Absurd Ditties. G. E. Farrow

      "Dear Major Stubbs," my aunt began,

      "Has told me all—quite all he can—

      Of your sad goings on. Oh, fie!

      Where will you go to when you die,

      You naughty wicked boy?"

      And Captain Venne has told me too

      What very dreadful things you do.

      Of course I cannot but believe

      My two dear friends. They'd not deceive,

      Nor characters destroy,

      Without a cause. Go, leave me now,

      You'll see my purpose shall not falter

      I'll send at once for Lawyer Slymm,

      My latest will to bring and alter."

      I fear I lost my temper—quite;

      I know I said what wasn't right;

      You see, I felt it hard to bear

      (And really, I contend, unfair),

      To be misjudged like this.

      I tried to argue, but 'twas vain,

      "My mind is fixed—my way is plain,"

      My aunt declared. "Then hear me now!"

      I hotly cried, "There's naught, I vow,

      To cause you to dismiss

      Your nephew thus, but, as you please.

      And if, perchance, you wish to do it,

      Your money leave to your two friends;

      They want it, and—they're welcome to it."

      I hurried out. I slammed the door.

      I vowed I'd never call there more.

      And neither did I, in my pride,

      Till six weeks since, when poor aunt died,

      And then, from Lawyer Slymm

      I got a little note, which said:

      "The will on Tuesday will be read."

      I went, and found that "Baby Heart"

      From Captain Venne must ne'er depart—

      She had been left to him;

      While "Popsey Petsey" Major Stubbs

      Received as his sole legacy

      And that was all. The money—oh!

      The money—that was left to me.

VIII.

       THAT OF THE TUCK-SHOP WOMAN.

       Table of Contents

      Of all the schools throughout the land

      St. Vedast's is the oldest, and

      All men are proud

      (And justly proud)

      Who claim St. Vedast's as their Al-

      Ma mater. There I went a cal-

      Low youth. Don't think I'm going to paint

      The glories of this school—I ain't.

      The Rev. Cecil Rowe, M.A.,

      Was classics Master in my day,

      A learned man

      (A worthy man)

      In fact you'd very rarely see

      A much more clever man than he.

      But if you think you'll hear a lot

      About this person—you will not.

      The porter was a man named Clarke;

      We boys considered it a lark

      To play him tricks

      (The usual tricks

      Boys play at public schools like this),

      And Clarke would sometimes take amiss

      These tricks. But don't think I would go

      And only sing of him. Oh, no!

      This ditty, I would beg to state,

      Professes likewise to relate

      The latter words

      (The solemn words)

      Of her who kept the tuck-shop at

      St. Vedast's. I'd inform you that

      The porter was her only son

      (The reason was—she had but one).

      For many years the worthy soul

      Had kept the shop—the well-loved goal

      Of little boys

      (And larger boys)

      Who bought the tarts, and ginger pop

      And other things sold at her shop—

      But, feebler growing year by year,

      She felt her end was drawing near.