" sez he. "Bedad!" sez Oi, "thot's true." Thin he whispered to the cook, sor; An' the cook he giv me warnin': "It's Oirish _stew_ you'll be," sez he, "To-morrow, come the marnin'."

But to-morrow, be the Powers, sor, The King wuz moighty bad, Wid most odjus pains insoide him, An' they nearly drove him mad; So he sint a little note, sor, By the cook, apologoizin' For not cooking me that day, sor, Wid politeness most surprisin'!

An' Oi wrote him back a letther, Jist expressin' my regret, Thot Oi shouldn't hiv the honor, Sor, ov bein' cooked an' et; An' Oi indid up the letther Wid a midical expresshin, As would lead him to imagine Oi belonged to the professhin.

Och! he sint for me _at wonct_, sor. "If ye'll _only_ save me loife," Sez he, "Oi'll give yez money, An' a most attractive woife, An' ye won't be in the _menu_ Ov me little dinner party If ye'll only pull me round," sez he, "An' make me sthrong an' hearty."

So Oi made a diagnosis Wid my penknife an' some sthring (Though Oi hadn't got a notion How they made the blessid thing; But Oi knew thot docthors did it Phwen they undertook a case, sor), An' Oi saw his pulse, an' filt his tongue, An' pulled a sarious face, sor.

Thin Oi troied a bit ov blarney. "Plaze, yer gracious Madjisty, It's yer brains iz much too big, sor, For yer cranium, ye see." But the King he looked suspicious, An' he giv a moighty frown, sor. "The pain's not there at all," sez he, "_The pain is further down_, sor."

"Oi'm commin', sor, to thot," sez Oi. "Lie quiet, sor, an' still, While Oi go an' make yer Madjisty Me cilebratid pill." In the pocket ov me jacket Oi had found an old ship's biscuit ("An' Oi think," sez Oi, "'twill do," sez Oi, "At any rate Oi'll risk it").

The biscuit it wuz soft an' black By raisin ov the wet, An' it made the foinist pill, sor, Thot Oi've iver seen as yet; It wuz flavoured rayther sthrongly Wid salt wather an' tobaccy, But, be jabers, sor, it did the thrick, An' _cured_ the blissid blackie!