Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs

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-SeaThis elegant nobleman went,For that was a borough that heWas anxious to rep-per-re-sent.At local assemblies he dancedUntil he felt thoroughly ill—He waltzed, and he galloped, and lanced,And threaded the mazy quadrille.The maidens of TurniptopvilleWere simple—ingenuous—pure—And they all worked away with a willThe nobleman's heart to secure.Two maidens all others beyondImagined their chances looked well—The one was the lively Ann Pond,The other sad Mary Morell.Ann Pond had determined to tryAnd 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 eyeShe'd blush and turn quickly away,And flitter and flutter and sigh.It was noticed he constantly sighedAs she worked out the scheme she had planned—A fact he endeavored to hideWith his aristocratical hand.Old Pond was a farmer, they say,And so was old Tommy Morell,In a humble and pottering wayThey were doing exceedingly well.They both of them carried by voteThe 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 bondI mean them uncommonly well,Believe me, my excellent Pond,And credit me, worthy Morell."It's quite indisputable, forI'll prove it with singular ease,You shall have it in 'Barbara' or'Celarent'—whichever you please."You see, when an anchorite bowsTo the yoke of intentional sin—If the state of the country allows,Homogeny always steps in."It's a highly æsthetical 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 its fooled to the top of its bent,With a sweep of a Damocles swordThe 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."It's tone 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 seeThat I couldn't wed either—in fine,By nature's unchanging decreeYour 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.

ONLY A DANCING GIRL

Only a dancing girl,With an unromantic style,With borrowed color and curl,With fixed mechanical smile,With many a hackneyed wile,With ungrammatical lips,And corns that mar her trips!Hung from the "flies" in air,She acts a palpable lie,She's as little a fairy thereAs unpoetical I!I hear you asking, Why—Why in the world I singThis tawdry, tinselled thing?No airy fairy she,As she hangs in arsenic green,From a highly impossible tree,In a highly impossible scene(Herself not over clean).For fays don't suffer, I'm told,From bunions, coughs, or cold.And stately dames that bringTheir daughters there to see,Pronounce the "dancing thing"No better than she should be.With her skirt at her shameful knee,And her painted, tainted phiz:Ah, matron, which of us is?(And, in sooth, it oft occursThat while these matrons sigh,Their dresses are lower than hers,And sometimes half as high;And their hair is hair they buy,And they use their glasses, too,In a way she'd blush to do.)But change her gold and greenFor a coarse merino gown,And see her upon the sceneOf her home, when coaxing downHer drunken father's frown,In his squalid, cheerless den:She's a fairy truly, then!

THE SENSATION CAPTAIN

No nobler captain ever trodThan 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 knewA man so wholly given toCreating a sensation;Or p'r'aps I should in justice say—To what in an Adelphi playIs known as "Situation."He passed his time designing trapsTo flurry unsuspicious chaps—The taste was his innately—He couldn't walk into a roomWithout 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 byA simple love of mysteryAnd fondness for surprises.I need not say he loved a maid—His eloquence threw into shadeAll 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 boatHe placed around her little throatA 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 rockHis Angelina stood the shockWith fortitude amazing.She said, "Some one I must electPoor Angelina to protectFrom all who wish to harm her.Since worthy Captain Todd is deadI rather feel inclined to wedA 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 perceiveTo 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 paralyzing them with fear,Demand my Angelina!"At length arrived the wedding day—Accoutred in the usual wayAppeared the bridal body—The worthy clergyman began,When in the gallant captain ranAnd cried, "Behold your Toddy!"The bridegroom, p'r'aps, was terrified,And also possibly the bride—The bridesmaids were affrighted;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 shoreA lady whom he'd met before—A lovely Otaheitan.

THE PERIWINKLE GIRL

I've often thought that headstrong youths,Of decent education,Determine all-important truthsWith strange precipitation.The over-ready victims they,Of logical illusions,And in a self-assertive wayThey jump at strange conclusions.Now take my case: Ere sorrow couldMy ample forehead wrinkle,I had determined that I wouldNot like to be a winkle."A winkle," I would oft advanceWith readiness provoking,"Can seldom flirt, and never danceOr soothe his mind by smoking."In short, I spurned the shelly joy,And spoke with strange decision—Men pointed to me as a boyWho held them in derision.But I was young—too young, by far—Or I had been more wary,I knew not then that winkles areThe stock-in-trade of Mary.I had not seen her sunlight blitheAs o'er their shells it dances,I've seen those winkles almost writheBeneath her beaming glances.Of slighting all the winkly broodI surely had been chary,If I had known they formed the foodAnd stock-in-trade of Mary.Both high and low and great and smallFell prostrate at her tootsies,They all were noblemen, and allHad balances at Coutts's.Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,Duke Bailey and Duke Humphy,Who eat her winkles till they feltExceedingly uncomfy.Duke Bailey greatest wealth computes,And sticks, they say, at no-thing.He wears a pair of golden bootsAnd silver underclothing.Duke Humphy, as I understand.Though mentally acuter,His boots are only silver, andHis underclothing pewter.A third adorer had the girl,A man of lowly station—A miserable grov'ling earlBesought her approbation.This humble cad she did refuseWith much contempt and loathing;He wore a pair of leather shoesAnd cambric underclothing!"Ha! ha!" she cried, "Upon my word!Well, really—come, I never!Oh, go along, it's too absurd!My goodness! Did you ever?"Two dukes would make their Bowles a bride,And from her foes defend her"—"Well, not exactly that," they cried,"We offer guilty splendor."We do not offer marriage rite,So please dismiss the notion!""Oh, dear," said she, "that alters quiteThe state of my emotion."The earl he up and says, says he,"Dismiss them to their orgies,For I am game to marry theeQuite reg'lar at St. George's."He'd had, it happily befell,A decent education;His views would have befitted wellA far superior station.His sterling worth had worked a cure,She never heard him grumble;She saw his soul was good and pureAlthough his rank was humble.Her views of earldoms and their lot,All underwent expansion;Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot!Go, Vice in ducal mansion!

BOB POLTER

Bob Polter was a navvy, andHis hands were coarse, and dirty too,His homely face was rough and tanned,His time of life was thirty-two.He lived among a working clan(A wife he hadn't got at all),A decent, steady, sober man—No saint, however—not at all.He smoked, but in a modest way,Because he thought he needed it;He drank a pot of beer a day,And sometimes he exceeded it.At times he'd pass with other menA loud convivial night or two,With, very likely, now and then,On Saturdays, a fight or two.But still he was a sober soul,A labor-never-shirking man,Who paid his way—upon the wholeA decent English working man.One day, when at the Nelson's Head,(For which he may be blamed of you)A holy man appeared and said,"Oh, Robert, I'm ashamed of you."He laid his hand on Robert's beerBefore he could drink up any,And on the floor, with sigh and tear,He poured the pot of "thruppenny.""Oh, Robert, at this very bar,A truth you'll be discovering,A good and evil genius areAround your noddle hovering."They both are here to bid you shunThe other one's society,For Total Abstinence is one,The other Inebriety."He waved his hand—a vapor came—A wizard, Polter reckoned him:A bogy rose and called his name,And with his finger beckoned him.The monster's salient points to sum,His heavy breath was portery;His glowing nose suggested rum;His eyes were gin-and-wortery.His dress was torn—for dregs of aleAnd slops of gin had rusted it;His pimpled face was wan and pale,Where filth had not encrusted it."Come, Polter," said the fiend, "begin,And keep the bowl a-flowing on—A working-man needs pints of ginTo keep his clockwork going on."Bob shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss,If you take me for one of you—You filthy beast, get out of this—Bob Polter don't want none of you."The demon gave a drunken shriekAnd crept away in stealthiness,And lo, instead, a person sleekWho seemed to burst with healthiness."In me, as your advisor hints,Of Abstinence you have got a type—Of Mr. Tweedle's pretty printsI am the happy prototype."If you abjure the social toast,And pipes, and such frivolities,You possibly some day may boastMy prepossessing qualities!"Bob rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink,"You almost make me tremble, you!If I abjure fermented drink,Shall I, indeed, resemble you?"And will my whiskers curl so tight?My cheeks grow smug and muttony?My face become so red and white?My coat so blue and buttony?"Will trousers, such as yours, arrayExtremities inferior?Will chubbiness assert its swayAll over my exterior?"In this, my unenlightened state,To work in heavy boots I comes,Will pumps henceforward decorateMy tiddle toddle tootsicums?"And shall I get so plump and fresh,And look no longer seedily?My skin will henceforth fit my fleshSo tightly and so Tweedie-ly?"The phantom said, "You'll have all this,You'll know no kind of huffiness,Your life will be one chubby bliss,One long unruffled puffiness!""Be off!" said irritated Bob."Why come you here to bother one?You pharisaical old snob,You're wuss almost than t'other one!"I takes my pipe—I takes my pot,And drunk I'm never seen to be:I'm no teetotaller or sot,And as I am I mean to be!"

GENTLE ALICE BROWN

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, who knew it wasn't wiseTo 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 check,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 that 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, O, 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 wordThis is the most distressing news that I have ever heard.Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your handTo 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 years they've kept starvation from my doors,I never knew so criminal a family as yours!"The common country folk in this insipid neighborhoodHave nothing to confess, they're so ridiculously good;And if you marry any one 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 now was 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 fallWhen 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 handOn the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

BEN ALLAH ACHMET;

OR, THE FATAL TUMI once did know a Turkish manWhom I upon a two-pair-back met,His name it was Effendi KhanBacksheesh Pasha Ben Allah Achmet.A Doctor Brown I also knew—I've often eaten of his bounty—The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,In Sussex, that delightful county.I knew a nice young lady there,Her name was Isabella Sherson,And though she wore another's hair,She was an interesting person.The Turk adored the maid of Hooe(Although his harem would have shocked her);But Brown adored that maiden, too:He was a most seductive doctor.They'd follow her where'er she'd go—A course of action most improper;She neither knew by sight, and soFor neither of them cared a copper.Brown did not know that Turkish male,He might have been his sainted mother:The people in this simple taleAre total strangers to each other.One day that Turk he sickened soreWhich threw him straight into a sharp pet;He threw himself upon the floorAnd rolled about upon his—carpet.It made him moan—it made him groanAnd almost wore him to a mummy:Why should I hesitate to ownThat pain was in his little tummy?At length a Doctor came and rung(As Allah Achmet had desired)Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,And hummed and hawed, and then inquired:"Where is the pain, that long has preyedUpon you in so sad a way, sir?"The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said,"I don't exactly like to say, sir.""Come, nonsense!" said good Doctor Brown,"So this is Turkish coyness, is it?You must contrive to fight it down—Come, come, sir, please to be explicit."The Turk he shyly bit his thumb,And coyly blushed like one half-witted,"The pain is in my little tum,"He, whispering, at length admitted."Then take you this, and take you that—Your blood flows sluggish in its channel—You must get rid of all this fat,And wear my medicated flannel."You'll send for me, when you're in need—My name is Brown—your life I've saved it!""My rival!" shrieked the invalid,And drew a mighty sword and waved it."This to thy weazand, Christian pest!"Aloud the Turk in frenzy yelled it,And drove right through the Doctor's chestThe sabre and the hand that held it.The blow was a decisive one,And Doctor Brown grew deadly pasty—"Now see the mischief that you've done,—You Turks are so extremely hasty."There are two Doctor Browns in Hooe,He's short and stout—I'm tall and wizen;You've been and run the wrong one through,That's how the error has arisen."The accident was thus explained,Apologies were only heard now:"At my mistake I'm really pained,I am, indeed, upon my word now.""With me, sir, you shall be interred,A Mausoleum grand awaits me"—"Oh, pray don't say another word,I'm sure that more than compensates me."But, p'r'aps, kind Turk, you're full inside?""There's room," said he, "for any number."And so they laid them down and died.In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber.

SONGS OF A SAVOYARD

THE ENGLISHMAN

He is an Englishman!For he himself has said it,And it's greatly to his credit,That he is an Englishman!For he might have been a Roosian,A French, or Turk, or Proosian,Or perhaps Itali-an!But in spite of all temptations,To belong to other nations,He remains an Englishman!Hurrah!For the true born Englishman!

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:I'm a genuine philanthropist—all other kinds are sham.Each little fault of temper and each social defectIn my erring fellow creatures, I endeavor to correct.To all their little weaknesses I open people's eyesAnd little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;I love my fellow creatures—I do all the good I can—Yet everybody say I'm such a disagreeable man!And I can't think why!To compliments inflated I've a withering reply;And vanity I always do my best to mortify;A charitable action I can skilfully dissect:And interested motives I'm delighted to detect.I know everybody's income and what everybody earns,And I carefully compare it with the income tax returns;But to benefit humanity, however much I plan,Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!And I can't think why!I'm sure I'm no ascetic: I'm as pleasant as can be;You'll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;I've an irritating chuckle; I've a celebrated sneer;I've an entertaining snigger; I've a fascinating leer;To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two;I can tell a woman's age in half a minute—and I do—But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can,Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!And I can't think why!

THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL

I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral.I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral;I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical,From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;I'm very well acquainted too with matters mathematical,I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.I'm very good at integral and differential calculus,I know the scientific names of beings animalculous,In short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral,I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.I know our mythic history—King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's,I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,In conies I can floor peculiarities parabolous.I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,I know the croaking chorus from the "Frogs" of Aristophanes,Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense "Pinafore."Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,And tell you every detail of Caractacus's uniform.In short in matters vegetable, animal and mineral,I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.In fact when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin,"When I can tell at sight a Chassepot rifle from a javelin,When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,When I have learn what progress has been made in modern gunnery,When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,In short when I've a smattering of elementary strategy,You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee—For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century,But still in learning vegetable, animal and mineral,I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.

THE HEAVY DRAGOON

If you want a receipt for that popular mysteryKnown to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,Take all the remarkable people in history,Rattle them off to a popular tune!The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory—Genius of Bismarck devising a plan;The humor of Fielding (which sounds contradictory)—Coolness of Paget about to trepan—The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled musico—Wit of Macaulay, who wrote of Queen Anne—The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by Boucicault—Style of the Bishop of Sodor and Man—The dash of a D'Orsay, divested of quackery—Narrative powers of Dickens and ThackerayVictor Emmanuel—peak-haunting Peveril—Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel Defoe—Anthony Trollope and Mister Guizot!Take of these elements all that are fusible,Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,Set them to simmer and take off the scum,And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon,Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—Force of Mephisto pronouncing a ban—A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless and rollicky—Swagger of Roderick, heading his clan—The keen penetration of Paddington Pollaky—Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—The genius strategic of Cæsar or Hannibal—Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a cannibalFlavor of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—Little of Manfred, (but not very much of him)—Beadle of Burlington—Richardson's show;Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!Take of these elements all that are fusible,Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,Set them to simmer and take off the scum,And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!