The Bab Ballads

Disillusioned—By An Ex-Enthusiast

Oh, that my soul its gods could seeAs years ago they seemed to meWhen first I painted them;Invested with the circumstanceOf old conventional romance:Exploded theorem!The bard who could, all men above,Inflame my soul with songs of love,And, with his verse, inspireThe craven soul who feared to dieWith all the glow of chivalryAnd old heroic fire;I found him in a beerhouse tapAwaking from a gin-born nap,With pipe and sloven dress;Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,With muddy, maudlin sentiment,And tipsy foolishness!The novelist, whose painting penTo legions of fictitious menA real existence lends,Brain-people whom we rarely fail,Whene’er we hear their names, to hailAs old and welcome friends;I found in clumsy snuffy suit,In seedy glove, and blucher boot,Uncomfortably big.Particularly commonplace,With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face,And spectacles and wig.My favourite actor who, at will,With mimic woe my eyes could fillWith unaccustomed brine:A being who appeared to me(Before I knew him well) to beA song incarnadine;I found a coarse unpleasant manWith speckled chin—unhealthy, wan—Of self-importance full:Existing in an atmosphereThat reeked of gin and pipes and beer—Conceited, fractious, dull.The warrior whose ennobled nameIs woven with his country’s fame,Triumphant over all,I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear;His province seemed to be, to leerAt bonnets in Pall Mall.Would that ye always shone, who write,Bathed in your own innate limelight,And ye who battles wage,Or that in darkness I had diedBefore my soul had ever sighedTo see you off the stage!

Babette’s Love

BABETTE she was a fisher gal,With jupon striped and cap in crimps.She passed her days inside the Halle,Or catching little nimble shrimps.Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,With no professional bouquet.JACOT was, of the Customs bold,An officer, at gay Boulogne,He loved BABETTE—his love he told,And sighed, “Oh, soyez vous my own!”But “Non!” said she, “JACOT, my pet,Vous êtes trop scraggy pour BABETTE.“Of one alone I nightly dream,An able mariner is he,And gaily serves the Gen’ral Steam-Boat Navigation Companee.I’ll marry him, if he but will—His name, I rather think, is BILL.“I see him when he’s not aware,Upon our hospitable coast,Reclining with an easy airUpon the Port against a post,A-thinking of, I’ll dare to say,His native Chelsea far away!”“Oh, mon!” exclaimed the Customs bold,“Mes yeux!” he said (which means “my eye”)“Oh, chère!” he also cried, I’m told,“Par Jove,” he added, with a sigh.“Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove!Je n’aime pas cet enticing cove!”The Panther’s captain stood hard by,He was a man of morals strictIf e’er a sailor winked his eye,Straightway he had that sailor licked,Mast-headed all (such was his code)Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.He wept to think a tar of hisShould lean so gracefully on posts,He sighed and sobbed to think of this,On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.“It’s human natur’, p’raps—if so,Oh, isn’t human natur’ low!”He called his BILL, who pulled his curl,He said, “My BILL, I understandYou’ve captivated some young gurlOn this here French and foreign land.Her tender heart your beauties jog—They do, you know they do, you dog.“You have a graceful way, I learn,Of leaning airily on posts,By which you’ve been and caused to burnA tender flame on these here coasts.A fisher gurl, I much regret,—Her age, sixteen—her name, BABETTE.“You’ll marry her, you gentle tar—Your union I myself will bless,And when you matrimonied are,I will appoint her stewardess.”But WILLIAM hitched himself and sighed,And cleared his throat, and thus replied:“Not so: unless you’re fond of strife,You’d better mind your own affairs,I have an able-bodied wifeAwaiting me at Wapping Stairs;If all this here to her I tell,She’ll larrup you and me as well.“Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,Is beauty such as VENUS owns—Her beauty is beneath her skin,And lies in layers on her bones.The other sailors of the crewThey always calls her ‘Whopping Sue!’”“Oho!” the Captain said, “I see!And is she then so very strong?”“She’d take your honour’s scruff,” said he“And pitch you over to Bolong!”“I pardon you,” the Captain said,“The fair BABETTE you needn’t wed.”Perhaps the Customs had his will,And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,Perhaps the Captain and his BILL,And WILLIAM’S little wife are dead;Or p’raps they’re all alive and well:I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.

To My Bride—(Whoever She May Be)

Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your nameOr who you are, so, as a safe precautionI’ll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!(As one of these must be your present portion)Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.You’ll marry soon—within a year or twain—A bachelor of circa two and thirty:Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,And when you’re intimate, you’ll call him “BERTIE.”Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classifiedAs hasty; but he’s very quickly pacified.You’ll find him working mildly at the Bar,After a touch at two or three professions,From easy affluence extremely far,A brief or two on Circuit—“soup” at Sessions;A pound or two from whist and backing horses,And, say three hundred from his own resources.Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,His faults are not particularly shady,You’ll never find him “shy”—for, once or twiceAlready, he’s been driven by a lady,Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—Because she hasn’t any further use for him.Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,I’ve told your fortune; solved the gravest careWith which your mind has hitherto been laden.I’ve prophesied correctly, never doubt it;Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!You—only you—can tell me, an’ you will,To whom I’m destined shortly to be mated,Will she run up a heavy modiste’s bill?If so, I want to hear her income stated(This is a point which interests me greatly).To quote the bard, “Oh! have I seen her lately?”Say, must I wait till husband number oneIs comfortably stowed away at Woking?How is her hair most usually done?And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I’m all attention.

The Folly Of Brown—By A General Agent

I 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 sharesAnd keep their good promoter going.But no—the lout sticks to his brass,Though shares at par I freely proffer:Yet—will it be believed?—the assDeclines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!He adds, with bumpkin’s stolid 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 hatTo 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 county seat,And made no end of an oration;I made it certainty complete,And introduced the deputation.But no—the clown my prospect 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.

Sir Macklin

Of all the youths I ever sawNone were so wicked, vain, or silly,So lost to shame and Sabbath law,As worldly TOM, and BOB, and BILLY.For every Sabbath day they walked(Such was their gay and thoughtless natur)In parks or gardens, where they talkedFrom three to six, or even later.SIR MACKLIN was a priest severeIn conduct and in conversation,It did a sinner good to hearHim deal in ratiocination.He could in every action showSome sin, and nobody could doubt him.He argued high, he argued low,He also argued round about him.He wept to think each thoughtless youthContained of wickedness a skinful,And burnt to teach the awful truth,That walking out on Sunday’s sinful.“Oh, youths,” said he, “I grieve to findThe course of life you’ve been and hit on—Sit down,” said he, “and never mindThe pennies for the chairs you sit on.“My opening head is ‘Kensington,’How walking there the sinner hardens,Which when I have enlarged upon,I go to ‘Secondly’—its ‘Gardens.’“My ‘Thirdly’ comprehendeth ‘Hyde,’Of Secresy the guilts and shameses;My ‘Fourthly’—‘Park’—its verdure wide—My ‘Fifthly’ comprehends ‘St. James’s.’“That matter settled, I shall reachThe ‘Sixthly’ in my solemn tether,And show that what is true of each,Is also true of all, together.“Then I shall demonstrate to you,According to the rules of WHATELY,That what is true of all, is trueOf each, considered separately.”In lavish stream his accents flow,TOM, BOB, and BILLY dare not flout him;He argued high, he argued low,He also argued round about him.“Ha, ha!” he said, “you loathe your ways,You writhe at these my words of warning,In agony your hands you raise.”(And so they did, for they were yawning.)To “Twenty-firstly” on they go,The lads do not attempt to scout him;He argued high, he argued low,He also argued round about him.“Ho, ho!” he cries, “you bow your crests—My eloquence has set you weeping;In shame you bend upon your breasts!”(And so they did, for they were sleeping.)He proved them this—he proved them that—This good but wearisome ascetic;He jumped and thumped upon his hat,He was so very energetic.His Bishop at this moment chancedTo pass, and found the road encumbered;He noticed how the Churchman danced,And how his congregation slumbered.The hundred and eleventh headThe priest completed of his stricture;“Oh, bosh!” the worthy Bishop said,And walked him off as in the picture.

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 stoneAn 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 understandHowever you can 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 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 seeHow extremely nice you’ll smell.’“And he stirred it round and round and round,And he sniffed at 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 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!’”

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-tum,And 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 humour 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 Road,And 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-Foozleite.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 away,And taught the Bishop every day—The dancer skipped like any fay—Good PETER did the same.The Bishop buckled to his task,With battements, 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 would striking be,And must attract 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—’T would pain them very much!”

The Precocious Baby.  A Very True Tale

(To be sung to the Air of the “Whistling Oyster.”)

An elderly person—a prophet by trade—With his quips and tipsOn withered old lips,He married a young and a beautiful maid;The cunning old blade!Though rather decayed,He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be,With her tempting smilesAnd maidenly wiles,And he was a trifle past seventy-three:Now what she could seeIs a puzzle to me,In a prophet of seventy—seventy-three!Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad)With their loud high jinksAnd underbred winks,None thought they’d a family have—but they had;A dear little ladWho drove ’em half mad,For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.For when he was born he astonished all by,With their “Law, dear me!”“Did ever you see?”He’d a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye,A hat all awry—An octagon tie—And a miniature—miniature glass in his eye.He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,With his “Oh, dear, oh!”And his “Hang it! ’oo know!”And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap—“My friends, it’s a tapDat is not worf a rap.”(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)He’d chuck his nurse under the chin, and he’d say,With his “Fal, lal, lal”—“’Oo doosed fine gal!”This shocking precocity drove ’em away:“A month from to-dayIs as long as I’ll stay—Then I’d wish, if you please, for to toddle away.”His father, a simple old gentleman, heWith nursery rhymeAnd “Once on a time,”Would tell him the story of “Little Bo-P,”“So pretty was she,So pretty and wee,As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be.”But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,With his “C’ck!  Oh, my!—Go along wiz ’oo, fie!”Would exclaim, “I’m afraid ’oo a socking ole fox.”Now a father it shocks,And it whitens his locks,When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.The name of his father he’d couple and pair(With his ill-bred laugh,And insolent chaff)With those of the nursery heroines rare—Virginia the Fair,Or Good Goldenhair,Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.“There’s Jill and White Cat” (said the bold little brat,With his loud, “Ha, ha!”)“’Oo sly ickle Pa!Wiz ’oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and ’oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!I’ve noticed ’oo patMy pretty White Cat—I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!”He early determined to marry and wive,For better or worseWith his elderly nurse—Which the poor little boy didn’t live to contrive:His hearth didn’t thrive—No longer alive,He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!MORAL.Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew,With wrinkled hoseAnd spectacled nose,Don’t marry at all—you may take it as trueIf ever you doThe step you will rue,For your babes will be elderly—elderly too.

To Phoebe

“Gentle, modest little flower,Sweet epitome of May,Love me but for half an hour,Love me, love me, little fay.”Sentences so fiercely flamingIn your tiny shell-like ear,I should always be exclaimingIf I loved you, PHOEBE dear.“Smiles that thrill from any distanceShed upon me while I sing!Please ecstaticize existence,Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!”Words like these, outpouring sadlyYou’d perpetually hear,If I loved you fondly, madly;—But I do not, PHOEBE dear.

Baines Carew, Gentleman

Of all the good attorneys whoHave placed their names upon the roll,But few could equal BAINES CAREWFor tender-heartedness and soul.Whene’er he heard a tale of woeFrom client A or client B,His grief would overcome him soHe’d scarce have strength to take his fee.It laid him up for many days,When duty led him to distrain,And serving writs, although it pays,Gave him excruciating pain.He made out costs, distrained for rent,Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye—No bill of costs could representThe value of such sympathy.No charges can approximateThe worth of sympathy with woe;—Although I think I ought to stateHe did his best to make them so.Of all the many clients whoHad mustered round his legal flag,No single client of the crewWas half so dear as CAPTAIN BAGG.Now, CAPTAIN BAGG had bowed him toA heavy matrimonial yoke—His wifey had of faults a few—She never could resist a joke.Her chaff at first he meekly bore,Till unendurable it grew.“To stop this persecution soreI will consult my friend CAREW.“And when CAREW’S advice I’ve got,Divorce a mensâ I shall try.”(A legal separation—notA vinculo conjugii.)“Oh, BAINES CAREW, my woe I’ve keptA secret hitherto, you know;”—(And BAINES CAREW, ESQUIRE, he weptTo hear that BAGG had any woe.)“My case, indeed, is passing sad.My wife—whom I considered true—With brutal conduct drives me mad.”“I am appalled,” said BAINES CAREW.“What! sound the matrimonial knellOf worthy people such as these!Why was I an attorney?  Well—Go on to the saevitia, please.”“Domestic bliss has proved my bane,—A harder case you never heard,My wife (in other matters sane)Pretends that I’m a Dicky bird!“She makes me sing, ‘Too-whit, too-wee!’And stand upon a rounded stick,And always introduces meTo every one as ‘Pretty Dick’!”“Oh, dear,” said weeping BAINES CAREW,“This is the direst case I know.”“I’m grieved,” said BAGG, “at paining you—“To COBB and POLTHERTHWAITE I’ll go—“To COBB’S cold, calculating ear,My gruesome sorrows I’ll impart”—“No; stop,” said BAINES, “I’ll dry my tear,And steel my sympathetic heart.”“She makes me perch upon a tree,Rewarding me with ‘Sweety—nice!’And threatens to exhibit meWith four or five performing mice.”“Restrain my tears I wish I could”(Said BAINES), “I don’t know what to do.”Said CAPTAIN BAGG, “You’re very good.”“Oh, not at all,” said BAINES CAREW.“She makes me fire a gun,” said BAGG;“And, at a preconcerted word,Climb up a ladder with a flag,Like any street performing bird.“She places sugar in my way—In public places calls me ‘Sweet!’She gives me groundsel every day,And hard canary-seed to eat.”“Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!”(Said BAINES).  “Be good enough to stop.”And senseless on the floor he fell,With unpremeditated flop!Said CAPTAIN BAGG, “Well, really IAm grieved to think it pains you so.I thank you for your sympathy;But, hang it!—come—I say, you know!”But BAINES lay flat upon the floor,Convulsed with sympathetic sob;—The Captain toddled off next door,And gave the case to MR. COBB.

Thomas Winterbottom Hance

In all the towns and cities fairOn Merry England’s broad expanse,No swordsman ever could compareWith THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.The dauntless lad could fairly hewA silken handkerchief in twain,Divide a leg of mutton too—And this without unwholesome strain.On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,His sabre sometimes he’d employ—No bar of lead, however thick,Had terrors for the stalwart boy.At Dover daily he’d prepareTo hew and slash, behind, before—Which aggravated MONSIEUR PIERRE,Who watched him from the Calais shore.It caused good PIERRE to swear and dance,The sight annoyed and vexed him so;He was the bravest man in France—He said so, and he ought to know.“Regardez donc, ce cochon gros—Ce polisson!  Oh, sacré bleu!Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigotsComme cela m’ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!“Il sait que les foulards de soieGive no retaliating whack—Les gigots morts n’ont pas de quoi—Le plomb don’t ever hit you back.”But every day the headstrong ladCut lead and mutton more and more;And every day poor PIERRE, half mad,Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.HANCE had a mother, poor and old,A simple, harmless village dame,Who crowed and clapped as people toldOf WINTERBOTTOM’S rising fame.She said, “I’ll be upon the spotTo see my TOMMY’S sabre-play;”And so she left her leafy cot,And walked to Dover in a day.PIERRE had a doating mother, whoHad heard of his defiant rage;His Ma was nearly ninety-two,And rather dressy for her age.At HANCE’S doings every morn,With sheer delight his mother cried;And MONSIEUR PIERRE’S contemptuous scornFilled his mamma with proper pride.But HANCE’S powers began to fail—His constitution was not strong—And PIERRE, who once was stout and hale,Grew thin from shouting all day long.Their mothers saw them pale and wan,Maternal anguish tore each breast,And so they met to find a planTo set their offsprings’ minds at rest.Said MRS. HANCE, “Of course I shrinksFrom bloodshed, ma’am, as you’re aware,But still they’d better meet, I thinks.”“Assurément!” said MADAME PIERRE.A sunny spot in sunny FranceWas hit upon for this affair;The ground was picked by MRS. HANCE,The stakes were pitched by MADAME PIERRE.Said MRS. H., “Your work you see—Go in, my noble boy, and win.”“En garde, mon fils!” said MADAME P.“Allons!”  “Go on!”  “En garde!”  “Begin!”(The mothers were of decent size,Though not particularly tall;But in the sketch that meets your eyesI’ve been obliged to draw them small.)Loud sneered the doughty man of France,“Ho! ho!  Ho! ho!  Ha! ha!  Ha! ha!“The French for ‘Pish’” said THOMAS HANCE.Said PIERRE, “L’Anglais, Monsieur, pour ‘Bah.’”Said MRS. H., “Come, one! two! three!—We’re sittin’ here to see all fair.”“C’est magnifique!” said MADAME P.,“Mais, parbleu! ce n’est pas la guerre!”“Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,”Said PIERRE, the doughty son of France.“I fight not coward foe like you!”Said our undaunted TOMMY HANCE.“The French for ‘Pooh!’” our TOMMY cried.“L’Anglais pour ‘Va!’” the Frenchman crowed.And so, with undiminished pride,Each went on his respective road.