Chapter 2
Time was when Love and I were well acquainted; Time was when we walked ever hand in hand; A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted, None better loved than I in all the land! Time was, when maidens of the noblest station, Forsaking even military men, Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration— Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!
Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled; Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear; Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled; And when I coughed all thought the end was near! I had no care—no jealous doubts hung o’er me— For I was loved beyond all other men. Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me— Ah me, I was a pale young curate then!
THEY’LL NONE OF ’EM BE MISSED
AS some day it may happen that a victim must be found, I’ve got a little list—I’ve got a little list Of social offenders who might well be underground, And who never would be missed—who never would be missed! There’s the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs— All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs— All children who are up in dates, and floor you with ’em flat— All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like _that_— And all third persons who on spoiling _tête-à-têtes_ insist— They’d none of ’em be missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!
There’s the nigger serenader, and the others of his race, And the piano organist—I’ve got him on the list! And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face, They never would be missed—they never would be missed! Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own; And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy, And who “doesn’t think she waltzes, but would rather like to try”; And that _fin-de-siècle_ anomaly, the scorching motorist— I don’t think he’d be missed—I’m _sure_ he’d not be missed!
And that _Nisi Prius_ nuisance, who just now is rather rife, The Judicial humorist—I’ve got _him_ on the list! All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life— They’d none of ’em be missed—they’d none of ’em be missed! And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind, Such as—What-d’ye-call-him—Thing’em-Bob, and likewise—Never-mind, And ’St—’st—’st—and What’s-his-name, and also—You-know-who— (The task of filling up the blanks I’d rather leave to _you_!) But it really doesn’t matter whom you put upon the list, For they’d none of ’em be missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!
GIRL GRADUATES
THEY intend to send a wire To the moon; And they’ll set the Thames on fire Very soon; Then they learn to make silk purses With their rigs From the ears of LADY CIRCE’S Piggy-wigs. And weasels at their slumbers They’ll trepan; To get sunbeams from cu_cum_bers They’ve a plan. They’ve a firmly rooted notion They can cross the Polar Ocean, And they’ll find Perpetual Motion If they can!
These are the phenomena That every pretty domina Hopes that we shall see At this Universitee!
As for fashion, they forswear it, So they say, And the circle—they will square it Some fine day; Then the little pigs they’re teaching For to fly; And the niggers they’ll be bleaching By-and-by! Each newly joined aspirant To the clan Must repudiate the tyrant Known as Man; They mock at him and flout him, For they do not care about him, And they’re “going to do without him” If they can!
These are the phenomena That every pretty domina Hopes that we shall see At this Universitee!
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, Emphasise 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, Colour, come and go! Modesty at marriage tide Well becomes a pretty bride!
THE WORKING MONARCH
RISING early in the morning, We proceed to light the 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 despatches, And foreign politicians circumvent; Then, if business isn’t heavy, We may hold a Royal _levée_, 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 a rather nervous duty—he 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 in 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 _fête_. 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; Then we seek our little 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 APE AND THE LADY
A LADY fair, of lineage high, Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by— The Maid was radiant as the sun, The Ape was a most unsightly one— So it would not do— His scheme fell through; For the Maid, when his love took formal shape, Expressed such terror At his monstrous error, That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape, The picture of a disconcerted Ape.
With a view to rise in the social scale, He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail, He grew moustachios, and he took his tub, And he paid a guinea to a toilet club. But it would not do, The scheme fell through— For the Maid was Beauty’s fairest Queen, With golden tresses, Like a real princess’s, While the Ape, despite his razor keen, Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!
He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits, He crammed his feet into bright tight boots, And to start his life on a brand-new plan, He christened himself Darwinian Man! But it would not do, The scheme fell through— For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved, Was a radiant Being, With a brain far-seeing— While a Man, however well-behaved, At best is only a monkey shaved!
ONLY ROSES
TO a garden full of posies Cometh one to gather flowers; And he wanders through its bowers Toying with the wanton roses, Who, uprising from their beds, Hold on high their shameless heads With their pretty lips a-pouting, Never doubting—never doubting That for Cytherean posies He would gather aught but roses.
In a nest of weeds and nettles, Lay a violet, half hidden; Hoping that his glance unbidden Yet might fall upon her petals. Though she lived alone, apart, Hope lay nestling at her heart, But, alas! the cruel awaking Set her little heart a-breaking, For he gathered for his posies Only roses—only roses!
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!
AN APPEAL
OH! is there not one maiden breast Which does not feel the moral beauty Of making worldly interest Subordinate to sense of duty? Who would not give up willingly All matrimonial ambition To rescue such a one as I From his unfortunate position?
Oh, is there not one maiden here, Whose homely face and bad complexion Have caused all hopes to disappear Of ever winning man’s affection? To such a one, if such there be, I swear by heaven’s arch above you, If you will cast your eyes on me,— However plain you be—I’ll love you!
THE REWARD OF MERIT
DR. BELVILLE was regarded as the CRICHTON of his age: His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage; His poems held a noble rank, although it’s very true That, being very proper, they were read by very few. He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the “line,” And even MR. RUSKIN came and worshipped at his shrine; But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high— The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy; And everybody said “How can he be repaid— This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?” But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone, A plan for making everybody’s fortune but his own; For, in business, an Inventor’s little better than a fool, And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule. His poems—people read them in the Quarterly Reviews— His pictures—they engraved them in the _Illustrated News_— His inventions—they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees, But all his little income went in Patent Office fees; And everybody said “How can he be repaid— This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?” But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
At last the point was given up in absolute despair, When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire, With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse, And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House! _Then_ it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewards Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords! And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can, As this very great—this very good—this very gifted man? (Though I’m more than half afraid That it sometimes may be said That we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride, However great his merits—if his cousin hadn’t died!)
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 æsthetic, 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 endeavour, Can Magnet ever Attract a Silver Churn!
THE FAMILY FOOL
OH! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, If you listen to popular rumour; From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good humour! He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse; Yet though people forgive his transgression, There are one or two rules that all Family Fools Must observe, if they love their profession. There are one or two rules, Half-a-dozen, maybe, That all family fools, Of whatever degree, Must observe if they love their profession.
If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll need To consider each person’s auricular: What is all right for B would quite scandalise C (For C is so very particular); And D may be dull, and E’s very thick skull Is as empty of brains as a ladle; While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp, That he’s known your best joke from his cradle! When your humour they flout, You can’t let yourself go; And it _does_ put you out When a person says, “Oh! I have known that old joke from my cradle!”
If your master is surly, from getting up early (And tempers are short in the morning), An inopportune joke is enough to provoke Him to give you, at once, a month’s warning. Then if you refrain, he is at you again, For he likes to get value for money: He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare, “If you know that you’re paid to be funny?” It adds to the tasks Of a merryman’s place, When your principal asks, With a scowl on his face, If you know that you’re paid to be funny?
Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.— Oh, beware of his anger provoking! Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his chair; He won’t understand practical joking. If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, You may get a bland smile from these sages; But should it, by chance, be imported from France, Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages! It’s a general rule, Though your zeal it may quench, If the Family Fool Makes a joke that’s _too_ French, Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!
Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack, And your senses with toothache you’re losing, And you’re mopy and flat—they don’t fine you for that If you’re properly quaint and amusing! Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day, And took with her your trifle of money; Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind— They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny! It’s a comfort to feel If your partner should flit, Though _you_ suffer a deal, _They_ don’t mind it a bit— They don’t blame you—so long as you’re funny!
SANS SOUCI
I CANNOT tell what this love may be That cometh to all but not to me. It cannot be kind as they’d imply, Or why do these gentle ladies sigh? It cannot be joy and rapture deep, Or why do these gentle ladies weep? It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said, Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no wit Who foolishly hug and foster it. If love is a weed, how simple they Who gather and gather it, day by day! If love is a nettle that makes you smart, Why do you wear it next your heart? And if it be neither of these, say I, Why do you sit and sob and sigh?
A RECIPE
TAKE a pair of sparkling eyes, Hidden, ever and anon, In a merciful eclipse— Do not heed their mild surprise— Having passed the Rubicon. Take a pair of rosy lips; Take a figure trimly planned— Such as admiration whets (Be particular in this); Take a tender little hand, Fringed with dainty fingerettes, Press it—in parenthesis;— Take all these, you lucky man— Take and keep them, if you can.
Take a pretty little cot— Quite a miniature affair— Hung about with trellised vine, Furnish it upon the spot With the treasures rich and rare I’ve endeavoured to define. Live to love and love to live— You will ripen at your ease, Growing on the sunny side— Fate has nothing more to give. You’re a dainty man to please If you are not satisfied. Take my counsel, happy man: Act upon it, if you can!
THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID
HE. I HAVE a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the moon By a love-lorn loon, Who fled from the mocking throng, O! It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with the ring Of the song maids sing Who love with a love life-long, O! It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
HE. I have a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the knell Of a churchyard bell, And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O! It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scorn At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with a sigh And a tear in the eye, For it tells of a righted wrong, O! It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay, Who turned on her heel and tripped away From the peacock popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scorn At the humble heart that he did not prize; And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes, For the love of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! BOTH. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more. For he lived in the love of a ladye!
THE SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR
THE law is the true embodiment Of everything that’s excellent. It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, my lords, embody the Law. The constitutional guardian I Of pretty young Wards in Chancery, All very agreeable girls—and none Is over the age of twenty-one. A pleasant occupation for A rather susceptible Chancellor!
But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can’t be denied That it has its inconvenient side. For I’m not so old, and not so plain, And I’m quite prepared to marry again, But there’d be the deuce to pay in the Lords If I fell in love with one of my Wards: Which rather tries my temper, for I’m _such_ a susceptible Chancellor!
And every one who’d marry a Ward Must come to me for my accord: So in my court I sit all day, Giving agreeable girls away, With one for him—and one for he— And one for you—and one for ye— And one for thou—and one for thee— But never, oh never a one for me! Which is exasperating, for A highly susceptible Chancellor!
WHEN A MERRY MAIDEN MARRIES
WHEN a merry maiden marries, Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right and nothing’s wrong! From to-day and ever after Let your tears be tears of laughter— Every sigh that finds a vent Be a sigh of sweet content! When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with love is laden; Every flower is a rose, Every goose becomes a swan, Every kind of trouble goes Where the last year’s snows have gone; Sunlight takes the place of shade When you marry merry maid!
When a merry maiden marries Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right, and nothing’s wrong. Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow, Get ye gone until to-morrow; Jealousies in grim array, Ye are things of yesterday! When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with joy is laden; All the corners of the earth Ring with music sweetly played, Worry is melodious mirth, Grief is joy in masquerade; Sullen night is laughing day— All the year is merry May!
THE BRITISH TAR