Part 5

And Iron and Steel expressed surprise, The needles opened their well-drilled eyes, The pen-knives felt “shut up,” no doubt, The scissors declared themselves “cut out,” The kettles they boiled with rage, ’tis said, While every nail went off its head, And hither and thither began to roam, Till a hammer came up—and drove it home, While this magnetic Peripatetic Lover he lived to learn, By no endeavour, Can Magnet ever Attract a Silver Churn!

THE FAMILY FOOL

OH! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, If you listen to popular rumour; From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good humour! He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse; Yet though people forgive his transgression, There are one or two rules that all Family Fools Must observe, if they love their profession. There are one or two rules, Half-a-dozen, maybe, That all family fools, Of whatever degree, Must observe if they love their profession.

If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll need To consider each person’s auricular: What is all right for B would quite scandalise C (For C is so very particular); And D may be dull, and E’s very thick skull Is as empty of brains as a ladle; While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp, That he’s known your best joke from his cradle! When your humour they flout, You can’t let yourself go; And it does put you out When a person says, “Oh! I have known that old joke from my cradle!”

If your master is surly, from getting up early (And tempers are short in the morning), An inopportune joke is enough to provoke Him to give you, at once, a month’s warning. Then if you refrain, he is at you again, For he likes to get value for money: He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare, “If you know that you’re paid to be funny?” It adds to the tasks Of a merryman’s place, When your principal asks, With a scowl on his face, If you know that you’re paid to be funny?

Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.— Oh, beware of his anger provoking! Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his chair; He won’t understand practical joking. If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, You may get a bland smile from these sages; But should it, by chance, be imported from France, Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages! It’s a general rule, Though your zeal it may quench, If the Family Fool Makes a joke that’s too French, Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!

Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack, And your senses with toothache you’re losing, And you’re mopy and flat—they don’t fine you for that If you’re properly quaint and amusing! Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day, And took with her your trifle of money; Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind— They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny! It’s a comfort to feel If your partner should flit, Though you suffer a deal, They don’t mind it a bit— They don’t blame you—so long as you’re funny!

SANS SOUCI

I CANNOT tell what this love may be That cometh to all but not to me. It cannot be kind as they’d imply, Or why do these gentle ladies sigh? It cannot be joy and rapture deep, Or why do these gentle ladies weep? It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said, Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit Who foolishly hug and foster it. If love is a weed, how simple they Who gather and gather it, day by day! If love is a nettle that makes you smart, Why do you wear it next your heart? And if it be neither of these, say I, Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

A RECIPE

TAKE a pair of sparkling eyes, Hidden, ever and anon, In a merciful eclipse— Do not heed their mild surprise— Having passed the Rubicon. Take a pair of rosy lips; Take a figure trimly planned— Such as admiration whets (Be particular in this); Take a tender little hand, Fringed with dainty fingerettes, Press it—in parenthesis;— Take all these, you lucky man— Take and keep them, if you can.

Take a pretty little cot— Quite a miniature affair— Hung about with trellised vine, Furnish it upon the spot With the treasures rich and rare I’ve endeavoured to define. Live to love and love to live— You will ripen at your ease, Growing on the sunny side— Fate has nothing more to give. You’re a dainty man to please If you are not satisfied. Take my counsel, happy man: Act upon it, if you can!

THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID

HE. I HAVE a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the moon By a love-lorn loon, Who fled from the mocking throng, O! It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with the ring Of the song maids sing Who love with a love life-long, O! It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

HE. I have a song to sing, O! SHE. Sing me your song, O! HE. It is sung to the knell Of a churchyard bell, And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O! It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scorn At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!

SHE. I have a song to sing, O! HE. Sing me your song, O! SHE. It is sung with a sigh And a tear in the eye, For it tells of a righted wrong, O! It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay, Who turned on her heel and tripped away From the peacock popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scorn At the humble heart that he did not prize; And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes, For the love of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! BOTH. Heighdy! heighdy! Misery me—lackadaydee! His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more. For he lived in the love of a ladye!

THE SUSCEPTIBLE CHANCELLOR

THE law is the true embodiment Of everything that’s excellent. It has no kind of fault or flaw, And I, my lords, embody the Law. The constitutional guardian I Of pretty young Wards in Chancery, All very agreeable girls—and none Is over the age of twenty-one. A pleasant occupation for A rather susceptible Chancellor!

But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can’t be denied That it has its inconvenient side. For I’m not so old, and not so plain, And I’m quite prepared to marry again, But there’d be the deuce to pay in the Lords If I fell in love with one of my Wards: Which rather tries my temper, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor!

And every one who’d marry a Ward Must come to me for my accord: So in my court I sit all day, Giving agreeable girls away, With one for him—and one for he— And one for you—and one for ye— And one for thou—and one for thee— But never, oh never a one for me! Which is exasperating, for A highly susceptible Chancellor!

WHEN A MERRY MAIDEN MARRIES

WHEN a merry maiden marries, Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right and nothing’s wrong! From to-day and ever after Let your tears be tears of laughter— Every sigh that finds a vent Be a sigh of sweet content! When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with love is laden; Every flower is a rose, Every goose becomes a swan, Every kind of trouble goes Where the last year’s snows have gone; Sunlight takes the place of shade When you marry merry maid!

When a merry maiden marries Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries; Every sound becomes a song, All is right, and nothing’s wrong. Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow, Get ye gone until to-morrow; Jealousies in grim array, Ye are things of yesterday! When you marry merry maiden, Then the air with joy is laden; All the corners of the earth Ring with music sweetly played, Worry is melodious mirth, Grief is joy in masquerade; Sullen night is laughing day— All the year is merry May!

THE BRITISH TAR

A BRITISH tar is a soaring soul, As free as a mountain bird, His energetic fist should be ready to resist A dictatorial word. His nose should pant and his lip should curl, His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, His bosom should heave and his heart should glow, And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.

His eyes should flash with an inborn fire, His brow with scorn be rung; He never should bow down to a domineering frown, Or the tang of a tyrant tongue. His foot should stamp and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl and his face should scowl; His eyes should flash and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary attitude!