Fifty "bab" Ballads: Much Sound and Little Sense

PART I.. At a Pleasant Evening Party I Had Taken Down to Supper

AT a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper One whom I will call ELVIRA, and we talked of love and TUPPER,

MR. TUPPER and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing, For I’ve always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto, And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.

Then she whispered, “To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking; If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking.”

There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins, There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.

Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing, Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle, Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling-bottle.

So I whispered, “Dear ELVIRA, say,—what can the matter be with you? Does anything you’ve eaten, darling POPSY, disagree with you?”

But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing, And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me, And she whispered, “FERDINANDO, do you really, really love me?”

“Love you?” said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly— For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly.

“Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure, On a scientific goose-chase, with my COXWELL or my GLAISHER!

“Tell me whither I may hie me—tell me, dear one, that I may know— Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?”

But she said, “It isn’t polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes: Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!”

PART II.. “tell Me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred Poet Close, or Mister Tupper,

“Tell me, HENRY WADSWORTH, ALFRED POET CLOSE, or MISTER TUPPER, Do you write the bon bon mottoes my ELVIRA pulls at supper?”

But HENRY WADSWORTH smiled, and said he had not had that honour; And ALFRED, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

“MISTER MARTIN TUPPER, POET CLOSE, I beg of you inform us;” But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.

MISTER CLOSE expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me; And MISTER MARTIN TUPPER sent the following reply to me:

“A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit,”— Which I know was very clever; but I didn’t understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered—Patagonia, China, Norway, Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle, So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy, And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty— He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, “O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry? Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?”

But he answered, “I’m so happy—no profession could be dearer— If I am not humming ‘Tra! la! la!’ I’m singing ‘Tirer, lirer!’

“First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies, Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is;

“Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers; Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers.”—

“Found at last!” I madly shouted. “Gentle pieman, you astound me!” Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he’d quite a crowd around him— And I rushed away exclaiming, “I have found him! I have found him!”

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling, “‘Tira, lira!’ stop him, stop him! ‘Tra! la! la!’ the soup’s a shilling!”

But until I reached ELVIRA’S home, I never, never waited, And ELVIRA to her FERDINAND’S irrevocably mated!

TO MY BRIDE (WHOEVER SHE MAY BE.)

OH! little maid!—(I do not know your name Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution I’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 classified As 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 twice Already, 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 care With 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 one Is 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.

SIR MACKLIN.

OF all the youths I ever saw None 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 talked From three to six, or even later.

SIR MACKLIN was a priest severe In conduct and in conversation, It did a sinner good to hear Him deal in ratiocination.

He could in every action show Some sin, and nobody could doubt him. He argued high, he argued low, He also argued round about him.

He wept to think each thoughtless youth Contained 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 find The course of life you’ve been and hit on— Sit down,” said he, “and never mind The 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 reach The ‘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 true Of 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 chanced To pass, and found the road encumbered; He noticed how the Churchman danced, And how his congregation slumbered.

The hundred and eleventh head The 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.” {44}

’TWAS on the shores that round our coast From 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:

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