The Bab Ballads

The Periwinkle Girl

I’ve often thought that headstrong youthsOf decent education,Determine all-important truths,With strange precipitation.The ever-ready victims they,Of logical illusions,And in a self-assertive wayThey jump at strange conclusions.Now take my case: Ere sorrow couldMy ample forehead wrinkle,I had determined that I shouldNot care to be a winkle.“A winkle,” I would oft advanceWith readiness provoking,“Can seldom flirt, and never dance,Or soothe his mind by smoking.”In short, I spurned the shelly joy,And spoke with strange decision—Men pointed to me as a boyWho held them in derision.But I was young—too young, by far—Or I had been more wary,I knew not then that winkles areThe stock-in-trade of MARY.I had not watched her sunlight blitheAs o’er their shells it dances—I’ve seen those winkles almost writheBeneath her beaming glances.Of slighting all the winkly broodI surely had been chary,If I had known they formed the foodAnd stock-in-trade of MARY.Both high and low and great and smallFell prostrate at her tootsies,They all were noblemen, and allHad balances at COUTTS’S.Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,DUKE BAILEY and DUKE HUMPHY,Who ate her winkles till they feltExceedingly uncomfy.DUKE BAILEY greatest wealth computes,And sticks, they say, at no-thing,He wears a pair of golden bootsAnd silver underclothing.DUKE HUMPHY, as I understand,Though mentally acuter,His boots are only silver, andHis underclothing pewter.A third adorer had the girl,A man of lowly station—A miserable grov’ling EarlBesought her approbation.This humble cad she did refuseWith much contempt and loathing,He wore a pair of leather shoesAnd cambric underclothing!“Ha! ha!” she cried.  “Upon my word!Well, really—come, I never!Oh, go along, it’s too absurd!My goodness!  Did you ever?“Two Dukes would Mary make a bride,And from her foes defend her”—“Well, not exactly that,” they cried,“We offer guilty splendour.“We do not offer marriage rite,So please dismiss the notion!”“Oh dear,” said she, “that alters quiteThe state of my emotion.”The Earl he up and says, says he,“Dismiss them to their orgies,For I am game to marry theeQuite reg’lar at St. George’s.”(He’d had, it happily befell,A decent education,His views would have befitted wellA far superior station.)His sterling worth had worked a cure,She never heard him grumble;She saw his soul was good and pure,Although his rank was humble.Her views of earldoms and their lot,All underwent expansion—Come, Virtue in an earldom’s cot!Go, Vice in ducal mansion!

Thomson Green And Harriet Hale

(To be sung to the Air of “An ’Orrible Tale.”)

Oh list to this incredible taleOf THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE;Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”Oh, THOMSON GREEN was an auctioneer,And made three hundred pounds a year;And HARRIET HALE, most strange to say,Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.Oh, THOMSON GREEN, I may remark,Met HARRIET HALE in Regent’s Park,Where he, in a casual kind of way,Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.They met again, and strange, though true,He courted her for a month or two,Then to her pa he said, says he,“Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!”Their names were regularly banned,The wedding day was settled, andI’ve ascertained by dint of searchThey were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot’s Church.Oh, list to this incredible taleOf THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”That very self-same afternoonThey started on their honeymoon,And (oh, astonishment!) took flightTo a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.But now—you’ll doubt my word, I know—In a month they both returned, and lo!Astounding fact! this happy pairTook a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!They led a weird and reckless life,They dined each day, this man and wife(Pray disbelieve it, if you please),On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.In time came those maternal joysWhich take the form of girls or boys,And strange to say of each they’d one—A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!Oh, list to this incredible taleOf THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”My name for truth is gone, I fear,But, monstrous as it may appear,They let their drawing-room one dayTo an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.Whenever THOMSON GREEN fell sickHis wife called in a doctor, quick,From whom some words like these would come—Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.For thirty years this curious pairHung out in Canonbury Square,And somehow, wonderful to say,They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.Well, THOMSON GREEN fell ill and died;For just a year his widow cried,And then her heart she gave awayTo the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.Oh, list to this incredible taleOf THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

Bob Polter

BOB POLTER was a navvy, andHis hands were coarse, and dirty too,His homely face was rough and tanned,His time of life was thirty-two.He lived among a working clan(A wife he hadn’t got at all),A decent, steady, sober man—No saint, however—not at all.He smoked, but in a modest way,Because he thought he needed it;He drank a pot of beer a day,And sometimes he exceeded it.At times he’d pass with other menA loud convivial night or two,With, very likely, now and then,On Saturdays, a fight or two.But still he was a sober soul,A labour-never-shirking man,Who paid his way—upon the wholeA decent English working man.One day, when at the Nelson’s Head(For which he may be blamed of you),A holy man appeared, and said,“Oh, ROBERT, I’m ashamed of you.”He laid his hand on ROBERT’S beerBefore he could drink up any,And on the floor, with sigh and tear,He poured the pot of “thruppenny.”“Oh, ROBERT, at this very barA truth you’ll be discovering,A good and evil genius areAround your noddle hovering.“They both are here to bid you shunThe other one’s society,For Total Abstinence is one,The other, Inebriety.”He waved his hand—a vapour came—A wizard POLTER reckoned him;A bogy rose and called his name,And with his finger beckoned him.The monster’s salient points to sum,—His heavy breath was portery:His glowing nose suggested rum:His eyes were gin-and-wortery.His dress was torn—for dregs of aleAnd slops of gin had rusted it;His pimpled face was wan and pale,Where filth had not encrusted it.“Come, POLTER,” said the fiend, “begin,And keep the bowl a-flowing on—A working man needs pints of ginTo keep his clockwork going on.”BOB shuddered: “Ah, you’ve made a missIf you take me for one of you:You filthy beast, get out of this—BOB POLTER don’t wan’t none of you.”The demon gave a drunken shriek,And crept away in stealthiness,And lo! instead, a person sleek,Who seemed to burst with healthiness.“In me, as your adviser hints,Of Abstinence you’ve got a type—Of MR. TWEEDIE’S pretty printsI am the happy prototype.“If you abjure the social toast,And pipes, and such frivolities,You possibly some day may boastMy prepossessing qualities!”BOB rubbed his eyes, and made ’em blink:“You almost make me tremble, you!If I abjure fermented drink,Shall I, indeed, resemble you?“And will my whiskers curl so tight?My cheeks grow smug and muttony?My face become so red and white?My coat so blue and buttony?“Will trousers, such as yours, arrayExtremities inferior?Will chubbiness assert its swayAll over my exterior?“In this, my unenlightened state,To work in heavy boots I comes;Will pumps henceforward decorateMy tiddle toddle tootsicums?“And shall I get so plump and fresh,And look no longer seedily?My skin will henceforth fit my fleshSo tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?”The phantom said, “You’ll have all this,You’ll know no kind of huffiness,Your life will be one chubby bliss,One long unruffled puffiness!”“Be off!” said irritated BOB.“Why come you here to bother one?You pharisaical old snob,You’re wuss almost than t’other one!“I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,And drunk I’m never seen to be:I’m no teetotaller or sot,And as I am I mean to be!”

The Story Of Prince Agib

Strike the concertina’s melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!Let the piano’s martial blastRouse the Echoes of the Past,For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:His gentle spirit rollsIn the melody of souls—Which is pretty, but I don’t know what it means.Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.He would diligently playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;Oh, ALLAH be obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the “Oüaits.”Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in;Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.And when (as snobs would say)They had “put it all away,”He requested them to tune up and begin.Though its icy horror chill you to the core,I will tell you what I never told before,—The consequences trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the keyhole in the door!They played him a sonata—let me see!“Medulla oblongata”—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp.”He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent from a most ingenious little fount,More beer, in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.Now follows the dim horror of my tale,And I feel I’m growing gradually pale,For, even at this day,Though its sting has passed away,When I venture to remember it, I quail!The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,All-overish it made me for to feel;“Oh, PRINCE,” he says, says he,“If a Prince indeed you be,I’ve a mystery I’m going to reveal!“Oh, listen, if you’d shun a horrid death,To what the gent who’s speaking to you saith:No ‘Oüaits’ in truth are we,As you fancy that we be,For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK—this is BETH!”Said AGIB, “Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!”BETH gave a dreadful shriek—But before he’d time to speakI was mercilessly collared from behind.In number ten or twelve, or even more,They fastened me full length upon the floor.On my face extended flat,I was walloped with a catFor listening at the keyhole of a door.Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a willThey branded me and broke me on a wheel,And they left me in an hospital to heal;And, upon my solemn word,I have never never heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page

Ellen McJones Aberdeen

MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLANWas the son of an elderly labouring man;You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right.From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,There wasn’t a child or a woman or manWho could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.No other could wake such detestable groans,With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:All day and ill night he delighted the chielsWith sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,And the neighbouring maidens would gather aroundTo list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute,Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,Tho’ his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expenseTo make him a Scotchman in every sense;But this is a matter, you’ll readily own,That isn’t a question of tailors alone.A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.CLONGLOCKETY’S pipings all night and all dayQuite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY;The girls were amused at his singular spleen,Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,“MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad,With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.If you really must play on that cursed affair,My goodness! play something resembling an air.”Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN—The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;For all were enraged at the insult, I ween—Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.“Let’s show,” said McCLAN, “to this Sassenach loonThat the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.Let’s see,” said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat,“’In my Cottage’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.”He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until(You’ll hardly believe it) McCLAN, I declare,Elicited something resembling an air.It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—It wandered about into several keys;It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware;But still it distinctly suggested an air.The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced;And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene—Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.“Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;And fill a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound.An air fra’ the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!”The fame of his piping spread over the land:Respectable widows proposed for his hand,And maidens came flocking to sit on the green—Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.One morning the fidgety Sassenach sworeHe’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore,And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN,Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene—Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAYTo find them “take on” in this serious way;He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,And solaced their souls with the following words:“Oh, maidens,” said PATTISON, touching his hat,“Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;Observe, I’m a very superior man,A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN.”They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,”And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,A pleasanter gentleman never was seen—Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

Peter The Wag

Policeman PETER forth I dragFrom his obscure retreat:He was a merry genial wag,Who loved a mad conceit.If he were asked the time of day,By country bumpkins green,He not unfrequently would say,“A quarter past thirteen.”If ever you by word of mouthInquired of MISTER FORTHThe way to somewhere in the South,He always sent you North.With little boys his beat alongHe loved to stop and play;He loved to send old ladies wrong,And teach their feet to stray.He would in frolic moments, whenSuch mischief bent upon,Take Bishops up as betting men—Bid Ministers move on.Then all the worthy boys he knewHe regularly licked,And always collared people whoHad had their pockets picked.He was not naturally bad,Or viciously inclined,But from his early youth he hadA waggish turn of mind.The Men of London grimly scowledWith indignation wild;The Men of London gruffly growled,But PETER calmly smiled.Against this minion of the CrownThe swelling murmurs grew—From Camberwell to Kentish Town—From Rotherhithe to Kew.Still humoured he his wagsome turn,And fed in various waysThe coward rage that dared to burn,But did not dare to blaze.Still, Retribution has her day,Although her flight is slow:One day that Crusher lost his wayNear Poland Street, Soho.The haughty boy, too proud to ask,To find his way resolved,And in the tangle of his taskGot more and more involved.The Men of London, overjoyed,Came there to jeer their foe,And flocking crowds completely cloyedThe mazes of Soho.The news on telegraphic wiresSped swiftly o’er the lea,Excursion trains from distant shiresBrought myriads to see.For weeks he trod his self-made beatsThrough Newport- Gerrard- Bear-Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,And into Golden Square.But all, alas! in vain, for whenHe tried to learn the wayOf little boys or grown-up men,They none of them would say.Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind—Their lips would tightly curl—They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find,Thou misdirecting churl!”And, similarly, also, whenHe tried a foreign friend;Italians answered, “Il balen”—The French, “No comprehend.”The Russ would say with gleaming eye“ Sevastopol!” and groan.The Greek said, Τυπτω, τυπτομαι,Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων.”To wander thus for many a yearThat Crusher never ceased—The Men of London dropped a tear,Their anger was appeasedAt length exploring gangs were sentTo find poor FORTH’S remains—A handsome grant by ParliamentWas voted for their pains.To seek the poor policeman outBold spirits volunteered,And when they swore they’d solve the doubt,The Men of London cheered.And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,They found him, on the floor—It leads from Richmond Buildings—nearThe Royalty stage-door.With brandy cold and brandy hotThey plied him, starved and wet,And made him sergeant on the spot—The Men of London’s pet!

Ben Allah Achmet;—Or, The Fatal Tum

I once did know a Turkish manWhom I upon a two-pair-back met,His name it was EFFENDI KHANBACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET.A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew—I’ve often eaten of his bounty;The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,In Sussex, that delightful county!I knew a nice young lady there,Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON,And though she wore another’s hair,She was an interesting person.The Turk adored the maid of Hooe(Although his harem would have shocked her).But BROWN adored that maiden too:He was a most seductive doctor.They’d follow her where’er she’d go—A course of action most improper;She neither knew by sight, and soFor neither of them cared a copper.BROWN did not know that Turkish male,He might have been his sainted mother:The people in this simple taleAre total strangers to each other.One day that Turk he sickened sore,And suffered agonies oppressive;He threw himself upon the floorAnd rolled about in pain excessive.It made him moan, it made him groan,And almost wore him to a mummy.Why should I hesitate to ownThat pain was in his little tummy?At length a doctor came, and rung(As ALLAH ACHMET had desired),Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired:“Where is the pain that long has preyedUpon you in so sad a way, sir?”The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said:I don’t exactly like to say, sir.”“Come, nonsense!” said good DOCTOR BROWN.“So this is Turkish coyness, is it?You must contrive to fight it down—Come, come, sir, please to be explicit.”The Turk he shyly bit his thumb,And coyly blushed like one half-witted,“The pain is in my little tum,”He, whispering, at length admitted.“Then take you this, and take you that—Your blood flows sluggish in its channel—You must get rid of all this fat,And wear my medicated flannel.“You’ll send for me when you’re in need—My name is BROWN—your life I’ve saved it.”“My rival!” shrieked the invalid,And drew a mighty sword and waved it:“This to thy weazand, Christian pest!”Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it,And drove right through the doctor’s chestThe sabre and the hand that held it.The blow was a decisive one,And DOCTOR BROWN grew deadly pasty,“Now see the mischief that you’ve done—You Turks are so extremely hasty.“There are two DOCTOR BROWNS in Hooe—He’s short and stout, I’m tall and wizen;You’ve been and run the wrong one through,That’s how the error has arisen.”The accident was thus explained,Apologies were only heard now:“At my mistake I’m really pained—I am, indeed—upon my word now.“With me, sir, you shall be interred,A mausoleum grand awaits me.”“Oh, pray don’t say another word,I’m sure that more than compensates me.“But p’r’aps, kind Turk, you’re full inside?”“There’s room,” said he, “for any number.”And so they laid them down and died.In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber,

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 canExtemporise kingdoms near the beach,And then we’ll collar a kingdom each.“Three casks, from somebody else’s stores,Shall represent 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 recognise 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 magnificent 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 remarkable 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,Unrolled 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 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 attachés, 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 darky kings,And, may we never, whatever we do,Declare a war with Chickeraboo!

Joe Golightly—Or, The First Lord’s Daughter

A tar, but poorly prized,Long, shambling, and unsightly,Thrashed, bullied, and despised,Was wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY.He bore a workhouse brand;No Pa or Ma had claimed him,The Beadle found him, andThe Board of Guardians named him.P’r’aps some Princess’s son—A beggar p’r’aps his mother.He rather thought the one,I rather think the other.He liked his ship at sea,He loved the salt sea-water,He worshipped junk, and heAdored the First Lord’s daughter.The First Lord’s daughter, proud,Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly;She sneered at Barts. aloud,And spurned poor Joe Golightly.Whene’er he sailed afarUpon a Channel cruise, heUnpacked his light guitarAnd sang this ballad (Boosey):BalladThe moon is on the sea,Willow!The wind blows towards the lee,Willow!But though I sigh and sob and cry,No Lady Jane for me,Willow!She says, “’Twere folly quite,Willow!For me to wed a wight,Willow!Whose lot is cast before the mast”;And possibly she’s right,Willow!His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE),He gave him many a rating,And almost lost his voiceFrom thus expostulating:“Lay aft, you lubber, do!What’s come to that young man, JOE?Belay!—’vast heaving! you!Do kindly stop that banjo!“I wish, I do—O lor’!—You’d shipped aboard a trader:Are you a sailor orA negro serenader?”But still the stricken lad,Aloft or on his pillow,Howled forth in accents sadHis aggravating “Willow!”Stern love of duty badBeen JOYCE’S chiefest beauty;Says he, “I love that lad,But duty, damme! duty!“Twelve months’ black-hole, I say,Where daylight never flashes;And always twice a dayA good six dozen lashes!”But JOSEPH had a mate,A sailor stout and lusty,A man of low estate,But singularly trusty.Says he, “Cheer hup, young JOE!I’ll tell you what I’m arter—To that Fust Lord I’ll goAnd ax him for his darter.“To that Fust Lord I’ll goAnd say you love her dearly.”And JOE said (weeping low),“I wish you would, sincerely!”That sailor to that LordWent, soon as he had landed,And of his own accordAn interview demanded.Says he, with seaman’s roll,“My Captain (wot’s a Tartar)Guv JOE twelve months’ black-hole,For lovering your darter.“He loves MISS LADY JANE(I own she is his betters),But if you’ll jine them twain,They’ll free him from his fetters.“And if so be as howYou’ll let her come aboard ship,I’ll take her with me now.”“Get out!” remarked his Lordship.That honest tar repairedTo JOE upon the billow,And told him how he’d fared.JOE only whispered, “Willow!”And for that dreadful crime(Young sailors, learn to shun it)He’s working out his time;In six months he’ll have done it.