Chapter 5

My boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man's saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature's the worst. Though clever as clever can be-- A Crichton of early romance-- You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.

Now take, for example, _my_ case: I've a bright intellectual brain-- In all London city There's no one so witty-- I've thought so again and again. I've a highly intelligent face-- My features cannot be denied-- But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in--and why, sir? I'm modesty personified!

As a poet, I'm tender and quaint-- I've passion and fervor and grace-- From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place, Then I sing and I play and I paint; Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason? I'm diffident, modest and shy!

THE HIGHLY RESPECTABLE GONDOLIER.

I stole the Prince, and I brought him here, And left him, gaily prattling With a highly respectable Gondolier, Who promised the Royal babe to rear, And teach him the trade of a timoneer With his own beloved bratling.

Both of the babes were strong and stout, And, considering all things, clever. Of that there is no manner of doubt-- No probable, possible shadow of doubt-- No possible doubt whatever.

Time sped, and when at the end of a year I sought that infant cherished, That highly respectable Gondolier Was lying a corpse on his humble bier-- I dropped a Grand Inquisitor's tear-- That Gondolier had perished.

A taste for drink, combined with gout, Had doubled him up for ever. Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt-- No probable, possible shadow of doubt-- No possible doubt whatever.

But owing, I'm much disposed to fear, To his terrible taste for tippling, That highly respectable Gondolier Could never declare with a mind sincere Which of the two was his offspring dear, And which the Royal stripling!

Which was which he could never make out, Despite his best endeavour. Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt-- No probable, possible shadow of doubt-- No possible doubt whatever.

The children followed his old career-- (This statement can't be parried) Of a highly respectable Gondolier: Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)-- But _which_ of the two is not quite clear-- Is the Royal Prince you married!

Search in and out and round about And you'll discover never A tale so free from every doubt-- All probable, possible shadow of doubt-- All possible doubt whatever!

DON'T FORGET.

Now, Marco dear, My wishes hear: While you're away It's understood You will be good, And not too gay. To every trace Of maiden grace You will be blind, And will not glance By any chance On womankind! If you are wise, You'll shut your eyes 'Till we arrive, And not address A lady less Than forty-five; You'll please to frown On every gown That you may see; And O, my pet, You won't forget You've married me!

O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don't forget you've married me!

You'll lay your head Upon your bed At set of sun. You will not sing Of anything To any one: You'll sit and mope All day, I hope, And shed a tear Upon the life Your little wife Is passing here! And if so be You think of me, Please tell the moon: I'll read it all In rays that fall On the lagoon: You'll be so kind As tell the wind How you may be, And send me words By little birds To comfort me!

And O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don't forget you've married me!

THE DARNED MOUNSEER.

I shipped, d'ye see, in a Revenue sloop, And, off Cape Finistere, A merchantman we see, A Frenchman, going free, So we made for the bold Mounseer. D'ye see? We made for the bold Mounseer! But she proved to be a Frigate--and she up with her ports, And fires with a thirty-two! It come uncommon near, But we answered with a cheer, Which paralyzed the Parley-voo, D'ye see? Which paralyzed the Parley-voo!

Then our Captain he up and he says, says he, "That chap we need not fear,-- We can take her, if we like, She is sartin for to strike, For she's only a darned Mounseer, D'ye see? She's only a darned Mounseer! But to fight a French fal-lal--it's like hittin' of a gal-- It's a lubberly thing for to do; For we, with all our faults, Why, we're sturdy British salts, While she's but a Parley-voo, D'ye see? A miserable Parley-voo!"

So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze, As we gives a compassionating cheer; Froggee answers with a shout As he sees us go about, Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer, D'ye see? Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer! And I'll wager in their joy they kissed each other's cheek (Which is what them, furriners do), And they blessed their lucky stars? We were hardy British tars Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo, D'ye see? Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo!

THE HUMANE MIKADO.

A more humane Mikado never Did in Japan exist, To nobody second, I'm certainly reckoned A true philanthropist, It is my very humane endeavor To make, to some extent, Each evil liver A running river Of harmless merriment. My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment!

All prosy dull society sinners, Who chatter and bleat and bore, Are sent to hear sermons From mystical Germans Who preach from ten to four, The amateur tenor, whose vocal villanies All desire to shirk, Shall, during off hours, Exhibit his powers To Madame Tussaud's waxwork. The lady who dyes a chemical yellow, Or stains her grey hair puce, Or pinches her figger, Is blacked like a nigger With permanent walnut juice. The idiot who, in railway carriages, Scribbles on window panes, We only suffer To ride on a buffer In Parliamentary trains. My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment!

The advertising quack who wearier With tales of countless cures. His teeth, I've enacted, Shall all be extracted By terrified amateurs. The music hall singer attends a series Of masses and fugues and "ops" By Bach, interwoven With Sophr and Beethoven, At classical Monday Pops. The billiard sharp whom any one catches, His doom's extremely hard-- He's made to dwell In a dungeon cell On a spot that's always barred. And there he plays extravagant matches In fitless finger-stalls, On a cloth untrue With a twisted cue, And elliptical billiard balls!

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time-- To let the punishment fit the crime-- The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment!

THE HOUSE OF PEERS.

When Britain really ruled the waves-- (In good Queen Bess's time) The House of Peers made no pretence To intellectual eminence, Or scholarship sublime; Yet Britain won her proudest bays In good Queen Bess's glorious days!

When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte, As every child can tell, The House of Peers, throughout the war, Did nothing in particular, And did it very well; Yet Britain set the world a-blaze In good King George's glorious days!

And while the House of Peers withholds Its legislative hand. And noble statesmen do not itch To interfere with matters which They do not understand, As bright will shine Great Britain's rays, As in King George's glorious days!

THE AESTHETE.

If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line, as a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere. You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind, The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for _me_, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!"

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away, And convince 'em if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day. Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean, And that art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine, And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for _me_, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!"

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen, An attachment _a la_ Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean. Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Picadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand. And everyone will say, As you walk your flowery way, "If he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit _me_, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!"

PROPER PRIDE.

The Sun, whose rays Are all ablaze With ever living glory, Does not deny His majesty-- He scorns to tell a story! He don't exclaim "I blush for shame, So kindly be indulgent," But, fierce and bold, In fiery gold, He glories all effulgent!

I mean to rule the earth. As he the sky-- We really know our worth, The Sun and I!

Observe his flame, That placid dame, The Moon's Celestial Highness; There's not a trace Upon her face Of diffidence or shyness: She borrows light That, through the night, Mankind may all acclaim her! And, truth to tell, She lights up well, So I, for one, don't blame her!

Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We're very wide awake, The Moon and I!

THE BAFFLED GRUMBLER.

Whene'er I poke Sarcastic joke Replete with malice spiteful, The people vile Politely smile And vote me quite delightful! Now, when a wight Sits up all night Ill-natured jokes devising, And all his wiles Are met with smiles, It's hard, there's no disguising! Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at!

When German bands From music stands Play Wagner imper_fect_ly-- I bid them go-- They don't say no, But off they trot directly! The organ boys They stop their noise With readiness surprising, And grinning herds Of hurdy-gurds Retire apologizing! Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at!

I've offered gold, In sums untold, To all who'd contradict me-- I've said I'd pay A pound a day To any one who kicked me-- I've bribed with toys Great vulgar boys To utter something spiteful, But, bless you, no! They _will_ be so Confoundedly politeful! In short, these aggravating lads They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads, They give me this and they give me that, And I've nothing whatever to grumble at!

THE WORKING MONARCH.

Rising early in the morning, We proceed to light our fire; Then our Majesty adorning In its work-a-day attire, We embark without delay On the duties of the day.

First, we polish off some batches Of political dispatches, And foreign politicians circumvent; Then, if business isn't heavy, We may hold a Royal levee, Or ratify some acts of Parliament; Then we probably review the household troops-- With the usual "Shalloo humps!" and "Shalloo hoops!" Or receive with ceremonial and state An interesting Eastern Potentate, After that we generally Go and dress our private valet-- (It's rather a nervous duty--he's a touchy little man) Write some letters literary For our private secretary-- He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can. Then, in view of cravings inner, We go down and order dinner; Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate-- Spend an hour in titivating All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting; Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State. Oh, philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a King; Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great; But the privilege and pleasure That we treasure beyond measure Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!

After luncheon (making merry On a bun and glass of sherry), If we've nothing particular to do, We may make a Proclamation, Or receive a Deputation-- Then we possibly create a Peer or two. Then we help a fellow creature on his path With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath: Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State To a festival, a function, or a _fete_. Then we go and stand as sentry At the Palace (private entry), Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro, While the warrior on duty Goes in search of beer and beauty (And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go). He relieves us, if he's able, Just in time to lay the table, Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one, With a pleasure that's emphatic, We retire to our attic With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done. Oh, philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a King, But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none; And the culminating pleasure That we treasure beyond measure Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!

THE ROVER'S APOLOGY.

Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray; Though I own that my heart has been ranging, Of nature the laws I obey, For nature is constantly changing. The moon in her phases is found, The time and the wind and the weather, The months in succession come round, And you don't find two Mondays together. Consider the moral, I pray, Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow, Who loves this young lady to-day, And loves that young lady to-morrow.

You cannot eat breakfast all day, Nor is it the act of a sinner, When breakfast is taken away To turn your attention to dinner; And it's not in the range of belief, That you could hold him as a glutton, Who, when he is tired of beef, Determines to tackle the mutton. But this I am ready to say, If it will diminish their sorrow, I'll marry this lady to-day, And I'll marry that lady to-morrow!

WOULD YOU KNOW?

Would you know the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a? Eyes must be downcast and staid, Cheeks must flush for shame-a! She may neither dance nor sing, But, demure in everything, Hang her head in modest way, With pouting lips that seem to say "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die of shame-a." Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay, With a tongue goes clang-a, Flaunting it in brave array, Maiden may go hang-a! Sunflower gay and hollyhock Never shall my garden stock; Mine the blushing rose of May, With pouting lips that seem to say, "Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die for shame-a!" Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a!

THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN.

A magnet hung in a hardware shop, And all around was a loving crop Of scissors and needles, nails and knives, Offering love for all their lives; But for iron the magnet felt no whim, Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him, From needles and nails and knives he'd turn, For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn! His most aesthetic, Very magnetic Fancy took this turn-- "If I can wheedle A knife or needle, Why not a Silver Churn?"

And Iron and Steel expressed surprise, The needles opened their well drilled eyes, The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt, The scissors declared themselves "cut out." The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said, While every nail went off its head, And hither and thither began to roam, Till a hammer came up--and drove it home, While this magnetic Peripatetic Lover he lived to learn, By no endeavor, Can Magnet ever Attract a Silver Churn!

BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR.

Braid the raven hair, Weave the supple tress, Deck the maiden fair In her loveliness; Paint the pretty face, Dye the coral lip. Emphasize the grace Of her ladyship! Art and nature, thus allied, Go to make a pretty bride!

Sit with downcast eye, Let it brim with dew; Try if you can cry, We will do so, too. When you're summoned, start Like a frightened roe; Flutter, little heart, Color, come and go! Modesty at marriage tide Well becomes a pretty bride!

IS LIFE A BOON?

Is life a boon? If so? it must befal That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon. Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon! What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July? I might have had to die, Perchance, in June!

Is life a thorn? Then count it not a whit! Man is well done with it; Soon as he's born He should all means essay To put the plague away: And I, war-worn, Poor captured fugitive, My life most gladly give-- I might have had to live Another morn!

A MIRAGE.

Were I thy bride, Then the whole world beside Were not too wide To hold my wealth of love-- Were I thy bride! Upon thy breast My loving head would rest, As on her nest The tender turtle dove-- Were I thy bride!

This heart of mine Would be one heart with thine, And in that shrine Our happiness would dwell-- Were I thy bride! And all day long Our lives should be a song: No grief, no wrong Should make my heart rebel-- Were I thy bride!

The silvery flute, The melancholy lute, Were night owl's hoot To my low-whispered coo-- Were I thy bride! The skylark's trill Were but discordance shrill To the soft thrill Of wooing as I'd woo-- Were I thy bride!

The rose's sigh Were as a carrion's cry To lullaby Such as I'd sing to thee, Were I thy bride! A feather's press Were leaden heaviness To my caress. But then, unhappily, I'm not thy bride!

A MERRY MADRIGAL.

Brightly dawns our wedding day; Joyous hour, we give thee greeting! Whither, whither art thou fleeting? Fickle moment, prithee stay! What though mortal joys be hollow? Pleasures come, if sorrows follow: Though the tocsin sound, ere long, Ding dong! Ding dong! Yet until the shadows fall Over one and over all, Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la!

Let us dry the ready tear; Though the hours are surely creeping, Little need for woeful weeping, Till the sad sundown is near. All must sip the cup of sorrow-- I to-day and thou to-morrow: This the close of every song-- Ding dong! Ding dong! What, though solemn shadows fall, Sooner, later, over all? Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la!

THE LOVE-SICK BOY.

When first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy! No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ-- I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense; And love, unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy! With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another's love-sick boy!

* * * * *

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