Absurd Ditties

XXXI

THAT OF THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS

Upon an island, all alone,They lived, in the Pacific;Somewhere within the Torrid Zone,Where heat is quite terrific.'Twould shock you were I to declareThe many things they did not wear,Altho' no doubtOne's best withoutSuch things in heat terrific.Though cannibals by birth were they,Yet, since they'd first existed,Their simple menu day by dayOf such-like things consisted:Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams,And stews from freshly-gathered clams,Such things as theseWere, – if you please, —Of what their fare consisted.But after dinner they'd converse,Nor did their topic vary;Wild tales of gore they would rehearse,And talk of missionary.They'd gaze upon each other's joints,And indicate the tender points.Said one: "For us'Tis dangerousTo think of missionary."Well, on a day, upon the shore,As flotsam, or as jetsum,Some wooden cases, – ten, or more, —Were cast up. "Let us get some,And see, my friend, what they contain;The chance may not occur again,"Said good Who-zoo.Said Tum-tum, "Do;We'll both wade out and get some."The cases held, – what do you think? —"Prime Missionary – tinned."Nay! gentle reader, do not shrinkThe man who made it sinned:He thus had labelled bloater-pasteTo captivate the native taste.He hoped, of course,This fraud to forceOn them. In this he sinned.Our simple friends knew naught of sin,They thought that this confectionWas missionary in a tinAccording to direction.For very joy they shed salt tears."'Tis what we've waited for, for years,"Said they. "Hooray!We'll feast to-dayAccording to direction.""'Tis very tough," said one, for heThe tin and all had eaten."Too salt," the other said, "for me;The flavour might be beaten."It was enough. Soon each one sworeHe'd missionary eat no more:Their tastes were cured,They felt assuredThis flavour might be beaten.And, should a missionary callTo-day, he'd find them gentle,With no perverted tastes at all,And manners ornamental;He'd be received, I'm bound to say,In courteous and proper way;Nor need he fearTo taste their cheerHowever ornamental.

XXXII

THAT OF A FRUITLESS ENDEAVOUR

Come let us quit the gruesome talesOf cannibals, and Kings, and things;On such-like themes my fancy fails,My muse a simpler story sings:I'd have you, one and all, considerTo-day a bachelor and "widder."The bachelor, – named Robinson,(A clerk, or something, in the City,Just what, we will not dwell upon),A pleasant man, and somewhat witty,But thin, – I've seldom known a thinner, —Dwelt in the suburbs, out at Pinner.The widow lived at Pinner too,Her name Ann Partington, née Gair,And rich, – if what was said is true, —Her age was forty; she was fairAnd fat – indeed, as for that matter,I've seldom known a person fatter.Now Robinson considered: "WhyShould I, an eligible man,In lonely 'diggings' live and die,When I might marry widow Ann?I'll call, and tentatively mentionMy matrimonial intention."The widow seemed at first inclinedTo close the matter out of hand.She said: "Yes, thank you, I don't mind,"(No shyness there, you understand),But later on said: "No, for usTo marry would be ludicrous.We'd be the laughing-stock, I fear,Of neighbours round about,For you are awfully thin, poor dear,And I am awfully stout;I must withhold considerationTill there's some drastic alteration."So Robinson determined thatHe'd put on flesh somehow;He'd try all means of getting fat,And made this solemn vow:"The widow, – well, he'd do without herTill he had grown a trifle stouter.""Laugh and grow fat," somebody said;So, daily, RobinsonThe comic papers duly read,And gloated thereupon:He spent no end of pocket moneyIn things which he considered funny.And eat! – I tell you he did eat! —While (this was scarcely wise)He seldom moved from off his seat,And took no exercise.'Twas not surprising, then – now, was it? —He gained in "adipose deposit."He did; and when he turned the scaleAt twenty stone or more,He for the widow's house set sail,And waddled to the door.She met him – thin as any rat,For SHE'D been taking Anti-Fat!

XXXIII

THAT OF THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER

I often heave a sigh to thinkOf poor young A. McDougal,And his disastrous bold attemptTo learn to play the bugle(Which, judging from the sad result,Must be, I fancy, difficult).It happened thus: McDougal tookHis charming young fiancée3One evening to a "Monday Pop."(Her Christian name was Nancy.)And there they heard – he and this maid, —A solo on the bugle played.Fair Nancy was enraptured, andSaid: "Dearest A. McDougal,I'd love you more than ever ifYou'd learn to play the bugle."McDougal, as a lover should,Remarked, he'd learn it – "if he could."That very night, as they walked home,McDougal was deludedA bugle into purchasing(With leather case included),At more than twice its proper price,Because it looked "so very nice."He little thought, poor wretched man,As he this bargain fixed on,How it would wreck his future life.He took it home to Brixton,And, from that hour, with much concern,To play upon it tried to learn.His efforts – so I understand —At first were not successful.His landladies objected – which,Of course, was most distressful;Then neighbours much annoyed him, forThey sued him in a court of law.Said he: "'Tis strange, where'er I goOpprobrium and hootingMy efforts greet. I'd better tryThe common, out at Tooting,"Where, – on his bugle-tootling bent, —He most appropriately went.Each evening after business hoursHe'd practice – 'twas his fancy —Till he thought he played well enoughTo serenade Miss Nancy,Though (this must be well understood)His playing really was not good.He had no ear for music, andMade discords which were racking;While as for time, his sense of thatWas quite, entirely, lacking.Still, excellent was his intentAs unto Nancy's house he went."That tune," he thought, "which we first heard,'Twould doubtless, much engage her,If I performed the self-same piece"('Twas something in D major),Which, knowing nought of C's and D's,He played in quite a bunch of keys.* * *"Who is it making all this noise?"A voice inquired quite crosslyAbove his head. "'Tis I, my love,"Said A. McDougal, hoarsely."Then go away; I've never heard,"Said Nancy, "noises so absurd.""My playing – don't you like it?" "No;And, till you're more proficient,I will not marry you at all:I've said it, – that's sufficient."She closed the window with a bang.A wild note from the bugle rang —A wildly, weirdly, wailing noteTo set one's blood a-freezing;A compound 'twixt nocturnal cats,And wheels which want a-greasing —For A. McDougal – ah! how sad —Her heartlessness had driven mad.And Tooting Common, now, at nightNone cross but the undaunted,For people, living thereabout,Declare the place is hauntedBy one who serenades the moonWith jangled bugle, out of tune.

XXXIV

THAT OF THE FEMALE GORILLY

Och! Oi can't remember roightlyPhwat exactly waz the nameOf the gintleman phwat did it,But Oi read it all the same —How he lived insoide a cage, sor('Twas a moighty strong consarn),In the middle of the forest,Monkey language for to larn.If he larned to spake it roightlyOi can't say, sor, yis or no;But he left the cage behoind him,That for sartin sure Oi know;For Oi saw it there mesilf, sor —If ye loike Oi'll tell yez how.'Tis a moighty cur'ous storyThat Oi'm tellin' of yez now.'Tis some many years agone, sor,Oi forget phwy Oi waz sintWith the great explorin' party,But they axed me, – an' Oi wint.An' the forests that we passed through,An' the rivers that we crossed,Phwat with one thing an' anotherIvery man but me waz lost.But Oi still kept on explorin',Walkin' by mesilf for moiles,An' a-swimmin' over rivers,Filled with hungry crocodoiles,Till wan day a big gorillyOi saw standin' in the road,And, phwen Oi saw the cratur,"Och, bedad!" Oi cried, "Oi'm blow'd."For Oi took him for a Christian.Dressed in plant'in leaves and things,With a bonnet on his head, sor,An' around his neck some ringsOv berries from the trees, sor,An', sez Oi, "It seems to me,By the manner of his dressin',It's most loikely he's a she."She waz that, an' by the same, sor,When Oi bowed and raised me hat,She jist flung her arms around me,And then down beside me sat.Oi could see she'd fell in love, sor,An' Oi came all over hot,For a big female gorilly'S worse than any Hottentot.An' Oi rasoned with her thus, sor:"Oi can't marry yez, becazeOi've wan woife in Ballyhooly,An' another wan that wazMe woife up in Killarney;If Oi marry yez, ye see,They'll call it bigamy, perhaps,Or trigonometry."But she didn't understand, sor,An' she stayed with me all day,An' she growled an' showed her teeth, sor,When Oi tried to get away;Then she led me to her home, sor —It waz made insoide the cage,(That the gintleman Oi told yez ovHad left there, Oi'll engage.)"An' ye mane to shut me up in that,Ye ugly great gorilly?"Thinks Oi. "Bedad! ye won't, thin.D'ye take me for a silly?"So when she opens wide the door,Oi steps asoide politely;She walks insoide, Oi shuts the door,An' fastens it up toightly.An' a moighty lucky thing it wazOi fastened her up so, sor;What would have happened otherwiseOi really do not know, sor.But Oi left her far behind me,Still a-yellin' in her rage,An' if the gintleman goes back,He'll find her —in the cage.

XXXV

THAT OF THE ARTIST AND THE MOTOR-CAR

(Tragedy.)

There lived an artist,Not unknown to fame —Wild horses wouldn'tDrag from me his name.Besides, it doesn't matter, – not a bit, —It is sufficient, painting was his lit-Tle game.He copied Turner-Esque effects with ease,And painted cattle, —Miniatures, – or seas;Yet found some difficulty, I've heard said,In making both ends meat, (or even bread,And cheese).He sat one day with-In his stu-di-o,Grieving that times wereBad, and prices low,When, suddenly, this thought occurred to him,(Of course, 'twas but a fancy, or a whim,You know):"How strange 'twould be ifWhat I painted hereUpon the canvasReally should appear!I wish it would, and then remain for good.Upon my word, ha-ha! I say! That wouldBe queer!"No sooner had theThought occurred to himThan round and round theStudio seemed to swim.A fairy voice declared: "On your behalfThe wish is granted!" then "Ha! ha!" ('Twas laugh-Ter grim.)"Absurd," the artistCried. "Of course, there areNo fairies now; we'reToo advanced by farTo think it; still, with just a line or soUpon the canvas here, I'll draw a mo-Tor-car."He drew, and scarce hadFinished it beforeHis servant knocked. (Up-On her face she woreA puzzled look.) "Sir, here's your coat and hat,And, if you please, your motor-car is atThe door!"The artist hardlyCould believe his eyes,For what he saw quiteFilled him with surprise:There stood the very motor-car he'd meant,In make, and pattern, most convenient,And size."Well! as it's here, I'llUse the thing," he cried.(Indeed, what was thereTo be done beside?)So, watched by quite a crowd about the door,He turned the crank, and off he started forA ride.On went the motor-Car, on – "pop-pop-pop!" —On through the streets, andOn past house and shop,Through country lanes, and over hill and dell,Delightfully, – until he thought it wellTo stop.But stop he couldn't,Try whate'er he would —He hadn't drawn quiteEverything he should;Some little crank, or something, he'd not done,Because the mechanism he'd not un-Derstood.Result? Poor fellow!To this day, he fliesAlong the roads, withStarting eyes, and criesFor help – which nobody can give him, forHe's doomed to ride until the thing busts, or —He dies.

XXXVI

THAT OF THE INCONSIDERATE NABOB AND THE LADY WHO DESIRED TO BE A BEGUM

Begums! Exactly what they areI really ought to know – but don't;In my EncyclopædiaI'll look them up. Stay! No, I won't.Instead, let us converse togetherAbout Miss Mary Merryweather.A guileless child of nature, sheWho lived out Upper Norwood way,A Begum she desired to be,And dreamt about this night and day,But, – though she made a solemn vow toBe a Begum, – knew not how to."What is a Begum?" friends would ask,And Mary M – would shake her head."Though doubtless it will be a taskI'll find out for myself," she said.They raised their hands in consternationAt this announced determination.Later Miss Merryweather said:"To be a Begum one must goTo India. I'd better wedA captain on a P. and O.I'll therefore marry Captain Jolly."(A kind old man who called her "Polly.")"Though what on earth a girl could see,"He said, while on their honeymoon,"Attractive in a man like me – "Then Mrs. Jolly very soon(Though doubtless with some trepidation)Explained to him the situation.Good Captain Jolly sighed, and said:"A Begum you can never be,My dearest Poll, till I am dead;Perhaps I'd better die," said he."If you don't mind, I think you'd better,"Said she; "'twill suit me to the letter."So Captain Jolly, worthy soul,Deceased, as she desired him to.In India – the lady's goal;A wealthy Nabob came in view,Whom Widow Jolly captivated.And, – later, – married, as is stated."A Begum now at last am I,"She said, when she had married him,"A Begum!" said the Nabob. "Why?"His wife explained. "A harmless whim,"Said he; "but I regret to state, Ma'am,You're not what you anticipate, Ma'am."A Begum is a Rajah's wife,And not a Nabob's, don't you see;And so throughout my natural lifeA Begum you can never be."She wept – and hinted Captain JollyHad died to please his little Polly."Perhaps you – " "No, I won't," he cried;"I draw the line," said he, "at that.Although poor Jolly may have diedTo please you – I refuse. That's flat!"* * *And so, alas! for her endeavour,She never was a Begum, – never!

XXXVII

THAT OF DR. FARLEY, M.D., SPECIALIST IN LITTLE TOES

Ever heard of Dr. Farley,Doctor Farley, sir, M.D.,Living in the street of Harley,Street of Harley, Number Three?Years ago the simple fact is,Simple fact is, don't you know,He had but a tiny practice,Tiny practice, down at Bow.Consultations for a shilling,For a shilling, sir, with pills;For this sum he e'en was willing,Willing, sir, to cure all ills.Pains in "tum-tums" he would cure a,Cure a man of, in a night,With Ip. Cac. and Aqua pura(Aqua pura his delight).He was, too, a skilful surgeon,Skilful surgeon, yet his fee —Seldom was it known to verge on,Even verge on, two and three.Work at this rate wasn't paying,Wasn't paying – what surprise?So he sold his practice, saying,Saying, "I must specialize.""That's the way to pick up money,Pick up money, so I'm told."So he did it. Now – it's funny,Funny, but – he rolls in gold.His success himself surprises,Much surprises, for he knowsThat he only specialises,Specialises, little toes.When swells in their little tootsies,Little tootsies, suffer pain,Unto him they bring their footsies,Footsies, to put right again;For they say, sir, "None but he, sir,He, sir, understands the toe."Earls and Dukes wait every day, sir,Every day, sir, in a row.This the history of Farley,Doctor Farley, sir, M.D.,Others – in the street of Harley —Others like him there may be.There's a moral to this story,To this story, if you're wise:If you'd win both wealth and glory,Wealth and glory – Specialize.

XXXVIII

THAT OF JEREMIAH SCOLES, MISER

I sing of joys, and junketings,Of holly, and of such-like things;I sing of merry mistletoe,And, – pardon me, – I sing alsoOf Jeremiah Scoles.I sing of Mister Scoles becauseSo singular a man he was,And had so very strange a wayOf celebrating Christmas Day —Unlike all other souls.Myself, I am a cheerful man,Enjoying life as best I can.At Christmas-time I love to seeThe flow of mirth and jollityAbout the festive board;I love to dance, I try to sing;On enemies, like anything,At Christmas-time I heap hot coals,But not so Jeremiah Scoles —He loves a miser's hoard.I chanced one year, on Christmas Day,To call upon him, just to sayThat we'd be very pleased to seeHim, if he'd care to come to tea.I found him quite alone.He sat before a fireless grate;The room looked bare and desolate,And he, unkempt, in dressing-gown,Received me with an angry frown,And spoke in surly tone."Ha! what d'ye want?" said he to meAnd eyed me most suspiciously.I laughed and gave a hearty smackUpon the grumpy fellow's back,And cried: "Come home with me.We'll treat you well. There's lots of fun – "But ere I scarcely had begunHe cut me short. "Pooh! folly! stuff!See here; I've fun – quite fun enough!"He laughed, but mirthlessly.Before him on the table layGold, silver, coppers, in array;Some empty bottles; stacks of bills;Some boxes for containing pills —And that was all. Said he:"This gold is what I haven't spentIn presents; and the silver's meantTo show what could be wasted in —Pah! – Christmas boxes. 'Tis a sinI don't encourage – no, not me?"The coppers – little boys, no doubt,Would like 'em —they may go without;While these long bills I should have hadFrom tradesmen, had I been so madAs to have bought the thingsThey represent for Christmas cheer;These bottles and pill-boxes hereShow what I will not have to take,Because I'll have no stomach-acheThat over-eating brings."And thus I spend my Christmas Day,Thinking what silly fools are theyWho spend so much in solid cashOn so much sentimental trash.And now, good-day to you!"He showed me out, he banged the door,And I was – where I was before.* * *I really think, upon my word,His line of reasoning's most absurd.No doubt you think so, too?

XXXIX

THAT OF THE HIGH-SOULED YOUTH

A year or so ago, you know,I had a friend, at Pimlico,For want of better name called Joe(This name is not his right 'un).He was a sweet, poetic youth,Romantic, gallant, and in soothMight well be called, in very truthAn "Admirable Crichton."And oh! it grieved him sore to seeThe lack, – these times, – of chivalry.He'd now and then confide to meHis views upon the matter."Good, never now is done by stealth!"He'd say, "Men ruin mind, and healthIn sordid scramble after wealth;And talk, – is idle chatter.""That simple virtue, Modesty,Alas! it now appears to beA valueless commodity,Though once men prized it highly."He went on thus, – like anything,Until I heard, one day last Spring,That he intended marryingThe daughter of old Riley.I knew the Riley girls, and thought"Now this has turned out as it ought.Joe is a reg'lar right good sortTo marry 'Cinderella.'"The younger one, (thus called by me)A sweet good girl as e'er might beWas poor; the elder – rich was she—Her name was Arabella.An Aunt had left her lots of gold,While 'Cinderella' – so I'm told, —She left entirely in the coldWithout a single shilling.The elder one, – though plain to see, —Of suitors had some two, or three;Poor Cinderella, nobodyTo marry her seemed willing.Until the noble high-souled Joe —That Errant-knight of Pimlico —Came forth, the world at large to showThat he at least knew better.In spirit I before him bowed,"To know a man like that I'm proudAnd happy!" I remarked aloud,And sent to him this letter."ARABELLA.""Dear Joe; – Wealth as you say's a trapGold is but dross, – not worth a rap —How very like you – dear old chap! —To marry 'Cinderella.'"* * *He wrote: – "I must expostulate,I'm not a FOOL at any rate!Of course I've chosen as a mateThe RICH one, Arabella!"

XL

THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR'S LITTLE JOKE AND THE UNFORTUNATE MAN WHO COULD NOT SEE IT

Again of Mr. Justice DearMy harmless numbers flowing,Shall tell a story somewhat queerAbout His Worship, showing,How sensitive the legal wit.It is. There is no doubt of it.Before good Justice Dear one dayA man – for some small matter,Was hailed, and, in his own sly way(The former, not the latter)Made, – and I thought the Court would choke, —An unpremeditated joke.The prosecuting Counsel roared,The Jury giggled madly,Only the Prisoner looked bored,He took it rather sadly."Why don't you laugh?" the Usher said,The Prisoner, he shook his head."I cannot see," said he, "that's flat —A fact that's most annoying, —What everyone is laughing at,And seemingly enjoying."This strange remark, it reached his earAnd irritated Justice Dear."When I am pleased to make a jokeThat's not the way to treat it."Thus, warningly, his Worship spoke,"Now listen! I'll repeat it."He did. He said it o'er and o'er.At least a dozen times or more."Excuse me, sir," the Prisoner said,"At what may you be driving?"Good Justice Dear turned very red,"This joke of my contriving,If you don't see it, Sir, you ought;If not – well – 'tis contempt of Court."The Counsel then explained it, butQuite failed the point to show him;The Usher muttered "Tut-tut-tut!"The Jury whispered "Blow him!"Then several people wrote it down.The Prisoner still wore a frown."Am I supposed to laugh at that?Why? I can't see the reason."It was too much. His Lordship satAghast. "'Tis almost treason!That unpremeditated joke beforeHas never failed to raise a roar."Defective in morality,Must be that man misguided,Who fails its brilliancy to see."His Lordship then decidedTo send the man, – despite his tears, —To servitude, for twenty years.

XLI

THAT OF THE LADIES OF ASCENSION ISLAND

On the Island of AscensionThere are only ladies ten,The remaining populationBeing officers or men."Dear me!" I hear you saying,"How united they must be!"But in this you'd be mistaken,As you'll very quickly see.For each lady on the IslandThinks she ought to take the leadIn social matters, and on thisThey're not at all agreed.And Mrs. Smith's told Mrs. BrownShe thinks her most absurd,While others cut each other deadAnd don't exchange a word.This state of thing's been going onThey tell me year by year,And the husbands have grown tired of itAs we should do I fear;For connubial felicityIs doomed, if all our livesAre spent in listening to the faultsOf other people's wives.Quite recently a steamer calledFor cinnamon and spice,And her Captain and the officersWere asked for their advice.They gave it promptly. It was this —"'Twere better you agreed,In social matters, just to letThe eldest lady lead."They tried it. But – good gracious!They are worse off than before,For every lady in the placeIs firm upon that score.Impossible it is that ageShall be the final test,For every one insists that sheIs younger than the rest!

XLII

THAT OF THE ARTICULATING SKELETON

There was a worthy Doctor onceWho unlike Mother HubbardHad many bones (a skeleton)Shut up within a cupboard.One night the worthy Doctor dreamt,(He'd been up rather late)His articulated skeletonDid thus articulate: —"Come! Doctor, come! confess that you're a fraudA very specious humbug and a sham.Though meek as any lamb.Don't glare at me! I'll tell it not abroadBut merely in your ears alone applaudThe wily artifice of pill and dram."You know as well as I do, you don't mean,One half the things you tell 'our patient.' No!Why, I can clearly show,That Mrs. Gobbles' ailments are but spleen,('Tis quite the simplest cause that e'er was seen)And yet what crack-jaw names you now bestow."Because, forsooth, the longer you can preyUpon her pocket, that doth please you best,So, Doctor, you protest'The case is serious,' from day to day,'And it must run its course,' you gravely sayWith wisest head-shake and a look distressed."And then those pills! Absurd you know to tryTo gammon me with bolluses of bread;While Aqua P. I've said,Often, is good (if nothing else be nigh)To drink when thirsty and our throats are dry,But not for medicine – though coloured red."So, Doctor, when we're by ourselves alone,Don't try to put on 'side' with me, good lack,For I can surely trackFull many a 'fatal case' you'd fain disown.And I can tell aright why you should groanWhen harmless ducks in passing cry 'Quack! Quack!'* * *The Doctor woke. "Dear me!" said he,"This skeleton's too wiseFor me." He therefore packed it up,And sent it off to Guy's.

XLIII

THAT OF YE LOVE-PHILTRE: AN OLD-ENGLISH LEGEND

Sir Peter de WynkinHe loved a fair mayde,And he wooed ye fair maydeFor hys bride.But ye ladye cried "no,"With a toss of her head,And Sir WynkinDisconsolate sighed."Now out! and alas!And alack-a-day me!"He sang himIn sorrowful tones,"She loveth me notYet, beshrew me!" said he,"There's a wizard I wot ofCalled – Jones."Caldweller Ap Jones,Was a wizard of note,And he dwelt in a caveHard at hand.Love-philtres and potionsHe sold for a groat,To ye rich and ye poorOf ye land.Sir Wynkin, he soughtThis same wizard straightway,And he told him hysDolorous plight.The wizard cried, "Ha!If you'll do as I say,Thys small matterCan soon be set right.""Thys potion – a love-philtreMade extra strong —To ye ladye, by you,Must be given.""Oddzooks!" quoth Sir Wynkin."Ye ladye ere longShall receive it,Or e'er I be shriven."Ye bower was highWhere ye fair ladye slept,But Sir Wynkin climbed upFrom ye basement.By means of ye ivyHe painfully crept,And ye potion placedOutside the casement."She'll find it," quoth he,"Ere the morrow is past.Curiosity'll prompt herTo drink it.Ye magic will act,And she'll love me at last.Ah me! 'Tis sweet joyE'en to think it."But alack! and alas!Ye endyng was sad,Ye love-philtre causedQuite a commotion.For – a toothless old grand-dameYe fair ladye had,And she found, and she drankYe love potion!!Fell madly in loveWith Sir Wynkin 'tis said,And declared that ye KnightHad betrayed her.So, distraught, from ye countrySir Wynkin he fled,And he died at ye wars —A Crusader.