The Bab Ballads Part 11

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.

The Pantomime "Super" To His Mask

Vast empty sh.e.l.l!

Impertinent, preposterous abortion!

With vacant stare, And ragged hair, And every feature out of all proportion!

Embodiment of echoing inanity!

Excellent type of simpering insanity!

Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!

I ring thy knell!

To-night thou diest, Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born ident.i.ty!

Nine weeks of nights, Before the lights, Swamped in thine own preposterous nonent.i.ty, I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally, Credited for the smile you wear externally-- I feel disposed to smash thy face, infernally, As there thou liest!

I've been thy brain: I'VE been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!

The human race Invest MY face With thine expression of unchecked depravity, Invested with a ghastly reciprocity, I'VE been responsible for thy monstrosity, I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity-- But not again!

'T is time to toll Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical: A nine weeks' run, And thou hast done All thou canst do to make thyself inimical.

Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!

Excellent type of simpering insanity!

Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!

Freed is thy soul!

(The Mask respondeth.)

Oh! master mine, Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.

Art thou aware Of nothing there Which might abuse thee, as thou art abusing me?

A brain that mourns THINE unredeemed rascality?

A soul that weeps at THY threadbare morality?

Both grieving that THEIR individuality Is merged in thine?

The Force Of Argument

Lord B. was a n.o.bleman bold Who came of ill.u.s.trious stocks, He was thirty or forty years old, And several feet in his socks.

To Turniptopville-by-the-Sea This elegant n.o.bleman went, For that was a borough that he Was anxious to rep-per-re-sent.

At local a.s.semblies he danced Until he felt thoroughly ill; He waltzed, and he galoped, and lanced, And threaded the mazy quadrille.

The maidens of Turniptopville Were simple--ingenuous--pure-- And they all worked away with a will The n.o.bleman's heart to secure.

Two maidens all others beyond Endeavoured his cares to dispel-- The one was the lively ANN POND, The other sad MARY MORELL.

ANN POND had determined to try And carry the Earl with a rush; Her princ.i.p.al feature was eye, Her greatest accomplishment--gush.

And MARY chose this for her play: Whenever he looked in her eye She'd blush and turn quickly away, And flitter, and flutter, and sigh.

It was noticed he constantly sighed As she worked out the scheme she had planned, A fact he endeavoured to hide With his aristocratical hand.

Old POND was a farmer, they say, And so was old TOMMY MORELL.

In a humble and pottering way They were doing exceedingly well.

They both of them carried by vote The Earl was a dangerous man; So nervously clearing his throat, One morning old TOMMY began:

"My darter's no pratty young doll-- I'm a plain-spoken Zommerzet man-- Now what do 'ee mean by my POLL, And what do 'ee mean by his ANN?

Said B., "I will give you my bond I mean them uncommonly well, Believe me, my excellent POND, And credit me, worthy MORELL.

"It's quite indisputable, for I'll prove it with singular ease,-- You shall have it in 'Barbara' or 'Celarent'--whichever you please.

'You see, when an anchorite bows To the yoke of intentional sin, If the state of the country allows, h.o.m.ogeny always steps in--

"It's a highly aesthetical bond, As any mere ploughboy can tell--"

"Of course," replied puzzled old POND.

"I see," said old TOMMY MORELL.

"Very good, then," continued the lord; "When it's fooled to the top of its bent, With a sweep of a Damocles sword The web of intention is rent.

"That's patent to all of us here, As any mere schoolboy can tell."

POND answered, "Of course it's quite clear"; And so did that humbug MORELL.

"Its tone's esoteric in force-- I trust that I make myself clear?"

MORELL only answered, "Of course,"

While POND slowly muttered, "Hear, hear."

"Volition--celestial prize, Pellucid as porphyry cell-- Is based on a principle wise."

"Quite so," exclaimed POND and MORELL.

"From what I have said you will see That I couldn't wed either--in fine, By Nature's unchanging decree YOUR daughters could never be MINE.

"Go home to your pigs and your ricks, My hands of the matter I've rinsed."

So they take up their hats and their sticks, .

And exeunt ambo, convinced.

The Ghost, The Gallant, The Gael, And The Goblin