Part 10

“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy (Continuing to blaze away), “You think my face a source of joy; That shows you know not what you say.

“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: I’m always thrown in some such state When on his face well-meaning chaps This wretched man congratulate.

“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin— This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too, Have always been the origin Of all the woes I ever knew!

“If to the play my way I find, To see a grand Shakesperian piece, I have no rest, no ease of mind Until the author’s puppets cease.

“Men nudge each other—thus—and say, ‘This certainly is SHAKESPEARE’S son,’ And merry wags (of course in play) Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.

“In church the people stare at me, Their soul the sermon never binds; I catch them looking round to see, And thoughts of SHAKESPEARE fill their minds.

“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, Who find it difficult to crown A bust with BROWN’S insipid smile, Or TOMKINS’S unmannered frown,

“Yet boldly make my face their own, When (oh, presumption!) they require To animate a paving-stone With SHAKESPEARE’S intellectual fire.

“At parties where young ladies gaze, And I attempt to speak my joy, ‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says, ‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’

“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung With these or some such whisperings: ‘’Tis pity that a SHAKESPEARE’S tongue Should say such un-Shakesperian things!’

“I should not thus be criticised Had I a face of common wont: Don’t envy me—now, be advised!” And, now I think of it, I don’t!

GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

A LEAFY cot, where no dry rot Had ever been by tenant seen, Where ivy clung and wopses stung, Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed, Where treeses grew and breezes blew— A thatchy roof, quite waterproof, Where countless herds of dicky-birds Built twiggy beds to lay their heads (My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,” But though it’s true that dickies do Construct a nest with chirpy noise, With view to rest their eggy joys, ’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds, As I explain to her in vain Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes). ’Neath such a cot, built on a plot Of freehold land, dwelt MARY and Her worthy father, named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

He knew no guile, this simple man, No worldly wile, or plot, or plan, Except that plot of freehold land That held the cot, and MARY, and Her worthy father, named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

A grave and learned scholar he, Yet simple as a child could be. He’d shirk his meal to sit and cram A goodish deal of Eton Gram. No man alive could him nonplus With vocative of filius; No man alive more fully knew The passive of a verb or two; None better knew the worth than he Of words that end in b, d, t. Upon his green in early spring He might be seen endeavouring To understand the hooks and crooks Of HENRY and his Latin books; Or calling for his “Cæsar on The Gallic War,” like any don; Or, p’raps, expounding unto all How mythic BALBUS built a wall. So lived the sage who’s named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

To him one autumn day there came A lovely youth of mystic name: He took a lodging in the house, And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse, For, oh! that mild scholastic one Let shooting for a single gun.

By three or four, when sport was o’er, The Mystic One laid by his gun, And made sheep’s eyes of giant size, Till after tea, at MARY P. And MARY P. (so kind was she), She, too, made eyes of giant size, Whose every dart right through the heart Appeared to run that Mystic One. The Doctor’s whim engrossing him, He did not know they flirted so. For, save at tea, “musa musæ,” As I’m advised, monopolised And rendered blind his giant mind. But looking up above his cup One afternoon, he saw them spoon. “Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass! As quaint old OVID says, ‘Amas!’”

The Mystic Youth avowed the truth, And, claiming ruth, he said, “In sooth I love your daughter, aged man: Refuse to join us if you can. Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn, I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.” “Young sir,” the aged scholar said, “I never thought you meant to wed: Engrossed completely with my books, I little noticed lovers’ looks. I’ve lived so long away from man, I do not know of any plan By which to test a lover’s worth, Except, perhaps, the test of birth. I’ve half forgotten in this wild A father’s duty to his child. It is his place, I think it’s said, To see his daughters richly wed To dignitaries of the earth— If possible, of noble birth. If noble birth is not at hand, A father may, I understand (And this affords a chance for you), Be satisfied to wed her to A BOUCICAULT or BARING—which Means any one who’s very rich. Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,— My child and I will go and try If he will make the maid his bride— If not, to you she shall be tied.”

They sought the Earl that very day; The Sage began to say his say. The Earl (a very wicked man, Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban) Cut short the scholar’s simple tale, And said in voice to make them quail, “Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt— Here, PETERS, turn these people out!”

The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth, Returning, met the Mystic Youth. “My darling boy,” the Scholar said, “Take MARY—blessings on your head!”

The Mystic Boy undid his vest, And took a parchment from his breast, And said, “Now, by that noble brow, I ne’er knew father such as thou! The sterling rule of common sense Now reaps its proper recompense. Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen, For I am DUKE OF GRETNA GREEN!”

THE KING OF CANOODLE-DUM

THE story of FREDERICK GOWLER, A mariner of the sea, Who quitted his ship, the Howler, A-sailing in Caribbee. For many a day he wandered, Till he met in a state of rum CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP, The King of Canoodle-Dum.

That monarch addressed him gaily, “Hum! Golly de do to-day? Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee”— (You notice his playful way?)— “What dickens you doin’ here, sar? Why debbil you want to come? Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn’t no sea In City Canoodle-Dum!”

And GOWLER he answered sadly, “Oh, mine is a doleful tale! They’ve treated me werry badly In Lunnon, from where I hail. I’m one of the Family Royal— No common Jack Tar you see; I’m WILLIAM THE FOURTH, far up in the North, A King in my own countree!”

Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered! Bang-bang! How they thumped this gongs! Bang-bang! How the people wondered! Bang-bang! At it hammer and tongs! Alliance with Kings of Europe Is an honour Canoodlers seek, Her monarchs don’t stop with PEPPERMINT DROP Every day in the week!

FRED told them that he was undone, For his people all went insane, And fired the Tower of London, And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane. And some of them racked St. James’s, And vented their rage upon The Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall, And the Angel at Islington.

CALAMITY POP implored him In his capital to remain Till those people of his restored him To power and rank again. CALAMITY POP he made him A Prince of Canoodle-Dum, With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves, And the run of the royal rum.