Random Rhymes and Rambles

T’ Village Aram-Skaram

In a little cot so dreary,With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,Sat a mother sad and weary,      With her darling on her knee;Their humble fare at best was sparing,For the father he was shearing,With his three brave sons o’ Erin,      Down in the Fen country.All her Saxon neighbours leave her,With her boy and demon fever,The midnight watch – none to relieve her,      Save a Little Bisey Bee:He was called the Aram-Skaram,Noisy as a drum clock laram,Yet his treasures he would share ’em,      With his friend right merrily.Every night and every morning,With the day sometimes at dawning,While the mother, sick and swooning,      To his dying mate went he:Robbing his good Saxon mother,Giving to his Celtic brother,Who asked – for him and no other,      Until his spirit it was free.Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;This little noble-hearted ruffin,      At the wake each night went he:Sabbath morning he was ready,Warn’d the bearers to be steady,Taking Peter to his Biddy,      And a tear stood in his e’e.Onward as the corpse was passing,Ere the priest gave his last blessing,Through the dingy crowd came pressing,      The father and the brothers three:’Tis our mother – we will greet her;How is this that here we meet her?And without our little Peter,      Who will solve this mystery?The Aram-Skaram interfered,Soon this corpse will be interred,Come with us and see it burried,      Out in yonder cemetery:Soon they knew the worst, and ponderedHalf-amazed and half-dumbfounded; —And returning home, they wondered      Who their little friend could be!Turning round to him they bowed,Much they thanked him, much they owed;While the tears each cheek bedewed,      Wisht him all prosperity:“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,What I have done, do ye to others;We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,”      Said the little Bisey Bee.

Behold How the Rivers!

Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea,Sending their treasures so careless and free;And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise,Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.Find out the haunts o’ the low human pest,Give to the weary, the poor, and distressed;What if unthankful and thankless they be,Think of the giver that gave unto thee.Go travel the long lanes on misery’s virge,Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.Give to yon widow – thy gift is thrice blest,For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s pressed;A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.’Neath the green grassy mounds o’ yon little church yard,An over-wrought genius there finds his reward;And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,Such are the givers that give unto me.Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain, —What if no birdie should chant thee a strain;What if no daisy should smile on the lea;The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may,That thou mayest venture to give all away;Ere nature again her balmy dews send,Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.

The World’s Wheels

Aw steady an’ easy t’oud world’s wheels wod go,If t’folk wod be honist an’ try to keep so;An’ at steead o’ been hastey at ivvery wun,Let us enquire afore we condemn.A man may do wrong an’ scarce be to blame,Or a woman be bad e nout bud her name;But which on us ought ta say ought unto them,Unless we enquire afore we condemn.If a Rose she sud flurish her sisters among,It izant ta say her poor sister is wrong;That blighted one there may be nipt in the stem,So let us enquire before we condemn.Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough,While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow,May be shattered asunder from stern unto stem,So let us inquire before we condemn.We are certain o’ wun thing an’ that izant two,If we do nothing wrong we have nothing to rue;Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim,So let us inquire afore we condemn.Then speak not so harshly, withdraw that rash word,’Tis wrong to condemn till the story is heard;If it worrant for summat sho might be a gem,So let us enquire afore we condemn.

Full o’ Doubts an’ Fears

Sweet sing the birds in lowly strains,   All mingled in their song;For lovely Spring is here again,   And Winter’s cold is gone.All things around seem filled with glee,   And joy swells every breast;The buds are peeping from each bush,   Where soon the birds will rest.The meadows now are fresh and green,   The flowers are bursting forth,And nature seems to us serene,   And shows her sterling worth.The lark sores high up in the air,   We listen to his lays;He knows no sorrow nor no care,   Nor weariness o’ days.But men, though born of noble birth,   Assigned for higher spheres,Walks his sad journey here on earth   All full o’ doubts and fears.

It Izant so we Me

Bright seems the days when I was young   Fra thought, fra care, fra sorrow free;As wild waves rippled i’ the sun,   Rolled gaily on, and so wi’ me.More bright the flowers when I was young,   More sweet the birds sang on the tree;While pleasure and contentment flung   Her smiles on them, and so wi’ me.The naked truth, I told when young,   Though tempted wi hypocracy;Though some embraced from it I sprang,   And said it izant so wi’ me.Aw saw the canting jibs when young,   Of saintly, sulky misery;Yet poked aw melancholy’s ribs,   And said it izant so wi’ me.Though monny a stone when aw was young,   His strong upon me memory;Aw thru when young and hed um flung,   If they forgive ’tis so wi’ me.Could money buy o’ Nature’s mart,   Again our brightest days to see;Ther’s monny a wun wod pawn ther shirt,   Or else they’d buy – and so wi me.Yet after all aw oft luke back,   Without a pang o’ days gone past,An hope all t’ wreng aw did when young,   May be forgeen to me at last.

Ode to an Herring

Wee silvery fish, who nobly bravesThe dangers o’ the ocean waves,While monsters from the unknown caves      Make thee their prey;Escaping which the human knaves      On thee ligs way.No doubt thou was at first designedTo suit the palates o’ mankind;Yet as I ponder now I find,      Thy fame is gone:With dainty dish thou’rt behind      With every one.I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheenWere welcome both at morn and e’en,Or any hour that’s in between,      Thy name wer good;But now by some considered mean      For human food.When peace and plenty’s smiling brow,And trade and commerce speeds the plough;Thy friends that were not long ago,      Such game they make;Thy epitaph is soldier now,      Or two-eyed snake.When times are hard we’re scant o’ cash,And famine hungry bellies lash,And tripes and trollabobble’s trash      Begins to fail,Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash,      Hail! herring, hail!Full mony a time t’as made me groan,To see thee stretched, despised, alone;While turned-up noses passed have gone,      O’ purse-proud men!No friends, alas! save some poor one      Fra t’ paddin can.Whoe’er despise thee, let them knowThe time may come when they may goTo some fish wife, and beg to know      If they can buyThe friendship o’ their vanquished foe,      We weeping eye.To me nought could be better fun,Than see a duke or noble don,Or lord, or peer, or gentleman,      In search o’ thee:And they were bidden to move on,      Or go t’at sea.Yet I will sing thy praise, wee fish;To me thou art a dainty dish;For thee, ’tis true, we often wish,      My little bloater;Either salted, cured, or shining fresh      Fra yon great water.If through thy pedigree we peep,Philosophy from thee can keep,To me I need not study deep,      There’s nothing foreign;For aw like thee, am sold too cheap,      My little herring.

Our Poor Little Factory Girls

They are up in the morning right early,   They are up sometimes afore leet;Aw hear their clogs they are clamping,   As t’ little things goes dahn the street.They are off in the morning right early,   With their baskets o’ jock on their arms;The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,   As they enter the mill in a swarm.They are skarpring backward and forward,   Their ends to keep up if they can;They are doing their utmost endeavours,   For fear o’ the frown o’ man.Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple,   They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl,Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling,   As the wee little factory girl.They are bouncing abaht like a shuttle,   They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;While their wee little mates they are doffing,   Preparing the spindles for more.Them two little things they are thickest,   They help one another ’tis plain;They try to be best and the quickest,   The smiles o’ their master to gain.And now from her ten hours’ labour,   Back to her cottage sho shogs;Aw hear by the tramping and singing,   ’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.An’ at night when sho’s folded i’ slumber,   Sho’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls;Of all human toil under-rated,   ’Tis our poor little factory girls.

We Him haw call my awn

The branches o’ the woodbine hide   My little cottage wall,An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch,   Aw envy not the hall.The wooded hills before my eyes   Are spread both far and wide;An’ Nature’s grandeur seems to dress,   In all her lovely pride.It is, indeed, a lovely spot,   O’ singing birds an’ flowers;’Mid Nature’s grandeur it is true,   I pass away my hours.Yet think not ’tis this lovely glen,   So dear in all its charms;Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,   Freed from the world’s alarms.For should love’s magic change the scene,   To trackless lands unknown;’Twor Eden in the desert wild,   Wi him aw call my own.

A Yorkshireman’s Christmas

Aw have ten or twelve pounds o gooid meit,   A small cheese and a barrel o’ beer;Aw’ll welcome King Christmas to neet,   For he nobbut comes once in a year.Send our Will dahn to Tommy Spoyle Wood’s,   And tell him to send up a log;An’ tell him and Betty to come,   For Tommy’s a jolly oud dog.Aw mean to forget all my debts,   An’ aw mean to harbour no greef;Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates   O’ their contents o’ beer and gooid beef.Them barns they care nought abaht drink,   Like us at’s advanced into years;So Sally, lass, what does ta think,   If ta buys um some apples an’ pears?Our David’s a fine little lad,   An’ our Nancy’s a fine little lass;When aw see um aw do feel so glad,   So bring me a quart an’ a glass!Come, Sally, an’ sit be my side?   We’ve hed both were ups and were dahns;Awm fane at aw made thee my bride,   An’ am prahd o’ both thee an’ wer barns.We’re as happy as them at’s more brass,   E their festival holly-decked hall;We envy no mortal, old lass;   Here’s peace and gooid will unto all.And may every poor crater ta neet,   If never before in his loife,Have plenty to drink an’ ta eat,   For both him, an’ his barns, an’ his woife.

The Fethered Captive

My little dappled-wingged fellow,What ruffin’s hand has made thee wellow?Haw heard while down in yonder hollow,      Thy troubled breast;But I’ll return my little fellow,      Back to its nest.Some ruffin’s hand has set a snickle,And left thee in a bonny pickle;Who e’er he be, haw hope old Nick ’al      Rise his arm,And mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle      We summat warm.How glad am aw that fate while roaming,Where milk-white Hawthorns’ blossoms blooming,As sent me footsteps ere the gloaming      Into this dell.To stop some murdering hand fra drowning      Thy bonny sell.For thou wert doomed, my bird, for ever,Fra all thy fethered mates to sever;Were aw not near thee to deliver      We my awn hand;Nor never more thou’d skim the river,      Or fellowed land.Thy fetherd friends, if thou has onny;Tho’ friends aw fear there izant mony;But yet thy dam for her, we Johnny,      Will fret to-day.And think her watter-wagtail bonny      Has flown away.Be not afraid, for net a fetherFra of thy wing shall touch the hether,For I will give thee altogether      Sweet liberty!And glad am aw that aw came hither,      To set thee free.Now wing thy flight my little rover,Thy cursed captivity is over,And if thou crosses t’ Straits o’ Dover      To warmer spheres;Hoping thou may live in clover,      For years and years.Happily, like thee, for fortune’s fickle,I may, myself, be caught it snickle;And some kind hand that sees my pickle      Through saving thee,May snatch me, too, fra death’s grim shackle,      And set me free.

Trip to Malsis Hall

The day wor fine, the sun did shine,   No sines o’ rain to fall,When t’North Beck hands, e jovial bands,   Did visit Malsis Hall.Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill,   Both ould an’ young did meet;To march I trow, e two-by-two,   E processhun dahn the street.An’ Marriner’s Band, we music grand,   Struck up wi all ther might;Then one and all, both great and small,   March’d on we great delight.The girls and boys, we jovial noise,   The fife and drum did play;For every one would have some fun   On this eventful day.Oud Joan o’ Sall wi’ all his palls,   Marched on wi’ all ther ease;Just for a lark, some did remark,   There goes some prime oud cheese!The Exlaheead chaps wi their girt caps,   An’ coits nut quite i’th’ fashion;With arms ding-dong, they stretch along,   An’ put a fineish dash on.Tom Wilkin drest up in his best,   T’ oud wife put on her fall,For they wor bent, what come or went,   To dine at Malsis Hall.There wor Tommy Twist, among the list,   We his magenta snaat;Hez often said, sin he gat wed,   T’ oud lass sud hev an aht.Amongst the lot wor oud Sam Butt,   As fine as oud Lord Digby;An’ oud Queer Doos, wi’ his strait shoos,   An’ wi’ him Joseph Rigby.There’s Jimmy Gill, o’ Castle hill, —   That gentleman wi’t stick, —There’s Will an’ Sam, and young John Lamb,   An’ Ben an’ Earby Dick.Aw scorn to lie – the reason why   It is a shame awm sure!But among the gob, wi’ old Joe Hob,   Behould a perfect cure.I’d quite forgot, among the lot,   There was old Pally Pickles,Wi’ crinoline sho walks so fine,   Sho’s like a cat e prickles.Bud to me tale, aw musant fail   Fer out on this occasion;We heead erect, and girt respect,   We march to Keighley Station.And Maud an’ t’ woife, az large az life,   Gat in’t train together;They both did say, they’d have a day,   Among the blooming hether.Nah – all fane gat in t’ train,   And Ned began to scream;Then Master Pratt doft off his hat,   An’ pept aht at the steeam.This jovial band, when they did land,   Got off the train so hearty,For they all went, wi’ that intent,   To have a grand tea-party!The country folk did gape an’ luke,   To see us all delighted,For every one, did say begum,   Aw wish I’d been invited.Its joy to tell, they march as well   As the Scots did ower the border,Ould Wellington and all his men   Ne’er saw such marching order.The lookers on, to see them come,   Get on the second story;Right down the park they did the mark,   Coming e full glory.Then to the place, each smiling face,   Move on in grand succession;The lookers on did say “well done,   It iz a grand processhun!”When they’d all past the hall at last,   They form’d into a column;Then Jimmy Wreet, wi’ all hiz meet,   Gave aht a hymn so solemn:Then all did raise their voice in praise,   We music in the centre;They sang a hymn e praise o’ Him,   At iz the girt inventer.That bit being done, they all did run,   To have a pleasant day in,Some went there, an’ some went here,   An’ t’ Bands began o’ playing.We mich amaze, we all did gaze,   Around this splendid park;Then little Jake began to speak,   An’ thus he did remark: —“At Morecambe Bay aw’ve been a day,   At Bolton Woods an’ Ilkley;But Malsis Hall outstrip them all,   At aw’ve seen aht o’ Keighley.”The girt park wall around the hall,   Majestically does stand;The waving trees, an pleasant breeze,   Its loike a fairy land.It fill’d wer eyes, we great surprise,   To see the fountain sporting;An’ on the top, stuck on a pot,   The British flags wor floating.The walks so grand, wi’ yellow sand,   An’ splendid wor the paving,High over all, around the wall,   Wor flags an’ banners waving.Nah some made fun, an’ some did run,   And women they wor swinging;Do you ken the “Muffin Man,” —   Others they wor singing.In sooth wor grand, to see this band,   Assemble all together;Bud sad to say, that varry day,   Turned aht some shocking weather.Even war nert rain, aw mun explain,   At caused a girt disaster,All but one sort o’ breead ran short,   It wor no fault o’ t’ master.O! Gormanton! thy bread an’ bun,   An’ judgment it wor scanty;Oh! what a shame, an’ what a name,   For not providing plenty!Oh, silly clown! thou might have known   To eyt each one wor able;The country air did mack some swear,   They could ommost eyt a table.The atmosphere, no longer clear,   The clouds are black an’ stormy;Then all but one away did run,   Like some deserting army.On – on! they go! as if some foe   Wor charging at the lot!If they got there, they didn’t care   A fig for poor Will Scott!Poor lame ould Will, remains there still,   His crutches has to fetch him;But he’s seen the toime, when in his prime,   At nobody there could catch him.Like some fast steed, wi’ all its speed,   All seem’d as they wor flying;To escape the rain, an’ catch the train,   Both old and young wor trying.One neet, old Wills, about Crosshills,   He heeard a fearful humming,He said t’ woife, upon my life,   Aw think the French are coming!Tha knaws reight weel at we’ve heeard tell   O sich strange things before,So lass look quick, an’ cut thee stick,   An’ a will bolt the door.Like drahnded rats, they pass their mates,   An’ rans dahn to the station;And Betty Bakes an’ Sally Shakes,   Their both plump aht o’ patience.“This is a mess,” says little Bess,   At lives o’t top o’t garden;“There’s my new shawl an’ fine lace fall,   They’ll nut be worth a farden.”But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throng,   The bell does give the sign,With all its force, the iron horse,   Comes trotting up the line.Then one by one they all get on,   Wet, fatigued and weary;The steam does blow, old Ned doth go,   And we come back so cheery.All satisfied we their short ride —   But sorry for the rain —Each thenkt ther stars they’re nowt no war,   An’ we’ve got home again.Whene’er we roam away from home,   No matter where or when,In storm or shower, if in wer power,   To home – sweet home, return!What we had seen – where we had been —   Each to our friend wor telling:The day being spent, we homeward went   To each respective dwelling.

Dame Europe’s Lodging House

Dame Europa kept a Lodging House,   And she was fond of brass;She took in public lodgers,   Of every rank and class.She’d French and Germans, Dutch and Swiss,   And other nations too;So poor old Mrs. Europe   Had plenty work to do.I cannot just now name her beds,   Her number being so large;But five she kept for deputies,   Which she had in her charge.So in this famous Lodging house,   John Bull he stood A ONE,On whom she always kept an eye,   To see things rightly done.And Master Louis was her next,   And second, there’s no doubt,For when a little row took place,   He always backed John out.For in her house was Alex Russ,   Oft him they ey’d with fear;For Alex was a lazy hound,   And kept a Russian Bear.Her fourth was a man of grace,   And was for heaven bent;His name was Pious William,   Guided by his testament.Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave,   And ’tis our firm belief,He once did rob the Hungary Lads   Of their honest bread and beef.These were Dame Europe’s deputies,   In whom she put her trust,To keep her lodging house at peace,   In case eruption burst.For many a time a row took place,   While sharing out the scran;But John and Louis soon stepp’d in,   And cleared the padding can.Once Alex Russ’s father Nick,   A bit before he died,Seized a little Turk one day,   And thought to warm his hide.But John and Louis soon stepp’d in,   Declaring it foul play;And made old Nick remember it   Until his dying day.Now all Dame Europe’s deputies,   They made themselves at home;And every lodger knew his bed,   Likewise his sitting room.They took great interest in their beds,   And kept them very clean;Unlike some other padding cans,   So dirty and so mean.But Louis had the nicest bed,   Of any of the lot;And being close by a window,   He loved a flower pot.The best and choicest bed of all,   Was occupied with Johnny;Because the Dame did favour him,   He did collect her money.And in a little bunk he lived,   Seal’d up with oak, and tarr’d;He would not let a single one,   Come near within a yard.A Jack of all trades, too, was John,   And aught he’d do for brass;And what he ever took in hand,   No one could him surpass.When tired of being shut up it bunk,   Sometimes he went across,To spend an hour with Master Louis,   And they the wine would toss.So many a happy day they spent,   These lads, with one another;While every lodger in the house,   Thought John was Louis’ brother.The Dame allowed John something nice,   To get well in her rent,Which every now and then it bank,   He put it on per cent.And working very hard himself   Amongst his tar and pitch;He soon accumulated wealth,   That made him very rich.The next to Louis’ bed was Will,   The biggest Monitor;And though he did pretend a saint,   He was as big a cur.He loved to make them all believe   He was opposed to strife,And said he never caused a row,   No, never in his life.He was so fond of singing psalms,   And read his testament;So everybody was deceived   When he was on mischief bent.He seldom passed a lodger’s bed   But what he took a glance,Which made them every one suspect   He’d rob them if he’d chance.Now Louis had two flower pots   He nourished with much care,But little knew that Willie’s eyes   Were set upon the pair.In one there grew an Alsace Rose,   The other a Loraine,And Willie vowed they once were his   And must be his again.He said his father once lodg’d there,   And that the dame did knowThat Louis predecessors once   Had sneaked them in a row.But in Willie’s council was a lad   Up to every quirk,To keep him out of mischief, long   Dame Europe had her work.To this smart youth Saint Willie   Did whisper his desireOne night as they sat smoking,   Besides the kitchen fire.To get them flowers back again,   Said Bissy, very low,Meet Louis somewhere on the quiet,   And try to cause a row.But mind the other deputies   Don’t catch you on the hop,For John and Joseph you must know   Your little game would stop.For Joseph he has not forgot   The day you warmed his rig;And christian Denmark still thinks on   About his nice Slesvig.By your advice, my own Dear Mark,   I have been guided on,But what about that man i’t bunk?   Pointing o’er to John.He’s very plucky too is John,   But yet he’s very slow,And perhaps he never may perceive   Our scheme about the row.But not another word of this   To anybody’s ears,The dame she plays the list’ner,   I have my doubts and fears.So let us go up-stairs at once,   I think it will be best,And let us pray to Him above,   Before we go to rest.So with a pious countenance,   His prayers as usual said,But squinting round the room the while,   He spied an empty bed.What a pity that these empty stocks   Should be unoccupied;Do you think my little cousin, Mark,   To them could be denied.’Tis just the very thing, said Mark,   Your cousin, sir, and you,Would carry out my scheme first-rate,   One at each side of Lue.The dame being asked did not object   If he could pay the rent,And had a decent characterz   And Louis would consent.But I do object to this says Lue,   And on this very ground,Willy and his cousins, ma’am,   They soon will me surround.They’re nothing in my line at all   They are so near a-kin,And so if I consent to this   At once they’ll hem me in.O, you couldn’t think it, Master Lue,   That I should do you harm,For don’t I read my testament   And don’t I sing my psalm.’Tis all my eye, said Louis, both   Your testament and psalms;You use the dumbbells regular   To strengthen up your arms.So take your poor relation off,   You pious-looking prig,And open out Kit Denmark’s box,   And give him back Slesvig.Come, come, says Mrs. Europe,   Let’s have no bother here,Your trying now to breed a row   At least it does appear.Now Johnny hearing from the bunk   What both of them did say,He shouted out, Now stop it, Will,   Or else you’ll rue the day.All right friend John, I’m much obliged,   You are my friend, I know,And so my little cousin, sir,   I’m willing to withdraw.But Louis frothed at mouth with rage,   Like one that was insane,And said he’d make Bill promise him   He’d not offend again.I’d promise no such thing, says Mark,   For that would hurt your pride,Sing on and read your testament,   Dame Europe’s on your side.If I’d to promise out at sort,   ’Twould be against my mind;So take it right or take it wrong,   I’ll promise naught at kind.Then I shall take and wallop thee   Unless thou cuts thy stick,And drive thee to thy fatherland   Before another week.Come on, cried Sanctimonius,   And sending out his armHe caught poor Louis on the nose,   Then sung another psalm.But Louis soon was on his pins,   And used his fists a bit,But he was fairly out of breath,   And seldom ever hit.And at the end of round the first,   He got it fearful hot,This was his baptism of fire   If we mistake it not.So Willy sent a letter home,   To his mother, old Augusta,Telling her he’d thrashed poor Lue,   And given him such a duster.What wonderful events, says he,  Has heaven brought about,I fight the greatest pugilist   That ever was brought out.And if by divine Providence   I get safe through this row,Then I will sing “My God the spring   From whom all blessings flow.”Meanwhile the other Monitors,   Were standing looking on,But none of them durst speak a word,   But all stared straight at John.Ought not I to interfere,   Says Johnny to the rest,But he was told by every one   Neutrality was the best.Neutral, growl’d John, I hate the name,   ’Tis poison to my ear,It’s another word for cowardice,   And makes me fit to swear.At any rate I can do this,   My mind I will not mask,I’ll give poor Lue a little drop   Out of my brandy flask.And give it up, poor Lue, my lad,   You might as well give in,You know that I have got no power,   Besides you did begin.Then Louis rose, and looked at John,   And spoke of days gone by,When he would not have seen his friend,   Have blackened Johnny’s eye.And as for giving in, friend John,   I’ll do nothing of the sort;Do you think I’ll be a laughing stock   For everybody’s sport.This conversation that took place   Made pious Willy grin,And told John Bull to hold his noise,   ’Twas nought to do with him.These words to John did make him stare,   And, finding to his shame,That them were worse that did look on,   Than them that played the game.Now Dame Europe knew the facts   Which had been going on,And with her usual dignity,   These words addressed to John:Now, Mr. Bull, pray answer me, —   Why are you gaping here?You are my famous deputy,   Then why not interfere?Why, answered John, and made a bow,   But yet was very shy;I was told to be a neutral, ma’am,   And that’s the reason why.That’s just what you should not have done,   Being in authority;Did I not place you in that bunk   To think and act for me?Why any baby in the house   Could not have done much worse,But I fancy you’ve been holding back   To save your private purse.Neutrality is as fine a word   As ever a coward used,So the honour that I gave to you   You shouldn’t have abused.The minor lodgers in the house,   On hearing this to John,Began to whisper and to laugh,   And call’d it famous fun.At last a little urchin said,   Please ma’am I’d take my oath,At master John were neutral,   And stuck up for them both.Stuck up for both, offended both, —   Is that it what you mean?Continued Madame Europe,   Then spoke to John again:Now I’ll tell you what it is, John,   We’ve long watch’d your career,You take your fag’s advice to save   Your paltry sums a year.There’s Bob and Bill, besides some more   That I call naught but scums,They’ve got you fairly in between   Their fingers and their thumbs.If such like men as Ben and Hugh   This day your fags had been,They would have saved both you and me   The cursed disgraceful scene.And instead of being half-clad and shod,   As everybody knows,You would have dared these rivals now   To come to such like blows.There was a time in this house, John,   If you put up your thumb,The greatest blackguard tongue would stop   As if they had been dumb.But not a one i’t house   This moment cares a fig,For all you say or all you do,   Although your purse be big.I couldn’t hurt poor Louis, ma’am,   Although he did begin;And then you see that Will and I   Are very near akin.Beside, you see, said John again,   I let poor Louis sup,On both I use my ointment, and   Their wounds I did bind up.A weel a day then said the dame,   But much affected were,I see you have some small excuse   What you have done it for.I have some little hopes left yet   That you may yet have sense,To know your high position, John,   Instead of saving pence.You yet will learn that duty, sir,   Cannot be ignored,However disagreeable when   Placed before the board.And let me tell you he who shirks   The responsibilityOf seeing right, is doing wrong,   And deserves humility.And ’tis an empty-headed dream,   To boast of skill and power,And dare not even interfere   At the latest hour.Better far confess at once   You’re not fit for your place,Than have a name Heroic, sir,   Branded with disgrace.But I will not say another word,   My deputies, to you;But hope you will a warning take,   This moment from poor Lue.And hoping, John, your enemies   May never have the chanceTo see you paid for watching Will   Thrash poor weak Louis France.