Part 15

And when he learnt the curious fact, Did he emotion show, Or dry her tears or end her fears By marrying her? No!

Or did he even try to soothe This maiden in her teens? Oh, no!—instead he made her wed The Sergeant of Marines!

Of course such Spartan discipline Would make an angel fret; They drew a lot, and WILLIAM shot This fearful martinet.

The Admiralty saw how ill They’d treated CAPTAIN REECE; He was restored once more aboard The saucy Mantelpiece.

THE SAILOR BOY TO HIS LASS

I GO away this blessed day, To sail across the sea, MATILDA! My vessel starts for various parts At twenty after three, MATILDA. I hardly know where we may go, Or if it’s near or far, MATILDA, For CAPTAIN HYDE does not confide In any ’fore-mast tar, MATILDA!

Beneath my ban that mystic man Shall suffer, coûte qui coûte, MATILDA! What right has he to keep from me The Admiralty route, MATILDA? Because, forsooth! I am a youth Of common sailors’ lot, MATILDA! Am I a man on human plan Designed, 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 go To 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 tongue Right 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 drink The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA! Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA! Recall again the mental pain Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA! And be assured that I’ve endured It, all along of you, MATILDA!

Do you forget, my blithesome pet, How once with jealous rage, MATILDA, I watched you walk and gaily talk With 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 spot Some 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 gruff Enough, I own; but, ah, MATILDA! It did annoy your sailor boy To 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 ache Until 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 boot Upon a summer day, MATILDA— It’s my belief, could cause such grief As that I’ve suffered for, MATILDA, My having shot in vital spot Your old progenitor, MATILDA.

Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow I made one winter day, MATILDA— That, come what could, I never would Remain 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 now You treat me so unkind, MATILDA!

For when at sea, off Caribbee, I felt my passion burn, MATILDA, By passion egged, I went and begged The captain to return, MATILDA. And when, my pet, I couldn’t get That captain to agree, MATILDA, Right through a sort of open port I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!

Remember, too, how all the crew With indignation blind, MATILDA, Distinctly swore they ne’er before Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA. And how they’d shun me one by one— An unforgiving group, MATILDA— I stopped their howls and sulky scowls By pizening their soup, MATILDA!

So pause to think, before you drink The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA; Remember, do, what I’ve gone through, Before you give me up, MATILDA. Recall again the mental pain Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA, And be assured that I’ve endured It, all along of you, MATILDA!

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, I Have 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 decease Would 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 grieve This 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 souls Of human sheep and human kids To that divine who highest bids.

“Do well in this, and on your head Unnumbered honours will be shed.” The agent said, “Well, truth to tell, I have been doing very well.”