Fifty Bab Ballads Part 8

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 ba.s.s in it!

One day, when pa.s.sing 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 croquet 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 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.

Ballad: 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!

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-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-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 t.i.tTY-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.

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 WAGGETY-WEH Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong), And neat little t.i.tTY-FOL-LEH Said, "TOOTLE-TUM, you go along!

You naughty old dear, go along!"

And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-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 t.i.tTY-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!

Ballad: BOB POLTER.

BOB POLTER was a navvy, and His hands were coa.r.s.e, 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 pa.s.s with other men A loud convivial night or two, With, very likely, now and then, On Sat.u.r.days, a fight or two.

But still he was a sober soul, A labour-never-shirking man, Who paid his way--upon the whole A 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 beer Before 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 are Around your noddle hovering.