More Bab Ballads. William Schwenck Gilbert

More Bab Ballads

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Muse

Let me recall my wandering Muse;

She shall be steady if I choose—

She roves, instead of helping me

To tell the deeds of BAILEY B.

The Pasha’s Visitor

One morning knocked, at half-past eight,

A tall Red Indian at his gate.

In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware,

Red Indians are extremely rare.

The Visitor’s Outfit

Mocassins decked his graceful legs,

His eyes were black, and round as eggs,

And on his neck, instead of beads,

Hung several Catawampous seeds.

What the Visitor said

“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one,

Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,

You’ve never seen the Red Man skip

Upon the banks of Mississip!”

The Author’s Moderation

To say that BAILEY oped his eyes

Would feebly paint his great surprise—

To say it almost made him die

Would be to paint it much too high.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I ransack my head

To tell you all that Indian said;

We’ll let the Indian man take wing,—

’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Reader to the Author

Come, come, I say, that’s quite enough

Of this absurd disjointed stuff;

Now let’s get on to that affair

About LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE.

Ballad: Lieutenant-Colonel Flare

The earth has armies plenty,

And semi-warlike bands,

I dare say there are twenty

In European lands;

But, oh! in no direction

You’d find one to compare

In brotherly affection

With that of COLONEL FLARE.

His soldiers might be rated

As military Pearls.

As unsophisticated

As pretty little girls!

They never smoked or ratted,

Or talked of Sues or Polls;

The Sergeant-Major tatted,

The others nursed their dolls.

He spent his days in teaching

These truly solemn facts;

There’s little use in preaching,

Or circulating tracts.

(The vainest plan invented

For stifling other creeds,

Unless it’s supplemented

With charitable deeds.)

He taught his soldiers kindly

To give at Hunger’s call:

“Oh, better far give blindly,

Than never give at all!

Though sympathy be kindled

By Imposition’s game,

Oh, better far be swindled

Than smother up its flame!”

His means were far from ample

For pleasure or for dress,

Yet note this bright example

Of single-heartedness:

Though ranking as a Colonel,

His pay was but a groat,

While their reward diurnal

Was—each a five-pound note.

Moreover,—this evinces

His kindness, you’ll allow,—

He fed them all like princes,

And lived himself on cow.

He set them all regaling

On curious wines, and dear,

While he would sit pale-ale-ing,

Or quaffing ginger-beer.

Then at his instigation

(A pretty fancy this)

Their daily pay and ration

He’d take in change for his;

They brought it to him weekly,

And he without a groan,

Would take it from them meekly

And give them all his own!

Though not exactly knighted

As knights, of course, should be,

Yet no one so delighted

In harmless chivalry.

If peasant girl or ladye

Beneath misfortunes sank,

Whate’er distinctions made he,

They were not those of rank.

No maiden young and comely

Who wanted good advice

(However poor or homely)

Need ask him for it twice.

He’d wipe away the blindness

That comes of teary dew;

His sympathetic kindness

No sort of limit knew.

He always hated dealing

With men who schemed or planned;

A person harsh—unfeeling—

The Colonel could not stand.

He hated cold, suspecting,

Official men in blue,

Who pass their lives detecting

The crimes that others do.

For men who’d shoot a sparrow,

Or immolate a worm

Beneath a farmer’s harrow,

He could not find a term.

Humanely, ay, and knightly

He dealt with such an one;

He took and tied him tightly,

And blew him from a gun.