Absurd Ditties

XX

THAT OF THE SOCIALIST AND THE EARL

It was, I think, near Marble Arch,Or somewhere in the Park,A SocialistOnce shook his fistAnd made this sage remark:"It is a shime that working men,The likes of you and me —Poor, underfed,Without a bed —In such a state should be."When bloated aristocracyGrows daily wuss an' wuss.Why don't the richBehave as sichAn' give a bit to us?"They've carriages and flunkeys,Estates, an' lots of land.Why this should be,My friends," said he,"I fail to understand."Why should they 'ave the bloomin' lot,When, as I've said before,It's understoodThis man's as goodAs that one is – or MORE?"So what I sez, my friends, sez I,Is: Down with all the lot,Unless they share —It's only fair —With us what they have got!"* * *An Earl, who stood amongst the crowd,Was very much impressed."Dear me," he said,And smote his head,"I really am distressed."To think that all these many yearsI've lived so much at ease,With leisure, rank,Cash at the bank,And luxuries like these,"While, as this honest person says,Our class is all to blameThat these have naught:We really oughtTo bow our heads in shame."My wealth unto this man I'll give,My title I will drop,And then I'll goAnd live at BowAnd keep a chandler's shop."* * *The Socialist he took the wealthThe Earl put in his hands,And bought erewhileA house in styleAnd most extensive lands.Was knighted (for some charityJudiciously bestowed);Within a yearWas made a Peer;To fame was on the road.But do not think that Fortune's smilesFrom friends drew him apart,Or hint that rudeIngratitudeCould dwell within his heart.You fear, perhaps, that he forgotThe worthy Earl. Ah, no!Household suppliesHe often buysFrom his shop down at Bow.

XXI

THAT OF THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK

I may as wellProceed to tellAbout a Mister Higgs,Who grew quite richIn trade – the whichWas selling pork and pigs.From trade retired,He much desiredTo rank with gentlefolk,So bought a placeHe called "The Chase,"And furnished it – old oak.Ancestors got(Twelve pounds the lot,In Tottenham Court Road);A pedigree —For nine pounds three, —The Heralds' Court bestowed.Within the hall,And on the wall,Hung armour bright and strong."To Ethelbred" —The label read —De Higgs, this did belong."'Twas quite complete,This country seat,Yet neighbours stayed away.Nobody called, —Higgs was blackballed, —Which caused him great dismay."Why can it be?"One night said heWhen thinking of it o'er.There came a knock('Twas twelve o'clock)Upon his chamber door.Higgs cried, "Come in!"A vapour thinThe keyhole wandered through.Higgs rubbed his eyesIn mild surprise:A ghost appeared in view."I beg," said he,"You'll pardon me,In calling rather late.A family ghost,I seek a post,With wage commensurate."I'll serve you well;My 'fiendish yell'Is certain sure to please.'Sepulchral tones,'And 'rattling bones,'I'm very good at these."Five bob I chargeTo roam at large,With 'clanking chains' ad lib.;I do such thingsAs 'gibberings'At one-and-three per gib."Or, by the week,I merely seekTwo pounds – which is not dear;Because I need,Of course, no feed,No washing, and no beer."Higgs thought it o'erA bit, beforeHe hired the family ghost,But, finally,He did agreeTo give to him the post.It got about —You know, no doubt,How quickly such news flies —Throughout the place,From "Higgses Chase"Proceeded ghostly cries.The rumour spread,Folks shook their head,But dropped in one by one.A bishop came(Forget his name),And then the thing was done.For afterwardsAll left their cards,"Because," said they, "you see,One who can boastA family ghostRespectable must be."* * *When it was due,The "ghostes's" screwHiggs raised – as was but right —They often play,In friendly way,A game of cards at night.

XXII

THAT OF THE POET AND THE BUCCANEERS

It does not fall to every manTo be a minor poet,But Inksby-Slingem he was one,And wished the world to know it.In almost every magazineHis dainty verses might be seen.He'd take a piece of paper – blank,With nothing writ upon it —And soon a triolet 'twould beA ballade, or a sonnet.Pantoums, – in fact, whate'er you please,This poet wrote, with greatest ease.By dozens he'd turn poems out,To Editors he'd bring 'em,Till, quite a household word becameThe name of Inksby-Slingem.A mild exterior had he,With dove-like personality.His hair was dark and lank and long,His necktie large and floppy(Vide his portrait in the sketch"A-smelling of a Poppy"),And unto this young man befellThe strange adventure I'll now tell.He took a summer holidayAboard the good ship "Goschen,"Which foundered, causing all but heTo perish, in the ocean,And many days within a boatDid Inksby-Slingem sadly float —Yes, many days, until with joyHe saw a ship appearing;A skull and crossbones flag it bore,And towards him it was steering."This rakish-looking craft," thought he,"I fear a pirate ship must be."It was. Manned by a buccaneer.And, from the very first, heCould see the crew were wicked men,All scowling and bloodthirsty;Indeed, he trembled for his neckWhen hoisted to their upper deck.Indelicate the way, at least,That he was treated – very.They turned his pockets inside-out;They stole his Waterbury;His scarf-pin, and his golden rings,His coat and – er – his other things.Then, they ransacked his carpet-bag,To add to his distresses,And tumbled all his papers out,His poems, and MSS.'s.He threw himself upon his knees,And cried: "I pray you, spare me these!""These? What are these?" the Pirate cried."I've not the slightest notion."He read a verse or two – and thenSeemed filled with strange emotion.He read some more; he heaved a sigh;A briny tear fell from his eye."Dear, dear!" he sniffed, "how touching isThis poem 'To a Brother!'It makes me think of childhood's days,My old home, and my mother."He read another poem through,And passed it to his wondering crew.They read it, and all – all but two —Their eyes were soon a-piping;It was a most affecting sightTo see those pirates wipingTheir eyes and noses in their griefsOn many-coloured handkerchiefs,* * *To make a lengthy story short,The gentle poet's versesQuite won those men from wicked ways,From piratings, and curses;And all of them, so I've heard tell,Became quite, quite respectable.All – all but two, and one of themThan e'er before much worse isFor he is now a publisher,And "pirates" Slingem's verses;The other drives a "pirate" 'bus,Continuing – alas! – to "cuss."

XXIII

THAT OF THE UNDERGROUND "SULPHUR CURE."

Sulphuric smoke doth nearly chokeThat person – more's the pity —Who does the round, by Underground,On pleasure, or on business bound,From West End to the City.At Gower Street I chanced to meet,One day, a strange old party,Who tore his hair in wild despair,Until I thought – "I would not swear,That you're not mad, my hearty.""Yes, mad, quite mad. Dear me! How sad!"I cried; for, to the porter,He did complain – "Look here! AgainNo smoke from any single trainThat's passed within the quarter."This air's too pure! I cannot cureMy patients, if you don't, sir,Sulphuric gas allow to pass,Until it thickly coats the glass.Put up with this I won't, sir!"I noticed then some gentlemenAnd ladies join the chatter —And dear, dear, dear, they did look queer!Thought I – "They're very ill, I fear;I wonder what's the matter."Surmise was vain. In came my train.I got in. "First" – a "Smoking."That motley crew —they got in too.I wondered what on earth to do,For each began a-choking."Pray, won't you smoke?" the old man spoke.Thought I – "He's growing madder.""I wish you would. 'Twould do them good.My card I'd hand you if I could,But have none. My name's Chadder."My patients these. Now, if you please!"He cried, in tones commanding,And gave three raps, "I think, perhaps,We'd best begin. Undo your wraps!"This passed my understanding."Put out your tongues! Inflate your lungs!"His patients all got ready;Their wraps thrown off, they each did doffTheir respirator – spite their cough —And took breaths long and steady."Inhale! Inhale! And do not failThe air you take to swallow!"They gasped, and wheezed, and coughed, and sneezed.Their "doctor," he looked mighty pleased.Expecting me to follow."Pray, tell me why, good sir!" gasped I,"Before I lose my senses,Why ever you such strange things do?To know this, I confess my cu-Riosity immense is."In accents mild he spoke, and smiled."Delighted! I assure you.We take the air– nay! do not stare;Should aught your normal health impair,This 'sulphur cure' will cure you."I undertake, quite well to makePatients, —whate'er they're ailing.Each day we meet, proceed en suiteFrom Edgware Road to Gower Street,And back again —inhaling."That sulphur's good, 'tis understood,But, I would briefly mention,The simple way – as one may say, —In which we take it, day by day,Is quite my own invention."Profits? Ah, yes, I must confessI make a tidy bit, sir?Tho' Mr. Perkes', and Mr. Yerkes'S system – if it only works —Will put a stop to it, sir."A stifled sigh, a tear-dimmed eyeBetrayed his agitation."Down here there'll be no smoke," said he,"When run by electricity.Excuse me! Here's our station!"He fussed about, and got them out,(Those invalids I mean, sir,)Then raised his hat; I bowed at that,And then, remaining where I sat,Went on to Turnham Green, sir.

XXIV

THAT OF THE FAIRY GRANDMOTHER AND THE COMPANY PROMOTER

A Company Promoter was Septimus Sharpe,And the subject is he of this ditty;He'd his name – nothing more —Painted on the glass doorOf an office high up on the toppermost floorOf a house in Throgmorton Street, City.The Companies which he had promoted, so far,Had not – so to speak, – been successes.As a matter of fact,He had often to actIn a manner requiring considerable tactTo – financially – keep out of messes.One day there appeared – Sharpe could never tell how, —In a costume unusually airy,A young lady. "Dear me!How surprising!" said he."Now, who upon earth can this young person be?Is it possible? Why! it's a Fairy!""You are right, Septimus," said the Fairy – "quite right,For, in fact, I'm your Fairy Grandmother!"Sharpe had to confess,"I already possessTwo grandmothers. But," said he, "nevertheless,In your case, I will welcome another."Especially if, Fairy Grandmother dear,Your intentions are – pardon me, – golden.I'll be pleased, if my till —Or my coffers – you'll fill,As, – like a good fairy, – I've no doubt you will;Then to you I'll be greatly beholden."The Fairy she smiled, as, quite sweetly, she said:"You're mistaken, my dear young relation.There's no fairy displaysIn these up-to-date days,Her powers in such crude and old-fashioned ways —No! I bring you An Imagination."But exercise It, and you quickly will findFrom your pathway all troubles are banished!"She waved a small wand,With a look sad yet fond,Then, into the far and the distant "beyond"Sharpe's good Grandmother suddenly vanished.The spell she had cast very quickly beganIn his brain to engender a vision.He imagined a MineFilled with gold, pure and fine,And a lovely Prospectus began to designEvery item worked out with precision.He imagined Big Dividends; profits galore;And some Dukes he imagined Directors.And "the Public should share,"He went on to declare,"In such wealth as should cause the whole nation to stare."There were Thousands —in Shares– for Projectors.Then he went on imagining mine after mine,With Prospectuses most high-faluting.And the Public they foughtFor the Shares he had broughtTo the Market (they "safer than houses" were thought);And each day some new Company was mooting.* * *(Extra Special.)That he grew passing rich is a matter of course.All his wealth to his wife he made over.* * *There has been a great smash;Company's gone with a crash.Gone also, I hear, has the shareholders' cash.But, Septimus Sharpe —he's in clover.

XXV

THAT OF THE GEISHA AND THE JAPANESE WARRIOR

An almond-eyed maiden was pretty Jes-So,Her effort in life was to please;A Geisha was she, and she handed the teaIn a costume bewitching as ever could be,And a style which was best Japanese;And she often served bowls of exceptional sizeTo a Japanese warrior called Li-Kwize.And daily Li-Kwize and the pretty Jes-So,In their artless and Japanese way,'Neath the Gom-bobble trees rubbed their hands o'er their knees,Saying flattering things, such as over the seas,It's the proper and right thing to say:Little wonder, in sooth, that Li-Kwize fell in love,While the Japanese turtle-birds twittered above.But 'tis said that the course of true love ne'er ran smooth,And a rival appeared on the scene,He'd a glass in his eye, and his collar was high,His gloves were immaculate, so was his tie,And his legs were excessively lean;A descendant was he of a long line of "Dooks,"And his name was Lord Algernon Perkyns de Snooks.In Japan, – on a tour, – he'd arrived with his ma,On the tea gardens stumbled by chance,And directly he saw all the girls he said "Haw!I – aw – wish, don't you know, that I'd come here befaw" —And he gave them a languishing glance;To his feeble moustache he gave several twirls,Declaring that Geishas were "Doocid fine girls!"And he called for a dish of best Japanese tea,And he ogled the pretty Jes-So,While the warlike Li-Kwize stared in angry surpriseAt the flirtation going on under his eyes,And he wished that Lord Algy would go;But, oh! dear me, no, he continued to stopAll the long afternoon in the pretty tea-shop.On the morrow he came there again, and againHe appeared on the following day,And it made Jes-So sad to hear language so badAs Li-Kwize employed, as he "went on" like madIn a grotesque, and Japanese way;For he raved and he stormed as they do in Japan.(You have seen how, no doubt, on a Japanese fan.)He thrust, and he slashed at the air with his sword,And he shouted aloud at each blow;There is, really, no doubt he was greatly put out,But he didn't do what you are thinking about:He didn't slay Lord Algy – no:For Li-Kwize he was subtle, as subtle could be,He'd a far better plan up his sleeve, don't you see.He went to the house where Lord Algy's mamma,A stern, and a haughty old dame,Was staying, and, tho' it was all in dumb show,He managed – somehow, – that the lady should knowExactly her son's little game,The equivalent Japanese noise for a kissHe expressed, – its significance no one could miss.In pantomime glibly he told the whole tale,While the lady grew pale, and irate:"Ha! what's that you say? Takes tea there each day?Geisha? Tea-shop indeed! Come, show me the way!We must stop this before it's too late."And she pounced on her son, with a terrible frown,At the pretty tea-shop at the end of the town.Not a word did she say, but she took by the earLord Algernon Perkyns de S.;She turned him about, and she marched him straight out —An undignified exit, altho', without doubt,An effectual way to suppressA thing which no mother could view with delight,And, for one, I contend the old lady was right.* * *The pretty Jes-So, and the warlike Li-Kwize"Made it up," I am happy to say,And the almond-eyed miss, with a Japanese kiss,Filled the warrior's heart with a Japanese bliss,In quite the conventional way;While the turtle-birds sang in the Gom-bobble treesAll their prettiest songs in their best Japanese.

XXVI

THAT OF THE INDISCREET HEN AND THE RESOURCEFUL ROOSTER

(An Allegory.)

I dote upon the softer sex.The theme I write upon doth vex,For female inconsistencyA sorry subject is for meTo tackle;Yet of a wayward female henI write this time, with halting pen.Compound of pride, and vanity,All feathers she appear'd to be,And cackle.A flighty hen was she, no doubt —A foolish fowl, a gad-about."Lay eggs!" quoth she. "Why should I? – why?And set! I won't, upon that I'M decided."Then, – on the Times instalment plan, —A bicycle she bought, and 'ganDomestic duties to neglect;Her skirts were – what could one expect? —Divided.This conduct greatly scandalisedThe farmyard; all looked on surprised,All but the rooster staid and grim;He did not fret. 'Twas not for himTo rate her;He let her go her wilful way,And purchased for himself one dayA strange contraption – glass and tin —An article that's called an in-Cubator.The nearest grocer's then he sought,Some ten-a-shilling eggs he bought;The incubator set to work(There was no fear that it would shirkIts duty),Then sat and waited patiently.Not many days to wait, had he:Within a week, to make him glad,A family of chicks he had —A beauty.Surprised, his wife returned; but "No;In future you your way may go,And I'll go mine, misguided hen!"Said he. She fell to pleading then,But vainly."I'm better off without," he said,"A wife with such an empty head.* * *He flourishes. His wife, grown stout,Neglected, squa-a-ks and stalks about —Ungainly.MoralIt's a wise chicken in these days that knowsits own mother.

XXVII

THAT OF A DUEL IN FRANCE

Oh, Fa-la-la! likewise Hélas!A shocking thing has come to pass,For Monsieur Henri DelapaireHas fallen out, – a sad affair, —With Monsieur Jacques Mallette."La femme?" Of course! They both declareThey love la belle Nannette.Ma foi! They'll surely come to blows,For one has tweaked the other's nose,Who quickly snaps, with fierce grimace,His fingers in the other's face.A duel must result.A Frenchman's honour 'twould disgraceTo bear with such insult."Pistols for two!" – in French, – they cry.Nannette to come between doth fly:"Messieurs! Messieurs! pray, pray be calm!You fill your Nannette with alarm.""Parole d'honneur! No.Revenge!" they cry. The big gendarme,Nannette to call, doth go.Quickly a crowd has gathered round,Pistols are brought, and seconds found;A grassy space beneath the trees,Where gentlemen may fight at ease;Then, each takes off his coat —Glaring meanwhile as though he'd seizeThe other by the throat.The seconds shrug, gesticulate,And pace the ground with step sedate;Then anxious consultation holdO'er pistols, for the rivals boldWho now stand white and stern;Their arms across their chests they fold,And sideways each doth turn.The seconds place them vis-à-vis,And give them word to fire at "three";Brave Monsieur Mallette shuts his eyes,And points his pistol to the skies;Brave Monsieur DelapaireHis hand to steady vainly tries,It trembles in the air.A deadly silence: "Un – deux – trois!"Two shots are ringing through the Bois.Two shots, – and then two awful calms;As, senseless, in their seconds' armsThe duellists both lay.(Their faces pale the crowd alarms,And fills them with dismay.)"Killed?" Goodness gracious – oh, dear no!This couldn't be, – in France, – you know,For pistols there they never load.But caps were they which did explode:They've only swooned with fright.See! one some signs of life has showed;The crowd claps with delight.They both revive. They both embrace.Twice kiss each other on the face.* * *"Stay! Hold!" you cry. "You said, I thought,La belle Nannette the gendarme sought?"She did, —la belle Nannette, —She sought, and found him – charming quite.She stays there with him yet.She "never cared for Delapaire,"She says with most dégagé air;And "as for Monsieur Mallette, – well,He may discover – who can tell? —Someone to marry yet."Meanwhile le gendarme pour la belle,The fickle, fair Nannette.

XXVIII

THAT OF THE ASTUTE NOVELIST

Quite an ordinary personWrote an ordinary book;'Twas the first he'd ever written,So a lot of pains he took.From a two-a-penny paperHe some little factlets2 culled,With some "stories of celebrities"By which the Public's gulled.Then of course he had a hero,And likewise a heroine,And a villain, and a villainess,Whose nefarious designWas most properly defeatedIn the chapter last but one, —Which described the happy ending —There you were! The thing was done.But, somehow, it didn't answer."Nothing strange," you'll say, "in that";And, indeed, perhaps there wasn'tVery much to wonder at,For the book was really neverCalculated fame to win,And the author's coat grew shabbyAnd his body very thin.And he pondered, and he ponderedO'er his misery and ills,Till, one day, he met a partyWho was posting up some bills."What's the matter?" asked this person,"You are looking mighty glum.Books not selling? Advertise 'em.That's the dodge to make things hum.""Look at 'Whatsit's Soap,' and so on!Look at 'Thingumbobby's Pills!'It's the advertising does it,And the owner's pocket fills.Puff 'em up; the Public likes it;And – (this from behind his hand) —It doesn't matter if it'sNot quite true, you understand."So the author wrote anotherBook, and brought in Tsars, and Kings,And Popes, and noble ladies —Queens, and Duchesses, and thingsAnd "the problem" of the moment;And some politics, and cram,With tit-bits of foreign languageMixed with literary jam.And in type he had it statedThat "the world was all agog"For this "epoch-making" novel,And – their memory to jog —The public had it dailyIn all kinds of sorts of waysThrust upon them, till it setTheir curiosity ablaze.And from Brixton unto Ponder's End'Twas daily talked aboutThis wonderful new novelLong, long, long before 'twas out;I forget how many hundredThousand copies have been sold;But it's brought the lucky authorNotoriety, and gold.This judicious advertisingHas indeed brought him success;He's the "lion" of the momentIn Society (big S).It is even said that Royalty —But there! I mustn't say,For he'll tell you all about itIn another book some day.

XXIX

THAT OF THE ABSENT-MINDED LADY

The lady hailed a passing 'bus,And sat down with a jerk;Upon her heated face she woreA most complacent smirk;Three parcels held she in her lap,Safe-guarded from the least mishap.The 'bus it rattled, bumped, and shook —She didn't seem to mind —And every now and then she smiled,As something crossed her mind:She evidently longed to tellThe joke, that we might smile as well."These men!" she said, at last to oneWho sat beside her. "It's absurd.To hear them rave. They seem to thinkThat nobody – upon my word —But men can do things in what theyAre pleased to call the proper way."My husband now, he's like the rest,And said, when I came outTo do some shopping, I'd forgetSomething, he had no doubt,Or else buy more than I desired,Or something which was not required."Now, three things I set out to buyAt Mr. Whiteley's store;Three parcels here, I'm taking home,Three parcels, and no more.My husband he must own ere longHimself entirely in the wrong."She smiled, – a most triumphant smile."Exactly like the men!"She said, and I – she looked at me —Felt much embarrassed then.Her scorn for men was undisguised;The other ladies sympathised.But, presently, I noticed thatUpon the lady's faceNo smile was seen – a puzzled frownHad come there in its place;She squirmed, and fidgeted about,And turned her pockets inside out.She counted over – several times —Her parcels – "One – two – three;"Clutched at her purse, her parasol;Then muttered, "H'm! Dear me!There's nothing that I haven't got.What can I have forgotten? What?"She tapped her foot impatiently;Stared out into the street;She got up several times and searchedQuite vaguely o'er the seat;Then gave a sigh and settled down,Still wearing that bewildered frown.Then, evidently lost in thought,She sat as in a dream,Till – o'er her face a pallor spread, —She sprang up, with a scream:"Oh, stop! Pray stop, conductor! Stop!I've left the baby in the shop!"

XXX

THAT OF THE GERMAN BAKER AND THE COOK

Dese vimens! Ach! dese vimens!To me id is quide sadDat dey can be so bootiful,Und yet can be so bad.Dey vonce a fool haf made meAs never vas before;Bud now I know dose vimens,Und dey don't do dat no more.Look! I am here a baker,Und bread und biscuits bake,Der dough-nuts, und der cooken,Und all such tings I make;Von voman to my shop come,So bootiful und big,Her eyes vas plue und shining,Her hair joost like a vig.She buy of me some dough-nuts,She come again next day,Und in my dough-nuts buyingShe stole mine heart avay;For, ach! she vas so lofelyAs never yet I found —I tink dot even both my armsHer vaist could not go round.Von day to me she say: "I vishI could dose dough-nuts make;My family is goned avay;Come now, und ve shall makeSome dough-nuts in my kitchen,If you vill show me how."I go. Because I tink, perhaps,I get her for mine vrow.Der kitchen id vas big und clean,Der supper vas set out.Mit places at der tableFor two, mit pie, und stout.I show her how dough-nuts to make,Und den ve sit to sup;Ven comes a vistle at der gate;Der voman she jumps up."Quick! quick!" she say, "here somevon comes,Und you must herein hide."She pushes me der pantry in,Mit nothing else beside.I peep der keyhole through und seeA big policeman stand;Der voman seems him pleased to see,Und shakes him by der hand.Den dey two at der supper sit(Dot supper made for me),Und I am in der pantry shut,mad as mad can be;I sit der flour barrel upon,Der barrel it go through,Und in der flour I tumble. Ach!It make me schneize "Tish-oo!"Der policeman say "Hark! vat is dat?"Und open burst der door;Dey see me den, – all vite mit flourUnd tumbled on der floor.Der voman scream "A burglar man!"Und tremble, und look pale;Der policeman den he take me up,And march me off to gaol.Der magistrate some money forA fine shall make me pay;Der policeman und der vomanDey get married yesterday:So never now I trust no moreAll vimens vat I see;Dey make again some other manA fool, but never me.