Part 1 — PART I

The auld wife sat at her ivied door, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) A thing she had frequently done before; And her spectacles lay on her apron’d knees. The piper he piped on the hilltop high, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) Till the cow said “I die,” and the goose asked “Why?” And the dog said nothing, but search’d for fleas. The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) His last brew of ale was a trifle hard— The connection of which the plot one sees. The farmer’s daughter hath frank blue eyes; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies. As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. The farmer’s daughter hath ripe red lips; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) If you try to approach her, away she skips Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. The farmer’s daughter hath soft brown hair; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can’t say where, Which wholly consisted of lines like these. PART II She sat with her hands ’neath her dimpled cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And spake not a word. While a lady speaks There is hope, but she didn’t even sneeze. She sat, with her hands ’neath her crimson cheeks; (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) She gave up mending her father’s breeks, And let the cat roll in her new chemise. She sat with her hands ’neath her burning cheeks, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; Then she follow’d him o’er the misty leas. Her sheep follow’d her, as their tails did them, (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And this song is consider’d a perfect gem, And as to the meaning, it’s what you please.

You see this pebble-stone? It’s a thing I bought Of a bit of a chit of a boy i’ the mid o’ the day. I like to dock the smaller parts o’ speech, As we curtail the already cur-tail’d cur— (You catch the paronomasia, play ’po’ words?) Did, rather, i’ the pre-Landseerian days. Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, And clapt it i’ my poke, having given for same By way o’ chop, swop, barter or exchange— “Chop” was my snickering dandiprat’s own term— One shilling and fourpence, current coin o’ the realm. O-n-e one, and f-o-u-r four Pence, one and fourpence—you are with me, sir?— What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o’ the clock, One day (and what a roaring day it was Go shop or sight-see—bar a spit o’ rain!) In February, eighteen, sixty-nine, Alexandria Victoria, Fidei— Hm—hm—how runs the jargon? being on the throne. Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, The basis or substratum—what you will— Of the impending eighty thousand lines. “Not much in ’em either,” quoth perhaps simple Hodge. But there’s a superstructure. Wait a bit. Mark first the rationale of the thing: Hear logic rivel and levigate the deed. That shilling—and for matter o’ that, the pence— I had o’ course upo’ me—wi’ me say— (Mecum’s the Latin, make a note o’ that) When I popp’d pen i’ stand, scratch’d ear, wiped snout, (Let everybody wipe his own himself) Sniff’d—tch!—at snuff-box; tumbled up, teheed, Haw-haw’d (not hee-haw’d, that’s another guess thing), Then fumbled at and stumbled out of, door. I shoved the timber ope wi’ my omoplat; And in vestibulo, i’ the lobby to wit (Iacobi Facciolati’s rendering, sir), Donn’d galligaskins, antigropeloes, And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, One on and one a-dangle i’ my hand, And ombrifuge (Lord love you!), case o’ rain, I flopp’d forth, ’sbuddikins! on my own ten toes (I do assure you there be ten of them), And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale To find myself o’ the sudden i’ front o’ the boy. But case I hadn’t ’em on me, could I ha’ bought This sort-o’-kind-o’-what-you-might-call toy, This pebble thing, o’ the boy-thing? Q. E. D. That’s proven without aid from mumping Pope, Sleek proporate or bloated Cardinal. (Isn’t it, old Fatchaps? You’re in Euclid now.) So, having the shilling—having i’ fact a lot— And pence and halfpence, ever so many o’ them, I purchased, as I think I said before, The pebble (lapis, lapidis,-di,-dem,-de— What nouns ’crease short i’ the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) O’ the boy, a bare-legg’d beggarly son of a gun, For one and fourpence. Here we are again. Now Law steps in, bigwigg’d, voluminous-jaw’d; Investigates and re-investigates. Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case. At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. But now (by virtue of the said exchange And barter) vice versa all the coin, Per juris operationem, vests I’ the boy and his assigns till ding o’ doom; (In sæcula sæculo-o-o-rum; I think I hear the Abate mouth out that.) To have and hold the same to him and them. Confer some idiot on Conveyancing. Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, And all that appertaineth thereunto, Quodcunque pertinet ad eam rem (I fancy, sir, my Latin’s rather pat), Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would or should (Subaudi cætera—clap we to the close— For what’s the good of Law in a case o’ the kind), Is mine to all intents and purposes. This settled, I resume the thread o’ the tale. Now for a touch o’ the vendor’s quality. He says a gen’lman bought a pebble of him (This pebble i’ sooth, sir, which I hold i’ my hand), And paid for’t, like a gen’lman, on the nail. “Did I o’ercharge him a ha’penny? Devil a bit. Fiddlepin’s end! Get out, you blazing ass! Gabble o’ the goose. Don’t bugaboo-baby me! Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what’s the odds?” There’s the transaction view’d i’ the vendor’s light. Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, With her three frowsy blowsy brats o’ babes, The scum o’ the kennel, cream o’ the filth-heap—Faugh! Aie, aie, aie, aie! οτοτοτοτοτοι (’Stead which we blurt out Hoighty toighty now), And the baker and candlestickmaker, and Jack and Jill, Blear’d Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first. He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad A stone, and pay for it rite, on the square, And carry it off per saltum, jauntily, Propria quae maribus, gentleman’s property now (Agreeably to the law explain’d above), In proprium usum, for his private ends, The boy he chuck’d a brown i’ the air, and bit I’ the face the shilling; heaved a thumping stone At a lean hen that ran cluck clucking by (And hit her, dead as nail i’ post o’ door), Then abiit—what’s the Ciceronian phrase?— Excessit, evasit, erupit—off slogs boy; Off like bird, avi similis—you observed The dative? Pretty i’ the Mantuan!)—Anglice Off in three flea skips. Hactenus, so far, So good, tam bene. Bene, satis, male,— Where was I with my trope ’bout one in a quag? I did once hitch the syntax into verse: Verbum personale, a verb personal, Concordat—ay, “agrees,” old Fatchaps—cum Nominativo, with its nominative, Genere, i’ point o’ gender, numero, O’ number, et persona, and person. Ut, Instance: Sol ruit, down flops sun, et, and, Montes umbrantur, out flounce mountains. Pah! Excuse me, sir, I think I’m going mad. You see the trick on ’t though, and can yourself Continue the discourse ad libitum. It takes up about eighty thousand lines, A thing imagination boggles at; And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, Extend from here to Mesopotamy.

In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; Meaning, however, is no great matter) Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween; Through God’s own heather we wonned together, I and my Willie (O love my love): I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, And flitterbats wavered alow, above: Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing (Boats in that climate are so polite), And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight! Through the rare red heather we danced together, (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: I must mention again it was glorious weather, Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:— By rises that flushed with their purple favors, Through becks that brattled o’er grasses sheen, We walked or waded, we two young shavers, Thanking our stars we were both so green. We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, In “fortunate parallels!” Butterflies, Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly Or marjoram, kept making peacock’s eyes: Song-birds darted about, some inky As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky— They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds! But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, Or hang in the lift ’neath a white cloud’s hem; They need no parasols, no galoshes; And good Mrs. Trimmer she feedeth them. Then we thrid God’s cowslips (as erst his heather) That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; And snapt—(it was perfectly charming weather)— Our fingers at Fate and her goddess-glooms: And Willie ’gan sing—(O, his notes were fluty; Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)— Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, Rhymes (better to put it) of “ancientry”: Bowers of flowers encountered showers In William’s carol (O love my Willie!) When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe To-morrow I quite forget what—say a daffodilly: A nest in a hollow, “with buds to follow,” I think occurred next in his nimble strain; And clay that was “kneaden” of course in Eden— A rhyme most novel, I do maintain: Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, And all least furlable things got “furled”; Not with any design to conceal their glories, But simply and solely to rhyme with “world.” ***** O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, Could be furled together this genial weather, And carted, or carried on wafts away, Nor ever again trotted out—ah me! How much fewer volumes of verse there’d be!

Thou who, when fears attack, Bid’st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman’s back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is gray; Sweet, when they’ve cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest: I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it: How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving-knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbors; Jones—(who, I’m glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)— Daily absorbs a clay After his labors. Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We’re not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here’s to thee, Bacon!

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. “Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!” He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought— So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” He chortled in his joy. ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

I’ll tell thee everything I can; There’s little to relate. I saw an aged aged man, A-sitting on a gate. “Who are you, aged man?” I said, “And how is it you live?” His answer trickled through my head Like water through a sieve. He said, “I look for butterflies That sleep among the wheat: I make them into mutton-pies, And sell them in the street. I sell them unto men,” he said, “Who sail on stormy seas; And that’s the way I get my bread— A trifle, if you please.” But I was thinking of a plan To dye one’s whiskers green, And always use so large a fan That they could not be seen. So, having no reply to give To what the old man said, I cried, “Come, tell me how you live!” And thumped him on the head. His accents mild took up the tale; He said, “I go my ways And when I find a mountain-rill I set it in a blaze; And thence they make a stuff they call Rowland’s Macassar Oil— Yet twopence-halfpenny is all They give me for my toil.” But I was thinking of a way To feed oneself on batter, And so go on from day to day Getting a little fatter. I shook him well from side to side, Until his face was blue; “Come, tell me how you live,” I cried, “And what it is you do!” He said, “I hunt for haddock’s eyes Among the heather bright, And work them into waistcoat-buttons In the silent night. And these I do not sell for gold Or coin of silvery shine, But for a copper halfpenny And that will purchase nine. “I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, Or set limed twigs for crabs; I sometimes search the grassy knolls For wheels of Hansom cabs. And that’s the way” (he gave a wink) “By which I get my wealth— And very gladly will I drink Your Honor’s noble health.” I heard him then, for I had just Completed my design To keep the Menai Bridge from rust By boiling it in wine. I thanked him much for telling me The way he got his wealth, But chiefly for his wish that he Might drink my noble health. And now if e’er by chance I put My fingers into glue, Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot Into a left-hand shoe, Or if I drop upon my toe A very heavy weight, I weep, for it reminds me so Of that old man I used to know— Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, Whose hair was whiter than the snow, Whose face was very like a crow, With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, Who seemed distracted with his woe, Who rocked his body to and fro, And muttered mumblingly, and low, As if his mouth were full of dough, Who snorted like a buffalo— That summer evening, long ago, A-sitting on a gate.

He thought he saw an Elephant, That practised on a fife: He looked again, and found it was A letter from his wife. “At length I realize,” he said, “The bitterness of Life!” He thought he saw a Buffalo Upon the chimney-piece: He looked again, and found it was His Sister’s Husband’s Niece. “Unless you leave this house,” he said, “I’ll send for the Police!” He thought he saw a Rattlesnake That questioned him in Greek: He looked again, and found it was The Middle of Next Week. “The one thing I regret,” he said, “Is that it cannot speak!” He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk Descending from the ’bus: He looked again, and found it was A Hippopotamus: “If this should stay to dine,” he said, “There won’t be much for us!”

There was an old man of Thermopylæ, Who never did anything properly; But they said: “If you choose To boil eggs in your shoes, You cannot remain in Thermopylæ.” There was an Old Man who said, “Hush! I perceive a young bird in this bush!” When they said, “Is it small?” He replied, “Not at all; It is four times as big as the bush!” There was an Old Man who supposed That the street door was partially closed; But some very large Rats Ate his coats and his hats, While that futile Old Gentleman dozed. There was an Old Man of Leghorn, The smallest that ever was born; But quickly snapt up he Was once by a Puppy, Who devoured that Old Man of Leghorn. There was an Old Man of Kamschatka Who possessed a remarkably fat Cur; His gait and his waddle Were held as a model To all the fat dogs in Kamschatka.

Two old Bachelors were living in one house One caught a Muffin, the other caught a Mouse. Said he who caught the Muffin to him who caught the Mouse, “This happens just in time, for we’ve nothing in the house, Save a tiny slice of lemon and a teaspoonful of honey, And what to do for dinner,—since we haven’t any money? And what can we expect if we haven’t any dinner But to lose our teeth and eyelashes and keep on growing thinner?” Said he who caught the Mouse to him who caught the Muffin, “We might cook this little Mouse if we only had some Stuffin’! If we had but Sage and Onions we could do extremely well, But how to get that Stuffin’ it is difficult to tell!” And then these two old Bachelors ran quickly to the town And asked for Sage and Onions as they wandered up and down; They borrowed two large Onions, but no Sage was to be found In the Shops or in the Market or in all the Gardens round. But some one said, “A hill there is, a little to the north, And to its purpledicular top a narrow way leads forth; And there among the rugged rocks abides an ancient Sage,— An earnest Man, who reads all day a most perplexing page. Climb up and seize him by the toes,—all studious as he sits,— And pull him down, and chop him into endless little bits! Then mix him with your Onion (cut up likewise into scraps), And your Stuffin’ will be ready, and very good—perhaps.” And then these two old Bachelors, without loss of time, The nearly purpledicular crags at once began to climb; And at the top among the rocks, all seated in a nook, They saw that Sage a-reading of a most enormous book. “You earnest Sage!” aloud they cried, “your book you’ve read enough in! We wish to chop you into bits and mix you into Stuffin’!” But that old Sage looked calmly up, and with his awful book At those two Bachelors’ bald heads a certain aim he took; And over crag and precipice they rolled promiscuous down,— At once they rolled, and never stopped in lane or field or town; And when they reached their house, they found (besides their want of Stuffin’) The Mouse had fled—and previously had eaten up the Muffin. They left their home in silence by the once convivial door; And from that hour those Bachelors were never heard of more.

One, who is not, we see: but one, whom we see not, is; Surely this is not that: but that is assuredly this. What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under; If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without thunder. Doubt is faith in the main: but faith, on the whole, is doubt; We cannot believe by proof: but could we believe without? Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover; Neither are straight lines curves: yet over is under and over. Two and two may be four: but four and four are not eight; Fate and God may be twain: but God is the same thing as fate. Ask a man what he thinks, and get from a man what he feels; God, once caught in the fact, shews you a fair pair of heels. Body and spirit are twins: God only knows which is which; The soul squats down in the flesh, like a tinker drunk in a ditch. One and two are not one: but one and nothing is two; Truth can hardly be false, if falsehood cannot be true. Once the mastodon was: pterodactyls were common as cocks; Then the mammoth was God: now is He a prize ox. Parallels all things are: yet many of these are askew. You are certainly I: but certainly I am not you. Springs the rock from the plain, shoots the stream from the rock; Cocks exist for the hen: but hens exist for the cock. God, whom we see not, is: and God, who is not, we see; Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle, we take it, is dee.

From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous moonshine, Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean from a marvel of mystic miraculous moonshine, These that we feel in the blood of our blushes that thicken and threaten with throbs through the throat? Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal of an actor’s appalled agitation, Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than pale with the promise of pride in the past; Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous touch on the temples of terror, Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death; Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic emotional exquisite error, Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself by beatitude’s breath. Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to the spirit and soul of our senses Sweetens the stress of surprising suspicion that sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical moods and triangular tenses,— “Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day when we die.” Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, melodiously mute as it may be, While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised by the breach of men’s rapiers, resigned to the rod; Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, As they grope through the grave-yard of creeds, under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old, and its binding is blacker than bluer: Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, and their dews are the wine of the bloodshed of things: Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kennel of kings.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,— This was the Pompadour’s fan! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falaba, queue, Cardinal, duke,—to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,— This was the Pompadour’s fan! Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez-vous Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began;— Here was the sign and the cue,— This was the Pompadour’s fan! Envoy Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? —But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour’s fan!

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write A Rondeau. What! forthwith?—tonight? Reflect? Some skill I have, ’tis true; But thirteen lines!—and rhymed on two!— “Refrain,” as well. Ah, hapless plight! Still there are five lines—ranged aright. These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright My easy Muse. They did, till you— You bid me try! That makes them eight.—The port’s in sight; ’Tis all because your eyes are bright! Now just a pair to end in “oo,”— When maids command, what can’t we do? Behold! The Rondeau—tasteful, light— You bid me try!

I am an ancient Jest! Paleolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, ’Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest. I am an early Jest! Man delved and built and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, I journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed,— From Beersheba to Dan,— I am a Merry Jest. I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I’m found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I’m dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest! Prince, you may storm and ban— Joe Millers are a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest!

Oh, where are the endless Romances Our grandmothers used to adore? The knights with their helms and their lances, Their shields and the favours they wore? And the monks with their magical lore? They have passed to Oblivion and Nox, They have fled to the shadowy shore,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box! And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The epics in cantos a score, They have been and are not: no more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box! And the music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that time may not restore? And the tomes where Divinity prances? And the pamphlets where heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,— The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,— They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core, They are all in the Fourpenny Box! Envoy Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

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! Of 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!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through pathless realms of Space Roll on! What though I’m in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer toothache’s ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never you mind! Roll on! Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air, Roll on! It’s true I have no shirts to wear; It’s true my butcher’s bill is due; It’s true my prospects all look blue— But don’t let that unsettle you: Never you mind! Roll on! (It rolls on).

It was a robber’s daughter, and her name was Alice Brown, Her father was the terror of a small Italian town; Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing; But it isn’t of her parents that I’m going for to sing. As Alice was a-sitting at her window-sill one day A beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way; She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true, That she thought, “I could be happy with a gentleman like you!” And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen; She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten, A sorter in the Custom House it was his daily road (The Custom House was fifteen minutes’ walk from her abode). But Alice was a pious girl and knew it was not wise To look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes, So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed— The priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. “Oh holy father,” Alice said, “’twould grieve you, would it not? To discover that I was a most disreputable lot! Of all unhappy sinners I’m the most unhappy one!” The padre said “Whatever have you been and gone and done?” “I have helped mamma to steal a little kiddy from its dad, I’ve assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I’ve planned a little burglary and forged a little cheque, And slain a little baby for the coral on its neck!” The worthy pastor heaved a sigh, and dropped a silent tear— And said “You mustn’t judge yourself too heavily, my dear— It’s wrong to murder babies, little corals for to fleece; But sins like these one expiates at half-a-crown apiece. “Girls will be girls—you’re very young and flighty in your mind; Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find: We mustn’t be too hard upon these little girlish tricks— Let’s see—five crimes at half a crown—exactly twelve-and six.” “Oh father,” little Alice cried, “your kindness makes me weep, You do these little things for me so singularly cheap— Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget; But, oh, there is another crime I haven’t mentioned yet! “A pleasant-looking gentleman, with pretty purple eyes,— I’ve noticed at my window, as I’ve sat a-catching flies; He passes by it every day as certain as can be— I blush to say I’ve winked at him, and he has winked at me!” “For shame,” said Father Paul, “my erring daughter! On my word This is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand To a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band! “This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so! They are the most remunerative customers I know; For many, many years they’ve kept starvation from my doors, I never knew so criminal a family as yours! “The common country folk in this insipid neighbourhood Have nothing to confess, they’re so ridiculously good; And if you marry anyone respectable at all, Why, you’ll reform, and what will then become of Father Paul?” The worthy priest, he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, And started off in haste to tell the news to Robber Brown; To tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, Had winked upon a sorter, who reciprocated it. Good Robber Brown he muffled up his anger pretty well, He said, “I have a notion, and that notion I will tell; I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, And get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. “I’ve studied human nature, and I know a thing or two; Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do, A feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall When she looks upon his body chopped particularly small.” He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square; He watched his opportunity and seized him unaware; He took a life preserver and he hit him on the head, And Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She never more was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

I’ll sing you a song, not very long, But the story somewhat new Of William Kidd, who, whatever he did, To his Poll was always true. He sailed away in a galliant ship From the port of old Bristol, And the last words he uttered, As his hankercher he fluttered, Were, “My heart is true to Poll.” His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll. It’s no matter what you do If your heart be only true: And his heart was true to Poll. ’Twas a wreck. William, on shore he swam, And looked about for an inn; When a noble savage lady, of a colour rather shady, Came up with a kind of grin: “Oh, marry me, and a king you’ll be, And in a palace loll; Or we’ll eat you willy-nilly.” So he gave his hand, did Billy, But his heart was true to Poll. Away a twelvemonth sped, and a happy life he led As the King of the Kikeryboos; His paint was red and yellar, and he used a big umbrella, And he wore a pair of over-shoes! He’d corals and knives, and twenty-six wives, Whose beauties I cannot here extol; One day they all revolted, So he back to Bristol bolted, For his heart was true to Poll. His heart was true to Poll, His heart was true to Poll. It’s no matter what you do, If your heart be only true: And his heart was true to Poll.

Now ain’t they utterly too-too (She ses, my Missus mine, ses she) Them flymy little bits of Blue. Joe, just you kool ’em—nice and skew Upon our old meogginee, Now ain’t they utterly too-too? They’re better than a pot’n’ a screw, They’re equal to a Sunday spree, Them flymy little bits of Blue! Suppose I put ’em up the flue, And booze the profits, Joe? Not me. Now ain’t they utterly too-too? I do the ’Igh Art fake, I do. Joe, I’m consummate; and I see Them flymy little bits of Blue. Which, Joe, is why I ses to you— Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free— Now ain’t they utterly too-too, Them flymy little bits of Blue?

The lovely cow, all red and white, I love with all my heart; She gives me milk with all her might To eat on apple tart. The world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

Caro mio, Pulcinello, kindly hear my wail of woe Lifted from a noble structure—late Palazzo Dandolo. This is Venice, you will gather, which is full of precious “stones,” Tintorettos, picture-postcards, and remains of Doges’ bones. Not of these am I complaining; they are mostly seen by day, And they only try your patience in an inoffensive way. But at night, when over Lido rises Dian (that’s the moon), And the vicious vaporetti cease to vex the still lagoon; When the final trovatore, singing something old and cheap, Hurls his tremolo crescendo full against my beauty sleep; When I hear the Riva’s loungers in debate beneath my bower Summing up (about 1.30) certain questions of the hour; Then across my nervous system falls the shrill mosquito’s boom, And it’s “O, to be in England,” where the may is on the bloom. I admit the power of Music to inflate the savage breast— There are songs devoid of language which are quite among the best; But the present orchestration, with its poignant oboe part, Is, in my obscure opinion, barely fit to rank as Art. Will it solace me to-morrow, being hit in either eye, To be told that this is nothing to the season in July? Shall I go for help to Ruskin? Would it ease my pimply brow If I found the doges suffered much as I am suffering now? If identical probosces pinked the lovers who were bored By the sentimental tinkling of Galuppi’s clavichord? That’s from Browning (Robert Browning)—I have left his works at home, And the poem I allude to isn’t in the Tauchnitz tome; But, if memory serves me rightly, he was very much concerned At the thought that in the sequel Venice reaped what Venice earned. Was he thinking of mosquitoes? Did he mean their poisoned crop? Was it through ammonia tincture that “the kissing had to stop”? As for later loves—for Venice never quite mislaid her spell— Madame Sand and dear De Musset occupied my own hotel! On the very floor below me, I have heard the patron say, They were put in No. 13 (No. 36, to-day). But they parted—“elle et lui” did—and it now occurs to me That mosquitoes came between them in this “kingdom by the sea.” Poor dead lovers, and such brains, too! What am I that I should swear When the creatures munch my forehead, taking more than I can spare? Should I live to meet the morning, should the climate readjust Any reparable fragments left upon my outer crust, Why, at least I still am extant, and a dog that sees the sun Has the pull of Danieli’s den of “lions,” dead and done. Courage! I will keep my vigil on the balcony till day Like a knight in full pyjamas who would rather run away. Courage! let me ope the casement, let the shutters be withdrawn; Let scirocco, breathing on me, check a tendency to yawn; There’s the sea! and—Ecco l’alba! Ha! (in other words) the Dawn!

When like a bud my Julia blows In lattice-work of silken hose, Pleasant I deem it is to note How, ’neath the nimble petticoat, Above her fairy shoe is set The circumvolving zonulet. And soothly for the lover’s ear A perfect bliss it is to hear About her limb so lithe and lank My Julia’s ankle-bangle clank. Not rudely tight, for ’twere a sin To corrugate her dainty skin; Nor yet so large that it might fare Over her foot at unaware; But fashioned nicely with a view To let her airy stocking through: So as, when Julia goes to bed, Of all her gear disburdenèd, This ring at least she shall not doff Because she cannot take it off. And since thereof I hold the key, She may not taste of liberty, Not though she suffer from the gout, Unless I choose to let her out.

I Rooster her sign, Rooster her pugnant note, she struts Evocative, amazon spurs aprick at heel; Nid-nod the authentic stump Of the once ensanguined comb vermeil as wine; With conspuent doodle-doo Hails breach o’ the hectic dawn of yon New Year, Last issue up to date Of quiverful Fate Evolved spontaneous; hails with tonant trump The spiriting prime o’ the clashed carillon-peal; Ruffling her caudal plumes derisive of scuts; Inconscient how she stalks an immarcessibly absurd Bird. II Mark where her Equatorial Pioneer Delirant on the tramp goes littoralwise. His Flag at furl, portmanteaued; drains to the dregs The penultimate brandy-bottle, coal-on-the-head-piece gift Of who avenged the Old Sea-Rover’s smirch. Marchant he treads the all-along of inarable drift On dubiously connivent legs, The facile prey of predatory flies; Panting for further; sworn to lurch Empirical on to the Menelik-buffered, enhavened blue, Rhyming—see Cantique I.—with doodle-doo. III Infuriate she kicked against Imperial fact; Vulnant she felt What pin-stab should have stained Another’s pelt Puncture her own Colonial lung-balloon, Volant to nigh meridian. Whence rebuffed, The perjured Scythian she lacked At need’s pinch, sick with spleen of the rudely cuffed Below her breath she cursed; she cursed the hour When on her spring for him the young Tyrannical broke Amid the unhallowed wedlock’s vodka-shower, She passionate, he dispassionate; tricked Her wits to eye-blind; borrowed the ready as for dower; Till from the trance of that Hymettus-moon She woke, A nuptial-knotted derelict; Pensioned with Rescripts other aid declined By the plumped leech saturate urging Peace In guise of heavy-armed Gospeller to men, Tyrannical unto fraternal equal liberal, her. Not she; Not till Alsace her consanguineous find What red deteutonising artillery Shall shatter her beer-reek alien police The just-now pluripollent; not till then. IV More pungent yet the esoteric pain Squeezing her pliable vitals nourishes feud Insanely grumous, grumously insane. For lo! Past common balmly on the Bordereau, Churns she the skim o’ the gutter’s crust With Anti-Judaic various carmagnole, Whooped praise of the Anti-just; Her boulevard brood Gyratory in convolvements militant-mad; Theatrical of faith in the Belliform, Her Og, Her Monstrous. Fled what force she had To buckle the jaw-gape, wide agog For the Preconcerted One, The Anticipated, ripe to clinch the whole; Queen-bee to hive the hither and thither volant swarm. Bides she his coming; adumbrates the new Expurgatorial Divine, Her final effulgent Avatar, Postured outside a trampling mastodon Black as her Baker’s charger; towering; visibly gorged With blood of traitors. Knee-grip stiff, Spine straightened, on he rides; Embossed the Patriot’s brow with hieroglyph Of martial dossiers, nothing forged About him save his armour. So she bides Voicing his advent indeterminably far, Rooster her sign, Rooster her conspuent doodle-doo. V Behold her, pranked with spurs for bloody sport, How she acclaims, A crapulous chanticleer, Breach of the hectic dawn of yon New Year. Not yet her fill of rumours sucked; Inebriate of honour; blushfully wroth; Tireless to play her old primeval games; Her plumage preened the yet unplucked Like sails of a galleon, rudder hard amort With crepitant mast Fronting the hazard to dare of a dual blast The intern and the extern, blizzards both.

Here is the tale—and you must make the most of it: Here is the rhyme—ah, listen and attend: Backwards—forwards—read it all and boast of it If you are anything the wiser at the end! Now Jack looked up—it was time to sup, and the bucket was yet to fill, And Jack looked round for a space and frowned, then beckoned his sister Jill, And twice he pulled his sister’s hair, and thrice he smote her side; “Ha’ done, ha’ done with your impudent fun—ha’ done with your games!” she cried; “You have made mud-pies of a marvellous size—finger and face are black, You have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay—now up and wash you, Jack! Or else, or ever we reach our home, there waiteth an angry dame— Well you know the weight of her blow—the supperless open shame! Wash, if you will, on yonder hill—wash, if you will, at the spring,— Or keep your dirt, to your certain hurt, and an imminent walloping!” “You must wash—you must scrub—you must scrape!” growled Jack, “you must traffic with cans and pails, Nor keep the spoil of the good brown soil in the rim of your finger-nails! The morning path you must tread to your bath—you must wash ere the night descends, And all for the cause of conventional laws and the soapmakers’ dividends! But if ’tis sooth that our meal in truth depends on our washing, Jill, By the sacred right of our appetite—haste—haste to the top of the hill!” They have trodden the Way of the Mire and Clay, they have toiled and travelled far, They have climbed to the brow of the hill-top now, where the bubbling fountains are, They have taken the bucket and filled it up—yea, filled it up to the brim; But Jack he sneered at his sister Jill, and Jill she jeered at him: “What, blown already!” Jack cried out (and his was a biting mirth!) “You boast indeed of your wonderful speed—but what is the boasting worth? Now, if you can run as the antelope runs and if you can turn like a hare, Come, race me, Jill, to the foot of the hill—and prove your boasting fair!” “Race? What is a race” (and a mocking face had Jill as she spake the word) “Unless for a prize the runner tries? The truth indeed ye heard, For I can run as the antelope runs, and I can turn like a hare:— The first one down wins half-a-crown—and I will race you there!” “Yea, if for the lesson that you will learn (the lesson of humbled pride) The price you fix at two-and-six, it shall not be denied; Come, take your stand at my right hand, for here is the mark we toe: Now, are you ready, and are you steady? Gird up your petticoats! Go!” And Jill she ran like a winging bolt, a bolt from the bow released, But Jack like a stream of the lightning gleam, with its pathway duly greased; He ran down hill in front of Jill like a summer-lightning flash— Till he suddenly tripped on a stone, or slipped, and fell to the earth with a crash. Then straight did rise on his wondering eyes the constellations fair, Arcturus and the Pleiades, the Greater and Lesser Bear, The swirling rain of a comet’s train he saw, as he swiftly fell— And Jill came tumbling after him with a loud triumphant yell: “You have won, you have won, the race is done! And as for the wager laid— You have fallen down with a broken crown—the half-crown debt is paid!” They have taken Jack to the room at the back where the family medicines are, And he lies in bed with a broken head in a halo of vinegar; While, in that Jill had laughed her fill as her brother fell to earth, She had felt the sting of a walloping—she hath paid the price of her mirth! Here is the tale—and now you have the whole of it, Here is the story, well and wisely-planned, Beauty—Duty—these make up the soul of it— But, ah, my little readers, will you mark and understand?

Do I sleep? Do I dream? Am I hoaxed by a scout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our το τι ηυ ειναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out? Which expressions like these May be fairly applied By a party who sees A Society skied Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride. ’Twas November the third, And I says to Bill Nye, “Which it’s true what I’ve heard: If you’re, so to speak, fly, There’s a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High.” Which I mentioned its name, And he ups and remarks: “If dress-coats is the game And pow-wow in the Parks, Then I’m nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar Snarks.” Now the pride of Bill Nye Cannot well be express’d; For he wore a white tie And a cut-away vest: Says I, “Solomon’s lilies ain’t in it, and they was reputed well dress’d.” But not far did we wend, When we saw Pippa pass On the arm of a friend —Dr. Furnivall ’t was, And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class. “Well,” I thought, “this is odd.” But we came pretty quick To a sort of a quad That was all of red brick, And I says to the porter,—“R. Browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.” But says he, dripping tears In his check handkerchief, “That symposium’s career’s Been regrettably brief, For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder leaf!” Then we tucked up the sleeves Of our shirts (that were biled), Which the reader perceives That our feelings were riled, And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child. Which emotions like these Must be freely indulged By a party who sees A Society bulged On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged. But I ask,—Do I dream? Has it gone up the spout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our τὸ τι ἦυ εἶναι a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

Two voices are there: one is of the deep; It learns the storm-cloud’s thunderous melody, Now roars, now murmurs with the changing sea, Now bird-like pipes, now closes soft in sleep: And one is of an old half-witted sheep Which bleats articulate monotony. And indicates that two and one are three, That grass is green, lakes damp, and mountains steep: And, Wordsworth, both are thine: at certain times Forth from the heart of thy melodious rhymes, The form and pressure of high thoughts will burst: At other times—good Lord! I’d rather be Quite unacquainted with the A B C Than write such hopeless rubbish as thy worst.

If all the harm that women have done Were put in a bundle and rolled into one, Earth would not hold it, The sky could not enfold it, It could not be lighted nor warmed by the sun; Such masses of evil Would puzzle the devil, And keep him in fuel while Time’s wheels run. But if all the harm that’s been done by men Were doubled, and doubled, and doubled again, And melted and fused into vapour, and then Were squared and raised to the power of ten, There wouldn’t be nearly enough, not near, To keep a small girl for the tenth of a year.

As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr’-inform’-ingens-horrendous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman’s latest piece of graphic. Robert Browning.

Will there never come a season Which shall rid us from the curse Of a prose which knows no reason And an unmelodious verse: When the world shall cease to wonder At the genius of an Ass, And a boy’s eccentric blunder Shall not bring success to pass: When mankind shall be delivered From the clash of magazines, And the inkstand shall be shivered Into countless smithereens: When there stands a muzzled stripling, Mute, beside a muzzled bore: When the Rudyards cease from Kipling And the Haggards Ride no more?

If there is a vile, pernicious, Wicked and degraded rule, Tending to debase the vicious, And corrupt the harmless fool; If there is a hateful habit Making man a senseless tool, With the feelings of a rabbit And the wisdom of a mule; It’s the rule which inculcates, It’s the habit which dictates The wrong and sinful practice of going into school. If there’s anything improving To an erring sinner’s state, Which is useful in removing All the ills of human fate; If there’s any glorious custom Which our faults can dissipate, And can casually thrust ’em Out of sight and make us great; It’s the plan by which we shirk Half our matu-ti-nal work, The glorious institution of always being late.

1—(Macaulay, who made it) Pour, varlet, pour the water, The water steaming hot! A spoonful for each man of us, Another for the pot! We shall not drink from amber, Nor Capuan slave shall mix For us the snows of Athos With port at thirty-six; Whiter than snow the crystals, Grown sweet ’neath tropic fires, More rich the herbs of China’s field, The pasture-lands more fragrance yield; For ever let Britannia wield The tea-pot of her sires! 2—(Tennyson, who took it hot) I think that I am drawing to an end: For on a sudden came a gasp for breath. And stretching of the hands, and blinded eyes, And a great darkness falling on my soul. O Hallelujah!... Kindly pass the milk. 3—(Swinburne, who let it get cold) As the sin that was sweet in the sinning Is foul in the ending thereof, As the heat of the summer’s beginning Is past in the winter of love: O purity, painful and pleading! O coldness, ineffably gray! Oh, hear us, our handmaid unheeding, And take it away! 4—(Cowper, who thoroughly enjoyed it) The cosy fire is bright and gay, The merry kettle boils away And hums a cheerful song. I sing the saucer and the cup; Pray, Mary, fill the tea-pot up, And do not make it strong. 5—(Browning, who treated it allegorically) Tut! Bah! We take as another case— Pass the bills on the pills on the window-sill; notice the capsule (A sick man’s fancy, no doubt, but I place Reliance on trade-marks, Sir)—so perhaps you’ll Excuse the digression—this cup which I hold Light-poised—Bah, it’s spilt in the bed!—well, let’s on go— Hold Bohea and sugar, Sir; if you were told The sugar was salt, would the Bohea be Congo? 6—(Wordsworth, who gave it away) “Come, little cottage girl, you seem To want my cup of tea; And will you take a little cream? Now tell the truth to me.” She had a rustic, woodland grin, Her cheek was soft as silk, And she replied, “Sir, please put in A little drop of milk.” “Why, what put milk into your head? ’Tis cream my cows supply”; And five times to the child I said, “Why, pig-head, tell me, why?” “You call me pig-head,” she replied; “My proper name is Ruth. I called that milk”—she blushed with pride— “You bade me speak the truth.” 7—(Poe, who got excited over it) Here’s a mellow cup of tea, golden tea! What a world of rapturous thought its fragrance brings to me! Oh, from out the silver cells How it wells! How it smells! Keeping tune, tune, tune To the tintinnabulation of the spoon. And the kettle on the fire Boils its spout off with desire, With a desperate desire And a crystalline endeavour Now, now to sit, or never, On the top of the pale-faced moon, But he always came home to tea, tea, tea, tea, tea, Tea to the n—th. 8—(Rossetti, who took six cups of it) The lilies lie in my lady’s bower (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost), They faintly droop for a little hour; My lady’s head droops like a flower. She took the porcelain in her hand (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost); She poured; I drank at her command; Drank deep, and now—you understand! (O weary mother, drive the cows to roost.) 9—(Burns, who liked it adulterated) Weel, gin ye speir, I’m no inclined, Whusky or tay—to state my mind, Fore ane or ither; For, gin I tak the first, I’m fou, And gin the next, I’m dull as you, Mix a’ thegither. 10—(Walt Whitman, who didn’t stay more than a minute) One cup for myself-hood, Many for you. Allons, camerados, we will drink together, O hand-in-hand! That tea-spoon, please, when you’ve done with it. What butter-colour’d hair you’ve got. I don’t want to be personal. All right, then, you needn’t. You’re a stale-cadaver. Eighteen-pence if the bottles are returned. Allons, from all bat-eyed formula.

Disenchantment My Love has sicklied unto Loath, And foul seems all that fair I fancied— The lily’s sheen’s a leprous growth, The very buttercups are rancid. Abasement With matted head a-dabble in the dust, And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust I lie all loathly in my rags and rust— Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust. Stanza Written in Depression Near Dulwich The lark soars up in the air; The toad sits tight in his hole; And I would I were certain which of the pair Were the truer type of my soul! To My Lady Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe, Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green, Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe, Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline! The Monster Uprears the monster now his slobberous head, Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing; Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread, Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing. A Trumpet Blast Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun— Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence, Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!

A python I should not advise,— It needs a doctor for its eyes, And has the measles yearly. However, if you feel inclined To get one (to improve your mind, And not from fashion merely), Allow no music near its cage; And when it flies into a rage Chastise it most severely. I had an Aunt in Yucatan Who bought a Python from a man And kept it for a pet. She died because she never knew These simple little rules and few;— The snake is living yet.

The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain) The Door-mat you see on his head Is not, as some learned professors maintain, The opulent growth of a genius’ brain; But is sewn on with needle and thread.

The Microbe is so very small You cannot make him out at all, But many sanguine people hope To see him through a microscope. His jointed tongue that lies beneath A hundred curious rows of teeth; His seven tufted tails with lots Of lovely pink and purple spots On each of which a pattern stands, Composed of forty separate bands; His eyebrows of a tender green; All these have never yet been seen— But Scientists, who ought to know, Assure us that they must be so.... Oh! let us never, never doubt What nobody is sure about!

Be kind and tender to the Frog, And do not call him names, As “Slimy-Skin,” or “Polly-wog,” Or likewise, “Uncle James,” Or “Gape-a-grin,” or “Toad-gone-wrong,” Or “Billy-Bandy-knees”; The Frog is justly sensitive To epithets like these. No animal will more repay, A treatment kind and fair, At least, so lonely people say Who keep a frog (and, by the way, They are extremely rare).

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours—on the wall— Are drawing a long breath to shout “Hurray!” The strangest whim has seized me.... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day. To-morrow is the time I get my pay— My uncle’s sword is hanging in the hall— I see a little cloud all pink and grey— Perhaps the rector’s mother will not call— I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way— I never read the works of Juvenal— I think I will not hang myself to-day. The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational— And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small— I think I will not hang myself to-day. Envoi Prince, I can hear the trump of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even today your royal head may fall— I think I will not hang myself to-day.

They spoke of Progress spiring round, Of Light and Mrs. Humphry Ward— It is not true to say I frowned, Or ran about the room and roared; I might have simply sat and snored— I rose politely in the club And said, “I feel a little bored; Will someone take me to a pub?” The new world’s wisest did surround Me; and it pains me to record I did not think their views profound, Or their conclusions well assured; The simple life I can’t afford, Besides, I do not like the grub— I want a mash and sausage, “scored”— Will someone take me to a pub? I know where Men can still be found, Anger and clamorous accord, And virtues growing from the ground, And fellowship of beer and board, And song, that is a sturdy cord, And hope, that is a hardy shrub, And goodness, that is God’s last word— Will someone take me to a pub? Envoi Prince, Bayard would have smashed his sword To see the sort of knights you dub— Is that the last of them—O Lord! Will someone take me to a pub?

Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth What can one do? Where for amusement seek, or mirth? Ah! well-a-day, in all the earth What can one do To cease from yawning here below? Of mortal man, what is the rôle? To bustle, eat, and labor ply; To plot, grow old, and then to die? Not very lively this, or droll. Ah! well-a-day, etc. No wonder in my mind begets The sun, which poets call sublime; Not this the first or second time He rises, runs his race, and sets. Ah! well-a-day, etc. To one dull course the seasons cling: For full five thousand years we view The summer following after spring, And winter autumn’s close pursue. Ah! well-a-day, etc. My watch (a friend of little use), Whose hands their tedious circuit ply, Tells me how slow the hours fly, Not how I may my hours amuse. Ah! well-a-day, etc. I half the world have traveled o’er, To see if men diversion found; But everywhere, on every ground, I saw what I had seen before. Ah! well-a-day, etc. In weariness which I abhorred, Wishing to know how sped the great, I dined with men of high estate, And murmured as I left their board, Ah! well-a-day, etc. Wishing to see if, when in love, Life some unworn amusement has, Love I attempted, but alas! Love in all climes the same doth prove. Ah! well-a-day, etc. Thus being, at this early age, Of all things sick, both night and day, In hopes to be more blithe and gay I did in settled life engage. Ah! well-a-day, etc. The street where now my life I led, By neighborhood my steps brought on To th’ Institute and Odéon, Which every day I visited. Ah! well-a-day, etc. By writing this (hope quickly gone), To cheer my spirits I essayed; But yawned the while this song was made, And now I sing it, still I yawn: Ah! well-a-day, etc.

What! this Monsieur de Fénélon The girls pretend to school! Of Mass and needlework he prates; Mama, he’s but a fool. Balls, concerts, and the piece just out, Can teach us better far, no doubt: Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama! Let others mind their work; I’ll play, Mama, the sweet duet, That for my master’s voice and mine Is from Armida set. If Rénaud felt love’s burning flame, I feel some shootings of the same: Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama! Let others keep accounts; I’ll dance, Mama, an hour or two; And from my master learn a step Voluptuous and new. At this long skirt my feet rebel; To loop it up a bit were well. Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama! Let others o’er my sister watch; Mama, I’d rather trace— I’ve wondrous talent—at the Louvre The Apollo’s matchless grace: Throughout his figure what a charm! ’Tis naked, true—but that’s no harm Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama! Mama, I must be married soon, Even fashion says no less; Besides, there is an urgent cause, I must, Mama, confess. The world my situation sees— But there they laugh at scrapes like these. Tra la la la, tra la la la, Thus are young ladies taught, Mama!

When a bore gets hold of me, Dull and overbearing, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as herring. When the thrusts of pleasure glib In my sides are sticking, Poking fun at every rib, I’m alive and kicking. When a snob his £ s. d. Jingles in his breeches, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as ditches. When a birthday’s champagne-corks Round my ears are clicking, Marking time with well-oil’d works, I’m alive and kicking. Kings and their supremacy Occupy the table, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as Abel. Talk about the age of wine (Bought by cash or ticking), So you bring a sample fine, I’m alive and kicking. When a trip to Muscovy Tempts a conquest glutton, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as mutton. Match me with a tippling foe, See who first wants picking From the dead man’s field below, I’m alive and kicking. When great scribes to poetry March, by notions big led, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as pig-lead. When you start a careless song, Not at grammar sticking, Good to push the wine along. I’m alive and kicking. When a bigot, half-hours three, Spouts in canting gloom’s tones, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as tombstones. When in cloisters underground, Built of stone or bricking, Orders of the screw you found, I’m alive and kicking. Bourbons back in France we see (Sure we don’t much need ’em), Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as freedom. Bess returns, and still our throats Find us here a-slicking, Sitting free without our coats— I’m alive and kicking. Forced to leave this company, Bottle-wine and horn-ale, Be so kind as pray for me, I’m as dead as door-nail. Pledging, though, a quick return, Soon my anchor sticking On the shore for which I yearn— I’m alive and kicking.