Part 18

“Your wisest men are very far Less learned than our babies are!” I mused awhile—and then, oh me! I framed this brilliant repartee:

“Although your babes are wiser far Than 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 late For 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 bell I ought to do extremely well.

THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN

I OFTEN wonder whether you Think sometimes of that Bishop, who From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo Last summer twelvemonth came. Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bring Remembrance of the man I sing To-day, by simply mentioning That PETER was his name.

Remember how that holy man Came with the great Colonial clan To Synod, called Pan-Anglican; And kindly recollect How, having crossed the ocean wide, To please his flock all means he tried Consistent with a proper pride And manly self-respect.

He only, of the reverend pack Who minister to Christians black, Brought any useful knowledge back To his Colonial fold. In consequence a place I claim For “PETER” on the scroll of Fame (For PETER was that Bishop’s name, As I’ve already told).

He carried Art, he often said, To places where that timid maid (Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid) Could never hope to roam. The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught As he had learnt it; for he thought The choicest fruits of Progress ought To bless the Negro’s home.

And he had other work to do, For, while he tossed upon the Blue, The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Forgot their kindly friend. Their decent clothes they learnt to tear— They learnt to say, “I do not care,” Though they, of course, were well aware How folks, who say so, end.

Some sailors, whom he did not know, Had landed there not long ago, And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!” (Of wickedness the germs). No need to use a casuist’s pen To prove that they were merchantmen; No sailor of the Royal N. Would use such awful terms.

And so, when BISHOP PETER came (That was the kindly Bishop’s name), He heard these dreadful oaths with shame, And chid their want of dress. (Except a shell—a bangle rare— A feather here—a feather there The South Pacific Negroes wear Their native nothingness.)

He taught them that a Bishop loathes To listen to disgraceful oaths, He gave them all his left-off clothes— They bent them to his will. The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round; In PETER’S left-off clothes they bound (His three-and-twenty suits they found In fair condition still).

The Bishop’s eyes with water fill, Quite overjoyed to find them still Obedient to his sovereign will, And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo! Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare: I’ll dress myself in cowries rare, And fasten feathers in my hair, And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’”

And to conciliate his See He married PICCADILLILLEE, The youngest of his twenty-three, Tall—neither fat nor thin. (And though the dress he made her don Looks awkwardly a girl upon, It was a great improvement on The one he found her in.)

The Bishop in his gay canoe (His wife, of course, went with him too) To some adjacent island flew, To spend his honeymoon. Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo A little PETER’ll be on view; And that (if people tell me true) Is like to happen soon.

A WORM WILL TURN

I LOVE a man who’ll smile and joke When with misfortune crowned; Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke, And as he breaks his daily toke, Conundrums gay propound.

Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP, He scoffed at Fortune’s frown; He gaily drained his bitter cup— Though Fortune often threw him up, It never cast him down.

Though years their share of sorrow bring, We know that far above All other griefs, are griefs that spring From some misfortune happening To those we really love.

E’en sorrow for another’s woe Our BERNARD failed to quell; Though by this special form of blow No person ever suffered so, Or bore his grief so well.

His father, wealthy and well clad, And owning house and park, Lost every halfpenny he had, And then became (extremely sad!) A poor attorney’s clerk.

All sons it surely would appal, Except the passing meek, To see a father lose his all, And from an independence fall To one pound ten a week!

But JUPP shook off this sorrow’s weight, And, like a Christian son, Proved Poverty a happy fate— Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait, To lure poor sinners on.

With other sorrows BERNARD coped, For sorrows came in packs; His cousins with their housemaids sloped— His uncles forged—his aunts eloped— His sisters married blacks.

But BERNARD, far from murmuring (Exemplar, friends, to us), Determined to his faith to cling,— He made the best of everything, And argued softly thus:

“’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knack Too rudely to condemn— My aunts, repentant, may come back, And blacks are nothing like as black As people colour them!”

Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife, Maintained relentless fight: His grandmamma next lost her life, Then died the mother of his wife, But still he seemed all right.