The Bab Ballads. William Schwenck Gilbert

The Bab Ballads - William Schwenck Gilbert


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I can do

      To Christianise and make you wise,

      You poor benighted Jew.”

      So every blessed day

      That ’bus he rode outside,

      From Fulham town, both up and down,

      And loudly thus he cried:

      “His name is HASH BAZ BEN,

      And JEDEDIAH too,

      And SOLOMON and ZABULON—

      This ’bus-directing Jew.”

      At first the ’busman smiled,

      And rather liked the fun—

      He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,

      And said, “Eccentric one!”

      And gay young dogs would wait

      To see the ’bus go by

      (These gay young dogs, in striking togs),

      To hear the Bishop cry:

      “Observe his grisly beard,

      His race it clearly shows,

      He sticks no fork in ham or pork—

      Observe, my friends, his nose.

      “His name is HASH BAZ BEN,

      And JEDEDIAH too,

      And SOLOMON and ZABULON—

      This ’bus-directing Jew.”

      But though at first amused,

      Yet after seven years,

      This Hebrew child got rather riled,

      And melted into tears.

      He really almost feared

      To leave his poor abode,

      His nose, and name, and beard became

      A byword on that road.

      At length he swore an oath,

      The reason he would know—

      “I’ll call and see why ever he

      Does persecute me so!”

      The good old Bishop sat

      On his ancestral chair,

      The ’busman came, sent up his name,

      And laid his grievance bare.

      “Benighted Jew,” he said

      (The good old Bishop did),

      “Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—

      Become a Christian kid!

      “I’ll ne’er annoy you more.”

      “Indeed?” replied the Jew;

      “Shall I be freed?”  “You will, indeed!”

      Then “Done!” said he, “with you!”

      The organ which, in man,

      Between the eyebrows grows,

      Fell from his face, and in its place

      He found a Christian nose.

      His tangled Hebrew beard,

      Which to his waist came down,

      Was now a pair of whiskers fair—

      His name ADOLPHUS BROWN!

      He wedded in a year

      That prelate’s daughter JANE,

      He’s grown quite fair—has auburn hair—

      His wife is far from plain.

      The Troubadour

      A TROUBADOUR he played

      Without a castle wall,

      Within, a hapless maid

      Responded to his call.

      “Oh, willow, woe is me!

      Alack and well-a-day!

      If I were only free

      I’d hie me far away!”

      Unknown her face and name,

      But this he knew right well,

      The maiden’s wailing came

      From out a dungeon cell.

      A hapless woman lay

      Within that dungeon grim—

      That fact, I’ve heard him say,

      Was quite enough for him.

      “I will not sit or lie,

      Or eat or drink, I vow,

      Till thou art free as I,

      Or I as pent as thou.”

      Her tears then ceased to flow,

      Her wails no longer rang,

      And tuneful in her woe

      The prisoned maiden sang:

      “Oh, stranger, as you play,

      I recognize your touch;

      And all that I can say

      Is, thank you very much.”

      He seized his clarion straight,

      And blew thereat, until

      A warden oped the gate.

      “Oh, what might be your will?”

      “I’ve come, Sir Knave, to see

      The master of these halls:

      A maid unwillingly

      Lies prisoned in their walls.”’

      With barely stifled sigh

      That porter drooped his head,

      With teardrops in his eye,

      “A many, sir,” he said.

      He stayed to hear no more,

      But pushed that porter by,

      And shortly stood before

      SIR HUGH DE PECKHAM RYE.

      SIR HUGH he darkly frowned,

      “What would you, sir, with me?”

      The troubadour he downed

      Upon his bended knee.

      “I’ve come, DE PECKHAM RYE,

      To do a Christian task;

      You ask me what would I?

      It is not much I ask.

      “Release these maidens, sir,

      Whom you dominion o’er—

      Particularly her

      Upon the second floor.

      “And if you don’t, my lord”—

      He here stood bolt upright,

      And tapped a tailor’s sword—

      “Come out, you cad, and fight!”

      SIR HUGH he called—and ran

      The warden from the gate:

      “Go, show this gentleman

      The maid in Forty-eight.”

      By many a cell they past,

      And stopped at length before

      A portal, bolted fast:

      The man unlocked the door.

      He


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