The Bab Ballads

The Reverend Micah Sowls

The REVEREND MICAH SOWLS,He shouts and yells and howls,He screams, he mouths, he bumps,He foams, he rants, he thumps.His armour he has buckled on, to wageThe regulation war against the Stage;And warns his congregation all to shun“The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,”The subject’s sad enoughTo make him rant and puff,And fortunately, too,His Bishop’s in a pew.So REVEREND MICAH claps on extra steam,His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,He is as energetic as can be,For there are fatter livings in that see.The Bishop, when it’s o’er,Goes through the vestry door,Where MICAH, very red,Is mopping of his head.“Pardon, my Lord, your SOWLS’ excessive zeal,It is a theme on which I strongly feel.”(The sermon somebody had sent him downFrom London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)The Bishop bowed his head,And, acquiescing, said,“I’ve heard your well-meant rageAgainst the Modern Stage.“A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,Sows seeds of evil broadcast—well it may;But let me ask you, my respected son,Pray, have you ever ventured into one?”“My Lord,” said MICAH, “no!I never, never go!What!  Go and see a play?My goodness gracious, nay!”The worthy Bishop said, “My friend, no doubtThe Stage may be the place you make it out;But if, my REVEREND SOWLS, you never go,I don’t quite understand how you’re to know.”“Well, really,” MICAH said,“I’ve often heard and read,But never go—do you?”The Bishop said, “I do.”“That proves me wrong,” said MICAH, in a trice:“I thought it all frivolity and vice.”The Bishop handed him a printed card;“Go to a theatre where they play our Bard.”The Bishop took his leave,Rejoicing in his sleeve.The next ensuing daySOWLS went and heard a play.He saw a dreary person on the stage,Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,And spoke an English SOWLS had never heard.For “gaunt” was spoken “garnt,” And “haunt” transformed to “harnt,” And “wrath “ pronounced as “rath,” And “death” was changed to “dath.”For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,Till lethargy upon the parson crept,And sleepy MICAH SOWLS serenely slept.He slept away untilThe farce that closed the billHad warned him not to stay,And then he went away.“I thought my gait ridiculous,” said he—“My elocution faulty as could be;I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan—I had not seen our great Tragedian!“Forgive me, if you can,O great Tragedian!I own it with a sigh—You’re drearier than I!”

A Discontented Sugar Broker

A GENTLEMAN of City fameNow claims your kind attention;East India broking was his game,His name I shall not mention:No one of finely-pointed senseWould violate a confidence,And shall I goAnd do it?  No!His name I shall not mention.He had a trusty wife and true,And very cosy quarters,A manager, a boy or two,Six clerks, and seven porters.A broker must be doing well(As any lunatic can tell)Who can employAn active boy,Six clerks, and seven porters.His knocker advertised no dun,No losses made him sulky,He had one sorrow—only one—He was extremely bulky.A man must be, I beg to state,Exceptionally fortunateWho owns his chiefAnd only griefIs—being very bulky.“This load,” he’d say, “I cannot bear;I’m nineteen stone or twenty!Henceforward I’ll go in for airAnd exercise in plenty.”Most people think that, should it come,They can reduce a bulging tumTo measures fairBy taking airAnd exercise in plenty.In every weather, every day,Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,He took to dancing all the wayFrom Brompton to the City.You do not often get the chanceOf seeing sugar brokers danceFrom their abodeIn Fulham RoadThrough Brompton to the City.He braved the gay and guileless laughOf children with their nusses,The loud uneducated chaffOf clerks on omnibuses.Against all minor things that rackA nicely-balanced mind, I’ll backThe noisy chaffAnd ill-bred laughOf clerks on omnibuses.His friends, who heard his money chink,And saw the house he rented,And knew his wife, could never thinkWhat made him discontented.It never entered their pure mindsThat fads are of eccentric kinds,Nor would they ownThat fat aloneCould make one discontented.“Your riches know no kind of pause,Your trade is fast advancing;You dance—but not for joy, becauseYou weep as you are dancing.To dance implies that man is glad,To weep implies that man is sad;But here are youWho do the two—You weep as you are dancing!”His mania soon got noised aboutAnd into all the papers;His size increased beyond a doubtFor all his reckless capers:It may seem singular to you,But all his friends admit it true—The more he foundHis figure round,The more he cut his capers.His bulk increased—no matter that—He tried the more to toss it—He never spoke of it as “fat,”But “adipose deposit.”Upon my word, it seems to meUnpardonable vanity(And worse than that)To call your fatAn “adipose deposit.”At length his brawny knees gave way,And on the carpet sinking,Upon his shapeless back he layAnd kicked away like winking.Instead of seeing in his stateThe finger of unswerving Fate,He laboured stillTo work his will,And kicked away like winking.His friends, disgusted with him now,Away in silence wended—I hardly like to tell you howThis dreadful story ended.The shocking sequel to impart,I must employ the limner’s art—If you would know,This sketch will showHow his exertions ended.MORAL.I hate to preach—I hate to prate—– I’m no fanatic croaker,But learn contentment from the fateOf this East India broker.He’d everything a man of tasteCould ever want, except a waist;And discontentHis size anent,And bootless perseverance blind,Completely wrecked the peace of mindOf this East India broker.

The Pantomime “Super” To His Mask

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 raceInvest my faceWith 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 tollThy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:A nine weeks’ run,And thou hast doneAll 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 awareOf nothing thereWhich 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 individualityIs merged in thine?

The Force Of Argument

Lord B. was a nobleman boldWho 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 galoped, 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 beyondEndeavoured his cares to dispel—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 endeavoured 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 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 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.“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 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.

The Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin

O’er unreclaimed suburban claysSome 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 funThey fairly fell a-squabblin’.They’d barely speak, and each, in fine,Grew more and more reflective:Each thought his own particular lineBy chalks the more effective.At length they settled some one shouldBy each of them be haunted,And so arrange that either couldExert 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 EnglishmanBy yonder tailor’s standing.“The very fittest man on earthMy 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 aloudWhen I begin appearing!The imp with yell unearthly—wild—Threw off his dark enclosure:His dauntless victim looked and smiledWith 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.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 planHas 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 sublimeWho 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 clapperheadAnd 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 stuffWithstood all ghostly harrying;His fingers closed upon the snuffWhich upwards he was carrying.For days that ghost declined to stir,A foggy shapeless giant—For weeks that splendid officerStared back again defiant.Just as the Englishman returnedThe goblin’s vulgar staring,Just so the Scotchman boldly spurnedThe ghost’s unmannered scaring.For several years the ghostly twainThese 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.  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 planWhich 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 enhanceTheir 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 enhanceHis 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 croquêt-bout is planned by all the girls;And he, consenting, speaks of croquêt 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, freedFrom 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 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’raps 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 boat,He 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 Rock,His 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 dead,I 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 Ecclesiastical arena;Then suddenly I will appear,And paralysing 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’raps, 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.

Tempora Mutantur

Letters, letters, letters, letters!Some that please and some that bore,Some that threaten prison fetters(Metaphorically, fettersSuch 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, waitedFor the missives that she wrote,Humble postmen execrated—Loudly, deeply execrated—When I heard I wasn’t fatedTo be gladdened with a note!Time was when I’d not have barteredOf her little pen a dipFor 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.I’m afraid I’ve proved a rover—I’m afraid a heartless rover—Quarters in a place like DoverTend 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 runFrom her little fingers taper(They are very small and taper),By the tailor and the draperAre 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-roomIn 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 weirdUnearthly cranium caps,He hangs a long benevolent beardOn a pair of empty chaps.To smooth his ghastly features downThe 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, inA 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!Revealed Old Christmas stands,And little children chuckle and crow,And laugh and clap their hands.The cruel old scoundrel brightens upAt 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 oldA 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-timeMeant 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 seenThat Actor off the stage!They see in his gay rotundityA clumsy stuffed-out dress—They see in the cup he waves on highA tinselled emptiness.Those aged men so lean and wan,They’ve seen it all before,They know they’ll see the charlatanBut twice or three times more.And so they bear with dance and song,And crimson foil and green,They wearily sit, and grimly longFor the Transformation Scene.

King Borria Bungalee Boo

KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOOWas a man-eating African swell;His sigh was a hullaballoo,His whisper a horrible yell—A horrible, horrible yell!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 BOOWas dying for something to eat—“Come, provide me with something to eat!“ALACK-A-DEY, 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-LOOIs 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 BOOMarched forth in a terrible row,And the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOOPrepared 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 fallIn a totally different way—An entirely different way.With a crimson and pearly-white dyeThey 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 WAGGETY-WEHOgled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong),And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEHSaid, “TOOTLE-TUM, you go along!You naughty old dear, go along!”And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAHTapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her fan;And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAHSaid, “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-BAHSaid, “ALACK-A-DEY, what does this mean?”And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AHSaid, “They think us uncommonly green!Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!”Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEYWas 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 fellTo 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-LEHWas eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH,And light-hearted WAGGETY-WEHBy dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH—Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH.And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAHWas eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEY,And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAHBy good little TOOTLE-DUM-TEH—Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH!