The Bab Ballads - Part 4

By Various

Book Id: WPLBN0000711571
Format Type: PDF eBook:
File Size: 0.1 MB
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	The Bab Ballads - Part 4
Author:	Various
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Various, B. (n.d.). The Bab Ballads - Part 4. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.cc/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: Vast empty shell! // Impertinent, preposterous abortion! // With vacant stare, // And ragged hair, // And every feature out of all proportion! // Embodiment of echoing inanity! // Excellent type of simpering insanity! // Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! // I ring thy knell! // To-night thou diest, // Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity! // Nine weeks of nights, // Before the lights, // Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity, // I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally, // Credited for the smile you wear externally - // I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally, // As there thou liest! // I've been thy brain: // I've been the brain that lit thy dull concavity! // The human race // Invest my face // With thine expression of unchecked depravity, // Invested with a ghastly reciprocity, // I've been responsible for thy monstrosity, // I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity - // But not again! // 'T is time to toll // Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical: // A nine weeks' run, // And thou hast done // All thou canst do to make thyself inimical. // Adieu, embodiment of all inanity! // Excellent type of simpering insanity! // Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! // Freed is thy soul! // (The mask respondeth.) // Oh! master mine, // Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me. // Art thou aware // Of nothing there // Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me? // A brain that mourns thine unredeemed rascality? // A soul that weeps at thy threadbare morality? // Both grieving that their individuality // Is merged in thine? // The Force Of Argument // Lord B. was a nobleman bold // Who came of illustrious stocks, // He was thirty or forty years old, // And several feet in his socks. // To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea // This elegant nobleman went, // For that was a borough that he // Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent. // At local assemblies he danced // Until he felt thoroughly ill; // He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced, // And threaded the mazy quadrille. // The maidens of Turniptopville // Were simple - ingenuous - pure - // And they all worked away with a will // The nobleman's heart to secure. // Two maidens all others beyond // Endeavoured his cares to dispel - // The one was the lively Ann Pond, // The other sad Mary Morell. // Ann Pond had determined to try // And carry the Earl with a rush; // Her principal feature was eye, // Her greatest accomplishment - gush. // And Mary chose this for her play: // Whenever he looked in her eye // She'd blush and turn quickly away, // And flitter, and flutter, and sigh. // It was noticed he constantly sighed // As she worked out the scheme she had planned, // A fact he endeavoured to hide // With his aristocratical hand. // Old Pond was a farmer, they say, // And so was old Tommy Morell. // In a humble and pottering way // 2 // They were doing exceedingly well. // They both of them carried by vote // The Earl was a dangerous man; // So nervously clearing his throat, // One morning old Tommy began: // My darter's no pratty young doll - // I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man - // Now what do 'ee mean by my Poll, // And what do 'ee mean by his Ann? // Said B., I will give you my bond // I mean them uncommonly well, // Believe me, my excellent Pond, // And credit me, worthy Morell. // It's quite indisputable, for // I'll prove it with singular ease, - // You shall have it in 'Barbara' or // 'Celarent' - whichever you please. // 'You see, when an anchorite bows // To the yoke of intentional sin, // If the state of the country allows, // Homogeny always steps in - // It's a highly aesthetical bond, // As any mere ploughboy can tell - // Of course, replied puzzled old Pond. // I see, said old Tommy Morell. // Very good, then, continued the lord; // When it's fooled to the top of its bent, // With a sweep of a Damocles sword // The web of intention is rent. // That's patent to all of us here, // As any mere schoolboy can tell. // Pond answered, Of course it's quite clear; // And so did that humbug Morell. // Its tone's esoteric in force - // I trust that I make myself clear? // Morell only answered, Of course, // While Pond slowly muttered, Hear, hear. // Volition - celestial prize, // Pellucid as porphyry cell - // Is based on a principle wise. // Quite so, exclaimed Pond and Morell. // From what I have said you will see // That I couldn't wed either - in fine, // By Nature's unchanging decree // Your daughters could never be mine. // Go home to your pigs and your ricks, // My hands of the matter I've rinsed. // So they take up their hats and their sticks, . // And exeunt ambo, convinced. // 3 // The Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin // O'er unreclaimed suburban clays // Some years ago were hobblin' // An elderly ghost of easy ways, // And an influential goblin. // The ghost was a sombre spectral shape, // A fine old five-act fogy, // The goblin imp, a lithe young ape, // A fine low-comedy bogy. // And as they exercised their joints, // Promoting quick digestion, // They talked on several curious points, // And raised this delicate question: // Which of us two is Number One - // The ghostie, or the goblin? // And o'er the point they raised in fun // They fairly fell a-squabblin'. // They'd barely speak, and each, in fine, // Grew more and more reflective: // Each thought his own particular line // By chalks the more effective. // At length they settled some one should // By each of them be haunted, // And so arrange that either could // Exert his prowess vaunted. // The Quaint against the Statuesque - // By competition lawful - // The goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque, // The ghost the Grandly Awful. // Now, said the goblin, here's my plan - // In attitude commanding, // I see a stalwart Englishman // By yonder tailor's standing. // The very fittest man on earth // My influence to try on - // Of gentle, p'r'aps of noble birth, // And dauntless as a lion! // Now wrap yourself within your shroud - // Remain in easy hearing - // Observe - you'll hear him scream aloud // When I begin appearing! // The imp with yell unearthly - wild - // Threw off his dark enclosure: // His dauntless victim looked and smiled // With singular composure. // For hours he tried to daunt the youth, // For days, indeed, but vainly - // The stripling smiled! - to tell the truth, // The stripling smiled inanely. // 4 // For weeks the goblin weird and wild, // That noble stripling haunted; // For weeks the stripling stood and smiled, // Unmoved and all undaunted. // The sombre ghost exclaimed, Your plan // Has failed you, goblin, plainly: // Now watch yon hardy Hieland man, // So stalwart and ungainly. // These are the men who chase the roe, // Whose footsteps never falter, // Who bring with them, where'er they go, // A smack of old Sir Walter. // Of such as he, the men sublime // Who lead their troops victorious, // Whose deeds go down to after-time, // Enshrined in annals glorious! // Of such as he the bard has said // 'Hech thrawfu' raltie rorkie! // Wi' thecht ta' croonie clapperhead // And fash' wi' unco pawkie!' // He'll faint away when I appear, // Upon his native heather; // Or p'r'aps he'll only scream with fear, // Or p'r'aps the two together. // The spectre showed himself, alone, // To do his ghostly battling, // With curdling groan and dismal moan, // And lots of chains a-rattling! // But no - the chiel's stout Gaelic stuff // Withstood all ghostly harrying; // His fingers closed upon the snuff // Which upwards he was carrying. // For days that ghost declined to stir, // A foggy shapeless giant - // For weeks that splendid officer // Stared back again defiant. // Just as the Englishman returned // The goblin's vulgar staring, // Just so the Scotchman boldly spurned // The ghost's unmannered scaring. // For several years the ghostly twain // These Britons bold have haunted, // But all their efforts are in vain - // Their victims stand undaunted. // This very day the imp, and ghost, // Whose powers the imp derided, // Stand each at his allotted post - // The bet is undecided. // The Phantom Curate. // 5 // A Fable // A Bishop once - I will not name his see - // Annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional; // From pulpit shackles never set them free, // And found a sin where sin was unintentional. // All pleasures ended in abuse auricular - // The Bishop was so terribly particular. // Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man, // He sought to make of human pleasures clearances; // And form his priests on that much-lauded plan // Which pays undue attention to appearances. // He couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em, // Although, in truth, he bore away the palm in 'em. // Enraged to find a deacon at a dance, // Or catch a curate at some mild frivolity, // He sought by open censure to enhance // Their dread of joining harmless social jollity. // Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety) // The ordinary pleasures of society. // One evening, sitting at a pantomime // (Forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him), // Roaring at jokes, sans metre, sense, or rhyme, // He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him, // His peace of mind upsetting, and annoying it, // A curate, also heartily enjoying it. // Again, 't was Christmas Eve, and to enhance // His children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking, // He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance; // When something checked the current of his frolicking: // That curate, with a maid he treated lover-ly, // Stood up and figured with him in the Coverley! // Once, yielding to an universal choice // (The company's demand was an emphatic one, // For the old Bishop had a glorious voice), // In a quartet he joined - an operatic one. // Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of grace in it, // When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it! // One day, when passing through a quiet street, // He stopped awhile and joined a Punch's gathering; // And chuckled more than solemn folk think meet, // To see that gentleman his Judy lathering; // And heard, as Punch was being treated penalty, // That phantom curate laughing all hyaenally. // Now at a picnic, 'mid fair golden curls, // Bright eyes, straw hats, bottines that fit amazingly, // A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls; // And he, consenting, speaks of croquˆt praisingly; // But suddenly declines to play at all in it - // The curate fiend has come to take a ball in it! // Next, when at quiet sea-side village, freed // 6 // From cares episcopal and ties monarchical, // He grows his beard, and smokes his fragrant weed, // In manner anything but hierarchical - // He sees - and fixes an unearthly stare on it - // That curate's face, with half a yard of hair on it! // At length he gave a charge, and spake this word: // Vicars, your curates to enjoyment urge ye may; // To check their harmless pleasuring's absurd; // What laymen do without reproach, my clergy may. // He spake, and lo! at this concluding word of him, // The curate vanished - no one since has heard of him. // The Sensation Captain // No nobler captain ever trod // Than Captain Parklebury Todd, // So good - so wise - so brave, he! // But still, as all his friends would own, // He had one folly - one alone - // This Captain in the Navy. // I do not think I ever knew // A man so wholly given to // Creating a sensation, // Or p'raps I should in justice say - // To what in an Adelphi play // Is known as situation. // He passed his time designing traps // To flurry unsuspicious chaps - // The taste was his innately; // He couldn't walk into a room // Without ejaculating Boom! // Which startled ladies greatly. // He'd wear a mask and muffling cloak, // Not, you will understand, in joke, // As some assume disguises; // He did it, actuated by // A simple love of mystery // And fondness for surprises. // I need not say he loved a maid - // His eloquence threw into shade // All others who adored her. // The maid, though pleased at first, I know, // Found, after several years or so, // Her startling lover bored her. // So, when his orders came to sail, // She did not faint or scream or wail, // Or with her tears anoint him: // She shook his hand, and said Good-bye, // With laughter dancing in her eye - // Which seemed to disappoint him. // But ere he went aboard his boat, // 7 // He placed around her little throat // A ribbon, blue and yellow, // On which he hung a double-tooth - // A simple token this, in sooth - // 'Twas all he had, poor fellow! // I often wonder, he would say, // When very, very far away, // If Angelina wears it? // A plan has entered in my head: // I will pretend that I am dead, // And see how Angy bears it. // The news he made a messmate tell. // His Angelina bore it well, // No sign gave she of crazing; // But, steady as the Inchcape Rock, // His Angelina stood the shock // With fortitude amazing. // She said, Some one I must elect // Poor Angelina to protect // From all who wish to harm her. // Since worthy Captain Todd is dead, // I rather feel inclined to wed // A comfortable farmer. // A comfortable farmer came // (Bassanio Tyler was his name), // Who had no end of treasure. // He said, My noble gal, be mine! // The noble gal did not decline, // But simply said, With pleasure. // When this was told to Captain Todd, // At first he thought it rather odd, // And felt some perturbation; // But very long he did not grieve, // He thought he could a way perceive // To such a situation! // I'll not reveal myself, said he, // Till they are both in the Eccle // -siastical arena; // Then suddenly I will appear, // And paralysing them with fear, // Demand my Angelina! // At length arrived the wedding day; // Accoutred in the usual way // Appeared the bridal body; // The worthy clergyman began, // When in the gallant Captain ran // And cried, Behold your Toddy! // The bridegroom, p'raps, was terrified, // And also possibly the bride - // The bridesmaids were affrighted; // 8 // But Angelina, noble soul, // Contrived her feelings to control, // And really seemed delighted. // My bride! said gallant Captain Todd, // She's mine, uninteresting clod! // My own, my darling charmer! // Oh dear, said she, you're just too late - // I'm married to, I beg to state, // This comfortable farmer! // Indeed, the farmer said, she's mine: // You've been and cut it far too fine! // I see, said Todd, I'm beaten. // And so he went to sea once more, // Sensation he for aye forswore, // And married on her native shore // A lady whom he'd met before - // A lovely Otaheitan. // Tempora Mutantur // Letters, letters, letters, letters! // Some that please and some that bore, // Some that threaten prison fetters // (Metaphorically, fetters // Such as bind insolvent debtors) - // Invitations by the score. // One from Cogson, Wiles, and Railer, // My attorneys, off the Strand; // One from Copperblock, my tailor - // My unreasonable tailor - // One in Flagg's disgusting hand. // One from Ephraim and Moses, // Wanting coin without a doubt, // I should like to pull their noses - // Their uncompromising noses; // One from Alice with the roses - // Ah, I know what that's about ! // Time was when I waited, waited // For the missives that she wrote, // Humble postmen execrated - // Loudly, deeply execrated - // When I heard I wasn't fated // To be gladdened with a note! // Time was when I'd not have bartered // Of her little pen a dip // For a peerage duly gartered - // For a peerage starred and gartered - // With a palace-office chartered, // Or a Secretaryship. // But the time for that is over, // And I wish we'd never met. // 9 // I'm afraid I've proved a rover - // I'm afraid a heartless rover - // Quarters in a place like Dover // Tend to make a man forget. // Bills for carriages and horses, // Bills for wine and light cigar, // Matters that concern the Forces - // News that may affect the Forces - // News affecting my resources, // Much more interesting are! // And the tiny little paper, // With the words that seem to run // From her little fingers taper // (They are very small and taper), // By the tailor and the draper // Are in interest outdone. // And unopened it's remaining! // I can read her gentle hope - // Her entreaties, uncomplaining // (She was always uncomplaining), // Her devotion never waning - // Through the little envelope! // At A Pantomime. // By A Bilious One // An Actor sits in doubtful gloom, // His stock-in-trade unfurled, // In a damp funereal dressing-room // In the Theatre Royal, World. // He comes to town at Christmas-time, // And braves its icy breath, // To play in that favourite pantomime, // Harlequin Life and Death. // A hoary flowing wig his weird // Unearthly cranium caps, // He hangs a long benevolent beard // On a pair of empty chaps. // To smooth his ghastly features down // The actor's art he cribs, - // A long and a flowing padded gown. // Bedecks his rattling ribs. // He cries, Go on - begin, begin! // Turn on the light of lime - // I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas, in // A favourite pantomime! // The curtain's up - the stage all black - // Time and the year nigh sped - // Time as an advertising quack - // The Old Year nearly dead. // The wand of Time is waved, and lo! // 10 // Revealed Old Christmas stands, // And little children chuckle and crow, // And laugh and clap their hands. // The cruel old scoundrel brightens up // At the death of the Olden Year, // And he waves a gorgeous golden cup, // And bids the world good cheer. // The little ones hail the festive King, - // No thought can make them sad. // Their laughter comes with a sounding ring, // They clap and crow like mad! // They only see in the humbug old // A holiday every year, // And handsome gifts, and joys untold, // And unaccustomed cheer. // The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar, // Their breasts in anguish beat - // They've seen him seventy times before, // How well they know the cheat! // They've seen that ghastly pantomime, // They've felt its blighting breath, // They know that rollicking Christmas-time // Meant Cold and Want and Death, - // Starvation - Poor Law Union fare - // And deadly cramps and chills, // And illness - illness everywhere, // And crime, and Christmas bills. // They know Old Christmas well, I ween, // Those men of ripened age; // They've often, often, often seen // That Actor off the stage! // They see in his gay rotundity // A clumsy stuffed-out dress - // They see in the cup he waves on high // A tinselled emptiness. // Those aged men so lean and wan, // They've seen it all before, // They know they'll see the charlatan // But twice or three times more. // And so they bear with dance and song, // And crimson foil and green, // They wearily sit, and grimly long // For the Transformation Scene. // King Borria Bungalee Boo // King Borria Bungalee Boo // Was a man-eating African swell; // His sigh was a hullaballoo, // His whisper a horrible yell - // A horrible, horrible yell! // 11 // Four subjects, and all of them male, // To Borria doubled the knee, // They were once on a far larger scale, // But he'd eaten the balance, you see // (Scale and balance is punning, you see). // There was haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah, // There was lumbering Doodle-Dum-Dey, // Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah, // And good little Tootle-Tum-Teh - // Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh. // One day there was grief in the crew, // For they hadn't a morsel of meat, // And Borria Bungalee Boo // Was dying for something to eat - // Come, provide me with something to eat! // Alack-a-Day, famished I feel; // Oh, good little Tootle-Tum-Teh, // Where on earth shall I look for a meal? // For I haven't no dinner to-day! - // Not a morsel of dinner to-day! // Dear Tootle-Tum, what shall we do? // Come, get us a meal, or, in truth, // If you don't, we shall have to eat you, // Oh, adorable friend of our youth! // Thou beloved little friend of our youth! // And he answered, Oh, Bungalee Boo, // For a moment I hope you will wait, - // Tippy-Wippity Tol-The-Rol-Loo // Is the Queen of a neighbouring state - // A remarkably neighbouring state. // Tippy-Wippity Tol-The-Rol-Loo, // She would pickle deliciously cold - // And her four pretty Amazons, too, // Are enticing, and not very old - // Twenty-seven is not very old. // There is neat little Titty-Fol-Leh, // There is rollicking Tral-The-Ral-Lah, // There is jocular Waggety-Weh, // There is musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah - // There's the nightingale Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah! // So the forces of Bungalee Boo // Marched forth in a terrible row, // And the ladies who fought for Queen Loo // Prepared to encounter the foe - // This dreadful, insatiate foe! // But they sharpened no weapons at all, // And they poisoned no arrows - not they! // They made ready to conquer or fall // In a totally different way - // An entirely different way. // 12 // With a crimson and pearly-white dye // They endeavoured to make themselves fair, // With black they encircled each eye, // And with yellow they painted their hair // (It was wool, but they thought it was hair). // And the forces they met in the field:- // And the men of King Borria said, // Amazonians, immediately yield! // And their arrows they drew to the head - // Yes, drew them right up to the head. // But jocular Waggetu-Weh // Ogled Doodle-Dum-Dey (which was wrong), // And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh // Said, Tootle-Tum, you go along! // You naughty old dear, go along! // And rollicking Tral-The-Ral-Lah // Tapped Alack-a-Day-Ah with her fan; // And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah // Said, Pish, go away, you bad man! // Go away, you delightful young man! // And the Amazons simpered and sighed, // And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed, // And they opened their pretty eyes wide, // And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed // (At least, if they could, they'd have blushed). // But haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah // Said, Alack-a-Dey, what does this mean? // And despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah // Said, They think us uncommonly green! // Ha! ha! most uncommonly green! // Even blundering Doodle-Dum-Dey // Was insensible quite to their leers, // And said good little Tootle-Tum-Teh, // It's your blood we desire, pretty dears - // We have come for our dinners, my dears! // And the Queen of the Amazons fell // To Borria Bungalee Boo, - // In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell, // Tippy-Wippity Tol-The-Rol-Loo - // The pretty Queen Tol-The-Rol-Loo. // And neat little Titty-Fol-Leh // Was eaten by Pish-Pooh-Bah, // And light-hearted Waggety-Weh // By dismal Alack-a-Dey-Ah - // Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah. // And rollicking Tral-The-Ral-Lah // Was eaten by Doodle-Dum-Dey, // And musical Doh-Reh-Mi-Fah // By good little Tootle-Dum-Teh - // Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh!