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 called inside the gate

With coarse and brutal shout,

"Come, step it, Forty-eight!"

And Forty-eight stepped out.

"They gets it pretty hot,

The maidens what we cotch --

Two years this lady's got

For collaring a wotch."

"Oh, ah! -- indeed -- I see,"

The troubadour exclaimed --

"If I may make so free,

How is this castle named?

The warden's eyelids fill,

And sighing, he replied,

"Of gloomy Pentonville

This is the female side!"

The minstrel did not wait

The Warden stout to thank,

But recollected straight

He'd business at the Bank.

Ferdinando And Elvira

At a pleasant evening party I had taken down to supper

One whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of love and Tupper,

Mr. Tupper and the Poets, very lightly with them dealing,

For I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling.

Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto,

And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.

Then she whispered, "To the ball-room we had better, dear, be walking;

If we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking."

There were noblemen in coronets, and military cousins,

There were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens.

Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing,

Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she had convulsive sobbings in her agitated throttle,

Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling- bottle.

So I whispered, "Dear Elvira, say, -- what can the matter be with you?

Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsy, disagree with you?"

But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing,

And she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing.

Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me,

And she whispered, "Ferdinando, do you really, really love me?"

"Love you?" said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly --

For I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly.

"Send me to the Arctic regions, or illimitable azure,

On a scientific goose-chase, with my Coxwell or my Glaisher!

"Tell me whither I may hie me -- tell me, dear one, that I may know --

Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?"

But she said, "It isn't polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes:

Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!"

"Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred Poet Close, or Mister Tupper,

Do you write the bon bon mottoes my Elvira pulls at supper?"

But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honour;

And Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her.

"Mister Martin Tupper, Poet Close, I beg of you inform us;"

But my question seemed to throw them both into a rage enormous.

Mister Close expressed a wish that he could only get anigh to me;

And Mister Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me:

"A fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit," --

Which I know was very clever; but I didn't understand it.

Seven weary years I wandered -- Patagonia, China, Norway,

Till at last I sank exhausted at a pastrycook his doorway.

There were fuchsias and geraniums, and daffodils and myrtle,

So I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock turtle.

He was plump and he was chubby, he was smooth and he was rosy,

And his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy.

And he chirped and sang, and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty --

He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party.

And I said, "O gentle pieman, why so very, very merry?

Is it purity of conscience, or your one-and-seven sherry?"

But he answered, "I'm so happy -- no profession could be dearer --

If I am not humming 'Tra! la! la!' I'm singing 'Tirer, lirer!'

"First I go and make the patties, and the puddings, and the jellies,

Then I make a sugar bird-cage, which upon a table swell is;

"Then I polish all the silver, which a supper-table lacquers;

Then I write the pretty mottoes which you find inside the crackers." --

"Found at last!" I madly shouted. "Gentle pieman, you astound me!"

Then I waved the turtle soup enthusiastically round me.

And I shouted and I danced until he'd quite a crowd around him --

And I rushed away exclaiming, "I have found him! I have found him!"

And I heard the gentle pieman in the road behind me trilling,

"'Tira, lira!' stop him, stop him! 'Tra! la! la!' the soup's a shilling!"

But until I reached Elvira's home, I never, never waited,

And Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated!

Lorenzo De Lardy

Dalilah de Dardy adored

The very correctest of cards,

Lorenzo de Lardy, a lord --

He was one of Her Majesty's Guards.

Dalilah de Dardy was fat,

Dalilah de Dardy was old --

(No doubt in the world about that)

But Dalilah de Dardy had gold.

Lorenzo de Lardy was tall,

The flower of maidenly pets,

Young ladies would love at his call,

But Lorenzo de Lardy had debts.

His money-position was queer,

And one of his favourite freaks

Was to hide himself three times a year,

In Paris, for several weeks.

Many days didn't pass him before

He fanned himself into a flame,

For a beautiful "Dam du Comptwore,"

And this was her singular name:

Alice Eulalie Coraline

Euphrosine Colombina Thérèse

Juliette Stephanie Celestine

Charlotte Russe de la Sauce Mayonnaise.

She booked all the orders and tin,

Accoutred in showy fal-lal,

At a two-fifty Restaurant, in

The glittering Palais Royal.

He'd gaze in her orbit of blue,

Her hand he would tenderly squeeze,

But the words of her tongue that he knew

Were limited strictly to these:

"Coraline Celestine Eulalie,

Houp là! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo,

Combien donnez moi aujourd'hui

Bonjour, Mademoiselle, parlez voo."

Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise

Was a witty and beautiful miss,

Extremely correct in her ways,

But her English consisted of this:

"Oh my! pretty man, if you please,

Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb,

Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,

Rosbif, me spik Angleesh, godam."

A waiter, for seasons before,

Had basked in her beautiful gaze,

And burnt to dismember Milor.

He loved de la Sauce Mayonnaise.

He said to her, "Méchante Thérèse,

Avec désespoir tu m'accables.

Penses-tu, de la Sauce Mayonnaise,

Ses intentions sont honorables?

"Flirtez toujours, ma belle, si tu ôses --

Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère,

Je lui dirai de quoi l'on compose

Vol au vent é la Financière!"

Lord Lardy knew nothing of this --

The waiter's devotion ignored,

But he gazed on the beautiful miss,

And never seemed weary or bored.

The waiter would screw up his nerve,

His fingers he'd snap and he'd dance --

And Lord Lardy would smile and observe,

"How strange are the customs of France!"

Well, after delaying a space,

His tradesmen no longer would wait:

Returning to England apace,

He yielded himself to his fate.

Lord Lardy espoused, with a groan,

Miss Dardy's developing charms,

And agreed to tag on to his own,

Her name and her newly-found arms.

The waiter he knelt at the toes

Of an ugly and thin coryphée,

Who danced in the hindermost rows

At the Théatre des Variétés.

Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise

Didn't yield to a gnawing despair

But married a soldier, and plays

As a pretty and pert Vivandière.

Disillusioned

Oh, that my soul its gods could see

As years ago they seemed to me

When first I painted them;

Invested with the circumstance

Of old conventional romance:

Exploded theorem!

The bard who could, all men above,

Inflame my soul with songs of love,

And, with his verse, inspire

The craven soul who feared to die

With all the glow of chivalry

And old heroic fire;

I found him in a beerhouse tap

Awaking from a gin-born nap,

With pipe and sloven dress;

Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,

With muddy, maudlin sentiment,

And tipsy foolishness!

The novelist, whose painting pen

To legions of fictitious men

A real existence lends,

Brain-people whom we rarely fail,

Whene'er we hear their names, to hail

As old and welcome friends;

I found in clumsy snuffy suit,

In seedy glove, and blucher boot,

Uncomfortably big.

Particularly commonplace,

With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face,

And spectacles and wig.

My favourite actor who, at will,

With mimic woe my eyes could fill

With unaccustomed brine:

A being who appeared to me

(Before I knew him well) to be

A song incarnadine;

I found a coarse unpleasant man

With speckled chin -- unhealthy, wan --

Of self-importance full:

Existing in an atmosphere

That reeked of gin and pipes and beer --

Conceited, fractious, dull.

The warrior whose ennobled name

Is woven with his country's fame,

Triumphant over all,

I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear;

His province seemed to be, to leer

At bonnets in Pall Mall.

Would that ye always shone, who write,

Bathed in your own innate limelight,

And ye who battles wage,

Or that in darkness I had died

Before my soul had ever sighed

To see you off the stage!

Babette's Love

Babette she was a fisher gal,

With jupon striped and cap in crimps.

She passed her days inside the Halle,

Or catching little nimble shrimps.

Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,

With no professional bouquet.

Jacot was, of the Customs bold,

An officer, at gay Boulogne,

He loved Babette -- his love he told,

And sighed, "Oh, soyez vous my own!"

But "Non!" said she, "Jacot, my pet,

Vous êtes trop scraggy pour Babette.

"Of one alone I nightly dream,

An able mariner is he,

And gaily serves the Gen'ral Steam-

Boat Navigation Companee.

I'll marry him, if he but will --

His name, I rather think, is Bill.

"I see him when he's not aware,

Upon our hospitable coast,

Reclining with an easy air

Upon the Port against a post,

A-thinking of, I'll dare to say,

His native Chelsea far away!"

"Oh, mon!" exclaimed the Customs bold,

"Mes yeux!" he said (which means "my eye")

"Oh, chère!" he also cried, I'm told,

"Par Jove," he added, with a sigh.

"Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove!

Je n'aime pas cet enticing cove!"

The Panther's captain stood hard by,

He was a man of morals strict

If e'er a sailor winked his eye,

Straightway he had that sailor licked,

Mast-headed all (such was his code)

Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.

He wept to think a tar of his

Should lean so gracefully on posts,

He sighed and sobbed to think of this,

On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.

"It's human natur', p'raps -- if so,

Oh, isn't human natur' low!"

He called his Bill, who pulled his curl,

He said, "My Bill, I understand

You've captivated some young gurl

On this here French and foreign land.

Her tender heart your beauties jog --

They do, you know they do, you dog.

"You have a graceful way, I learn,

Of leaning airily on posts,

By which you've been and caused to burn

A tender flame on these here coasts.

A fisher gurl, I much regret, --

Her age, sixteen -- her name, Babette.

"You'll marry her, you gentle tar --

Your union I myself will bless,

And when you matrimonied are,

I will appoint her stewardess."

But WILLIAM hitched himself and sighed,

And cleared his throat, and thus replied:

"Not so: unless you're fond of strife,

You'd better mind your own affairs,

I have an able-bodied wife

Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs;

If all this here to her I tell,

She'll larrup you and me as well.

"Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,

Is beauty such as Venus owns --

Her beauty is beneath her skin,

And lies in layers on her bones.

The other sailors of the crew

They always calls her 'Whopping Sue!'"

"Oho!" the Captain said, "I see!

And is she then so very strong?"

"She'd take your honour's scruff," said he

"And pitch you over to Bolong!"

"I pardon you," the Captain said,

"The fair Babette you needn't wed."

Perhaps the Customs had his will,

And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,

Perhaps the Captain and his Bill,

And William's little wife are dead;

Or p'raps they're all alive and well:

I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.

To My Bride

Oh! little maid! -- (I do not know your name

Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution

I'll add) -- Oh, buxom widow! married dame!

(As one of these must be your present portion)

     Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,

     And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.

You'll marry soon -- within a year or twain --

A bachelor of circa two and thirty:

Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,

And when you're intimate, you'll call him "Bertie."

     Neat -- dresses well; his temper has been classified

     As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.

You'll find him working mildly at the Bar,

After a touch at two or three professions,

From easy affluence extremely far,

A brief or two on Circuit -- "soup" at Sessions;

     A pound or two from whist and backing horses,

     And, say three hundred from his own resources.

Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,

His faults are not particularly shady,

You'll never find him "shy" -- for, once or twice

Already, he's been driven by a lady,

     Who parts with him -- perhaps a poor excuse for him --

     Because she hasn't any further use for him.

Oh! bride of mine -- tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!

Oh! widow -- wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,

I've told your fortune; solved the gravest care

With which your mind has hitherto been laden.

     I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it;

     Now tell me mine -- and please be quick about it!

You -- only you -- can tell me, an' you will,

To whom I'm destined shortly to be mated,

Will she run up a heavy modiste's bill?

If so, I want to hear her income stated

     (This is a point which interests me greatly).

     To quote the bard, "Oh! have I seen her lately?"

Say, must I wait till husband number one

Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?

How is her hair most usually done?

And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?

     The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:

     Come, Sibyl, prophesy -- I'm all attention.

The Folly Of Brown

I knew a boor -- a clownish card

(His only friends were pigs and cows and

The poultry of a small farmyard),

Who came into two hundred thousand.

Good fortune worked no change in Brown,

Though she's a mighty social chymist;

He was a clown -- and by a clown

I do not mean a pantomimist.

It left him quiet, calm, and cool,

Though hardly knowing what a crown was --

You can't imagine what a fool

Poor rich uneducated Brown was!

He scouted all who wished to come

And give him monetary schooling;

And I propose to give you some

Idea of his insensate fooling.

I formed a company or two --

(Of course I don't know what the rest meant,

I formed them solely with a view

To help him to a sound investment).

Their objects were -- their only cares --

To justify their Boards in showing

A handsome dividend on shares

And keep their good promoter going.

But no -- the lout sticks to his brass,

Though shares at par I freely proffer:

Yet -- will it be believed? -- the ass

Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!

He adds, with bumpkin's stolid grin

(A weakly intellect denoting),

He'd rather not invest it in

A company of my promoting!

"You have two hundred 'thou' or more,"

Said I. "You'll waste it, lose it, lend it;

Come, take my furnished second floor,

I'll gladly show you how to spend it."

But will it be believed that he,

With grin upon his face of poppy,

Declined my aid, while thanking me

For what he called my "philanthroppy"?

Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice

In doubting friends who wouldn't harm them;

They will not hear the charmer's voice,

However wisely he may charm them!

I showed him that his coat, all dust,

Top boots and cords provoked compassion,

And proved that men of station must

Conform to the decrees of fashion.

I showed him where to buy his hat

To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;

But no -- he wouldn't hear of that --

"He didn't think the style would suit him!"

I offered him a county seat,

And made no end of an oration;

I made it certainty complete,

And introduced the deputation.

But no -- the clown my prospect blights --

(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)

"Why should I want to spend my nights

In Parliament, a-making speeches?

"I haven't never been to school --

I ain't had not no eddication --

And I should surely be a fool

To publish that to all the nation!"

I offered him a trotting horse --

No hack had ever trotted faster --

I also offered him, of course,

A rare and curious "old master."

I offered to procure him weeds --

Wines fit for one in his position --

But, though an ass in all his deeds,

He'd learnt the meaning of "commission."

He called me "thief" the other day,

And daily from his door he thrusts me;

Much more of this, and soon I may

Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me.

So deaf to all sound Reason's rule

This poor uneducated clown is,

You cannot fancy what a fool

Poor rich uneducated Brown is.

Sir Macklin

Of all the youths I ever saw

None were so wicked, vain, or silly,

So lost to shame and Sabbath law,

As worldly Tom, and Bob, and Billy.

For every Sabbath day they walked

(Such was their gay and thoughtless natur)

In parks or gardens, where they talked

From three to six, or even later.

Sir Macklin was a priest severe

In conduct and in conversation,

It did a sinner good to hear

Him deal in ratiocination.

He could in every action show

Some sin, and nobody could doubt him.

He argued high, he argued low,

He also argued round about him.

He wept to think each thoughtless youth

Contained of wickedness a skinful,

And burnt to teach the awful truth,

That walking out on Sunday's sinful.

"Oh, youths," said he, "I grieve to find

The course of life you've been and hit on --

Sit down," said he, "and never mind

The pennies for the chairs you sit on.

"My opening head is 'Kensington,'

How walking there the sinner hardens,

Which when I have enlarged upon,

I go to 'Secondly' -- its 'Gardens.'

"My 'Thirdly' comprehendeth 'Hyde,'

Of Secresy the guilts and shameses;

My 'Fourthly' -- 'Park' -- its verdure wide --

My 'Fifthly' comprehends 'St. James's.'

"That matter settled, I shall reach

The 'Sixthly' in my solemn tether,

And show that what is true of each,

Is also true of all, together.

"Then I shall demonstrate to you,

According to the rules of Whately,

That what is true of all, is true

Of each, considered separately."

In lavish stream his accents flow,

Tom, Bob, and Billy dare not flout him;

He argued high, he argued low,

He also argued round about him.

"Ha, ha!" he said, "you loathe your ways,

You writhe at these my words of warning,

In agony your hands you raise."

(And so they did, for they were yawning.)

To "Twenty-firstly" on they go,

The lads do not attempt to scout him;

He argued high, he argued low,

He also argued round about him.

"Ho, ho!" he cries, "you bow your crests --

My eloquence has set you weeping;

In shame you bend upon your breasts!"

(And so they did, for they were sleeping.)

He proved them this -- he proved them that --

This good but wearisome ascetic;

He jumped and thumped upon his hat,

He was so very energetic.

His Bishop at this moment chanced

To pass, and found the road encumbered;

He noticed how the Churchman danced,

And how his congregation slumbered.

The hundred and eleventh head

The priest completed of his stricture;

"Oh, bosh!" the worthy Bishop said,

And walked him off as in the picture.