A Satire Anthology

MIDGES

SHE is talking æsthetics, the dear, clever teacher!Upon man, and his functions, she speaks with a smile;Her ideas are divine upon art, upon nature,The sublime, the heroic, and Mr. Carlyle.I no more am found worthy to join in the talk, now,So I follow with my surreptitious cigar;While she leads our poetical friend up the walk, now,Who quotes Wordsworth, and praises her “Thoughts on a Star.”Meanwhile, there is dancing in yonder green bowerA swarm of young midges! They dance high and low;’Tis a sweet little species that lives but one hour,And the eldest was born half an hour ago.One impulsive young midge I hear ardently pouringIn the ear of a shy little wanton in gauze,His eternal devotion, his ceaseless adoring,Which shall last till the universe breaks from its laws.His passion is not, he declares, the mere feverOf a rapturous moment: it knows no control;It will burn in his breast through existence for ever,Immutably fixed in the deeps of his soul!She wavers, she flutters: male midges are fickle;Dare she trust him her future? she asks with a sigh.He implores, and a tear is beginning to trickle.She is weak: they embrace, and.. the lovers pass by.While they pass me, down here on a rose-leaf has lightedA pale midge, his feelers all drooping and torn;His existence is withered; its future is blighted;His hopes are betrayed, and his breast is forlorn.By the midge his heart trusted his heart is deceived; nowIn the virtue of midges no more he believes;From love in its falsehood, once wildly believed, nowHe will bury his desolate life in the leaves.His friends would console him – the noblest and sagestOf midges have held that a midge lives again;In eternity, say they, the strife thou now wagestWith sorrow, shall cease; but their words were in vain!Can eternity bring back the seconds now wastedIn hopeless desire? or restore to his breastThe belief he has lost, with the bliss he once tasted,Embracing the midge that his being held best?His friends would console him: life yet is before him;Many hundred long seconds he still has to live;In the State yet a mighty career spreads before him;Let him seek in the great world of action to strive!There’s Fame! there’s Ambition! and, grander than either,There is Freedom! the progress and march of the race!But to Freedom his breast beats no longer, and neitherAmbition nor action her loss can replace.If the time had been spent in acquiring æstheticsI have squandered in learning this language of midges,There might, for my friend in her peripatetics,Have been now two asses to help o’er the bridges.As it is, I’ll report her the whole conversation.It would have been longer, but, somehow or other(In the midst of that misanthrope’s long lamentation),A midge in my right eye became a young mother.Since my friend is so clever, I’ll ask her to tell meWhy the least living thing (a mere midge in the egg)Can make a man’s tears flow, as now it befell me.Oh, you dear, clever woman, explain it, I beg!Robert Bulwer Lytton.

THE SCHOOLMASTER ABROAD WITH HIS SON

O  WHAT harper could worthily harp it,Mine Edward! this wide-stretching wold(Look out wold) with its wonderful carpetOf emerald, purple, and gold!Look well at it – also look sharp, itIs getting so cold.The purple is heather (erica);The yellow, gorse – call’d sometimes “whin.”Cruel boys on its prickles might spike aGreen beetle as if on a pin.You may roll in it, if you would like aFew holes in your skin.You wouldn’t? Then think of how kind youShould be to the insects who craveYour compassion – and then, look behind youAt yon barley-ears! Don’t they look braveAs they undulate (undulate, mind you,From unda, a wave).The noise of those sheep-bells, how faint itSounds here (on account of our height)!And this hillock itself – who could paint it,With its changes of shadow and light?Is it not – (never, Eddy, say “Ain’t it”) —A marvellous sight?Then yon desolate, eerie morasses,The haunts of the snipe and the hern —(I shall question the two upper classesOn aquatiles, when we return) —Why, I see on them absolute massesOf filix or fern.How it interests e’en a beginner(Or tyro) like dear little Ned!Is he listening? As I am a sinner,He’s asleep – he is wagging his head.Wake up! I’ll go home to my dinner,And you to your bed.The boundless, ineffable prairie;The splendour of mountain and lake,With their hues that seem ever to vary;The mighty pine-forests which shakeIn the wind, and in which the unwaryMay tread on a snake;And this wold with its heathery garmentAre themes undeniably great.But – although there is not any harm in’t —It’s perhaps little good to dilateOn their charms to a dull little varmintOf seven or eight.Charles Stuart Calverley.

OF PROPRIETY

STUDY first Propriety, for she is indeed the pole-starWhich shall guide the artless maiden through the mazes of Vanity Fair;Nay, she is the golden chain which holdeth together Society,The lamp by whose light young Psyche shall approach unblamed her Eros.Verily, Truth is as Eve, which was ashamed, being naked;Wherefore doth Propriety dress her with the fair foliage of artifice;And when she is drest, behold, she knoweth not herself again!I walked in the forest, and above me stood the yew —Stood like a slumbering giant, shrouded in impenetrable shade;Then I pass’d into the citizen’s garden, and marked a tree clipt into shape(The giant’s locks had been shorn by the Delilah-shears of Decorum),And I said, “Surely Nature is goodly; but how much goodlier is Art!”I heard the wild notes of the lark floating far over the blue sky,And my foolish heart went after him, and, lo! I blessed him as he rose.Foolish! for far better is the trained boudoir bullfinch,Which pipeth the semblance of a tune, and mechanically draweth up the water;And the reinless steed of the desert, though his neck be clothed with thunder,Must yield to him that danceth and “moveth in the circles” at Astley’s.For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,And God made thee one thing, that thou mightest make thyself another.A maiden’s heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upward,And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety;He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure;Let him drink deeply of its sweetness, nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork.Charles Stuart Calverley.

PEACE: A Study

HE stood, a worn-out City clerk —Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday,For forty years from dawn to dark —Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.He felt the salt spray on his lips;Heard children’s voices on the sands;Up the sun’s path he saw the shipsSail on and on to other lands;And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and soundTo him was joy too deep for tears;He sat him on the beach, and boundA blue bandana round his ears;And thought how, posted near his door,His own green door on Camden Hill,Two bands at least, most likely more,Were mingling at their own sweet willVerdi with Vance. And at the thoughtHe laugh’d again, and softly drewThat Morning Herald that he’d boughtForth from his breast, and read it through.Charles Stuart Calverley.

ALL-SAINTS

IN a church which is furnish’d with mullion and gable,With altar and reredos, with gargoyle and groin,The penitents’ dresses are sealskin and sable,The odour of sanctity’s eau-de-Cologne.But only could Lucifer, flying from Hades,Gaze down on this crowd with its panniers and paints,He would say, as he look’d at the lords and the ladies,“Oh, where is All-Sinners’, if this is All-Saints’?”Edmund Yates.

FAME’S PENNY TRUMPET

Affectionately dedicated to all “original researchers” who pant for “endowment.”BLOW, blow your trumpets till they crack,Ye little men of little souls!And bid them huddle at your back,Gold-sucking leeches, shoals on shoals!Fill all the air with hungry wails —“Reward us, ere we think or write!Without your gold mere knowledge failsTo sate the swinish appetite!”And, where great Plato paced serene,Or Newton paused with wistful eye,Rush to the chase with hoofs unclean,And Babel-clamour of the sky!Be yours the pay, be theirs the praise;We will not rob them of their due,Nor vex the ghosts of other daysBy naming them along with you.They sought and found undying fame;They toiled not for reward nor thanks;Their cheeks are hot with honest shameFor you, the modern mountebanks,Who preach of justice, plead with tearsThat love and mercy should abound,While marking with complacent earsThe moaning of some tortured hound;Who prate of wisdom – nay, forbear,Lest Wisdom turn on you in wrath,Trampling, with heel that will not spare,The vermin that beset her path!Go, throng each other’s drawing-rooms,Ye idols of a petty clique;Strut your brief hour in borrowed plumes,And make your penny trumpets squeak;Deck your dull talk with pilfered shredsOf learning from a nobler time,And oil each other’s little headsWith mutual flattery’s golden slime;And when the topmost height ye gain,And stand in glory’s ether clear,And grasp the prize of all your pain —So many hundred pounds a year —Then let Fame’s banner be unfurled!Sing pæans for a victory won!Ye tapers, that would light the world,And cast a shadow on the Sun;Who still shall pour his rays sublime,One crystal flood, from east to west,When ye have burned your little time,And feebly flickered into rest!Lewis Carroll.

THE DIAMOND WEDDING

O  LOVE! Love! Love! What times were those,Long ere the age of belles and beaux,And Brussels lace and silken hose,When, in the green Arcadian close,You married Psyche under the rose,With only the grass for bedding!Heart to heart, and hand to hand,You followed Nature’s sweet command,Roaming lovingly through the land,Nor sighed for a Diamond Wedding.So have we read, in classic Ovid,How Hero watched for her belovéd,Impassioned youth, Leander.She was the fairest of the fair,And wrapt him round with her golden hair,Whenever he landed cold and bare,With nothing to eat and nothing to wear,And wetter than any gander;For Love was Love, and better than money;The slyer the theft, the sweeter the honey;And kissing was clover, all the world over,Wherever Cupid might wander.So thousands of years have come and gone,And still the moon is shining on,Still Hymen’s torch is lighted;And hitherto, in this land of the West,Most couples in love have thought it bestTo follow the ancient way of the rest,And quietly get united.But now, True Love, you’re growing old —Bought and sold, with silver and gold,Like a house, or a horse and carriage!Midnight talks,Moonlight walks,The glance of the eye and sweetheart sigh,The shadowy haunts, with no one by,I do not wish to disparage,But every kissHas a price for its bliss,In the modern code of marriage;And the compact sweetIs not completeTill the high contracting parties meetBefore the altar of Mammon;And the bride must be led to a silver bower,Where pearls and rubies fall in a showerThat would frighten Jupiter Ammon!I need not tellHow it befell,(Since Jenkins has told the storyOver and over and over again,In a style I cannot hope to attain,And covered himself with glory!)How it befell, one summer’s day,The king of the Cubans strolled this way —King January’s his name, they say —And fell in love with the Princess May,The reigning belle of Manhattan;Nor how he began to smirk and sue,And dress as lovers who come to woo,Or as Max Maretzek and Jullien do,When they sit full-bloomed in the ladies’ view,And flourish the wondrous baton.He wasn’t one of your Polish nobles,Whose presence their country somehow troubles,And so our cities receive them;Nor one of your make-believe Spanish grandees,Who ply our daughters with lies and candies,Until the poor girls believe them.No, he was no such charlatan —Count de Hoboken Flash-in-the-pan,Full of gasconade and bravado —But a regular, rich Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.His was the rental of half Havana,And all Matanzas; and Santa Anna,Rich as he was, could hardly holdA candle to light the mines of goldOur Cuban owned, choke-full of diggers;And broad plantations, that, in round figures,Were stocked with at least five thousand niggers!“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may!”The señor swore to carry the day,To capture the beautiful Princess May,With his battery of treasure;Velvet and lace she should not lack;Tiffany, Haughwout, Ball & Black,Genin and Stewart his suit should back,And come and go at her pleasure;Jet and lava, silver and gold,Garnets, emeralds rare to behold,Diamonds, sapphires, wealth untold,All were hers, to have and to hold —Enough to fill a peck measure!He didn’t bring all his forces onAt once, but, like a crafty old Don,Who many a heart had fought and won,Kept bidding a little higher;And every time he made his bid,And what she said, and all they did,’Twas written downFor the good of the town,By Jeems, of The Daily Flyer.A coach and horses, you’d think, would buyFor the Don an easy victory;But slowly our Princess yielded.A diamond necklace caught her eye,But a wreath of pearls first made her sigh.She knew the worth of each maiden glance,And, like young colts that curvet and prance,She led the Don a deuce of a dance,In spite of the wealth he wielded.She stood such a fire of silks and laces,Jewels and gold dressing-cases,And ruby brooches, and jets and pearls,That every one of her dainty curlsBrought the price of a hundred common girls;Folks thought the lass demented!But at last a wonderful diamond ring,An infant Kohinoor, did the thing,And, sighing with love, or something the same,(What’s in a name?)The Princess May consented.Ring! ring the bells, and bringThe people to see the marrying!Let the gaunt and hungry and ragged poorThrong round the great cathedral door,To wonder what all the hubbub’s for,And sometimes stupidly wonderAt so much sunshine and brightness whichFall from the church upon the rich,While the poor get all the thunder.Ring, ring, merry bells, ring!O fortunate few,With letters blue,Good for a seat and a nearer view!Fortunate few, whom I dare not name;Dilettanti! Crême de la crême!We commoners stood by the street façade,And caught a glimpse of the cavalcade.We saw the brideIn diamond prideWith jewelled maidens to guard her side —Six lustrous maidens in tarlatan.She led the van of the caravan;Close behind her, her mother(Dressed in gorgeous moire antiqueThat told as plainly as words could speak,She was more antique than the other)Leaned on the arm of Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado.Happy mortal! fortunate man!And Marquis of El Dorado!In they swept, all riches and grace,Silks and satins, jewels and lace;In they swept from the dazzled sun,And soon in the church the deed was done.Three prelates stood on the chancel high:A knot that gold and silver can buy,Gold and silver may yet untie,Unless it is tightly fastened;What’s worth doing at all’s worth doing well,And the sale of a young Manhattan belleIs not to be pushed or hastened;So two Very Reverends graced the scene,And the tall Archbishop stood between,By prayer and fasting chastened.The Pope himself would have come from Rome,But Garibaldi kept him at home.Haply these robed prelates thoughtTheir words were the power that tied the knot;But another power that love-knot tied,And I saw the chain round the neck of the bride —A glistening, priceless, marvellous chain,Coiled with diamonds again and again,As befits a diamond wedding;Yet still ’twas a chain, and I thought she knew it,And half-way longed for the will to undo it,By the secret tears she was shedding.But isn’t it odd to think, wheneverWe all go through that terrible River,Whose sluggish tide alone can sever(The Archbishop says) the Church decree,By floating one in to Eternity,And leaving the other alive as ever,As each wades through that ghastly stream,The satins that rustle and gems that gleam,Will grow pale and heavy, and sink awayTo the noisome river’s bottom-clay!Then the costly bride and her maidens sixWill shiver upon the bank of the Styx,Quite as helpless as they were born —Naked souls, and very forlorn.The Princess, then, must shift for herself,And lay her royalty on the shelf;She, and the beautiful empress yonder,Whose robes are now the wide world’s wonderAnd even ourselves, and our dear little wives,Who calico wear each morn of their lives,And the sewing-girls, and les chiffonniers,In rags and hunger – a gaunt array —And all the grooms of the caravan —Aye, even the great Don RataplanSanta Claus de la MuscovadoSeñor Grandissimo Bastinado —That gold-encrusted, fortunate man —All will land in naked equality;The lord of a ribboned principalityWill mourn the loss of his cordon.Nothing to eat and nothing to wearWill certainly be the fashion there!Ten to one, and I’ll go it alone,Those most used to a rag and bone,Though here on earth they labour and groan,Will stand it best, as they wade abreastTo the other side of Jordan.Edmund Clarence Stedman.

TRUE TO POLL

I’LL sing you a song, not very long,But the story somewhat newOf William Kidd, who, whatever he did,To his Poll was always true.He sailed away in a galliant shipFrom the port of old Bristol,And the last words he uttered,As his hankercher he fluttered,Were, “My heart is true to Poll.”His heart was true to Poll,His heart was true to Poll.It’s no matter what you doIf your heart be only true:And his heart was true to Poll.’Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam,And looked about for an inn;When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady,Came up with a kind of grin:“Oh, marry me, and a king you’ll be,And in a palace loll;Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.”So he gave his hand, did Billy,But his heart was true to Poll.Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he ledAs the King of the Kikeryboos;His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella,And he wore a pair of over-shoes;He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives,Whose beauties I cannot here extol;One day they all revolted,So he back to Bristol bolted,For his heart was true to Poll.His heart was true to Poll,His heart was true to Poll.It’s no matter what you do,If your heart be only true:And his heart was true to Poll.Frank C. Burnand.

SLEEP ON

FEAR no unlicensed entry,Heed no bombastic talk,While guards the British sentryPall Mall and Birdcage Walk.Let European thundersOccasion no alarms,Though diplomatic blundersMay cause a cry, “To arms!”Sleep on, ye pale civilians;All thunder-clouds defy;On Europe’s countless millionsThe sentry keeps his eye!Should foreign-born rapscallionsIn London dare to showTheir overgrown battalions,Be sure I’ll let you know.Should Russians or NorwegiansPollute our favoured climeWith rough barbaric legions,I’ll mention it in time.So sleep in peace, civilians,The Continent defy;While on its countless millionsThe sentry keeps his eye!W. S. Gilbert.

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE

BY A MISERABLE WRETCHROLL on, thou ball, roll on!Through pathless realms of spaceRoll 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 airRoll 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.)

W. S. Gilbert.

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 terrorAt 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 mustachios, 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!W. S. Gilbert.

ANGLICISED UTOPIA

SOCIETY has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour,For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.(That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.)No peeress at our drawing-room before the Presence passesWho wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes.Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly;In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about – Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!Our city we have beautified – we’ve done it willy-nilly —And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,So poverty is obsolete, and hunger is abolished.(They are going to abolish it in England.)The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,Of “risky situation and indelicate suggestion”;No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly —In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about – Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!Our peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis,Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races.(They are going to remodel it in England.)The brewers and the cotton lords no longer seek admission,And literary merit meets with proper recognition —(As literary merit does in England!)Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickensLike them an Earl of Thackeray, and p’r’aps a Duke of Dickens —Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly,And then this happy country will be Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about – Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England, with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!W. S. Gilbert.

ETIQUETTE

THE Ballyshannon foundered off the coast of Cariboo,And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;Down went the owners – greedy men whom hope of gain allured:Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:Young Peter Gray, who tasted teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,And Somers, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,Upon a desert island were eventually cast.They hunted for their meals, as Alexander Selkirk used,But they couldn’t chat together – they had not been introduced.For Peter Gray, and Somers, too, though certainly in trade,Were properly particular about the friends they made;And somehow thus they settled it, without a word of mouth,That Gray should take the northern half, while Somers took the south.On Peter’s portion oysters grew – a delicacy rare,But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn’t bear.On Somer’s side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,Which Somers couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty storeOf turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore.The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,For the thought of Peter’s oysters brought the water to his mouth.He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.How they wished an introduction to each other they had hadWhen on board the Ballyshannon! And it drove them nearly madTo think how very friendly with each other they might get,If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!One day, when out a-hunting for the mus ridiculus,Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:“I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,M’Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?”These simple words made Peter as delighted as could be;Old chummies at the Charterhouse were Robinson and he.He walked straight up to Somers, then he turned extremely red,Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:“I beg your pardon – pray forgive me if I seem too bold,But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.You spoke aloud of Robinson – I happened to be by.You know him?” “Yes, extremely well.” “Allow me, so do I.”It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite,And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs;They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;On several occasions, too, they saved each other’s lives.They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.To Peter an idea occurred. “Suppose we cross the main?So good an opportunity may not be found again.”And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”“But stay,” said Mr. Peter; “when in England, as you know,I earned a living tasting teas for Baker, Croop, and Co.,I may be superseded – my employers think me dead!”“Then come with me,” said Somers, “and taste indigo instead.”But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they foundThe vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound;When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:’Twas Robinson – a convict, in an unbecoming frock!Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rashIn knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone uponIn making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.At first they didn’t quarrel very openly, I’ve heard;They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,And Somers has the turtle – turtle always makes him sick.W. S. Gilbert.