Ballad: 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 sh.o.r.e.

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, sacre 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 sh.o.r.e.

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 const.i.tution 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."

"a.s.surement!" said MADAME PIERRE.

A sunny spot in sunny France Was. .h.i.t 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 n.o.ble 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 lache 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.

Ballad: 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 c.h.i.n.k, 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."