Part 16

Then up and answered William Lee (The kind 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 honor'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!

"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.

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.

[5] Containing the germs of Gilbert's two famous comic operas,--"H. M. S. Pinafore," with its amiable captain, cheerful crew, and the "sisters and the cousins and the aunts," and "The Pirates of Penzance, or the Slave of Duty."

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL."

FROM "THE BAB BALLADS."

'T was on the shores that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone, on a piece of stone, An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he; And I heard this wight on the shore recite, In a singular minor key:--

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fist and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:--

"O elderly man, it 's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid He spun this painful yarn:--

"'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul); And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here' to the muster-roll.

"There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we 'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and accordin', shot The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appetite with the midshipmite We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me; But we 'd both be blowed if we 'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I 'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you 'll be. I 'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he: 'Dear James, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook me, While I can--and will--cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell; ''T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you 'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round, and round, and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And as I eating be The last of his chops, why I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see.

* * * * *

"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play; But I sit and croak, and a single joke I have--which is to say:

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!"

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.

THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.

How hard, when those who do not wish To lend, thus lose, their books, Are snared by anglers--folks that fish With literary hooks-- Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their set at home By making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I 've but a quarter left, Nor could I save my "Bacon"; And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, Like Hamlet, backward go, And, as the tide was ebbing fast, Of course I lost my "Rowe."

My "Mallet" served to knock me down, Which makes me thus a talker, And once, when I was out of town, My "Johnson" proved a "Walker." While studying o'er the fire one day My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke, They bore my "Colman" clean away, And carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more Than Bramah's patent worth, And now my losses I deplore, Without a "Home" on earth. If once a book you let them lift, Another they conceal, For though I caught them stealing "Swift," As swiftly went my "Steele."

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, Where late he stood elated, But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself Is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave Is sunk to swell the ravage, And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'T was mine to lose--a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put My frozen hands upon, Though ever since I lost my "Foote" My "Bunyan" has been gone. My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed, My "Taylor," too, must fail, To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, In vain I offered "Bayle."

I "Prior" sought, but could not see The "Hood" so late in front, And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," O, where was my "Leigh Hunt"? I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, Yet could not "Tickell" touch, And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle," And surely mickle's much.

'T is quite enough my griefs to feed, My sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my "Reid," Nor even use my "Hughes." My classics would not quiet lie,-- A thing so fondly hoped; Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, My "Livy" has eloped.

My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks; And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," There's gray upon my locks. I 'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly, And when they ask about my ail, 'T is "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, And thus my griefs divide; For O, they cured me of my "Burns," And eased my "Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn, For, as they never found me "Gay," They have not left me "Sterne."

THOMAS HOOD.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

My curse upon thy venomed stang, That shoots my tortured gums alang; An' through my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance! Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines.

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee,--thou hell o' a' diseases, Aye mocks our groan.

Adown my beard the slavers trickle; I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.

O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Among them a';

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, And surely mickle 's much. Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!-- Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A fowmond's Toothache!

ROBERT BURNS.

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE.

BY A MISERABLE WRETCH.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of space Roll on! What though I 'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache's ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never _you_ mind! Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air Roll on! It 's true I 've got no shirts to wear, It 's true my butcher's bill is due, It 's true my prospects all look blue,-- But don't let that unsettle you! Never _you_ mind! Roll on! [_It rolls on._

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT.

THE NOSE AND THE EYES.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose; The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To whom the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause, With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,-- So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

"In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear (And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find) That the Nose has the spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession, time out of mind."

Then, holding the spectacles up to the court, "Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle. As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

"Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('T is a case that has happened, and may happen again) That the visage or countenance had _not_ a Nose, Pray, who _would_, or who _could_, wear spectacles then?

"On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles, plainly, were made for the Nose, And the Nose was, as plainly, intended for them."

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: But what were his arguments, few people know, For the court did not think them equally wise.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one _if_ or _but_, That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight,--Eyes should be _shut_.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE VOWELS: AN ENIGMA.

We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set, One of us you 'll find in jet, T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within; If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

ALNWICK CASTLE.

Home of the Percys' high-born race, Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial place, Their cradle and their grave! Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state, As in his proud departed hours; And warriors frown in stone on high, And feudal banners "flout the sky" Above his princely towers.

A gentle hill its side inclines, Lovely in England's fadeless green, To meet the quiet stream which winds Through this romantic scene As silently and sweetly still As when, at evening, on that hill, While summer's wind blew soft and low, Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, His Katherine was a happy bride, A thousand years ago.

I wandered through the lofty halls Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls Each high, heroic name, From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington, A major of dragoons.

That last half-stanza,--it has dashed From my warm lips the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world, is gone; And Alnwick's but a market town, And this, alas! its market day, And beasts and borderers throng the way; Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, Men in the coal and cattle line; From Teviot's bard and hero land, From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, So dazzling to the dreaming boy; Ours are the days of fact, not fable, Of knights, but not of the round table, Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy; 'T is what "Our President," Monroe, Has called "the era of good feeling;" The Highlander, the bitterest foe To modern laws, has felt their blow, Consented to be taxed, and vote, And put on pantaloons and coat, And leave off cattle-stealing: Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings; And noble name and cultured land, Palace, and park, and vassal band, Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Rothschilds or the Barings.

The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar-stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry.

You'll ask if yet the Percy lives In the armed pomp of feudal state. The present representatives Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn; A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon keep to turret wall, For ten-and-six-pence sterling.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

THE LATEST DECALOGUE.

Thou shalt have one God only: who Would be at the expense of two? No graven images may be Worshipped, save in the currency. Swear not at all; since for thy curse Thine enemy is none the worse. At church on Sunday to attend Will serve to keep the world thy friend: Honor thy parents; that is, all From whom advancement may befall. Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive Officiously to keep alive. Adultery it is not fit Or safe (for woman) to commit. Thou shalt not steal: an empty feat, When 't is as lucrative to cheat. Bear not false witness: let the lie Have time on its own wings to fly. Thou shalt not covet; but tradition Approves all forms of competition.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN.

They've got a bran new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They 've done just as they said they 'd do, And fetched it into church. They 're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right, They 've hoisted up their new machine In everybody's sight. They 've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in _my_ voice and vote; For it was never _my_ desire To praise the Lord by note!

I've been a sister good an' true, For five an' thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read; And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led! An' now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day, the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read--"I can read my title clear To mansions in the skies."-- I al'ays liked that blessèd hymn-- I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies _my_ whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gonedest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near, An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in. I thought I 'd chase the tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right. When they was high, then I was low, An' also contra'wise; And I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know, They played a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon. I pitched it purty middlin' high, And fetched a lusty tone, But O, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone! They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown,--I could but look,-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin' book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time, right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', O, I had to laugh, or cough! It kep' her head a bobbin' so, It e'en a'most come off!

An' Deacon Tubbs,--he all broke down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose. He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat. An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five an' thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day, I 'll to meetin' go, And nevermore come back. And when the folks get up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no _patent_ thing A squealin' over me!

WILL CARLETON.

TONIS AD RESTO MARE.

AIR: "_O Mary, heave a sigh for me_."

O mare æva si forme; Forme ure tonitru; Iambicum as amandum, Olet Hymen promptu; Mihi is vetas an ne se, As humano erebi; Olet mecum marito te, Or _eta beta pi_.

Alas, plano more meretrix, Mi ardor vel uno; Inferiam ure artis base, Tolerat me urebo. Ah me ve ara silicet, Vi laudu vimin thus? Hiatus as arandum sex-- Illuc Ionicus.

Heu sed heu vix en imago, My missis mare sta; O cantu redit in mihi Hibernas arida? A veri vafer heri si, Mihi resolves indu: Totius olet Hymen cum-- Accepta tonitru.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY.

There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man; And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman-- A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild, tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across; And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost double a yard across. Oh, the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey-devouring Irishman, The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue-- the fighting, rioting Irishman.

One of his eyes was bottle-green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear. Oh, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman-- The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.

He took so much of Lundy-foot That he used to snort and snuffle--O! And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. Oh, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman-- The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.

His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch He'd not rest till he filled it full again. The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman-- The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity. Oh, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman-- The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.

WILLIAM MAGINN.

THE RECRUIT.

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Bedad, yer a bad 'un! Now turn out yer toes! Yer belt is unhookit, Yer cap is on crookit, Ye may not be dhrunk, But, be jabers, ye look it! Wan--two! Wan--two! Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "A saint it ud sadden To dhrill such a mug! Eyes front!--ye baboon, ye!-- Chin up!--ye gossoon, ye! Ye've jaws like a goat-- Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye! Wan--two! Wan--two! Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! Ye've eyes like a bat!--can ye see in the dark?"

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: "Yer figger wants padd'n'-- Sure, man, ye've no shape! Behind ye yer shoulders Stick out like two bowlders; Yer shins is as thin As a pair of pen-holders! Wan--two! Wan--two! Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew! Wan--two!-- Time! Mark! I'm dhry as a dog--I can't shpake but I bark!"