I’ve often thought that headstrong youths
Of decent education,
Determine all-important truths,
With strange precipitation.

The ever-ready victims they,
Of logical illusions,
And in a self-assertive way
They jump at strange conclusions.

Now take my case: Ere sorrow could
My ample forehead wrinkle,
I had determined that I should
Not care to be a winkle.

“A winkle,” I would oft advance
With readiness provoking,
“Can seldom flirt, and never dance,
Or soothe his mind by smoking.”

In short, I spurned the shelly joy,
And spoke with strange decision—
Men pointed to me as a boy
Who held them in derision.

But I was young—too young, by far—
Or I had been more wary,
I knew not then that winkles are
The stock-in-trade of MARY.

I had not watched her sunlight blithe
As o’er their shells it dances—
I’ve seen those winkles almost writhe
Beneath her beaming glances.

Of slighting all the winkly brood
I surely had been chary,
If I had known they formed the food
And stock-in-trade of MARY.

Both high and low and great and small
Fell prostrate at her tootsies,
They all were noblemen, and all
Had balances at COUTTS’S.

Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt,
DUKE BAILEY and DUKE HUMPHY,
Who ate her winkles till they felt
Exceedingly uncomfy.

DUKE BAILEY greatest wealth computes,
And sticks, they say, at no-thing,
He wears a pair of golden boots
And silver underclothing.

DUKE HUMPHY, as I understand,
Though mentally acuter,
His boots are only silver, and
His underclothing pewter.

A third adorer had the girl,
A man of lowly station—
A miserable grov’ling Earl
Besought her approbation.

This humble cad she did refuse
With much contempt and loathing,
He wore a pair of leather shoes
And 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 Mary make a bride,
And from her foes defend her”—
“Well, not exactly that,” they cried,
“We offer guilty splendour.

“We do not offer marriage rite,
So please dismiss the notion!”
“Oh dear,” said she, “that alters quite
The state of my emotion.”

The Earl he up and says, says he,
“Dismiss them to their orgies,
For I am game to marry thee
Quite reg’lar at St. George’s.”

(He’d had, it happily befell,
A decent education,
His views would have befitted well
A far superior station.)

His sterling worth had worked a cure,
She never heard him grumble;
She saw his soul was good and pure,
Although 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!

Thomson Green And Harriet Hale

(To be sung to the Air of “An ’Orrible Tale.”)

Oh list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE;
Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

Oh, THOMSON GREEN was an auctioneer,
And made three hundred pounds a year;
And HARRIET HALE, most strange to say,
Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.

Oh, THOMSON GREEN, I may remark,
Met HARRIET HALE in Regent’s Park,
Where he, in a casual kind of way,
Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.

They met again, and strange, though true,
He courted her for a month or two,
Then to her pa he said, says he,
“Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!”

Their names were regularly banned,
The wedding day was settled, and
I’ve ascertained by dint of search
They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot’s Church.

Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,
Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

That very self-same afternoon
They started on their honeymoon,
And (oh, astonishment!) took flight
To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.

But now—you’ll doubt my word, I know—
In a month they both returned, and lo!
Astounding fact! this happy pair
Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!

They led a weird and reckless life,
They dined each day, this man and wife
(Pray disbelieve it, if you please),
On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.

In time came those maternal joys
Which take the form of girls or boys,
And strange to say of each they’d one—
A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!

Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,
Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

My name for truth is gone, I fear,
But, monstrous as it may appear,
They let their drawing-room one day
To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.

Whenever THOMSON GREEN fell sick
His wife called in a doctor, quick,
From whom some words like these would come—
Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.

For thirty years this curious pair
Hung out in Canonbury Square,
And somehow, wonderful to say,
They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.

Well, THOMSON GREEN fell ill and died;
For just a year his widow cried,
And then her heart she gave away
To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.

Oh, list to this incredible tale
Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE,
Its truth in one remark you’ll sum—
“Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!”

Bob Polter

BOB POLTER was a navvy, and
His 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 men
A 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 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.

“They both are here to bid you shun
The other one’s society,
For Total Abstinence is one,
The other, Inebriety.”

He waved his hand—a vapour 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 ale
And 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 gin
To 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 wan’t none of you.”

The demon gave a drunken shriek,
And crept away in stealthiness,
And lo! instead, a person sleek,
Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

“In me, as your adviser hints,
Of Abstinence you’ve got a type—
Of MR. TWEEDIE’S pretty prints
I am the happy prototype.

“If you abjure the social toast,
And pipes, and such frivolities,
You possibly some day may boast
My 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, array
Extremities inferior?
Will chubbiness assert its sway
All over my exterior?

“In this, my unenlightened state,
To work in heavy boots I comes;
Will pumps henceforward decorate
My tiddle toddle tootsicums?

“And shall I get so plump and fresh,
And look no longer seedily?
My skin will henceforth fit my flesh
So 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!”

The Story Of Prince Agib

Strike the concertina’s melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano’s martial blast
Rouse the Echoes of the Past,
For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!

Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls—
Which is pretty, but I don’t know what it means.

Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter—I am shaky in my dates—
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
Oh, ALLAH be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the “Oüaits.”

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.
And when (as snobs would say)
They had “put it all away,”
He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before,—
The consequences true
Of that awful interview,
For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

They played him a sonata—let me see!
“Medulla oblongata”—key of G.
Then they began to sing
That extremely lovely thing,
Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp.”

He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
More beer, in little kegs,
Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I’m growing gradually pale,
For, even at this day,
Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel;
“Oh, PRINCE,” he says, says he,
“If a Prince indeed you be,
I’ve a mystery I’m going to reveal!

“Oh, listen, if you’d shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who’s speaking to you saith:
No ‘Oüaits’ in truth are we,
As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK—this is BETH!”

Said AGIB, “Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!”
BETH gave a dreadful shriek—
But before he’d time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me full length upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page

Ellen McJones Aberdeen

MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN
Was the son of an elderly labouring man;
You’ve guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p’r’aps altogether, shrewd reader, you’re right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,
Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,
There wasn’t a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.

No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter—with bag and with drones:
All day and ill night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He’d clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around
To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;
He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,
Tho’ his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.

TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense
To make him a Scotchman in every sense;
But this is a matter, you’ll readily own,
That isn’t a question of tailors alone.

A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;
Stick a skeän in his hose—wear an acre of stripes—
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

CLONGLOCKETY’S pipings all night and all day
Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY;
The girls were amused at his singular spleen,
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,

“MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad,
With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.
If you really must play on that cursed affair,
My goodness! play something resembling an air.”

Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN—
The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;
For all were enraged at the insult, I ween—
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

“Let’s show,” said McCLAN, “to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes can play him a regular tune.
Let’s see,” said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat,
“’In my Cottage’ is easy—I’ll practise at that.”

He blew at his “Cottage,” and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until
(You’ll hardly believe it) McCLAN, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild—it was fitful—as wild as the breeze—
It wandered about into several keys;
It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I’m aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.

The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;
He shrieked in his agony—bellowed and pranced;
And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene—
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

“Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a’ ye lugs wi’ the exquisite sound.
An air fra’ the bagpipes—beat that if ye can!
Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!”

The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,
And maidens came flocking to sit on the green—
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He’d stand it no longer—he drew his claymore,
And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)
Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.

Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN,
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;
The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene—
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY
To find them “take on” in this serious way;
He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words:

“Oh, maidens,” said PATTISON, touching his hat,
“Don’t blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;
Observe, I’m a very superior man,
A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN.”

They smiled when he winked and addressed them as “dears,”
And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,
A pleasanter gentleman never was seen—
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.