Kitobni o'qish: «More Bab Ballads»

Ballad: Mister William

 
Oh, listen to the tale of MISTER WILLIAM, if you please,
Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas.
He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife,
Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.
 
 
He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone,
Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own.
But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike—
To plan one little wickedness—to see what it was like.
 
 
He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I;
I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try!
For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold,
And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold!
 
 
“A baby who is wicked at the early age of one,
And then reforms—and dies at thirty-six a spotless son,
Is never, never saddled with his babyhood’s defect,
But earns from worthy men consideration and respect.
 
 
“So one who never revelled in discreditable tricks
Until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six,
May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame,
Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.
 
 
“That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true,
But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue;
And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll,
Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.
 
 
“The common sin of babyhood—objecting to be drest—
If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest,
For anything you know, may represent, if you’re alive,
A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.
 
 
“Still, I wouldn’t take advantage of this fact, but be content
With some pardonable folly—it’s a mere experiment.
The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin;
So with something that’s particularly tempting I’ll begin.
 
 
“I would not steal a penny, for my income’s very fair—
I do not want a penny—I have pennies and to spare—
And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till,
The sin would be enormous—the temptation being nil.
 
 
“But if I broke asunder all such pettifogging bounds,
And forged a party’s Will for (say) Five Hundred Thousand Pounds,
With such an irresistible temptation to a haul,
Of course the sin must be infinitesimally small.
 
 
“There’s WILSON who is dying—he has wealth from Stock and rent—
If I divert his riches from their natural descent,
I’m placed in a position to indulge each little whim.”
So he diverted them—and they, in turn, diverted him.
 
 
Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw,
Temptation isn’t recognized by Britain’s Common Law;
Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch,
And WILLIAM got a “lifer,” which annoyed him very much.
 
 
For, ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol,
He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale;
He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him so
That his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low.
 
 
And sympathetic gaolers would remark, “It’s very true,
He ain’t been brought up common, like the likes of me and you.”
So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops,
And chocolate, and arrowroot, and buns, and malt and hops.
 
 
Kind Clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate,
Affected by the details of his pitiable state.
They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall,
Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call.
 
 
“Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case:
A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace;
It’s telling on young WILLIAM, who’s reduced to skin and bone—
Remember he’s a gentleman, with money of his own.
 
 
“He had an ample income, and of course he stands in need
Of sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed;
No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips—
He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips.
 
 
“He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude;
He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food.
When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad,
And other educational advantages he’s had.
 
 
“A burglar or garotter, or, indeed, a common thief
Is very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef,
Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,—
A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward.
 
 
“But beef and mutton-broth don’t seem to suit our WILLIAM’S whim,
A boon to other prisoners—a punishment to him.
It never was intended that the discipline of gaol
Should dash a convict’s spirits, sir, or make him thin or pale.”
 
 
“Good Gracious Me!” that sympathetic Secretary cried,
“Suppose in prison fetters MISTER WILLIAM should have died!
Dear me, of course!  Imprisonment for Life his sentence saith:
I’m very glad you mentioned it—it might have been For Death!
 
 
“Release him with a ticket—he’ll be better then, no doubt,
And tell him I apologize.”  So MISTER WILLIAM’S out.
I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I’m sure,
And not begin experimentalizing any more.
 

Ballad: The Bumboat Woman’s Story

 
I’m old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief,
My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief!
For terrible sights I’ve seen, and dangers great I’ve run—
I’m nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done!
 
 
Ah!  I’ve been young in my time, and I’ve played the deuce with men!
I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then:
My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet,
POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet!
 
 
A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships
With apples and cakes, and fowls, and beer, and halfpenny dips,
And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights,
And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites.
 
 
Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay,
By far the sweetest of all was kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.’
LIEUTENANT BELAYE commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun,
She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun.
 
 
With a laudable view of enhancing his country’s naval pride,
When people inquired her size, LIEUTENANT BELAYE replied,
“Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Seventy-ones!”
Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns.
 
 
Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below,
“Come down, Little Buttercup, come” (for he loved to call me so),
And he’d tell of the fights at sea in which he’d taken a part,
And so LIEUTENANT BELAYE won poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S heart!
 
 
But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he,
“I’m ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea.”
And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day,
For every Portsmouth maid loved good LIEUTENANT BELAYE.
 
 
And I went to a back back street, with plenty of cheap cheap shops,
And I bought an oilskin hat and a second-hand suit of slops,
And I went to LIEUTENANT BELAYE (and he never suspected me!)
And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea.
 
 
We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one,—
Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun,
I’m sorry to say that I’ve heard that sailors sometimes swear,
But I never yet heard a Bun say anything wrong, I declare.
 
 
When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a “Messmate, ho!  What cheer?”
But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was “How do you do, my dear?”
When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big D-
But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild “Dear me!”
 
 
Yet, though they were all well-bred, you could scarcely call them slick:
Whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick;
And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair,
They spent more time than a sailor should on his back back hair.
 
 
They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run,
And they screamed when LIEUTENANT BELAYE discharged his only gun.
And as he was proud of his gun—such pride is hardly wrong—
The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long.
 
 
They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said
That BILL had a way of his own of making his lips look red—
That JOE looked quite his age—or somebody might declare
That BARNACLE’S long pig-tail was never his own own hair.
 
 
BELAYE would admit that his men were of no great use to him,
“But, then,” he would say, “there is little to do on a gunboat trim
I can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too—
And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew.”
 
 
I saw him every day.  How the happy moments sped!
Reef topsails!  Make all taut!  There’s dirty weather ahead!
(I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun:
In that case, I don’t know whatever we should have done!)
 
 
After a fortnight’s cruise, we put into port one day,
And off on leave for a week went kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE,
And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life),
LIEUTENANT BELAYE returned to his ship with a fair young wife!
 
 
He up, and he says, says he, “O crew of the Hot Cross Bun,
Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!”
And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits,
And all fell down in so many separate fainting-fits.
 
 
And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be,
And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me,
Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor’s blue array,
To follow the shifting fate of kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.
 

* * * * * * * *

 
It’s strange to think that I should ever have loved young men,
But I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then,
And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow!
And poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes have lost their lustre now!
 

Ballad: The Two Ogres

 
Good children, list, if you’re inclined,
And wicked children too—
This pretty ballad is designed
Especially for you.
 
 
Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold—
Each traits distinctive had:
The younger was as good as gold,
The elder was as bad.
 
 
A wicked, disobedient son
Was JAMES M’ALPINE, and
A contrast to the elder one,
Good APPLEBODY BLAND.
 
 
M’ALPINE—brutes like him are few—
In greediness delights,
A melancholy victim to
Unchastened appetites.
 
 
Good, well-bred children every day
He ravenously ate,—
All boys were fish who found their way
Into M’ALPINE’S net:
 
 
Boys whose good breeding is innate,
Whose sums are always right;
And boys who don’t expostulate
When sent to bed at night;
 
 
And kindly boys who never search
The nests of birds of song;
And serious boys for whom, in church,
No sermon is too long.
 
 
Contrast with JAMES’S greedy haste
And comprehensive hand,
The nice discriminating taste
Of APPLEBODY BLAND.
 
 
BLAND only eats bad boys, who swear—
Who can behave, but don’t—
Disgraceful lads who say “don’t care,”
And “shan’t,” and “can’t,” and “won’t.”
 
 
Who wet their shoes and learn to box,
And say what isn’t true,
Who bite their nails and jam their frocks,
And make long noses too;
 
 
Who kick a nurse’s aged shin,
And sit in sulky mopes;
And boys who twirl poor kittens in
Distracting zoëtropes.
 
 
But JAMES, when he was quite a youth,
Had often been to school,
And though so bad, to tell the truth,
He wasn’t quite a fool.
 
 
At logic few with him could vie;
To his peculiar sect
He could propose a fallacy
With singular effect.
 
 
So, when his Mentors said, “Expound—
Why eat good children—why?”
Upon his Mentors he would round
With this absurd reply:
 
 
“I have been taught to love the good—
The pure—the unalloyed—
And wicked boys, I’ve understood,
I always should avoid.
 
 
“Why do I eat good children—why?
Because I love them so!”
(But this was empty sophistry,
As your Papa can show.)
 
 
Now, though the learning of his friends
Was truly not immense,
They had a way of fitting ends
By rule of common sense.
 
 
“Away, away!” his Mentors cried,
“Thou uncongenial pest!
A quirk’s a thing we can’t abide,
A quibble we detest!
 
 
“A fallacy in your reply
Our intellect descries,
Although we don’t pretend to spy
Exactly where it lies.
 
 
“In misery and penal woes
Must end a glutton’s joys;
And learn how ogres punish those
Who dare to eat good boys.
 
 
“Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain,
And gagged securely—so—
You shall be placed in Drury Lane,
Where only good lads go.
 
 
“Surrounded there by virtuous boys,
You’ll suffer torture wus
Than that which constantly annoys
Disgraceful TANTALUS.
 
 
(“If you would learn the woes that vex
Poor TANTALUS, down there,
Pray borrow of Papa an ex-
Purgated LEMPRIERE.)
 
 
“But as for BLAND who, as it seems,
Eats only naughty boys,
We’ve planned a recompense that teems
With gastronomic joys.
 
 
“Where wicked youths in crowds are stowed
He shall unquestioned rule,
And have the run of Hackney Road
Reformatory School!”
 

Ballad: Little Oliver

 
EARL JOYCE he was a kind old party
Whom nothing ever could put out,
Though eighty-two, he still was hearty,
Excepting as regarded gout.
 
 
He had one unexampled daughter,
The LADY MINNIE-HAHA JOYCE,
Fair MINNIE-HAHA, “Laughing Water,”
So called from her melodious voice.
 
 
By Nature planned for lover-capture,
Her beauty every heart assailed;
The good old nobleman with rapture
Observed how widely she prevailed
 
 
Aloof from all the lordly flockings
Of titled swells who worshipped her,
There stood, in pumps and cotton stockings,
One humble lover—OLIVER.
 
 
He was no peer by Fortune petted,
His name recalled no bygone age;
He was no lordling coronetted—
Alas! he was a simple page!
 
 
With vain appeals he never bored her,
But stood in silent sorrow by—
He knew how fondly he adored her,
And knew, alas! how hopelessly!
 
 
Well grounded by a village tutor
In languages alive and past,
He’d say unto himself, “Knee-suitor,
Oh, do not go beyond your last!”
 
 
But though his name could boast no handle,
He could not every hope resign;
As moths will hover round a candle,
So hovered he about her shrine.
 
 
The brilliant candle dazed the moth well:
One day she sang to her Papa
The air that MARIE sings with BOTHWELL
In NEIDERMEYER’S opera.
 
 
(Therein a stable boy, it’s stated,
Devoutly loved a noble dame,
Who ardently reciprocated
His rather injudicious flame.)
 
 
And then, before the piano closing
(He listened coyly at the door),
She sang a song of her composing—
I give one verse from half a score:
 
 
BALLAD
 
 
Why, pretty page, art ever sighing?
Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying?
Come, set a-ringing
Thy laugh entrancing,
And ever singing
And ever dancing.
Ever singing, Tra! la! la!
Ever dancing, Tra! la! la!
Ever singing, ever dancing,
Ever singing, Tra! la! la!
 
 
He skipped for joy like little muttons,
He danced like Esmeralda’s kid.
(She did not mean a boy in buttons,
Although he fancied that she did.)
 
 
Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her,
He wore out many pairs of soles;
He danced when taking down the dinner—
He danced when bringing up the coals.
 
 
He danced and sang (however laden)
With his incessant “Tra! la! la!”
Which much surprised the noble maiden,
And puzzled even her Papa.
 
 
He nourished now his flame and fanned it,
He even danced at work below.
The upper servants wouldn’t stand it,
And BOWLES the butler told him so.
 
 
At length on impulse acting blindly,
His love he laid completely bare;
The gentle Earl received him kindly
And told the lad to take a chair.
 
 
“Oh, sir,” the suitor uttered sadly,
“Don’t give your indignation vent;
I fear you think I’m acting madly,
Perhaps you think me insolent?”
 
 
The kindly Earl repelled the notion;
His noble bosom heaved a sigh,
His fingers trembled with emotion,
A tear stood in his mild blue eye:
 
 
For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly
The half-forgotten time when he,
A boy of nine, had worshipped vainly
A governess of forty-three!
 
 
“My boy,” he said, in tone consoling,
“Give up this idle fancy—do—
The song you heard my daughter trolling
Did not, indeed, refer to you.
 
 
“I feel for you, poor boy, acutely;
I would not wish to give you pain;
Your pangs I estimate minutely,—
I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.
 
 
“But still your humble rank and station
For MINNIE surely are not meet”—
He said much more in conversation
Which it were needless to repeat.
 
 
Now I’m prepared to bet a guinea,
Were this a mere dramatic case,
The page would have eloped with MINNIE,
But, no—he only left his place.
 
 
The simple Truth is my detective,
With me Sensation can’t abide;
The Likely beats the mere Effective,
And Nature is my only guide.
 

Ballad: Pasha Bailey Ben

 
A proud Pasha was BAILEY BEN,
His wives were three, his tails were ten;
His form was dignified, but stout,
Men called him “Little Roundabout.”
 

His Importance

 
Pale Pilgrims came from o’er the sea
To wait on PASHA BAILEY B.,
All bearing presents in a crowd,
For B. was poor as well as proud.
 

His Presents

 
They brought him onions strung on ropes,
And cold boiled beef, and telescopes,
And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns,
And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns.
 

More of them

 
They brought him white kid gloves, and pails,
And candlesticks, and potted quails,
And capstan-bars, and scales and weights,
And ornaments for empty grates.
 

Why I mention these

 
My tale is not of these—oh no!
I only mention them to show
The divers gifts that divers men
Brought o’er the sea to BAILEY BEN.
 

His Confidant

 
A confidant had BAILEY B.,
A gay Mongolian dog was he;
I am not good at Turkish names,
And so I call him SIMPLE JAMES.
 

His Confidant’s Countenance

 
A dreadful legend you might trace
In SIMPLE JAMES’S honest face,
For there you read, in Nature’s print,
“A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint.”
 

His Character

 
A deed of blood, or fire, or flames,
Was meat and drink to SIMPLE JAMES:
To hide his guilt he did not plan,
But owned himself a bad young man.
 

The Author to his Reader

 
And why on earth good BAILEY BEN
(The wisest, noblest, best of men)
Made SIMPLE JAMES his right-hand man
Is quite beyond my mental span.
 

The same, continued

 
But there—enough of gruesome deeds!
My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds;
And so let SIMPLE JAMES take wing,—
’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.
 

The Pasha’s Clerk

 
Good PASHA BAILEY kept a clerk
(For BAILEY only made his mark),
His name was MATTHEW WYCOMBE COO,
A man of nearly forty-two.
 

His Accomplishments

 
No person that I ever knew
Could “yödel” half as well as COO,
And Highlanders exclaimed, “Eh, weel!”
When COO began to dance a reel.
 

His Kindness to the Pasha’s Wives

 
He used to dance and sing and play
In such an unaffected way,
He cheered the unexciting lives
Of PASHA BAILEY’S lovely wives.
 

The Author to his Reader

 
But why should I encumber you
With histories of MATTHEW COO?
Let MATTHEW COO at once take wing,—
’Tis not of COO I’m going to sing.
 

The Author’s Muse

 
Let me recall my wandering Muse;
She shall be steady if I choose—
She roves, instead of helping me
To tell the deeds of BAILEY B.
 

The Pasha’s Visitor

 
One morning knocked, at half-past eight,
A tall Red Indian at his gate.
In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware,
Red Indians are extremely rare.
 

The Visitor’s Outfit

 
Mocassins decked his graceful legs,
His eyes were black, and round as eggs,
And on his neck, instead of beads,
Hung several Catawampous seeds.
 

What the Visitor said

 
“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one,
Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,
You’ve never seen the Red Man skip
Upon the banks of Mississip!”
 

The Author’s Moderation

 
To say that BAILEY oped his eyes
Would feebly paint his great surprise—
To say it almost made him die
Would be to paint it much too high.
 

The Author to his Reader

 
But why should I ransack my head
To tell you all that Indian said;
We’ll let the Indian man take wing,—
’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.
 

The Reader to the Author

 
Come, come, I say, that’s quite enough
Of this absurd disjointed stuff;
Now let’s get on to that affair
About LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE.