More Bab Ballads

Ballad: Brave Alum Bey

Oh, big was the bosom of brave ALUM BEY,And also the region that under it lay,In safety and peril remarkably cool,And he dwelt on the banks of the river Stamboul.Each morning he went to his garden, to cullA bunch of zenana or sprig of bul-bul,And offered the bouquet, in exquisite bloom,To BACKSHEESH, the daughter of RAHAT LAKOUM.No maiden like BACKSHEESH could tastily cookA kettle of kismet or joint of tchibouk,As ALUM, brave fellow! sat pensively by,With a bright sympathetic ka-bob in his eye.Stern duty compelled him to leave her one day—(A ship’s supercargo was brave ALUM BEY)—To pretty young BACKSHEESH he made a salaam,And sailed to the isle of Seringapatam.“O ALUM,” said she, “think again, ere you go—Hareems may arise and Moguls they may blow;You may strike on a fez, or be drowned, which is wuss!”But ALUM embraced her and spoke to her thus:“Cease weeping, fair BACKSHEESH!  I willingly swearCork jackets and trousers I always will wear,And I also throw in a large number of oathsThat I never—no, never—will take off my clothes!”* * * * *They left Madagascar away on their right,And made Clapham Common the following night,Then lay on their oars for a fortnight or two,Becalmed in the ocean of Honololu.One day ALUM saw, with alarm in his breast,A cloud on the nor-sow-sow-nor-sow-nor-west;The wind it arose, and the crew gave a scream,For they knew it—they knew it!—the dreaded Hareem!!The mast it went over, and so did the sails,Brave ALUM threw over his casks and his bales;The billows arose as the weather grew thick,And all except ALUM were terribly sick.The crew were but three, but they holloa’d for nine,They howled and they blubbered with wail and with whine:The skipper he fainted away in the fore,For he hadn’t the heart for to skip any more.“Ho, coward!” said ALUM, “with heart of a child!Thou son of a party whose grave is defiled!Is ALUM in terror? is ALUM afeard?Ho! ho!  If you had one I’d laugh at your beard.”His eyeball it gleamed like a furnace of coke;He boldly inflated his clothes as he spoke;He daringly felt for the corks on his chest,And he recklessly tightened the belt at his breast.For he knew, the brave ALUM, that, happen what might,With belts and cork-jacketing, he was all right;Though others might sink, he was certain to swim,—No Hareem whatever had terrors for him!They begged him to spare from his personal storeA single cork garment—they asked for no more;But he couldn’t, because of the number of oathsThat he never—no, never!—would take off his clothes.The billows dash o’er them and topple around,They see they are pretty near sure to be drowned.A terrible wave o’er the quarter-deck breaks,And the vessel it sinks in a couple of shakes!The dreadful Hareem, though it knows how to blow,Expends all its strength in a minute or so;When the vessel had foundered, as I have detailed,The tempest subsided, and quiet prevailed.One seized on a cork with a yelling “Ha! ha!”(Its bottle had ’prisoned a pint of Pacha)—Another a toothpick—another a tray—“Alas! it is useless!” said brave ALUM BEY.“To holloa and kick is a very bad plan:Get it over, my tulips, as soon as you can;You’d better lay hold of a good lump of lead,And cling to it tightly until you are dead.“Just raise your hands over your pretty heads—so—Right down to the bottom you’re certain to go.Ta! ta!  I’m afraid we shall not meet again”—For the truly courageous are truly humane.Brave ALUM was picked up the very next day—A man-o’-war sighted him smoking away;With hunger and cold he was ready to drop,So they sent him below and they gave him a chop.O reader, or readress, whichever you be,You weep for the crew who have sunk in the sea?O reader, or readress, read farther, and dryThe bright sympathetic ka-bob in your eye.That ship had a grapple with three iron spikes,—It’s lowered, and, ha! on a something it strikes!They haul it aboard with a British “heave-ho!”And what it has fished the drawing will show.There was WILSON, and PARKER, and TOMLINSON, too—(The first was the captain, the others the crew)—As lively and spry as a Malabar ape,Quite pleased and surprised at their happy escape.And ALUM, brave fellow, who stood in the fore,And never expected to look on them more,Was really delighted to see them again,For the truly courageous are truly humane.

Ballad: Sir Barnaby Bampton Boo

This is SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO,Last of a noble race,BARNABY BAMPTON, coming to woo,All at a deuce of a pace.BARNABY BAMPTON BOO,Here is a health to you:Here is wishing you luck, you elderly buck—BARNABY BAMPTON BOO!The excellent women of TuptonveeKnew SIR BARNABY BOO;One of them surely his bride would be,But dickens a soul knew who.Women of Tuptonvee,Here is a health to yeFor a Baronet, dears, you would cut off your ears,Women of Tuptonvee!Here are old MR. and MRS. DE PLOW(PETER his Christian name),They kept seven oxen, a pig, and a cow—Farming it was their game.Worthy old PETER DE PLOW,Here is a health to thou:Your race isn’t run, though you’re seventy-one,Worthy old PETER DE PLOW!To excellent MR. and MRS. DE PLOWCame SIR BARNABY BOO,He asked for their daughter, and told ’em as howHe was as rich as a Jew.BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth,Here is your jolly good health:I’d never repine if you came to be mine,BARNABY BAMPTON’S wealth!“O great SIR BARNABY BAMPTON BOO”(Said PLOW to that titled swell),“My missus has given me daughters two—AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!”AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL,I hope you’re uncommonly well:You two pretty pearls—you extremely nice girls—AMELIA and VOLATILE NELL!“AMELIA is passable only, in face,But, oh! she’s a worthy girl;Superior morals like hers would graceThe home of a belted Earl.”Morality, heavenly link!To you I’ll eternally drink:I’m awfully fond of that heavenly bond,Morality, heavenly link!“Now NELLY’S the prettier, p’raps, of my gals,But, oh! she’s a wayward chit;She dresses herself in her showy fal-lals,And doesn’t read TUPPER a bit!”O TUPPER, philosopher true,How do you happen to do?A publisher looks with respect on your books,For they do sell, philosopher true!The Bart.  (I’ll be hanged if I drink him again,Or care if he’s ill or well),He sneered at the goodness of MILLY THE PLAIN,And cottoned to VOLATILE NELL!O VOLATILE NELLY DE P.!Be hanged if I’ll empty to thee:I like worthy maids, not mere frivolous jades,VOLATILE NELLY DE P.!They bolted, the Bart. and his frivolous dear,And MILLY was left to pout;For years they’ve got on very well, as I hear,But soon he will rue it, no doubt.O excellent MILLY DE PLOW,I really can’t drink to you now;My head isn’t strong, and the song has been long,Excellent MILLY DE PLOW!

Ballad: The Modest Couple

When man and maiden meet, I like to see a drooping eye,I always droop my own—I am the shyest of the shy.I’m also fond of bashfulness, and sitting down on thorns,For modesty’s a quality that womankind adorns.Whenever I am introduced to any pretty maid,My knees they knock together, just as if I were afraid;I flutter, and I stammer, and I turn a pleasing red,For to laugh, and flirt, and ogle I consider most ill-bred.But still in all these matters, as in other things below,There is a proper medium, as I’m about to show.I do not recommend a newly-married pair to tryTo carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH.Betrothed they were when very young—before they’d learnt to speak(For SARAH was but six days old, and PETER was a week);Though little more than babies at those early ages, yetThey bashfully would faint when they occasionally met.They blushed, and flushed, and fainted, till they reached the age of nine,When PETER’S good papa (he was a Baron of the Rhine)Determined to endeavour some sound argument to findTo bring these shy young people to a proper frame of mind.He told them that as SARAH was to be his PETER’S bride,They might at least consent to sit at table side by side;He begged that they would now and then shake hands, till he was hoarse,Which SARAH thought indelicate, and PETER very coarse.And PETER in a tremble to the blushing maid would say,“You must excuse papa, MISS BLIGH,—it is his mountain way.”Says SARAH, “His behaviour I’ll endeavour to forget,But your papa’s the coarsest person that I ever met.“He plighted us without our leave, when we were very young,Before we had begun articulating with the tongue.His underbred suggestions fill your SARAH with alarm;Why, gracious me! he’ll ask us next to walk out arm-in-arm!”At length when SARAH reached the legal age of twenty-one,The Baron he determined to unite her to his son;And SARAH in a fainting-fit for weeks unconscious lay,And PETER blushed so hard you might have heard him miles away.And when the time arrived for taking SARAH to his heart,They were married in two churches half-a-dozen miles apart(Intending to escape all public ridicule and chaff),And the service was conducted by electric telegraph.And when it was concluded, and the priest had said his say,Until the time arrived when they were both to drive away,They never spoke or offered for to fondle or to fawn,For he waited in the attic, and she waited on the lawn.At length, when four o’clock arrived, and it was time to go,The carriage was announced, but decent SARAH answered “No!Upon my word, I’d rather sleep my everlasting nap,Than go and ride alone with MR. PETER in a trap.”And PETER’S over-sensitive and highly-polished mindWouldn’t suffer him to sanction a proceeding of the kind;And further, he declared he suffered overwhelming shocksAt the bare idea of having any coachman on the box.So PETER into one turn-out incontinently rushed,While SARAH in a second trap sat modestly and blushed;And MR. NEWMAN’S coachman, on authority I’ve heard,Drove away in gallant style upon the coach-box of a third.Now, though this modest couple in the matter of the carWere very likely carrying a principle too far,I hold their shy behaviour was more laudable in themThan that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM.ALPHONSO, who in cool assurance all creation licks,He up and said to EMMIE (who had impudence for six),“MISS EMILY, I love you—will you marry?  Say the word!”And EMILY said, “Certainly, ALPHONSO, like a bird!”I do not recommend a newly-married pair to tryTo carry on as PETER carried on with SARAH BLIGH,But still their shy behaviour was more laudable in themThan that of PETER’S brother with MISS SARAH’S sister EM.

Ballad: The Martinet

Some time ago, in simple verseI sang the story trueOf CAPTAIN REECE, the Mantelpiece,And all her happy crew.I showed how any captain mayAttach his men to him,If he but heeds their smallest needs,And studies every whim.Now mark how, by Draconic ruleAnd hauteur ill-advised,The noblest crew upon the BlueMay be demoralized.When his ungrateful country placedKind REECE upon half-pay,Without much claim SIR BERKELY came,And took command one day.SIR BERKELY was a martinet—A stern unyielding soul—Who ruled his ship by dint of whipAnd horrible black-hole.A sailor who was overcomeFrom having freely dined,And chanced to reel when at the wheel,He instantly confined!And tars who, when an action raged,Appeared alarmed or scared,And those below who wished to go,He very seldom spared.E’en he who smote his officerFor punishment was booked,And mutinies upon the seasHe rarely overlooked.In short, the happy Mantelpiece,Where all had gone so well,Beneath that fool SIR BERKELY’S ruleBecame a floating hell.When first SIR BERKELY came aboardHe read a speech to all,And told them how he’d made a vowTo act on duty’s call.Then WILLIAM LEE, he up and said(The Captain’s coxswain he),“We’ve heard the speech your honour’s made,And werry pleased we be.“We won’t pretend, my lad, as howWe’re glad to lose our REECE;Urbane, polite, he suited quiteThe saucy Mantelpiece.“But if your honour gives your mindTo study all our ways,With dance and song we’ll jog alongAs in those happy days.“I like your honour’s looks, and feelYou’re worthy of your sword.Your hand, my lad—I’m doosid gladTo welcome you aboard!”SIR BERKELY looked amazed, as thoughHe didn’t understand.“Don’t shake your head,” good WILLIAM said,“It is an honest hand.“It’s grasped a better hand than yourn—Come, gov’nor, I insist!”The Captain stared—the coxswain glared—The hand became a fist!“Down, upstart!” said the hardy salt;But BERKELY dodged his aim,And made him go in chains below:The seamen murmured “Shame!”He stopped all songs at 12 p.m.,Stopped hornpipes when at sea,And swore his cot (or bunk) should notBe used by aught than he.He never joined their daily mess,Nor asked them to his own,But chaffed in gay and social wayThe officers alone.His First Lieutenant, PETER, wasAs useless as could be,A helpless stick, and always sickWhen there was any sea.This First Lieutenant proved to beHis foster-sister MAY,Who went to sea for love of heIn masculine array.And when he learnt the curious fact,Did he emotion show,Or dry her tears or end her fearsBy marrying her?  No!Or did he even try to sootheThis maiden in her teens?Oh, no!—instead he made her wedThe Sergeant of Marines!Of course such Spartan disciplineWould make an angel fret;They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shotThis fearful martinet.The Admiralty saw how illThey’d treated CAPTAIN REECE;He was restored once more aboardThe saucy Mantelpiece.

Ballad: The Sailor Boy To His Lass

I go away this blessed day,To sail across the sea, MATILDA!My vessel starts for various partsAt twenty after three, MATILDA.I hardly know where we may go,Or if it’s near or far, MATILDA,For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confideIn any ’fore-mast tar, MATILDA!Beneath my ban that mystic manShall suffer, coûte qui coûte, MATILDA!What right has he to keep from meThe Admiralty route, MATILDA?Because, forsooth! I am a youthOf common sailors’ lot, MATILDA!Am I a man on human planDesigned, or am I not, MATILDA?But there, my lass, we’ll let that pass!With anxious love I burn, MATILDA.I want to know if we shall goTo church when I return, MATILDA?Your eyes are red, you bow your head;It’s pretty clear you thirst, MATILDA,To name the day—What’s that you say?– “You’ll see me further first,” MATILDA?I can’t mistake the signs you make,Although you barely speak, MATILDA;Though pure and young, you thrust your tongueRight in your pretty cheek, MATILDA!My dear, I fear I hear you sneer—I do—I’m sure I do, MATILDA!With simple grace you make a face,Ejaculating, “Ugh!” MATILDA.Oh, pause to think before you drinkThe dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA!Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,Before you give me up, MATILDA!Recall again the mental painOf what I’ve had to do, MATILDA!And be assured that I’ve enduredIt, all along of you, MATILDA!Do you forget, my blithesome pet,How once with jealous rage, MATILDA,I watched you walk and gaily talkWith some one thrice your age, MATILDA?You squatted free upon his knee,A sight that made me sad, MATILDA!You pinched his cheek with friendly tweak,Which almost drove me mad, MATILDA!I knew him not, but hoped to spotSome man you thought to wed, MATILDA!I took a gun, my darling one,And shot him through the head, MATILDA!I’m made of stuff that’s rough and gruffEnough, I own; but, ah, MATILDA!It did annoy your sailor boyTo find it was your pa, MATILDA!I’ve passed a life of toil and strife,And disappointments deep, MATILDA;I’ve lain awake with dental acheUntil I fell asleep, MATILDA!At times again I’ve missed a train,Or p’rhaps run short of tin, MATILDA,And worn a boot on corns that shoot,Or, shaving, cut my chin, MATILDA.But, oh! no trains—no dental pains—Believe me when I say, MATILDA,No corns that shoot—no pinching bootUpon a summer day, MATILDA—It’s my belief, could cause such griefAs that I’ve suffered for, MATILDA,My having shot in vital spotYour old progenitor, MATILDA.Bethink you how I’ve kept the vowI made one winter day, MATILDA—That, come what could, I never wouldRemain too long away, MATILDA.And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA,To keep the vow I made—and nowYou treat me so unkind, MATILDA!For when at sea, off Caribbee,I felt my passion burn, MATILDA,By passion egged, I went and beggedThe captain to return, MATILDA.And when, my pet, I couldn’t getThat captain to agree, MATILDA,Right through a sort of open portI pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!Remember, too, how all the crewWith indignation blind, MATILDA,Distinctly swore they ne’er beforeHad thought me so unkind, MATILDA.And how they’d shun me one by one—An unforgiving group, MATILDA—I stopped their howls and sulky scowlsBy pizening their soup, MATILDA!So pause to think, before you drinkThe dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA;Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,Before you give me up, MATILDA.Recall again the mental painOf what I’ve had to do, MATILDA,And be assured that I’ve enduredIt, all along of you, MATILDA!

Ballad: The Reverend Simon Magus

A rich advowson, highly prized,For private sale was advertised;And many a parson made a bid;The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.He sought the agent’s: “Agent, IHave come prepared at once to buy(If your demand is not too big)The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—The snuggest vicarage on earth;No sort of duty (so I hear),And fifteen hundred pounds a year!“If on the price we should agree,The living soon will vacant be;The good incumbent’s ninety five,And cannot very long survive.See—here’s his photograph—you see,He’s in his dotage.”  “Ah, dear me!Poor soul!” said SIMON.  “His deceaseWould be a merciful release!”The agent laughed—the agent blinked—The agent blew his nose and winked—And poked the parson’s ribs in play—It was that agent’s vulgar way.The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieveThis light demeanour to perceive;It’s scarcely comme il faut, I think:Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—Your mission is to sell the soulsOf human sheep and human kidsTo that divine who highest bids.“Do well in this, and on your headUnnumbered honours will be shed.”The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,I have been doing very well.”“You should,” said SIMON, “at your age;But now about the parsonage.How many rooms does it contain?Show me the photograph again.“A poor apostle’s humble houseMust not be too luxurious;No stately halls with oaken floor—It should be decent and no more.“ No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:This property won’t do for you.”“All these about the house you’ll find.”—“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;I’ll manage to submit to theseLuxurious superfluities.“A clergyman who does not shirkThe various calls of Christian work,Will have no leisure to employThese ‘common forms’ of worldly joy.“To preach three times on Sabbath days—To wean the lost from wicked ways—The sick to soothe—the sane to wed—The poor to feed with meat and bread; “These are the various wholesome waysIn which I’ll spend my nights and days:My zeal will have no time to coolAt croquet, archery, or pool.”The agent said, “From what I hear,This living will not suit, I fear—There are no poor, no sick at all;For services there is no call.”The reverend gent looked grave, “Dear me!Then there is no ‘society’?—I mean, of course, no sinners thereWhose souls will be my special care?”The cunning agent shook his head,“No, none—except”—(the agent said)—“The DUKE OF A., the EARL OF B.,The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D.“But you will not be quite alone,For though they’ve chaplains of their own,Of course this noble well-bred clanReceive the parish clergyman.”“Oh, silence, sir!” said SIMON M.,“Dukes—Earls!  What should I care for them?These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!”“Of course,” the agent said, “no doubt!”“Yet I might show these men of birthThe hollowness of rank on earth.”The agent answered, “Very true—But I should not, if I were you.”“Who sells this rich advowson, pray?”The agent winked—it was his way—“His name is HART; ’twixt me and you,He is, I’m grieved to say, a Jew!”“A Jew?” said SIMON, “happy find!I purchase this advowson, mind.My life shall be devoted toConverting that unhappy Jew!”

Ballad: Damon v. Pythias

Two better friends you wouldn’t passThroughout a summer’s day,Than DAMON and his PYTHIAS,—Two merchant princes they.At school together they contrivedAll sorts of boyish larks;And, later on, together thrivedAs merry merchants’ clerks.And then, when many years had flown,They rose together tillThey bought a business of their own—And they conduct it still.They loved each other all their lives,Dissent they never knew,And, stranger still, their very wivesWere rather friendly too.Perhaps you think, to serve my ends,These statements I refute,When I admit that these dear friendsWere parties to a suit?But ’twas a friendly action, forGood PYTHIAS, as you see,Fought merely as executor,And DAMON as trustee.They laughed to think, as through the throngOf suitors sad they passed,That they, who’d lived and loved so long,Should go to law at last.The junior briefs they kindly letTwo sucking counsel hold;These learned persons never yetHad fingered suitors’ gold.But though the happy suitors twoWere friendly as could be,Not so the junior counsel whoWere earning maiden fee.They too, till then, were friends.  At schoolThey’d done each other’s sums,And under Oxford’s gentle ruleHad been the closest chums.But now they met with scowl and grinIn every public place,And often snapped their fingers inEach other’s learned face.It almost ended in a fightWhen they on path or stairMet face to face.  They made it quiteA personal affair.And when at length the case was called(It came on rather late),Spectators really were appalledTo see their deadly hate.One junior rose—with eyeballs tense,And swollen frontal veins:To all his powers of eloquenceHe gave the fullest reins.His argument was novel—forA verdict he reliedOn blackening the juniorUpon the other side.“Oh,” said the Judge, in robe and fur,“The matter in disputeTo arbitration pray refer—This is a friendly suit.”And PYTHIAS, in merry mood,Digged DAMON in the side;And DAMON, tickled with the feud,With other digs replied.But oh! those deadly counsel twain,Who were such friends before,Were never reconciled again—They quarrelled more and more.At length it happened that they metOn Alpine heights one day,And thus they paid each one his debt,Their fury had its way—They seized each other in a trice,With scorn and hatred filled,And, falling from a precipice,They, both of them, were killed.

Ballad: My Dream

The other night, from cares exempt,I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt?I dreamt that somehow I had comeTo dwell in Topsy-Turveydom—Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:Where right is wrong and wrong is right—Where white is black and black is white.Where babies, much to their surprise,Are born astonishingly wise;With every Science on their lips,And Art at all their finger-tips.For, as their nurses dandle themThey crow binomial theorem,With views (it seems absurd to us)On differential calculus.But though a babe, as I have said,Is born with learning in his head,He must forget it, if he can,Before he calls himself a man.For that which we call folly here,Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;The wisdom we so highly prizeIs blatant folly in their eyes.A boy, if he would push his way,Must learn some nonsense every day;And cut, to carry out this view,His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.Historians burn their midnight oils,Intent on giant-killers’ toils;And sages close their aged eyesTo other sages’ lullabies.Our magistrates, in duty bound,Commit all robbers who are found;But there the Beaks (so people said)Commit all robberies instead.Our Judges, pure and wise in tone,Know crime from theory alone,And glean the motives of a thiefFrom books and popular belief.But there, a Judge who wants to primeHis mind with true ideas of crime,Derives them from the common senseOf practical experience.Policemen march all folks awayWho practise virtue every day—Of course, I mean to say, you know,What we call virtue here below.For only scoundrels dare to doWhat we consider just and true,And only good men do, in fact,What we should think a dirty act.But strangest of these social twirls,The girls are boys—the boys are girls!The men are women, too—but then,Per contra, women all are men.To one who to tradition clingsThis seems an awkward state of things,But if to think it out you try,It doesn’t really signify.With them, as surely as can be,A sailor should be sick at sea,And not a passenger may sailWho cannot smoke right through a gale.A soldier (save by rarest luck)Is always shot for showing pluck(That is, if others can be foundWith pluck enough to fire a round).“How strange!” I said to one I saw;“You quite upset our every law.However can you get alongSo systematically wrong?”“Dear me!” my mad informant said,“Have you no eyes within your head?You sneer when you your hat should doff:Why, we begin where you leave off!“Your wisest men are very farLess learned than our babies are!”I mused awhile—and then, oh me!I framed this brilliant repartee:“Although your babes are wiser farThan our most valued sages are,Your sages, with their toys and cots,Are duller than our idiots!”But this remark, I grieve to state,Came just a little bit too lateFor as I framed it in my head,I woke and found myself in bed.Still I could wish that, ’stead of here,My lot were in that favoured sphere!—Where greatest fools bear off the bellI ought to do extremely well.