Part 8

In Westminster Hall I danced a dance, Like a semi-despondent fury; For I thought I should never hit on a chance Of addressing a British Jury— But I soon got tired of third-class journeys, And dinners of bread and water; So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter.

The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes, And replied to my fond professions: “You shall reap the reward of your enterprise, At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions. You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he, “And a very nice girl you’ll find her— She may very well pass for forty-three In the dusk, with a light behind her!”

The rich attorney was as good as his word: The briefs came trooping gaily, And every day my voice was heard At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey. All thieves who could my fees afford Relied on my orations, And many a burglar I’ve restored To his friends and his relations.

At length I became as rich as the GURNEYS— An incubus then I thought her, So I threw over that rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter. The rich attorney my character high Tried vainly to disparage— And now, if you please, I’m ready to try This Breach of Promise of Marriage!

WHEN I FIRST PUT THIS UNIFORM ON

WHEN I first put this uniform on, I said, as I looked in the glass, “It’s one to a million That any civilian My figure and form will surpass. Gold lace has a charm for the fair, And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare, While a lover’s professions, When uttered in Hessians, Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put this uniform on!

I said, when I first put it on, “It is plain to the veriest dunce That every beauty Will feel it her duty To yield to its glamour at once. They will see that I’m freely gold-laced In a uniform handsome and chaste”— But the peripatetics Of long-haired æsthetics, Are very much more to their taste— Which I never counted upon When I first put this uniform on!

SOLATIUM

COMES the broken flower— Comes the cheated maid— Though the tempest lower, Rain and cloud will fade! Take, O maid, these posies: Though thy beauty rare Shame the blushing roses, They are passing fair! Wear the flowers till they fade; Happy be thy life, O maid!

O’er the season vernal, Time may cast a shade; Sunshine, if eternal, Makes the roses fade: Time may do his duty; Let the thief alone— Winter hath a beauty That is all his own. Fairest days are sun and shade: Happy be thy life, O maid!

A NIGHTMARE

WHEN you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety; For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you: First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you; Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking, And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and toss till there’s nothing ’twixt you and the ticking. Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick ’em all up in a tangle; Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle! Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching, But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you’d very much better be waking; For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich, Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage; And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations— They’re a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations. And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon); He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised when he tells you he’s only eleven. Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship’s now a four-wheeler), And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that “ties pay the dealer”; But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you’re as cold as an icicle, In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle: And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they’ve somehow or other invested in— And he’s telling the tars all the particulars of a company he’s interested in— It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables (Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vegetables— You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree), And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree— From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries, While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries— The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and BARING, And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing— You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in clover; But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and thank goodness they’re both of them over!

DON’T FORGET!

NOW, Marco, dear, My wishes hear: While you’re away It’s understood You will be good, And not too gay. To every trace Of maiden grace You will be blind, And will not glance By any chance On womankind! If you are wise, You’ll shut your eyes Till we arrive, And not address A lady less Than forty-five; You’ll please to frown On every gown That you may see; And O, my pet, You won’t forget You’ve married me!

O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don’t forget you’ve married me!

You’ll lay your head Upon your bed At set of sun. You will not sing Of anything To any one: You’ll sit and mope All day, I hope, And shed a tear Upon the life Your little wife Is passing here! And if so be You think of me, Please tell the moon; I’ll read it all In rays that fall On the lagoon: You’ll be so kind As tell the wind How you may be, And send me words By little birds To comfort me!

And O, my darling, O, my pet, Whatever else you may forget, In yonder isle beyond the sea, O, don’t forget you’ve married me!

THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE

ON a tree by a river a little tomtit Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’? Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried, “Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?” With a shake of his poor little head he replied, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow! He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave— “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name Isn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow, That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!” And if you remain callous and obdurate, I Shall perish as he did, and you will know why, Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die, “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

HE AND SHE

HE. I know a youth who loves a little maid— (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Silent is he, for he’s modest and afraid— (Hey, but he’s timid as a youth can be!) SHE. I know a maid who loves a gallant youth— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) She cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth— (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do?

HE. He cannot eat and he cannot sleep— (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep— (Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!) SHE. She’s very thin and she’s very pale— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail— (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) BOTH. Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do?

SHE. If I were the youth I should offer her my name— (Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!) HE. If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame— (Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!) SHE. If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day— (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) HE. If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way— (For I really do believe that timid youth will die!) BOTH. I thank you much for your counsel true; I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

THE MIGHTY MUST

COME mighty Must! Inevitable Shall! In thee I trust. Time weaves my coronal! Go mocking Is! Go disappointing Was! That I am this Ye are the cursed cause! Yet humble Second shall be First, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been!

Oh weak Might Be! Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should! How powerless ye For evil or for good! In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate’er your tense Ye are Imperfect, all! Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown In ye! Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be!