The Yarn Of The "Nancy Bell"

'Twas on the shores that round our coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea,

And I'll eat my hand if I understand

However you can be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,

He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian Sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,

Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul),

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot

The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite

We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,

And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which

Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,

And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,

And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom;

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be, --

'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;

And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,

While I can -- and will -- cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.

And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell,

''T will soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,

And -- as I eating be

The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

For a wessel in sight I see!

           * * * *

"And I never larf, and I never smile,

And I never lark nor play,

But sit and croak, and a single joke

I have -- which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!'"

The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo

From east and south the holy clan

Of Bishops gathered to a man;

To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,

In flocking crowds they came.

Among them was a Bishop, who

Had lately been appointed to

The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,

And Peter was his name.

His people -- twenty-three in sum --

They played the eloquent tum-tum,

And lived on scalps served up, in rum --

The only sauce they knew.

When first good Bishop Peter came

(For Peter was that Bishop's name),

To humour them, he did the same

As they of Rum-ti-Foo.

His flock, I've often heard him tell,

(His name was Peter) loved him well,

And, summoned by the sound of bell,

In crowds together came.

"Oh, massa, why you go away?

Oh, Massa Peter, please to stay."

(They called him Peter, people say,

Because it was his name.)

He told them all good boys to be,

And sailed away across the sea,

At London Bridge that Bishop he

Arrived one Tuesday night;

And as that night he homeward strode

To his Pan-Anglican abode,

He passed along the Borough Road,

And saw a gruesome sight.

He saw a crowd assembled round

A person dancing on the ground,

Who straight began to leap and bound

With all his might and main.

To see that dancing man he stopped,

Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped,

Then down incontinently dropped,

And then sprang up again.

The Bishop chuckled at the sight.

"This style of dancing would delight

A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.

I'll learn it if I can,

To please the tribe when I get back."

He begged the man to teach his knack.

"Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!

Replied that dancing man.

The dancing man he worked away,

And taught the Bishop every day --

The dancer skipped like any fay --

Good Peter did the same.

The Bishop buckled to his task,

With Battements, and Pas de Basque.

(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,

That Peter was his name.)

"Come, walk like this," the dancer said,

"Stick out your toes -- stick in your head,

Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread --

Your fingers thus extend;

The attitude's considered quaint."

The weary Bishop, feeling faint,

Replied, "I do not say it ain't,

But 'Time!' my Christian friend!"

"We now proceed to something new --

Dance as the Paynes and Lauris do,

Like this -- one, two -- one, two -- one, two."

The Bishop, never proud,

But in an overwhelming heat

(His name was Peter, I repeat)

Performed the Payne and Lauri feat,

And puffed his thanks aloud.

Another game the dancer planned --

"Just take your ankle in your hand,

And try, my lord, if you can stand --

Your body stiff and stark.

If, when revisiting your see,

You learnt to hop on shore -- like me --

The novelty would striking be,

And must attract remark."

"No," said the worthy Bishop, "no;

That is a length to which, I trow,

Colonial Bishops cannot go.

You may express surprise

At finding Bishops deal in pride --

But if that trick I ever tried,

I should appear undignified

In Rum-ti-Foozle's eyes.

"The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo

Are well-conducted persons, who

Approve a joke as much as you,

And laugh at it as such;

But if they saw their Bishop land,

His leg supported in his hand,

The joke they wouldn't understand --

'T would pain them very much!"

The Precocious Baby

An elderly person -- a prophet by trade --

With his quips and tips

On withered old lips,

He married a young and a beautiful maid;

The cunning old blade!

Though rather decayed,

He married a beautiful, beautiful maid.

She was only eighteen, and as fair as could be,

With her tempting smiles

And maidenly wiles,

And he was a trifle past seventy-three:

Now what she could see

Is a puzzle to me,

In a prophet of seventy -- seventy-three!

Of all their acquaintances bidden (or bad)

With their loud high jinks

And underbred winks,

None thought they'd a family have -- but they had;

A dear little lad

Who drove 'em half mad,

For he turned out a horribly fast little cad.

For when he was born he astonished all by,

With their "Law, dear me!"

"Did ever you see?"

He'd a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye,

A hat all awry --

An octagon tie --

And a miniature -- miniature glass in his eye.

He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap,

With his "Oh, dear, oh!"

And his "Hang it! 'oo know!"

And he turned up his nose at his excellent pap --

"My friends, it's a tap

Dat is not worf a rap."

(Now this was remarkably excellent pap.)

He'd chuck his nurse under the chin, and he'd say,

With his "Fal, lal, lal" --

"'Oo doosed fine gal!"

This shocking precocity drove 'em away:

"A month from to-day

Is as long as I'll stay --

Then I'd wish, if you please, for to toddle away."

His father, a simple old gentleman, he

With nursery rhyme

And "Once on a time,"

Would tell him the story of "Little Bo-P,"

"So pretty was she,

So pretty and wee,

As pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be."

But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox,

With his "C'ck! Oh, my! --

Go along wiz 'oo, fie!"

Would exclaim, "I'm afraid 'oo a socking ole fox."

Now a father it shocks,

And it whitens his locks,

When his little babe calls him a shocking old fox.

The name of his father he'd couple and pair

(With his ill-bred laugh,

And insolent chaff)

With those of the nursery heroines rare --

Virginia the Fair,

Or Good Goldenhair,

Till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear.

"There's Jill and White Cat" (said the bold little brat,

With his loud, "Ha, ha!")

"'Oo sly ickle Pa!

Wiz 'oo Beauty, Bo-Peep, and 'oo Mrs. Jack Sprat!

I've noticed 'oo pat

My pretty White Cat --

I sink dear mamma ought to know about dat!"

He early determined to marry and wive,

For better or worse

With his elderly nurse --

Which the poor little boy didn't live to contrive:

His hearth didn't thrive --

No longer alive,

He died an enfeebled old dotard at five!

Now, elderly men of the bachelor crew,

With wrinkled hose

And spectacled nose,

Don't marry at all -- you may take it as true

If ever you do

The step you will rue,

For your babes will be elderly -- elderly too.

To Phoebe

"Gentle, modest little flower,

Sweet epitome of May,

Love me but for half an hour,

Love me, love me, little fay."

Sentences so fiercely flaming

In your tiny shell-like ear,

I should always be exclaiming

If I loved you, Phoebe dear.

"Smiles that thrill from any distance

Shed upon me while I sing!

Please ecstaticize existence,

Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!"

Words like these, outpouring sadly

You'd perpetually hear,

If I loved you fondly, madly; --

But I do not, Phoebe dear.

Baines Carew, Gentleman

Of all the good attorneys who

Have placed their names upon the roll,

But few could equal Baines Carew

For tender-heartedness and soul.

Whene'er he heard a tale of woe

From client A or client B,

His grief would overcome him so

He'd scarce have strength to take his fee.

It laid him up for many days,

When duty led him to distrain,

And serving writs, although it pays,

Gave him excruciating pain.

He made out costs, distrained for rent,

Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye --

No bill of costs could represent

The value of such sympathy.

No charges can approximate

The worth of sympathy with woe; --

Although I think I ought to state

He did his best to make them so.

Of all the many clients who

Had mustered round his legal flag,

No single client of the crew

Was half so dear as Captain Bagg.

Now, Captain Bagg had bowed him to

A heavy matrimonial yoke --

His wifey had of faults a few --

She never could resist a joke.

Her chaff at first he meekly bore,

Till unendurable it grew.

"To stop this persecution sore

I will consult my friend Carew.

"And when Carew's advice I've got,

Divorce a mensâ I shall try."

(A legal separation -- not

A vinculo conjugii.)

"Oh, Baines Carew, my woe I've kept

A secret hitherto, you know;" --

(And Baines Carew, Esquire, he wept

To hear that Bagg had any woe.)

"My case, indeed, is passing sad.

My wife -- whom I considered true --

With brutal conduct drives me mad."

"I am appalled," said Baines Carew.

"What! sound the matrimonial knell

Of worthy people such as these!

Why was I an attorney? Well --

Go on to the sævitia, please."

"Domestic bliss has proved my bane, --

A harder case you never heard,

My wife (in other matters sane)

Pretends that I'm a Dicky bird!

"She makes me sing, 'Too-whit, too-wee!'

And stand upon a rounded stick,

And always introduces me

To every one as 'Pretty Dick'!"

"Oh, dear," said weeping Baines Carew,

"This is the direst case I know."

"I'm grieved," said Bagg, "at paining you --

"To Cobb and Poltherthwaite I'll go --

"To Cobb's cold, calculating ear,

My gruesome sorrows I'll impart" --

"No; stop," said Baines, "I'll dry my tear,

And steel my sympathetic heart."

"She makes me perch upon a tree,

Rewarding me with 'Sweety -- nice!'

And threatens to exhibit me

With four or five performing mice."

"Restrain my tears I wish I could"

(Said Baines), "I don't know what to do."

Said Captain Bagg, "You're very good."

"Oh, not at all," said Baines Carew.

"She makes me fire a gun," said Bagg;

"And, at a preconcerted word,

Climb up a ladder with a flag,

Like any street performing bird.

"She places sugar in my way --

In public places calls me 'Sweet!'

She gives me groundsel every day,

And hard canary-seed to eat."

"Oh, woe! oh, sad! oh, dire to tell!"

(Said Baines). "Be good enough to stop."

And senseless on the floor he fell,

With unpremeditated flop!

Said Captain Bagg, "Well, really I

Am grieved to think it pains you so.

I thank you for your sympathy;

But, hang it! -- come -- I say, you know!"

But Baines lay flat upon the floor,

Convulsed with sympathetic sob; --

The Captain toddled off next door,

And gave the case to Mr. Cobb.

Thomas Winterbottom Hance

In all the towns and cities fair

On Merry England's broad expanse,

No swordsman ever could compare

With Thomas Winterbottom Hance.

The dauntless lad could fairly hew

A silken handkerchief in twain,

Divide a leg of mutton too --

And this without unwholesome strain.

On whole half-sheep, with cunning trick,

His sabre sometimes he'd employ --

No bar of lead, however thick,

Had terrors for the stalwart boy.

At Dover daily he'd prepare

To hew and slash, behind, before --

Which aggravated Monsieur Pierre,

Who watched him from the Calais shore.

It caused good Pierre to swear and dance,

The sight annoyed and vexed him so;

He was the bravest man in France --

He said so, and he ought to know.

"Regardez, donc, ce cochon gros --

Ce polisson! Oh, sacré bleu!

Son sabre, son plomb, et ses gigots

Comme cela m'ennuye, enfin, mon Dieu!

"Il sait que les foulards de soie

Give no retaliating whack --

Les gigots morts n'ont pas de quoi --

Le plomb don't ever hit you back."

But every day the headstrong lad

Cut lead and mutton more and more;

And every day poor Pierre, half mad,

Shrieked loud defiance from his shore.

Hance had a mother, poor and old,

A simple, harmless village dame,

Who crowed and clapped as people told

Of Winterbottom's rising fame.

She said, "I'll be upon the spot

To see my Tommy's sabre-play;"

And so she left her leafy cot,

And walked to Dover in a day.

Pierre had a doating mother, who

Had heard of his defiant rage;

His Ma was nearly ninety-two,

And rather dressy for her age.

At Hance's doings every morn,

With sheer delight his mother cried;

And Monsieur Pierre's contemptuous scorn

Filled his mamma with proper pride.

But Hance's powers began to fail --

His constitution was not strong --

And Pierre, who once was stout and hale,

Grew thin from shouting all day long.

Their mothers saw them pale and wan,

Maternal anguish tore each breast,

And so they met to find a plan

To set their offsprings' minds at rest.

Said Mrs. Hance, "Of course I shrinks

From bloodshed, ma'am, as you're aware,

But still they'd better meet, I thinks."

"Assurément!" said Madame Pierre.

A sunny spot in sunny France

Was hit upon for this affair;

The ground was picked by >Mrs. Hance,

The stakes were pitched by Madame Pierre.

Said Mrs. H., "Your work you see --

Go in, my noble boy, and win."

"En garde, mon fils!" said Madame P.

"Allons!" "Go on!" "En garde!" "Begin!"

(The mothers were of decent size,

Though not particularly tall;

But in the sketch that meets your eyes

I've been obliged to draw them small.)

Loud sneered the doughty man of France,

"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha! Ha! ha!

"The French for 'Pish'" said Thomas Hance.

Said Pierre, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"

Said Mrs. H., "Come, one! two! three! --

We're sittin' here to see all fair."

"C'est magnifique!" said Madame P.,

"Mais, parbleu! ce n'est pas la guerre!"

"Je scorn un foe si lâche que vous,"

Said Pierre, the doughty son of France.

"I fight not coward foe like you!"

Said our undaunted Tommy Hance.

"The French for 'Pooh!'" our Tommy cried.

"L'Anglais pour 'Va!'" the Frenchman crowed.

And so, with undiminished pride,

Each went on his respective road.

The Reverend Micah Sowls

The Reverend Micah Sowls,

He shouts and yells and howls,

He screams, he mouths, he bumps,

He foams, he rants, he thumps.

His armour he has buckled on, to wage

The regulation war against the Stage;

And warns his congregation all to shun

"The Presence-Chamber of the Evil One,"

The subject's sad enough

To make him rant and puff,

And fortunately, too,

His Bishop's in a pew.

So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam,

His eyes are flashing with superior gleam,

He is as energetic as can be,

For there are fatter livings in that see.

The Bishop, when it's o'er,

Goes through the vestry door,

Where Micah, very red,

Is mopping of his head.

"Pardon, my Lord, your Sowls' excessive zeal,

It is a theme on which I strongly feel."

(The sermon somebody had sent him down

From London, at a charge of half-a-crown.)

The Bishop bowed his head,

And, acquiescing, said,

"I've heard your well-meant rage

Against the Modern Stage.

"A modern Theatre, as I heard you say,

Sows seeds of evil broadcast -- well it may;

But let me ask you, my respected son,

Pray, have you ever ventured into one?"

"My Lord," said Micah, "no!

I never, never go!

What! Go and see a play?

My goodness gracious, nay!"

The worthy Bishop said, "My friend, no doubt

The Stage may be the place you make it out;

But if, my Reverend Sowls, you never go,

I don't quite understand how you're to know."

"Well, really," Micah said,

"I've often heard and read,

But never go -- do you?"

The Bishop said, "I do."

"That proves me wrong," said Micah, in a trice:

"I thought it all frivolity and vice."

The Bishop handed him a printed card;

"Go to a theatre where they play our Bard."

The Bishop took his leave,

Rejoicing in his sleeve.

The next ensuing day

Sowls went and heard a play.

He saw a dreary person on the stage,

Who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage,

Who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd,

And spoke an English Sowls had never heard.

For "gaunt" was spoken "garnt,"

And "haunt" transformed to "harnt,"

And "wrath " pronounced as "rath,"

And "death" was changed to "dath."

For hours and hours that dismal actor walked,

And talked, and talked, and talked, and talked,

Till lethargy upon the parson crept,

And sleepy Micah Sowls serenely slept.

He slept away until

The farce that closed the bill

Had warned him not to stay,

And then he went away.

"I thought my gait ridiculous," said he --

"My elocution faulty as could be;

I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan --

I had not seen our great Tragedian!

"Forgive me, if you can,

O great Tragedian!

I own it with a sigh --

You're drearier than I!"

A Discontented Sugar Broker

A gentleman of City fame

Now claims your kind attention;

East India broking was his game,

His name I shall not mention:

No one of finely-pointed sense

Would violate a confidence,

And shall I go

And do it? No!

His name I shall not mention.

He had a trusty wife and true,
And very cosy quarters,
A manager, a boy or two,
Six clerks, and seven porters.

A broker must be doing well

(As any lunatic can tell)

Who can employ

An active boy,

Six clerks, and seven porters.

His knocker advertised no dun,
No losses made him sulky,
He had one sorrow -- only one --
He was extremely bulky.

A man must be, I beg to state,

Exceptionally fortunate

Who owns his chief

And only grief

Is -- being very bulky.

"This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear;
I'm nineteen stone or twenty!
Henceforward I'll go in for air
And exercise in plenty."

Most people think that, should it come,

They can reduce a bulging tum

To measures fair

By taking air

And exercise in plenty.

In every weather, every day,
Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,
He took to dancing all the way
From Brompton to the City.

You do not often get the chance

Of seeing sugar brokers dance

From their abode

In Fulham Road

Through Brompton to the City.

He braved the gay and guileless laugh
Of children with their nusses,
The loud uneducated chaff
Of clerks on omnibuses.

Against all minor things that rack

A nicely-balanced mind, I'll back

The noisy chaff

And ill-bred laugh

Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money chink,
And saw the house he rented,
And knew his wife, could never think
What made him discontented.

It never entered their pure minds

That fads are of eccentric kinds,

Nor would they own

That fat alone

Could make one discontented.

"Your riches know no kind of pause,
Your trade is fast advancing;
You dance -- but not for joy, because
You weep as you are dancing.

To dance implies that man is glad,

To weep implies that man is sad;

But here are you

Who do the two --

You weep as you are dancing!"

His mania soon got noised about
And into all the papers;
His size increased beyond a doubt
For all his reckless capers:

It may seem singular to you,

But all his friends admit it true --

The more he found

His figure round,

The more he cut his capers.

His bulk increased -- no matter that --
He tried the more to toss it --
He never spoke of it as "fat,"
But "adipose deposit."

Upon my word, it seems to me

Unpardonable vanity

(And worse than that)

To call your fat

An "adipose deposit."

At length his brawny knees gave way,
And on the carpet sinking,
Upon his shapeless back he lay
And kicked away like winking.

Instead of seeing in his state

The finger of unswerving Fate,

He laboured still

To work his will,

And kicked away like winking.

His friends, disgusted with him now,
Away in silence wended --
I hardly like to tell you how
This dreadful story ended.

The shocking sequel to impart,

I must employ the limner's art --

If you would know,

This sketch will show

How his exertions ended.

              Moral.

I hate to preach -- I hate to prate --
I'm no fanatic croaker,
But learn contentment from the fate
Of this East India broker.

He'd everything a man of taste

Could ever want, except a waist;

And discontent

His size anent,

And bootless perseverance blind,
Completely wrecked the peace of mind
Of this East India broker.