Ballad: TO MY BRIDE--(WHOEVER SHE MAY BE.)

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 cla.s.sified 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. .h.i.therto 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.

Ballad: 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 n.o.body 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s!"

(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 pa.s.s, and found the road enc.u.mbered; 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.

Ballad: THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." {1}

'Twas on the sh.o.r.es 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 sh.o.r.e 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.