Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs

W. S. Gilbert

Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs

THE BAB BALLADS

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL."

'Twas on the shores that round our coastFrom Deal to Ramsgate span,That I found alone, on a piece of stone,An elderly naval man.His hair was weedy, his beard was long,And weedy and long was he,And I heard this wight on the shore recite,In a singular minor key:"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."And he shook his fists and he tore his hair.Till I really felt afraid;For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,And so I simply said:"Oh, elderly man it's little I knowOf the duties of men of the sea,And I'll eat my hand if I understandHow you can possibly be"At once a cook, and a captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And a bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, whichIs a trick all seamen larn,And having got rid of a thumping quid,He spun this painful yarn:"'Twas in the good ship Nancy BellThat we sailed to the Indian sea,And there on a reef we come to grief,Which has often occurred to me."And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned(There was seventy-seven o' soul),And only ten of the Nancy's menSaid 'Here!' to the muster roll."There was me and the cook and the captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And the bo'sun tight and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig."For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,Till a-hungry we did feel,So, we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shotThe captain for our meal."The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,And a delicate dish he made;Then our appetite with the midshipmiteWe seven survivors stayed."And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,And he much resembled pig;Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,On the crew of the captain's gig."Then only the cook and me was left,And the delicate question, 'WhichOf us two goes to the kettle?' arose,And we argued it out as sich."For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,And the cook he worshipped me;But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowedIn the other chap's hold, you see."'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom,'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,'—'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I,And 'Exactly so,' quoth he."Says he, 'Dear James, to murder meWere a foolish thing to do,For don't you see that you can't cook me,While I can—and will—cook you!'"So, he boils the water, and takes the saltAnd the pepper in portions true(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,And some sage and parsley too."'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,Which his smiling features tell,''T will soothing be if I let you see,How extremely nice you'll smell,'"And he stirred it round and round and round,And he sniffed the foaming froth;When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squealsIn the scum of the boiling broth."And I eat that cook in a week or less,And—as I eating beThe last of his chops, why I almost drops,For a wessel in sight I see."And I never larf, and I never smile,And I never lark nor play,But I sit and croak, and a single jokeI have—which is to say:"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,And the mate of the Nancy brig,And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,And the crew of the captain's gig!"

CAPTAIN REECE

Of all the ships upon the blue,No ship contained a better crewThan that of worthy Captain Reece.Commanding of The Mantelpiece.He was adored by all his men,For worthy Captain Reece, R.N.,Did all that lay within him toPromote the comfort of his crew.If ever they were dull or sad,Their captain danced to them like mad,Or told, to make the time pass by,Droll legends of his infancy.A feather bed had every man,Warm slippers and hot-water can,Brown windsor from the captain's store,A valet, too, to every four.Did they with thirst in summer burn?Lo, seltzogenes at every turn.And on all very sultry daysCream ices handed round on trays.Then currant wine and ginger popsStood handily on all the "tops:"And, also, with amusement rife,A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life."New volumes came across the seaFrom Mister Mudie's libraree;The Times and Saturday ReviewBeguiled the leisure of the crew.Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R.N.,Was quite devoted to his men;In point of fact, good Captain ReeceBeatified The Mantelpiece.One summer eve, at half-past ten,He said (addressing all his men):"Come, tell me, please, what I can doTo please and gratify my crew."By any reasonable planI'll make you happy if I can;My own convenience count as nil;It is my duty, and I will."Then up and answered William Lee,(The kindly captain's coxswain he,A nervous, shy, low-spoken man)He cleared his throat and thus began:"You have a daughter, Captain Reece,Ten female cousins and a niece,A ma, if what I'm told is true,Six sisters, and an aunt or two."Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me,More friendly-like we all should be.If you united of 'em toUnmarried members of the crew."If you'd ameliorate our life,Let each select from them a wife;And as for nervous me, old pal,Give me your own enchanting gal!"Good Captain Reece, that worthy man,Debated on his coxswain's plan:"I quite agree," he said. "O Bill;It is my duty, and I will."My daughter, that enchanting gurl,has just been promised to an earl,And all my other famileeTo peers of various degree."But what are dukes and viscounts toThe happiness of all my crew?The word I gave you I'll fulfil;It is my duty, and I will."As you desire it shall befall,I'll settle thousands on you all,And I shall be, despite my hoard,The only bachelor on board."The boatswain of The Mantelpiece,He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece:"I beg your honor's leave," he said,"If you wish to go and wed,"I have a widowed mother whoWould be the very thing for you—She long has loved you from afar,She washes for you, Captain R."The captain saw the dame that day—Addressed her in his playful way—"And did it want a wedding ring?It was a tempting ickle sing!"Well, well, the chaplain I will seek,We'll all be married this day week—At yonder church upon the hill;It is my duty, and I will!"The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece,And widowed ma of Captain Reece,Attended there as they were bid;It was their duty, and they did.

THE BISHOP AND THE BUSMAN

It was a Bishop bold,And London was his see,He was short and stout and round about,And zealous as could be.It also was a Jew,Who drove a Putney bus—For flesh of swine however fineHe did not care a cuss.His name was Hash Baz Ben,And Jedediah too,And Solomon and Zabulon—This bus-directing Jew.The Bishop said, said he,"I'll see what I can doTo Christianize and make you wise,You poor benighted Jew."So every blessed dayThat bus he rode outside,From Fulham town, both up and down,And loudly thus he cried:—"His name is Hash Baz Ben,And Jedediah too,And Solomon and Zabulon—This bus-directing Jew."At first the busman smiled,And rather liked the fun—He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,And said, "Eccentric one!"And gay young dogs would waitTo see the bus go by(These gay young dogs in striking togs)To hear the Bishop cry:—"Observe his grisly beard,His race it clearly shows,He sticks no fork in ham or pork:—Observe, my friends, his nose."His name is Hash Baz Ben,And Jedediah too,And Solomon and Zabulon—This bus-directing Jew."But though at first amused,Yet after seven years,This Hebrew child got awful riled,And busted into tears.He really almost fearedTo leave his poor abode,His nose, and name, and beard becameA byword on that road.At length he swore an oath,The reason he would know—"I'll call and see why ever heDoes persecute me so."The good old bishop satOn his ancestral chair,The busman came, sent up his name,And laid his grievance bare."Benighted Jew," he said,(And chuckled loud with joy)"Be Christian you, instead of Jew—Become a Christian boy."I'll ne'er annoy you more.""Indeed?" replied the Jew."Shall I be freed?" "You will, indeed!"Then "Done!" said he, "with you!"The organ which, in man,Between the eyebrows grows,Fell from his face, and in its place,He found a Christian nose.His tangled Hebrew beard,Which to his waist came down,Was now a pair of whiskers fair—His name, Adolphus Brown.He wedded in a year,That prelate's daughter Jane;He's grown quite fair—has auburn hair—His wife is far from plain.

THE FOLLY OF BROWN

BY A GENERAL AGENTI knew a boor—a clownish card,(His only friends were pigs and cows andThe poultry of a small farmyard)Who came into two hundred thousand.Good fortune worked no change in Brown,Though she's a mighty social chymist:He was a clown—and by a clownI do not mean a pantomimist.It left him quiet, calm, and cool,Though hardly knowing what a crown was—You can't imagine what a foolPoor rich, uneducated Brown was!He scouted all who wished to comeAnd give him monetary schooling;And I propose to give you someIdea of his insensate fooling.I formed a company or two—(Of course I don't know what the rest meant,I formed them solely with a viewTo help him to a sound investment).Their objects were—their only cares—To justify their Boards in showingA handsome dividend on shares,And keep their good promoter going.But no—the lout prefers his brass,Though shares at par I freely proffer:Yes—will it be believed?—the assDeclines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!He added, with a bumpkin's grin,(A weakly intellect denoting)He'd rather not invest it inA company of my promoting!"You have two hundred 'thou' or more,"Said I. "You'll waste it, lose it, lend it.Come, take my furnished second floor,I'll gladly show you how to spend it."But will it be believed that he,With grin upon his face of poppy,Declined my aid, while thanking meFor what he called my "philanthroppy?"Some blind, suspicious fools rejoiceIn doubting friends who wouldn't harm them;They will not hear the charmer's voice,However wisely he may charm them.I showed him that his coat, all dust,Top boots and cords provoked compassion,And proved that men of station mustConform to the decrees of fashion.I showed him where to buy his hat,To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;But no—he wouldn't hear of that—"He didn't think the style would suit him!"I offered him a country seat,And made no end of an oration;I made it certainly complete,And introduced the deputation.But no—the clown my prospects blights—(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)"Why should I want to spend my nightsIn Parliament, a-making speeches?"I haven't never been to school—I ain't had not no eddication—And I should surely be a foolTo publish that to all the nation!"I offered him a trotting horse—No hack had ever trotted faster—I also offered him, of course,A rare and curious "old Master."I offered to procure him weeds—Wines fit for one in his position—But, though an ass in all his deeds,He'd learnt the meaning of "commission."He called me "thief" the other day,And daily from his door he thrusts me;Much more of this, and soon I mayBegin to think that Brown mistrusts me.So deaf to all sound Reason's ruleThis poor uneducated clown is,You cannot fancy what a foolPoor rich uneducated Brown is.

THE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOO

There were three niggers of Chickeraboo—Pacifico, Bang-Bang, Popchop—whoExclaimed, one terribly sultry day,"Oh, let's be kings in a humble way."The first was a highly-accomplished "bones,"The next elicited banjo tones,The third was a quiet, retiring chap,Who danced an excellent break-down "flap.""We niggers," said they, "have formed a planBy which, whenever we like, we canExtemporize islands near the beach,And then we'll collar an island each."Three casks, from somebody else's stores,Shall rep-per-esent our island shores,Their sides the ocean wide shall lave,Their heads just topping the briny wave."Great Britain's navy scours the sea,And everywhere her ships they be,She'll recognize our rank, perhaps,When she discovers we're Royal Chaps."If to her skirts you want to cling,It's quite sufficient that you're a king:She does not push inquiry farTo learn what sort of king you are."A ship of several thousand tons,And mounting seventy-something guns,Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,Discovering kings and countries new.The brave Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip,Commanding that superior ship,Perceived one day, his glasses through,The kings that came from Chickeraboo."Dear eyes!" said Admiral Pip, "I seeThree flourishing islands on our lee.And, bless me! most extror'nary thing!On every island stands a king!"Come, lower the Admiral's gig," he cried,"And over the dancing waves I'll glide;That low obeisance I may doTo those three kings of Chickeraboo!"The admiral pulled to the islands three;The kings saluted him graciouslee.The admiral, pleased at his welcome warm,Pulled out a printed Alliance form."Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray—I come in a friendly kind of way—I come, if you please, with the best intents,And Queen Victoria's compliments."The kings were pleased as they well could be;The most retiring of all the three,In a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave ventWith a banjo-bones accompaniment.The great Rear-Admiral Bailey PipEmbarked on board his jolly big ship,Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,And off he sailed to his native shore.Admiral Pip directly wentTo the Lord at the head of the Government,Who made him, by a stroke of a quill,Baron de Pippe, of Pippetonneville.The College of Heralds permission yieldThat he should quarter upon his shieldThree islands, vert, on a field of blue,With the pregnant motto "Chickeraboo."Ambassadors, yes, and attaches, too,Are going to sail for Chickeraboo,And, see, on the good ship's crowded deck,A bishop, who's going out there on spec.And let us all hope that blissful thingsMay come of alliance with darkey kings.Oh, may we never, whatever we do,Declare a war with Chickeraboo!

THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO

From east and south the holy clanOf bishops gathered, to a man;To synod, called Pan-Anglican;In flocking crowds they came.Among them was a Bishop, whoHad lately been appointed toThe balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,And Peter was his name.His people—twenty-three in sum—They played the eloquent tum-tumAnd lived on scalps served up in rum—The only sauce they knew,When, first good Bishop Peter came(For Peter was that Bishop's name),To humor them, he did the sameAs they of Rum-ti-Foo.His flock, I've often heard him tell,(His name was Peter) loved him well,And summoned by the sound of bell,In crowds together came."Oh, massa, why you go away?Oh, Massa Peter, please to stay."(They called him Peter, people say,Because it was his name.)He told them all good boys to be,And sailed away across the sea.At London Bridge that Bishop heArrived one Tuesday night—And as that night he homeward strodeTo his Pan-Anglican abode,He passed along the Borough RoadAnd saw a gruesome sight.He saw a crowd assembled roundA person dancing on the ground,Who straight began to leap and boundWith all his might and main.To see that dancing man he stopped.Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,Then down incontinently dropped,And then sprang up again.The Bishop chuckled at the sight,"This style of dancing would delightA simple Rum-ti-Foozle-ite.I'll learn it, if I can,To please the tribe when I get back."He begged the man to teach his knack."Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack,"Replied that dancing man.The dancing man he worked awayAnd taught the Bishop every day—The dancer skipped like any fay—Good Peter did the same.The Bishop buckled to his taskWith battements, cuts, and pas de basque(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,That Peter was his name)."Come, walk like this," the dancer said,"Stick out your toes—stick in your head.Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread—Your fingers thus extend;The attitude's considered quaint,"The weary Bishop, feeling faint,Replied, "I do not say it ain't,But 'Time!' my Christian friend!""We now proceed to something new—Dance as the Paynes and Lauris do,Like this—one, two—one, two—one, two."The Bishop, never proud,But in an overwhelming heat(His name was Peter, I repeat),Performed the Payne and Lauri feat,And puffed his thanks aloud.Another game the dancer planned—"Just take your ankle in your hand,And try, my lord, if you can stand—Your body stiff and stark.If, when revisiting your see,You learnt to hop on shore—like me—The novelty must striking be,And must excite remark.""No," said the worthy Bishop, "No;That is a length to which, I trow,Colonial Bishops cannot go.You may express surpriseAt finding Bishops deal in pride—But, if that trick I ever tried,I should appear undignifiedIn Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes."The islanders of Rum-ti-FooAre well-conducted persons, whoApprove a joke as much as you,And laugh at it as such;But if they saw their Bishop land,His leg supported in his hand,The joke they wouldn't understand—'Twould pain them very much!"

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE

BY A MISERABLE WRETCHRoll on, thou ball, roll on!Through pathless realms of Space Roll on!What, though I'm in a sorry case?What, though I cannot meet my bills?What, though I suffer toothache's ills?What, though I swallow countless pills?Never you mind! Roll on!Roll on, thou ball, roll on!Through seas of inky air Roll on!It's true I've got no shirts to wear;It's true my butcher's bill is due;It's true my prospects all look blue—But don't let that unsettle you!Never you mind! Roll on!(It rolls on.)

GENERAL JOHN

The bravest names for fire and flames,And all that mortal durst,Were General John and Private James,Of the Sixty-seventy-first.General John was a soldier tried,A chief of warlike dons;A haughty stride and a withering prideWere Major-General John's.A sneer would play on his martial phiz,Superior birth to show;"Pish!" was a favorite word of his,And he often said "Ho! ho!"Full-Private James described might be,As a man of a mournful mind;No characteristic trait had heOf any distinctive kind.From the ranks, one day, cried Private James"Oh! Major-General John,I've doubts of our respective names,My mournful mind upon."A glimmering thought occurs to me,(Its source I can't unearth)But I've a kind of notion weWere cruelly changed at birth."I've a strange idea, each other's namesThat we have each got on,Such things have been," said Private James."They have!" sneered General John."My General John, I swear uponMy oath I think 'tis so"—"Pish!" proudly sneered his General John,And he also said "Ho! ho!""My General John! my General John!My General John!" quoth he,"This aristocratical sneer uponYour face I blush to see!"No truly great or generous coveDeserving of them namesWould sneer at a fixed idea that's droveIn the mind of a Private James!"Said General John, "Upon your claimsNo need your breath to waste;If this is a joke, Full-Private James,It's a joke of doubtful taste."But being a man of doubtless worth,If you feel certain quiteThat we were probably changed at birth,I'll venture to say you're right."So General John as Private JamesFell in, parade upon;And Private James, by change of names,Was Major-General John.

SIR GUY THE CRUSADER

Sir Guy was a doughty crusader,A muscular knight,Ever ready to fight,A very determined invader.And Dickey de Lion's delight.Lenore was a Saracen maiden,Brunette, statuesque,The reverse of grotesque;Her pa was a bagman at Aden,Her mother she played in burlesque.A coryphee pretty and loyal.In amber and red,The ballet she led;Her mother performed at the Royal,Lenore at the Saracen's Head.Of face and of figure majestic,She dazzled the cits—Ecstaticized pits;—Her troubles were only domestic,But drove her half out of her wits.Her father incessantly lashed her,On water and breadShe was grudgingly fed;Whenever her father he thrashed herHer mother sat down on her head.Guy saw her, and loved her, with reason,For beauty so bright,Set him mad with delight;He purchased a stall for the seasonAnd sat in it every night.His views were exceedingly proper;He wanted to wed,So he called at her shedAnd saw her progenitor whop her—Her mother sit down on her head."So pretty," said he, "and so trusting!You brute of a dad,You unprincipled cad,Your conduct is really disgusting.Come, come, now, admit it's too bad!"You're a turbaned old Turk, and malignant;Your daughter LenoreI intensely adoreAnd I cannot help feeling indignant,A fact that I hinted before."To see a fond father employingA deuce of a knoutFor to bang her about.To a sensitive lover's annoying."Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out!"Says Guy, "Shall a warrior ladenWith a big spiky knob.Stand idly and sob.While a beautiful Saracen maidenIs whipped by a Saracen snob?"To London I'll go from my charmer."Which he did, with his loot(Seven hats and a flute),And was nabbed for his Sydenham armor,At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter,Her pa, in a rage,Died (don't know his age),His daughter, she married the prompter,Grew bulky and quitted the stage.

KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO

King Borria Bungalee BooWas a man-eating African swell;His sigh was a hullaballoo,His whisper a horrible yell—A horrible, horrible yell!Four subjects, and all of them male,To Borria doubled the knee,They were once on a far larger scale,But he'd eaten the balance, you see("Scale" and "balance" is punning, you see.)There was haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah,There was lumbering Doodle-Dum-Deh,Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah,And good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh.One day there was grief in the crew,For they hadn't a morsel of meat,And Borria Bungalee BooWas dying for something to eat—"Come provide me with something to eat!""Alack-a-Dey, famished I feel;Oh, good little Tootle-Tum-Teh,Where on earth shall I look for a meal?For I haven't no dinner to-day!—Not a morsel of dinner to-day!"Dear Tootle-Tum, what shall we do?Come, get us a meal, or in truth,If you don't we shall have to eat you,Oh, adorable friend of our youth!Thou beloved little friend of our youth!"And he answered, "Oh Bungalee Boo,For a moment I hope you will wait—Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-LooIs the queen of a neighboring state—A remarkably neighboring state."Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo,She would pickle deliciously cold—And her four pretty Amazons, too,Are enticing, and not very old—Twenty-seven is not very old."There is neat little Titty-Fol-Leh,There is rollicking Tral-the-Ral-Lah,There is jocular Waggety-Weh.There is musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah—There's the nightingale Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah!"So the forces of Bungalee BooMarched forth in a terrible row,And the ladies who fought for Queen LooPrepared to encounter the foe—This dreadful insatiate foe!But they sharpened no weapons at all,And they poisoned no arrows—not they!They made ready to conquer or fallIn a totally different way—An entirely different way.With a crimson and pearly-white dyeThey endeavored to make themselves fair,With black they encircled each eye,And with yellow they painted their hair(It was wool, but they thought it was hair).And the forces they met in the field—And the men of King Borria said,"Amazonians, immediately yield!"And their arrows they drew to the head,Yes, drew them right up to the head.But jocular Waggety-Weh,Ogled Doodle-Dum-Deh (which was wrong)And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh,Said, "Tootle-Tum, you go along!You naughty old dear, go along!"And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-LahTapped Alack-a-Dey-Ah with her fan;And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah,Said "Pish, go away, you bad man!Go away, you delightful young man!"And the Amazons simpered and sighed,And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,And they opened their pretty eyes wide,And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed(At least, if they could, they'd have blushed).But haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-BahSaid, "Alack-a-Dey, what does this mean?"And despairing Alack-a-Dey-AhSaid, "They think us uncommonly green,Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!"Even blundering Doodle-Dum-DehWas insensible quite to their leersAnd said good little Tootle-Tum-Teh,"It's your blood we desire, pretty dears—We have come for our dinners, my dears!"And the Queen of the Amazons fellTo Borria Bungalee Boo,In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,Tippy-Wippity Tol-the-Rol-Loo—The pretty Queen Tol-the-Rol-Loo.And neat little Titty-Fol-LehWas eaten by Pish-Pooh-Bah,And light-hearted Waggety-WehBy dismal Alack-a-Deh-Ah—Despairing Alack-a-Deh-Ah.And rollicking Tral-the-Ral-LahWas eaten by Doodle-Dum-Deh,And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-FahBy good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh!

THE TROUBADOUR

A troubadour he playedWithout a castle wall,Within, a hapless maidResponded to his call."Oh, willow, woe is me!Alack and well-a-day!If I were only freeI'd hie me far away!"Unknown her face and name,But this he knew right well,The maiden's wailing cameFrom out a dungeon cell.A hapless woman layWithin that dungeon grim—That fact, I've heard him say.Was quite enough for him."I will not sit or lie,Or eat or drink, I vow.Till thou art free as I,Or I as pent as thou."Her tears then ceased to flow,Her wails no longer rang,And tuneful in her woeThe prisoned maiden sang:"Oh, stranger, as you playI recognize your touch;And all that I can sayIs, thank you very much."He seized his clarion straight,And blew thereat, untilA warden oped the gate,"Oh, what might be your will?""I've come, sir knave, to seeThe master of these halls:A maid unwillinglyLies prisoned in their walls."With barely stifled sighThat porter drooped his head,With teardrops in his eye,"A many, sir," he said.He stayed to hear no more,But pushed that porter by,And shortly stood beforeSir Hugh de Peckham Rye.Sir Hugh he darkly frowned,"What would you, sir, with me?"The troubadour he downedUpon his bended knee."I've come, De Peckham Rye,To do a Christian task;You ask me what would I?It is not much I ask."Release these maidens, sir,Whom you dominion o'er—Particularly herUpon the second floor."And if you don't, my lord"—He here stood bolt upright,And tapped a tailor's sword—"Come out, you cad, and fight!"Sir Hugh he called—and ranThe warden from the gate:"Go, show this gentlemanThe maid in forty-eight."By many a cell they past,And stopped at length beforeA portal, bolted fast:The man unlocked the door.He called inside the gateWith coarse and brutal shout,"Come, step it, Forty-eight!"And Forty-eight stepped out."They gets it pretty hot,The maidens what we cotch—Two years this lady's gotFor collaring a wotch.""Oh, ah!—indeed—I see,"The troubadour exclaimed—"If I may make so free,How is this castle named?"The warden's eyelids fill,And sighing, he replied,"Of gloomy PentonvilleThis is the female side!"The minstrel did not waitThe warden stout to thank,But recollected straightHe'd business at the Bank.