The Bab Ballads. William Schwenck Gilbert
none can blot your fame—
But, HOOPER, you’re mistaken!
“Your mind is not as blank
As that of HOPLEY PORTER,
Who holds a curate’s rank
At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.
“He plays the airy flute,
And looks depressed and blighted,
Doves round about him ‘toot,’
And lambkins dance delighted.
“He labours more than you
At worsted work, and frames it;
In old maids’ albums, too,
Sticks seaweed—yes, and names it!”
The tempter said his say,
Which pierced him like a needle—
He summoned straight away
His sexton and his beadle.
(These men were men who could
Hold liberal opinions:
On Sundays they were good—
On week-days they were minions.)
“To HOPLEY PORTER go,
Your fare I will afford you—
Deal him a deadly blow,
And blessings shall reward you.
“But stay—I do not like
Undue assassination,
And so before you strike,
Make this communication:
“I’ll give him this one chance—
If he’ll more gaily bear him,
Play croquêt, smoke, and dance,
I willingly will spare him.”
They went, those minions true,
To Assesmilk-cum-Worter,
And told their errand to
The REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER.
“What?” said that reverend gent,
“Dance through my hours of leisure?
Smoke?—bathe myself with scent?—
Play croquêt? Oh, with pleasure!
“Wear all my hair in curl?
Stand at my door and wink—so—
At every passing girl?
My brothers, I should think so!
“For years I’ve longed for some
Excuse for this revulsion:
Now that excuse has come—
I do it on compulsion!!!”
He smoked and winked away—
This REVEREND HOPLEY PORTER—
The deuce there was to pay
At Assesmilk-cum-Worter.
And HOOPER holds his ground,
In mildness daily growing—
They think him, all around,
The mildest curate going.
Only A Dancing Girl
Only a dancing girl,
With an unromantic style,
With borrowed colour 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 there
As unpoetical I!
I hear you asking, Why—
Why in the world I sing
This 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 bring
Their 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 occurs
That 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 green
For a coarse merino gown,
And see her upon the scene
Of her home, when coaxing down
Her drunken father’s frown,
In his squalid cheerless den:
She’s a fairy truly, then!
General John
The bravest names for fire and flames
And all that mortal durst,
Were GENERAL JOHN and PRIVATE JAMES,
Of the Sixty-seventy-first.
GENERAL JOHN was a soldier tried,
A chief of warlike dons;
A haughty stride and a withering pride
Were MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN’S.
A sneer would play on his martial phiz,
Superior birth to show;
“Pish!” was a favourite word of his,
And he often said “Ho! ho!”
FULL-PRIVATE JAMES described might be,
As a man of a mournful mind;
No characteristic trait had he
Of any distinctive kind.
From the ranks, one day, cried PRIVATE JAMES,
“Oh! MAJOR-GENERAL JOHN,
I’ve doubts of our respective names,
My mournful mind upon.
“A glimmering thought occurs to me
(Its source I can’t unearth),
But I’ve a kind of a notion we
Were cruelly changed at birth.
“I’ve a strange idea that each other’s names
We’ve each of us here got on.
Such things have been,” said PRIVATE JAMES.
“They