More Bab Ballads

Ballad: The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo Again

I often wonder whether youThink sometimes of that Bishop, whoFrom black but balmy Rum-ti-FooLast summer twelvemonth came.Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bringRemembrance of the man I singTo-day, by simply mentioningThat PETER was his name.Remember how that holy manCame with the great Colonial clanTo Synod, called Pan-Anglican;And kindly recollectHow, having crossed the ocean wide,To please his flock all means he triedConsistent with a proper prideAnd manly self-respect.He only, of the reverend packWho minister to Christians black,Brought any useful knowledge backTo his Colonial fold.In consequence a place I claimFor “PETER” on the scroll of Fame(For PETER was that Bishop’s name,As I’ve already told).He carried Art, he often said,To places where that timid maid(Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid)Could never hope to roam.The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taughtAs he had learnt it; for he thoughtThe choicest fruits of Progress oughtTo bless the Negro’s home.And he had other work to do,For, while he tossed upon the Blue,The islanders of Rum-ti-FooForgot their kindly friend.Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—They learnt to say, “I do not care,”Though they, of course, were well awareHow folks, who say so, end.Some sailors, whom he did not know,Had landed there not long ago,And taught them “Bother!” also, “Blow!”(Of wickedness the germs).No need to use a casuist’s penTo prove that they were merchantmen;No sailor of the Royal N.Would use such awful terms.And so, when BISHOP PETER came(That was the kindly Bishop’s name),He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,And chid their want of dress.(Except a shell—a bangle rare—A feather here—a feather thereThe South Pacific Negroes wearTheir native nothingness.)He taught them that a Bishop loathesTo listen to disgraceful oaths,He gave them all his left-off clothes—They bent them to his will.The Bishop’s gift spreads quickly round;In PETER’S left-off clothes they bound(His three-and-twenty suits they foundIn fair condition still).The Bishop’s eyes with water fill,Quite overjoyed to find them stillObedient to his sovereign will,And said, “Good Rum-ti-Foo!Half-way I’ll meet you, I declare:I’ll dress myself in cowries rare,And fasten feathers in my hair,And dance the ‘Cutch-chi-boo!’”11And to conciliate his SeeHe married PICCADILLILLEE,The youngest of his twenty-three,Tall—neither fat nor thin.(And though the dress he made her donLooks awkwardly a girl upon,It was a great improvement onThe one he found her in.)The Bishop in his gay canoe(His wife, of course, went with him too)To some adjacent island flew,To spend his honeymoon.Some day in sunny Rum-ti-FooA little PETER’ll be on view;And that (if people tell me true)Is like to happen soon.

Ballad: A Worm Will Turn

I love a man who’ll smile and jokeWhen with misfortune crowned;Who’ll pun beneath a pauper’s yoke,And as he breaks his daily toke,Conundrums gay propound.Just such a man was BERNARD JUPP,He scoffed at Fortune’s frown;He gaily drained his bitter cup—Though Fortune often threw him up,It never cast him down.Though years their share of sorrow bring,We know that far aboveAll other griefs, are griefs that springFrom some misfortune happeningTo those we really love.E’en sorrow for another’s woeOur BERNARD failed to quell;Though by this special form of blowNo person ever suffered so,Or bore his grief so well.His father, wealthy and well clad,And owning house and park,Lost every halfpenny he had,And then became (extremely sad!)A poor attorney’s clerk.All sons it surely would appal,Except the passing meek,To see a father lose his all,And from an independence fallTo one pound ten a week!But JUPP shook off this sorrow’s weight,And, like a Christian son,Proved Poverty a happy fate—Proved Wealth to be a devil’s bait,To lure poor sinners on.With other sorrows BERNARD coped,For sorrows came in packs;His cousins with their housemaids sloped—His uncles forged—his aunts eloped—His sisters married blacks.But BERNARD, far from murmuring(Exemplar, friends, to us),Determined to his faith to cling,—He made the best of everything,And argued softly thus:“’Twere harsh my uncles’ forging knackToo rudely to condemn—My aunts, repentant, may come back,And blacks are nothing like as blackAs people colour them!”Still Fate, with many a sorrow rife,Maintained relentless fight:His grandmamma next lost her life,Then died the mother of his wife,But still he seemed all right.His brother fond (the only linkTo life that bound him now)One morning, overcome by drink,He broke his leg (the right, I think)In some disgraceful row.But did my BERNARD swear and curse?Oh no—to murmur loth,He only said, “Go, get a nurse:Be thankful that it isn’t worse;You might have broken both!”But worms who watch without concernThe cockchafer on thorns,Or beetles smashed, themselves will turnIf, walking through the slippery fern,You tread upon their corns.One night as BERNARD made his trackThrough Brompton home to bed,A footpad, with a vizor black,Took watch and purse, and dealt a crackOn BERNARD’S saint-like head.It was too much—his spirit rose,He looked extremely cross.Men thought him steeled to mortal foes,But no—he bowed to countless blows,But kicked against this loss.He finally made up his mindUpon his friends to call;Subscription lists were largely signed,For men were really glad to findHim mortal, after all!

Ballad: The Haughty Actor

An actor—GIBBS, of Drury Lane—Of very decent station,Once happened in a part to gainExcessive approbation:It sometimes turns a fellow’s brainAnd makes him singularly vainWhen he believes that he receivesTremendous approbation.His great success half drove him mad,But no one seemed to mind him;Well, in another piece he hadAnother part assigned him.This part was smaller, by a bit,Than that in which he made a hit.So, much ill-used, he straight refusedTo play the part assigned him.* * * * * * * *That night that actor slept, and I’ll attemptTo tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt.THE DREAMIn fighting with a robber band(A thing he loved sincerely)A sword struck GIBBS upon the hand,And wounded it severely.At first he didn’t heed it much,He thought it was a simple touch,But soon he found the weapon’s boundHad wounded him severely.To Surgeon COBB he made a trip,Who’d just effected featlyAn amputation at the hipParticularly neatly.A rising man was Surgeon COBBBut this extremely ticklish jobHe had achieved (as he believed)Particularly neatly.The actor rang the surgeon’s bell.“Observe my wounded finger,Be good enough to strap it well,And prithee do not linger.That I, dear sir, may fill againThe Theatre Royal Drury Lane:This very night I have to fight—So prithee do not linger.”“I don’t strap fingers up for doles,”Replied the haughty surgeon;“To use your cant, I don’t play rôlesUtility that verge on.First amputation—nothing less—That is my line of business:We surgeon nobs despise all jobsUtility that verge on“When in your hip there lurks disease”(So dreamt this lively dreamer),“Or devastating cariesIn humerus or femur,If you can pay a handsome fee,Oh, then you may remember me—With joy elate I’ll amputateYour humerus or femur.”The disconcerted actor ceasedThe haughty leech to pester,But when the wound in size increased,And then began to fester,He sought a learned Counsel’s lair,And told that Counsel, then and there,How COBB’S neglect of his defectHad made his finger fester.“Oh, bring my action, if you please,The case I pray you urge on,And win me thumping damagesFrom COBB, that haughty surgeon.He culpably neglected meAlthough I proffered him his fee,So pray come down, in wig and gown,On COBB, that haughty surgeon!”That Counsel learned in the laws,With passion almost trembled.He just had gained a mighty causeBefore the Peers assembled!Said he, “How dare you have the faceTo come with Common Jury caseTo one who wings rhetoric flingsBefore the Peers assembled?”Dispirited became our friend—Depressed his moral pecker—“But stay! a thought!—I’ll gain my end,And save my poor exchequer.I won’t be placed upon the shelf,I’ll take it into Court myself,And legal lore display beforeThe Court of the Exchequer.”He found a Baron—one of thoseWho with our laws supply us—In wig and silken gown and hose,As if at Nisi Prius.But he’d just given, off the reel,A famous judgment on Appeal:It scarce became his heightened fameTo sit at Nisi Prius.Our friend began, with easy wit,That half concealed his terror:“Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sitIn Banco or in Error.Can you suppose, my man, that I’dO’er Nisi Prius Courts preside,Or condescend my time to spendOn anything but Error?”“Too bad,” said GIBBS, “my case to shirk!You must be bad innately,To save your skill for mighty workBecause it’s valued greatly!”But here he woke, with sudden start.* * * * * * * *He wrote to say he’d play the part.I’ve but to tell he played it well—The author’s words—his native witCombined, achieved a perfect “hit”—The papers praised him greatly.

Ballad: The Two Majors

An excellent soldier who’s worthy the nameLoves officers dashing and strict:When good, he’s content with escaping all blame,When naughty, he likes to be licked.He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,Or imprisoned for several days,And hates, for a duty correctly performed,To be slavered with sickening praise.No officer sickened with praises his corpsSo little as MAJOR LA GUERRE—No officer swore at his warriors moreThan MAJOR MAKREDI PREPERE.Their soldiers adored them, and every gradeDelighted to hear their abuse;Though whenever these officers came on paradeThey shivered and shook in their shoes.For, oh! if LA GUERRE could all praises withhold,Why, so could MAKREDI PREPERE,And, oh! if MAKREDI could bluster and scold,Why, so could the mighty LA GUERRE.“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—Go on—you’re conferring a boon;We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave,Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”MAKREDI would say that in battle’s fierce rageTrue happiness only was met:Poor MAJOR MAKREDI, though fifty his age,Had never known happiness yet!LA GUERRE would declare, “With the blood of a foeNo tipple is worthy to clink.”Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so,Yet tasted his favourite drink!They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—They agreed in the choice of their “set,”And they also agreed in adoring, alas!The Vivandière, pretty FILLETTE.Agreement, you see, may be carried too far,And after agreeing all roundFor years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,”A bone of contention they found!It may seem improper to call such a pet—By a metaphor, even—a bone;But though they agreed in adoring her, yetEach wanted to make her his own.“On the day that you marry her,” muttered PREPERE(With a pistol he quietly played),“I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,All over the stony parade!”“I cannot do that to you,” answered LA GUERRE,“Whatever events may befall;But this I can do—if you wed her, mon cher!I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”The rivals, although they would never engage,Yet quarrelled whenever they met;They met in a fury and left in a rage,But neither took pretty FILLETTE.“I am not afraid,” thought MAKREDI PREPERE:“For country I’m ready to fall;But nobody wants, for a mere Vivandière,To be eaten, moustachios and all!“Besides, though LA GUERRE has his faults, I’ll allowHe’s one of the bravest of men:My goodness! if I disagree with him now,I might disagree with him then.”“No coward am I,” said LA GUERRE, “as you guess—I sneer at an enemy’s blade;But I don’t want PREPERE to get into a messFor splashing the stony parade!”One day on parade to PREPERE and LA GUERRECame CORPORAL JACOT DEBETTE,And trembling all over, he prayed of them thereTo give him the pretty FILLETTE.“You see, I am willing to marry my brideUntil you’ve arranged this affair;I will blow out my brains when your honours decideWhich marries the sweet Vivandière!”“Well, take her,’ said both of them in a duet(A favourite form of reply),“But when I am ready to marry FILLETTE.Remember you’ve promised to die!”He married her then: from the flowery plainsOf existence the roses they cull:He lived and he died with his wife; and his brainsAre reposing in peace in his skull.

Ballad: Emily, John, James, And I.  A Derby Legend

EMILY JANE was a nursery maid,JAMES was a bold Life Guard,JOHN was a constable, poorly paid(And I am a doggerel bard).A very good girl was EMILY JANE,JIMMY was good and true,JOHN was a very good man in the main(And I am a good man too).Rivals for EMMIE were JOHNNY and JAMES,Though EMILY liked them both;She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims(And I couldn’t take my oath).But sooner or later you’re certain to findYour sentiments can’t lie hid—JANE thought it was time that she made up her mind(And I think it was time she did).Said JANE, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,“I’ll promise to wed the boyWho takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!”(Which I would have done, with joy).From JOHNNY escaped an expression of pain,But Jimmy said, “Done with you!I’ll take you with pleasure, my EMILY JANE!”(And I would have said so too).JOHN lay on the ground, and he roared like mad(For JOHNNY was sore perplexed),And he kicked very hard at a very small lad(Which I often do, when vexed).For JOHN was on duty next day with the Force,To punish all Epsom crimes;Young people will cross when they’re clearing the course(I do it myself, sometimes).* * * * * * * *The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,On maidens with gamboge hair,On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads,(For I, with my harp, was there).And JIMMY went down with his JANE that day,And JOHN by the collar or napeSeized everybody who came in his way(And I had a narrow escape).He noticed his EMILY JANE with JIM,And envied the well-made elf;And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!”(I often say “dim!” myself).JOHN dogged them all day, without asking their leaves;For his sergeant he told, aside,That JIMMY and JANE were notorious thieves(And I think he was justified).But JAMES wouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork,And JENNY would blush with shameAt stealing so much as a bottle or cork(A bottle I think fair game).But, ah! there’s another more serious crime!They wickedly strayed uponThe course, at a critical moment of time(I pointed them out to JOHN).The constable fell on the pair in a crack—And then, with a demon smile,Let JENNY cross over, but sent JIMMY back(I played on my harp the while).Stern JOHNNY their agony loud deridesWith a very triumphant sneer—They weep and they wail from the opposite sides(And I shed a silent tear).And JENNY is crying away like mad,And JIMMY is swearing hard;And JOHNNY is looking uncommonly glad(And I am a doggerel bard).But JIMMY he ventured on crossing againThe scenes of our Isthmian Games—JOHN caught him, and collared him, giving him pain(I felt very much for JAMES).JOHN led him away with a victor’s hand,And JIMMY was shortly seenIn the station-house under the grand Grand Stand(As many a time I’ve been).And JIMMY, bad boy, was imprisoned for life,Though EMILY pleaded hard;And JOHNNY had EMILY JANE to wife(And I am a doggerel bard).

Ballad: The Perils Of Invisibility

OLD PETER led a wretched life—Old PETER had a furious wife;Old PETER too was truly stout,He measured several yards about.The little fairy PICKLEKINOne summer afternoon looked in,And said, “Old PETER, how de do?Can I do anything for you?“I have three gifts—the first will giveUnbounded riches while you live;The second health where’er you be;The third, invisibility.”“O little fairy PICKLEKIN,”Old PETER answered with a grin,“To hesitate would be absurd,—Undoubtedly I choose the third.”“’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quiteInvisible to mortal sightWhene’er you please.  Remember meMost kindly, pray, to MRS. P.”Old MRS. PETER overheardWee PICKLEKIN’S concluding word,And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice,Said, “That was some young woman’s voice:Old PETER let her scold and swear—Old PETER, bless him, didn’t care.“My dear, your rage is wasted quite—Observe, I disappear from sight!”A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard)Is always faithful to her word:Old PETER vanished like a shot,Put then—his suit of clothes did not!For when conferred the fairy slimInvisibility on him,She popped away on fairy wings,Without referring to his “things.”So there remained a coat of blue,A vest and double eyeglass too,His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,His pair of—no, I must not tell.Old MRS. PETER soon beganTo see the failure of his plan,And then resolved (I quote the Bard)To “hoist him with his own petard.”Old PETER woke next day and dressed,Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest,His shirt and stock; but could not findHis only pair of—never mind!Old PETER was a decent man,And though he twigged his lady’s plan,Yet, hearing her approaching, heResumed invisibility.“Dear MRS. P., my only joy,”Exclaimed the horrified old boy,“Now, give them up, I beg of you—You know what I’m referring to!”But no; the cross old lady sworeShe’d keep his—what I said before—To make him publicly absurd;And MRS. PETER kept her word.The poor old fellow had no rest;His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest,Were all that now met mortal eye—The rest, invisibility!“Now, madam, give them up, I beg—I’ve had rheumatics in my leg;Besides, until you do, it’s plainI cannot come to sight again!“For though some mirth it might affordTo see my clothes without their lord,Yet there would rise indignant oathsIf he were seen without his clothes!”But no; resolved to have her quiz,The lady held her own—and his—And PETER left his humble cotTo find a pair of—you know what.But—here’s the worst of the affair—Whene’er he came across a pairAlready placed for him to don,He was too stout to get them on!So he resolved at once to train,And walked and walked with all his main;For years he paced this mortal earth,To bring himself to decent girth.At night, when all around is still,You’ll find him pounding up a hill;And shrieking peasants whom he meets,Fall down in terror on the peats!Old PETER walks through wind and rain,Resolved to train, and train, and train,Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so—And when he does, I’ll let you know.

Ballad: Old Paul And Old Tim

When rival adorers come courting a maid,There’s something or other may often be said,Why he should be pitched upon rather than him.This wasn’t the case with Old PAUL and Old TIM.No soul could discover a reason at allFor marrying TIMOTHY rather than PAUL;Though all could have offered good reasons, on oath,Against marrying either—or marrying both.They were equally wealthy and equally old,They were equally timid and equally bold;They were equally tall as they stood in their shoes—Between them, in fact, there was nothing to choose.Had I been young EMILY, I should have said,“You’re both much too old for a pretty young maid,Threescore at the least you are verging upon”;But I wasn’t young EMILY.  Let us get on.No coward’s blood ran in young EMILY’S veins,Her martial old father loved bloody campaigns;At the rumours of battles all over the globeHe pricked up his ears like the war-horse in “Job.”He chuckled to hear of a sudden surprise—Of soldiers, compelled, through an enemy’s spies,Without any knapsacks or shakos to flee—For an eminent army-contractor was he.So when her two lovers, whose patience was tried,Implored her between them at once to decide,She told them she’d marry whichever might bringGood proofs of his doing the pluckiest thing.They both went away with a qualified joy:That coward, Old PAUL, chose a very small boy,And when no one was looking, in spite of his fears,He set to work boxing that little boy’s ears.The little boy struggled and tugged at his hair,But the lion was roused, and Old PAUL didn’t care;He smacked him, and whacked him, and boxed him, and kickedTill the poor little beggar was royally licked.Old TIM knew a trick worth a dozen of that,So he called for his stick and he called for his hat.“I’ll cover myself with cheap glory—I’ll goAnd wallop the Frenchmen who live in Soho!“The German invader is ravaging FranceWith infantry rifle and cavalry lance,And beautiful Paris is fighting her bestTo shake herself free from her terrible guest.“The Frenchmen in London, in craven alarms,Have all run away from the summons to arms;They haven’t the pluck of a pigeon—I’ll goAnd wallop the Frenchmen who skulk in Soho!”Old TIMOTHY tried it and found it succeed:That day he caused many French noses to bleed;Through foggy Soho he spread fear and dismay,And Frenchmen all round him in agony lay.He took care to abstain from employing his fistOn the old and the crippled, for they might resist;A crippled old man may have pluck in his breast,But the young and the strong ones are cowards confest.Old TIM and Old PAUL, with the list of their foes,Prostrated themselves at their EMILY’S toes:“Oh, which of us two is the pluckier blade?”And EMILY answered and EMILY said:“Old TIM has thrashed runaway Frenchmen in scores,Who ought to be guarding their cities and shores;Old PAUL has made little chaps’ noses to bleed—Old PAUL has accomplished the pluckier deed!”

Ballad: The Mystic Selvagee

Perhaps already you may knowSIR BLENNERHASSET PORTICO?A Captain in the Navy, he—A Baronet and K.C.B.You do?  I thought so!It was that Captain’s favourite whim(A notion not confined to him)That RODNEY was the greatest tarWho ever wielded capstan-bar.He had been taught so.“BENBOW!  CORNWALLIS!  HOOD!—Belay!Compared with RODNEY”—he would say—“No other tar is worth a rap!The great LORD RODNEY was the chapThe French to polish! “Though, mind you, I respect LORD HOOD;CORNWALLIS, too, was rather good;BENBOW could enemies repel,LORD NELSON, too, was pretty well—That is, tol-lol-ish!”SIR BLENNERHASSET spent his daysIn learning RODNEY’S little ways,And closely imitated, too,His mode of talking to his crew—His port and paces.An ancient tar he tried to catchWho’d served in RODNEY’S famous batch;But since his time long years have fled,And RODNEY’S tars are mostly dead:Eheu fugaces!But after searching near and far,At last he found an ancient tarWho served with RODNEY and his crewAgainst the French in ’Eighty-two,(That gained the peerage).He gave him fifty pounds a year,His rum, his baccy, and his beer;And had a comfortable denRigged up in what, by merchantmen,Is called the steerage.“Now, JASPER”—’t was that sailor’s name—“Don’t fear that you’ll incur my blameBy saying, when it seems to you,That there is anything I doThat RODNEY wouldn’t.”The ancient sailor turned his quid,Prepared to do as he was bid:“Ay, ay, yer honour; to begin,You’ve done away with ‘swifting in’—Well, sir, you shouldn’t!“Upon your spars I see you’ve clappedPeak halliard blocks, all iron-capped.I would not christen that a crime,But ’twas not done in RODNEY’S time.It looks half-witted!Upon your maintop-stay, I see,You always clap a selvagee!Your stays, I see, are equalized—No vessel, such as RODNEY prized,Would thus be fitted!“And RODNEY, honoured sir, would grinTo see you turning deadeyes in,Not up, as in the ancient way,But downwards, like a cutter’s stay—You didn’t oughter;Besides, in seizing shrouds on board,Breast backstays you have quite ignored;Great RODNEY kept unto the lastBreast backstays on topgallant mast—They make it tauter.”SIR BLENNERHASSET “swifted in,”Turned deadeyes up, and lent a finTo strip (as told by JASPER KNOX)The iron capping from his blocks,Where there was any.SIR BLENNERHASSET does away,With selvagees from maintop-stay;And though it makes his sailors stare,He rigs breast backstays everywhere—In fact, too many.One morning, when the saucy craftLay calmed, old JASPER toddled aft.“My mind misgives me, sir, that weWere wrong about that selvagee—I should restore it.”“Good,” said the Captain, and that dayRestored it to the maintop-stay.Well-practised sailors often makeA much more serious mistake,And then ignore it.Next day old JASPER came once more:“I think, sir, I was right before.”Well, up the mast the sailors skipped,The selvagee was soon unshipped,And all were merry.Again a day, and JASPER came:“I p’r’aps deserve your honour’s blame,I can’t make up my mind,” said he,“About that cursed selvagee—It’s foolish—very.“On Monday night I could have swornThat maintop-stay it should adorn,On Tuesday morning I could swearThat selvagee should not be there.The knot’s a rasper!”“Oh, you be hanged,” said CAPTAIN P.,“Here, go ashore at Caribbee.Get out—good bye—shove off—all right!”Old JASPER soon was out of sight—Farewell, old JASPER!

Ballad: The Cunning Woman

On all Arcadia’s sunny plain,On all Arcadia’s hill,None were so blithe as BILL and JANE,So blithe as JANE and BILL.No social earthquake e’er occurredTo rack their common mind:To them a Panic was a word—A Crisis, empty wind.No Stock Exchange disturbed the ladWith overwhelming shocks—BILL ploughed with all the shares he had,JANE planted all her stocks.And learn in what a simple wayTheir pleasures they enhanced—JANE danced like any lamb all day,BILL piped as well as danced.Surrounded by a twittling crew,Of linnet, lark, and thrush,BILL treated his young lady toThis sentimental gush:“Oh, JANE, how true I am to you!How true you are to me!And how we woo, and how we coo!So fond a pair are we!“To think, dear JANE, that anyways.Your chiefest end and aimIs, one of these fine summer days,To bear my humble name!”Quoth JANE, “Well, as you put the case,I’m true enough, no doubt,But then, you see, in this here placeThere’s none to cut you out.“But, oh! if anybody came—A Lord or any such—I do not think your humble nameWould fascinate me much.“For though your mates, you often boast.You distance out-and-out;Still, in the abstract, you’re a mostUncompromising lout!”Poor BILL, he gave a heavy sigh,He tried in vain to speak—A fat tear started to each eyeAnd coursed adown each cheek.For, oh! right well in truth he knewThat very self-same day,The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOOWas coming there to stay!The LORD DE JACOB PILLALOOAll proper maidens shun—He loves all women, it is true,But never marries one.Now JANE, with all her mad self-will,Was no coquette—oh no!She really loved her faithful BILL,And thus she tuned her woe:“Oh, willow, willow, o’er the lea!And willow once again!The Peer will fall in love with me!Why wasn’t I made plain?”* * * * *A cunning woman lived hard by,A sorceressing dame,MACCATACOMB DE SALMON-EYEWas her uncommon name.To her good JANE, with kindly yearnFor BILL’S increasing pain,Repaired in secrecy to learnHow best to make her plain.“Oh, JANE,” the worthy woman said,“This mystic phial keep,And rub its liquor in your headBefore you go to sleep.“When you awake next day, I trow,You’ll look in form and hueTo others just as you do now—But not to PILLALOO!“When you approach him, you will findHe’ll think you coarse—unkempt—And rudely bid you get behind,With undisguised contempt.”The LORD DE PILLALOO arrivedWith his expensive train,And when in state serenely hived,He sent for BILL and JANE.“Oh, spare her, LORD OF PILLALOO!(Said BILL) if wed you be,There’s anything I’d rather doThan flirt with LADY P.”The Lord he gazed in Jenny’s eyes,He looked her through and through:The cunning woman’s propheciesWere clearly coming true.LORD PILLALOO, the Rustic’s Bane(Bad person he, and proud),He laughed Ha! ha! at pretty JANE,And sneered at her aloud!He bade her get behind him then,And seek her mother’s stye—Yet to her native countrymenShe was as fair as aye!MACCATACOMB, continue green!Grow, SALMON-EYE, in might,Except for you, there might have beenThe deuce’s own delight