Absurd Ditties

XI

THAT OF LORD WILLIAM OF PURLEIGH

Lord William of Purleigh retired for the nightWith a mind full of worry and trouble,Which was caused by an income uncommonly slight,And expenses uncommonly double.Now the same sort of thing often happens, to me —And perhaps to yourself – for most singularleeOne's accounts – if one keeps 'em – will never come right,If, of "moneys received," one spends double.His lordship had gone rather early to bed,And for several hours had been sleeping,When he suddenly woke – and the hair on his headSlowly rose – he could hear someone creepingAbout in his room, in the dead of the night,With a lantern, which showed but a glimmer of light,And his impulse, at first, was to cover his headWhen he heard that there burglar a-creeping.But presently thinking "Poor fellow, there's naughtIn the house worth a burglar a-taking,And, being a kind-hearted lord, p'r'aps I ought,To explain the mistake he's a-making."Lord William, then still in his woolly night-cap(For appearances noblemen don't care a rap),His second-best dressing-gown hastily sought,And got up without any noise making."I'm exceedingly sorry," his lordship began,"But your visit, I fear, will be fruitless.I possess neither money, nor jewels, my man,So your burglaring here will be bootless.The burglar was startled, but kept a cool head,And bowed, as his lordship, continuing, said:"Excuse me a moment. I'll find if I canMy warm slippers, for I too am bootless."This pleasantry put them both quite at their ease;They discoursed of De Wet, and of Tupper.Then the household his lordship aroused, if you please,And invited the burglar to supper.The burglar told tales of his hardly-won wealth,And each drank to the other one's jolly good health.There's a charm about informal parties like these,And it was a most excellent supper.Then the lord told the burglar how poor he'd become,And of all which occasioned his lordship distress;And the burglar – who wasn't hard-hearted like some —His sympathy ventured thereat to express:"I've some thoughts in my mind, if I might be so boldAs to mention them, but – no – they mustn't be told.They are hopes which, perhaps, I might talk of to some,But which to a lord – no, I dare not express.""Pooh! Nonsense!" his lordship cried, "Out with it, man!What is it, my friend, that you wish to suggest?Rely upon me. I will do what I can.Come! Let us see what's to be done for the best.""I've a daughter," the burglar remarked with a sigh."The apple is she, so to speak, of my eye,And she wishes to marry a lord, if she can —And of all that I know – why, your lordship's the best."I am wealthy," the burglar continued, "you see,And her fortune will really be ample:I have given her every advantage, and sheIs a person quite up to your sample."Lord William, at first, was inclined to look glum,But, on thinking it over, remarked: "I will comeIn the morning, to-morrow, the lady to seeIf indeed she is up to the sample."On the morrow he called, and the lady he saw,And he found her both charming and witty;So he married her, though for a father-in-lawHe'd a burglar, which p'r'aps was a pity.However, she made him an excellent wife,And the burglar he settled a fortune for lifeOn the pair. What an excellent father-in-law!On the whole, p'r'aps, it wasn't a pity.

XII

THAT OF PASHA ABDULLA BEY

Abdulla Bey – a Pasha – hadA turn for joy and merriment:You never caught him looking sad,Nor glowering in discontent.His normal attitude was oneOf calm, serene placidity;His nature gay, and full of fun,And free from all acidity.A trifling instance I'll relateOf Pasha Bey's urbanity,The which will clearly indicateHis marvellous humanity.He had a dozen wives or so(In him no immorality;For Eastern custom, as you know,Permits, of wives, plurality).Yes; quite a dozen wives – or more —Abdulla had, and for a whileNo sound was heard of strife or warWithin Abdulla's domicile.But, oh! how rare it is to findA dozen ladies who'll consentTo think as with a single mind,And live together in content.Abdulla's wives – altho', no doubt,If taken individually,Would never think of falling out, —Collectively, could not agree.At first, in quite a playful way,They quarrelled – rather prettily;Then cutting things contrived to sayAbout each other wittily;Then petty jealousies and sneersBegan, – just feeble flickerings —Which grew, alas! to bitter tears,And fierce domestic bickerings.You never had a dozen wives —Of course not – so you cannot knowThe grave discomfort in their livesThese Pashas sometimes undergo.Abdulla Bey, however, heWas not the one to be dismayed,And doubtless you'll astounded beTo hear what wisdom he displayed.He did not – as some would have done —Seek angry ladies to coerce;He did not use to any oneExpressions impolite – or worse.No, what he did was simply this:He stood those ladies in a row,And said, "My dears, don't take amissWhat I'm about to say, you know."I find you cannot, like the birds,Within your little nest agree,So I'll unfold, in briefest words,A plan which has occurred to me."These quarrellings, these manners lax,In comfort means a loss for us,So I must tie you up in sacksAnd throw you in the Bosphorus."He tied them up; he threw them in;Then Pasha Bey, I beg to state,Did not seek sympathy to winBy posing as disconsolate.He mourned a week; and then, they say(A Pasha is, of course, a catch),Our friend, the good Abdulla Bey,Got married to another batch.

XIII

THAT OF ALGERNON CROKER

Permit me, and I will quite briefly relateThe sad story of Algernon Croker.Take warning, good friends, and beware of the fateOf this asinine practical joker,Who early in life caused the keenest distressTo his uncle, Sir Barnaby Tatton,By affixing a pin in the form of an STo the chair which Sir Barnaby sat on.His uncle had often been heard to declareThat to make him his heir he was willing;But the point of this joke made Sir Barnaby swearThat he'd cut the boy off with a shilling.Their anger his parents took means to express,Tho' I may not, of course, be exact onThe particular spot – though you'll probably guess —That young Croker was properly whacked on.His pranks, when they presently sent him to school,Resulted in endless disasters,And final expulsion for playing the fool(He made "apple-pie" beds for the masters).Nor was he more fortunate later in life,When courting a lady at Woking;For he failed to secure this sweet girl for his wifeOn account of his practical joking.To her father – a person of eighteen-stone-two,In a round-about coat and a topper —He offered a seat; then the chair he withdrew,And, of course, the old chap came a cropper.Such conduct, the father exceedingly hurt,And he wouldn't consent to the marriage;So the daughter she married a person named Birt,And she rides to this day in her carriage.But these are mere trifles compared with the fateWhich o'ertook him, and which I'm recalling,When he ventured to joke with an old Potentate,With results which were simply appalling.'Twas in some foreign country, far over the sea,Where he held a small post ministerial(An Ambassador, Consul, or something was he.What exactly is quite immaterial).He told the old Potentate, much to his joy,That King Edward had sent him a present,And handed a parcel up to the old boy,With a smile which was childlike and pleasant.The Potentate he, at the deuce of a pace,At the string set to fumbling and maulin';Then Croker laughed madly to see his blank face —For the package had nothing at all in.The Potentate smiled – 'twas a sad, sickly smile;And he laughed – but the laughter was hollow."Ha! a capital joke. It doth greatly beguile;But," said he, "there is something to follow.I, too, wish to play a small joke of my own,At the which I'm remarkably clever."Then, – a man standing by, at a nod from the throne,Croker's head from his body did sever.

XIV

THAT OF – ?

Phwat's thot yer afther sayin' —Oi "don't look meself at all?"Och, murder! sure ye've guessed it.Whist! Oi'm not meself at all,But another man entoirly,An' Oi'd bether tell ye troolyHow ut iz Oi'm but purtendin'That Oi'm Mr. Pat O'Dooley.Tim Finnegan an' me, sor,Waz a-fightin ov the blacksIn hathen foreign parts, sor,An' yer pardon Oi would axIf Oi mention thot the customsIn them parts iz free an' aisy,An' the costooms – bein' mostly beads —Iz airy-loike an' braizy.But them blacks iz good at fightin'An' they captured me an' Tim;An' they marched us back in triumphTo their village – me an' him;An' they didn't trate us badly,As Oi'm not above confessin',Tho' their manners – as Oi said before —An' customs, waz disthressin'.So Oi set meself to teachin'The King's daughter to behaveAs a perfect lady should do;An' Oi taught the King to shave;An' Oi added to the lady'sScanty costoom by the prisentOv a waistcoat, which she thanked me for,A-smilin' moighty plisent.Now she wazn't bad to look at,An' she fell in love with me,Which was awkward for all parties,As you prisently will see;For on wan noight, when the villageWaz all quiet-loike an' slapin',The King's daughter to the hut, phwereTim an' me lay, came a-crapin'.An' she whispered in my ear, sor:"Get up quick, an' come this way,Oi'll assist ye in escapin',If ye'll do just phwat Oi say."An' she led me by the hand, sor;It waz dark, the rain was pourin'An' we safely passed the huts, sor,Phwere the sintrys waz a snorin'Then we ran, an' ran, an' ran, sor,Through all the blessid noight,An' waz many miles away, sor,Before the day was loight.Then the lady saw my features,An' she stopped an' started cryin',For she found that I waz Tim insteadOv me, which waz most tryin'.In the hurry an' the scurryOv the darkness, don't yez see,She had made a big mistake,An' rescued him instead ov me —An' to me it waz confusin'An' most hard ov realizin';For to find yerself another person,Sor, iz most surprisin'.An' pwhen the lady left me,An' Oi'd got down to the shoreAn' found a ship to take me home,Oi puzzled more an' more,For, ov course, the woife an' familyOv Finnegan's was moine, sor,Tho' Oi didn't know the wan ov 'emBy hook, nor crook, nor soign, sor.But Oi came to the decisionThey belonged to me no doubt,So directly Oi had landedOi began to look about.Tim Finnegan had told meThat he lived up in Killarn'y,An' Oi found meself that far, somehow,By carnying an' blarney.An' Oi found me woife an' family —But, ach! upon my loifeOi waz greatly disappointedIn my family an' woife,For my woife was not a beauty,An' her temper wazn't cheerin'While the family – onkindly —At their father took to jeerin'."Oi waz better off as Pat," thought Oi,"Than Oi'll iver be as Tim.Bedad! Oi'd better be meselfAn' lave off bein' him.Oi won't stay here in Killarn'y,Phwere they trate poor Tim so coolly,But purtend to be meself aginIn dear old Ballyhooley.'So Oi came to Ballyhooley,An' Oi've niver told beforeTo anyone the storyOi've been tellin' to ye, sor,An' it, all ov it, occurred, sor,Just exactly as Oi state it,Though, ov course, ye'll understand, sor,Oi don't wish ye to repate it.

XV

THAT OF THE RIVAL HAIRDRESSERS

In the fashionable quarterOf a fashionable townLived a fashionable barber,And his name was Mister Brown.Of hair, the most luxuriant,This person had a crop,And – a – so had his assistants,And – the boy who swept the shop.He had pleasant manners – very —And his smile was very bland,While his flow of conversationWas exceptionally grand.The difficulty was that heDid not know when to stop;Neither did his good assistants,Nor – the boy who swept the shop.He'd begin about the weather,And remark the day was fine,Or, perhaps, "it would be brighterIf the sun would only shine."Or, he'd "noticed the barometerHad fallen with a flop;And – a – so had his assistants,And – the boy who swept the shop."Then the news from all the papers(Most of which you'd heard before)He would enter into fully,And the latest cricket score;Or, political opinions,He'd be pleased with you to swop;And – a – so would his assistants,Or – the boy who swept the shop.At the Stock Exchange quotationsMister Brown was quite au fait,And on betting, or "the fav'rit',"He would talk in knowing way;Then into matters personalHe'd occasionally drop,And – a – so would his assistants,Or – the boy who swept the shop.He'd recommend Macassar oil,Or someone's brilliantine,As "a remedy for baldness."'Twas "the finest he had seen."And he'd "noticed that your hair of lateWas thinning on the top."And – a – "so had his assistants,And – the boy who swept the shop."Now one day, nearly opposite,Another barber came,And opened an establishmentWith quite another name.And Brown looked out and wonderedIf this man had come to stop.And – a – so did his assistants,And – the boy who swept the shop.But they didn't fear their neighbour,For the man seemed very meek.He'd no flow of conversation,And looked half afraid to speak.So Brown tittered at his rival(Whose name happened to be Knopp);And – a – so did his assistants,And – the boy who swept the shop.But somehow unaccountablyBrown's custom seemed to flowIn some mysterious sort of wayTo Knopp's. It was a blow.And Brown looked very seriousTo see his profits drop.And – a – so did his assistantsAnd – the boy who swept the shop.And I wondered, and I wonderedWhy this falling off should be,And I thought one day I'd step acrossTo Mister Knopp's to see.I found him very busyWith – in fact – no time to stop,And – a – so were his assistants.And – the boy who swept his shop.Mister Knopp was very silent,His assistants still as mice;All the customers were smiling,And one whispered, "Ain't it nice?""Hey? You want to know the reason?Why, deaf and dumb is Knopp,And – a —so are his assistants,And – the boy who sweeps the shop."

XVI

THAT OF THE AUCTIONEER'S DREAM

I'll proceed to the narrationOf a trifling episodeIn the life of Mr. Platt,An auctioneer,Who was filled with jubilationAnd remarked: "Well, I'll be blowed!" —An expression rather im-Polite, I fear.But he dreamt he'd heard it statedThat, in future, auctioneersMight include their near relationsIn their sales;And he felt so much elatedThat he broke out into cheers,As one's apt to do when otherLanguage fails.And he thought: "Dear me, I'd betterSeize this opportunityOf getting rid of ma-in-law,And Jane —('Twas his wife) – I'll not regret her;And, indeed, it seems to meSuch a chance may really notOccur again."And, indeed, while I'm about it,I'll dispense with all the lot —(O'er my family I've latelyLost command) —'Tis the best plan, never doubt it.I'll dispose of those I've got,And, perhaps, I'll get some othersSecond-hand."So his ma-in-law he offeredAs the first lot in the sale,And he knocked her down for two-And-six, or less.Then Mrs. Platt he proffered —She was looking rather pale;But she fetched a good round sum,I must confess.Sister Ann was slightly damaged,But she went off pretty wellConsidering her wooden leg,And that;But I can't think how he managedHis wife's grandmother to sell —But he did it. It was very smartOf Platt.Several children, and the twins(Lots from 9 to 22),Fetched the auctioneer a tidy sumBetween 'em.(One small boy had barked his shins,And a twin had lost one shoe,But they looked as well, Platt thought, as e'erHe'd seen 'em.)Then some nephews, and some nieces,Sundry uncles, and an aunt,Went off at figures which wereMost surprising.And some odds and ends of pieces(I would tell you, but I can'tTheir relationship) fetched pricesPast surmising.It is quite enough to mentionThat before the day was outAll his relatives had goneWithout reserve.This fell in with Platt's intention,And he said: "Without a doubt,I shall now as happy beAs I deserve."But he wasn't very happy,For he soon began to missMrs. Platt, his wife, and allThe little "P's."And the servants made him snappy;Home was anything but bliss;And Mr. Platt was veryIll at ease.So he calmly thought it over."On the whole, perhaps," said he,I had better buy my fam-Ily again,For I find I'm not in clover,Quite, without my Mrs. P. —She was really not a bad sort,Wasn't Jane."But the persons who had bought 'emWouldn't part with 'em again.Though Platt offered for their purchaseUntold gold.For quite priceless now he thought 'em,And, of course, could see quite plainThat in selling them he had himselfBeen sold.And he thought, with agitationOf them lost for ever now,And he said, "This thing has goneBeyond a joke,"While the beads of perspirationGathered thickly on his brow;And then Mr. Platt, the auctioneer —Awoke.

XVII

THAT OF THE PLAIN COOK

Miss Miriam Briggs was a plain, plain cook,And her cooking was none too good(Not at all like the recipes out of the book,And, in fact, one might tell at the very first lookThat things hadn't been made as they should).Her master, a person named Lymmington-Blake,At her cooking did constantly grieve,And at last he declared that "a change he must make,"For he "wanted a cook who could boil or could bake,"And – this very plain cook – "she must leave."So she left, and her master, the very same day,For the Registry Office set out,For he naturally thought it the very best wayOf procuring a cook with the smallest delay.(You, too, would have done so, no doubt.)But, "A cook? Goodness gracious!" the lady declared(At the Registry Office, I mean),"I've no cook on my books, sir, save one, and she's sharedBy two families; and, sir, I've nearly despaired,For so rare, sir, of late, cooks have been."Where next he enquired 'twas precisely the same:There wasn't a cook to be had.Though quite high were the wages he'd willingly name,And he advertised, – uselessly, – none ever came, —Not a cook, good, indiff'rent, or bad.What was to be done? Mr. Lymmington-BlakeBegan to grow thinner and thinner.(Now and then it is pleasant, but quite a mistake,To dine every day on a chop or a steak,And have nothing besides for your dinner.)So he said: "If I can't get a cook, then a mateI'll endeavour to find in a wife"(His late wife deceased, I p'r'aps ought to relate,Four or five years before), "for this terrible stateOf things worries me out of my life."So he looked in the papers, and read with delightOf a "Lady of good education,A charming complexion, eyes blue (rather light),"Who "would to a gentleman willingly write."She "preferred one without a relation."Now Lymmington-Blake was an orphan from birth,And had neither a sister nor brother,While of uncles and aunts he'd a similar dearth,And he thought, "Here's a lady of singular worth;I should think we should suit one another."So he wrote to the lady, and she wrote to him,And the lady requested a photo,But he thought, "I'm not young, and the picture might dimHer affection; I'll plead, to the lady, a whim,And refuse her my photo in toto.""I'll be happy, however," he wrote, "to arrangeA meeting for Wednesday night.Hampstead Heath, on the pathway, beside the old Grange,At a quarter to eight. If you won't think it strange,Wear a rose – I shall know you at sight."Came Wednesday night, Mr. Lymmington-BlakeTo the rendezvous all in a flutterHimself – in a new suit of clothes – did betake;And over and over, to save a mistake,The speech he had thought of did mutter.He wore a red rose, for he thought it would showHe had taken the matter to heart.A lady was there. Was it she? Yes, or no?Blake didn't know whether to stay or to go.He was nervous. But what made him start?'Twas the figure – at first he could not see her face —Which somehow familiar did look.Then she turned – and he ran. Do you think it was base?I fancy that you'd have done so in his place.It was Miriam Briggs, the plain cook.

XVIII

THAT OF "8" AND "22."

'Twas on the "Royal Sovereign,"Which sails from Old Swan Pier,That Henry Phipps met Emily Green,And —this is somewhat queer —Aboard the ship was Obadiah,Likewise a lady called MariaThe surnames of these people ICannot just now recall,But 'tis quite immaterial,It matters not at all.The point is this– Phipps met Miss Green;The sequel quickly will be seen.He noticed her the first time whenTo luncheon they went down(The luncheon on the "Sovereign"Is only half a-crown),Where Obadiah gravely atThe table, with Maria, sat.And Obadiah coughed becausePhipps looked at Emily – she at him.Maria likewise noticed it,And thereupon grew stern and grim,Though neither one of all the fourHad met the other one before.Now Emily Green was pretty, butMaria – she was the reverse;While Obadiah's looks were tra-Gic – something like Macbeth's, but worse. —And these two somehow seemed to beQuite down on Phipps, and Miss E. G.For when she smiled, and kindly passedThe salt – which Phipps had asked her for —Maria tossed her head and sniffed,And Obadiah muttered "Pshaw!"While later on Miss E. G. thinksShe heard Maria call her "minx."Twice on the upper deck when PhippsJust ventured, in a casual way,To pass appropriate remarks,Or comment on the "perfect" day,He caught Maria listening, and,Close by, saw Obadiah stand.At last, at Margate by the Sea,The "Royal Sovereign" came to port.Phipps hurried off and soon securedA lodging very near The Fort(He'd understood Miss Green to sayThat she should lodge somewhere that way).He really was annoyed to findThat Obadiah came there too,While Miss Maria, opposite,The parlour blinds was peering through.Still he felt very happy, forHe saw Miss Green arrive next door.That night he met her on the pier,And Phipps, of course, he raised his hat.Miss Emily Green blushed, smiled, and stopped —It was not to be wondered at.But Obadiah, passing by,Transfixed them with his eagle eye.And, later in the evening, whenThe two were list'ning to the band,Phipps – tho' perhaps he oughtn't to —Was gently squeezing Emily's hand.He dropped it suddenly, for thereMaria stood, with stony stare.'Twas so on each succeeding day.Whate'er they did, where'er they went,There Obadiah followed them;Maria, too. No accidentCould possibly account for thisSad interference with their bliss.At last Phipps, goaded to despair,Cried: "Pray, sir —what, sir, do you wish?"But Obadiah turned away,Merely ejaculating "Pish!"Then Phipps addressed Maria too,And all he got from her was "Pooh!"So Mr. Phipps and Emily GreenDetermined something must be done.And all one day they talked it o'er,From early morn till setting sun.Then, privately, the morrow fixedFor joining in the bathing, – mixed.They knew that Obadiah wouldBe present, and Maria too.They were; and his machine was "8,"Maria's Number "22."They each stood glaring from their door,Some little distance from the shore.The tide came in, the bathers all —Including Phipps and Emily Green —Each sought his own – his very own —Particular bathing-machine;But Nos. "22" and "8"Were left, unheeded, to their fate.When, one by one, the horses drewThe other machines to the shore,Phipps bribed the men to leave those twoExactly where they were before.(In "8," you know, was Obadiah,And "22" contained Maria.)The tide rose higher, carryingThe two machines quite out to sea.The love affairs of Emily GreenAnd Phipps proceeded happily.* * *I'm not quite certain of the fateOf either "22" or "8."

XIX

THAT OF THE HOOLIGAN AND THE PHILANTROPIST

Bill Basher was a Hooligan,The terror of the town,A reputation he possessedFor knocking people down;On unprotected personsOf a sudden he would spring,And hit them with his buckle-belt,Which hurt like anything.One day ten stalwart constablesBill Basher took in charge."We cannot such a man," said they,"Permit to roam at large;He causes all the populaceTo go about in fear;We'd better take him to the CourtOf Mr. Justice Dear."To Mr. Justice Dear they went —A tender Judge was he:He was a great Philanthropist(Spelt with a big, big "P").His bump – phrenologists declared —Of kindness was immense;Altho' he somewhat lacked the bumpOf common, common sense."Dear, dear!" exclaimed the kindly JudgeA-looking very wise,"Your conduct in arresting himQuite fills me with surprise.Poor fellow! Don't you see the lit-Tle things which he has doneWere doubtless but dictatedBy a sense of harmless fun?"We really mustn't be too hardUpon a man for that,And I will not do more than justInflict a fine. That's flat!See how he stands within the dock,As mild as any lamb.No! Sixpence fine. You are discharged.Good morning, William."Now strange to say, within a week,Bill Basher had begunTo knock about a lot of otherPeople "just in fun."He hit a young policemanWith a hammer on the head,Until the poor young fellowWas approximately dead."Good gracious!" murmured Justice Dear,"This really is too bad,To hit policemen on the headIs not polite, my lad,I must remand you for a weekTo think what can be done,And, in the meantime, please remainIn cell one twenty one."Then, Justice Dear, he pondered thus:"Bill Basher ought to wedSome good and noble woman;Then he'd very soon be ledTo see the error of his ways,And give those errors o'er."This scheme he thought upon again,And liked it more and more.A daughter had good Justice Dear,Whose name was Angeline(The lady's name is not pronouncedTo rhyme with "line," but "leen"),Not beautiful, but dutifulAs ever she could be;Whatever her papa desiredShe did obediently.With her he talked the matter o'er,And told her that he thought,In the interests of humanity,To marry Bill she ought.And, though she loved a barristerNamed Smith, her grief she hidAnd, with a stifled sigh, preparedTo do as she was bid.They got a special licence, andTogether quickly wentTo visit Basher in his cellAnd show their kind intent.* * *His answer it was to the point,Though couched in language queer,These were the very words he used:"Wot? Marry 'er? No fear!"Good Justice Dear was greatly shocked;Indeed, it was a blowTo find that such ingratitudeThe Hooligan should show.So he gave to Smith, the barrister,His daughter for a wife,While on Bill he passed this sentence —"Penal servitude for life."