They seized each other in a trice, With scorn and hatred filled, And, falling from a precipice, They, both of them, were killed.

Ballad: My Dream

The other night, from cares exempt, I slept--and what d'you think I dreamt?

I dreamt that somehow I had come To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom--

Where vice is virtue--virtue, vice: Where nice is nasty--nasty, nice: Where right is wrong and wrong is right-- Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise, Are born astonishingly wise; With every Science on their lips, And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them They crow binomial theorem, With views (it seems absurd to us) On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said, Is born with learning in his head, He must forget it, if he can, Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here, Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; The wisdom we so highly prize Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way, Must learn some nonsense every day; And cut, to carry out this view, His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils, Intent on giant-killers' toils; And sages close their aged eyes To other sages' lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound, Commit all robbers who are found; But there the Beaks (so people said) Commit all robberies instead.

Our Judges, pure and wise in tone, Know crime from theory alone, And glean the motives of a thief From books and popular belief.

But there, a Judge who wants to prime His mind with true ideas of crime, Derives them from the common sense Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away Who practise virtue every day-- Of course, I mean to say, you know, What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do What we consider just and true, And only good men do, in fact, What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls, The girls are boys--the boys are girls!

The men are women, too--but then, Per contra, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings This seems an awkward state of things, But if to think it out you try, It doesn't really signify.

With them, as surely as can be, A sailor should be sick at sea, And not a pa.s.senger may sail Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck) Is always shot for showing pluck (That is, if others can be found With pluck enough to fire a round).

"How strange!" I said to one I saw; "You quite upset our every law.

However can you get along So systematically wrong?"

"Dear me!" my mad informant said, "Have you no eyes within your head?

You sneer when you your hat should doff: Why, we begin where you leave off!

"Your wisest men are very far Less learned than our babies are!"

I mused awhile--and then, oh me!

I framed this brilliant repartee:

"Although your babes are wiser far Than our most valued sages are, Your sages, with their toys and cots, Are duller than our idiots!"

But this remark, I grieve to state, Came just a little bit too late For as I framed it in my head, I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, 'stead of here, My lot were in that favoured sphere!-- Where greatest fools bear off the bell I ought to do extremely well.

Ballad: The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo Again

I often wonder whether you Think sometimes of that Bishop, who From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo Last summer twelvemonth came.

Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring Remembrance of the man I sing To-day, by simply mentioning That PETER was his name.

Remember how that holy man Came with the great Colonial clan To Synod, called Pan-Anglican; And kindly recollect How, having crossed the ocean wide, To please his flock all means he tried Consistent with a proper pride And manly self-respect.

He only, of the reverend pack Who minister to Christians black, Brought any useful knowledge back To his Colonial fold.

In consequence a place I claim For "PETER" on the scroll of Fame (For PETER was that Bishop's name, As I've already told).

He carried Art, he often said, To places where that timid maid (Save by Colonial Bishops' aid) Could never hope to roam.

The Payne-c.u.m-Lauri feat he taught As he had learnt it; for he thought The choicest fruits of Progress ought To bless the Negro's home.

And he had other work to do, For, while he tossed upon the Blue, The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo Forgot their kindly friend.

Their decent clothes they learnt to tear-- They learnt to say, "I do not care,"

Though they, of course, were well aware How folks, who say so, end.

Some sailors, whom he did not know, Had landed there not long ago, And taught them "Bother!" also, "Blow!"

(Of wickedness the germs).

No need to use a casuist's pen To prove that they were merchantmen; No sailor of the Royal N.

Would use such awful terms.

And so, when BISHOP PETER came (That was the kindly Bishop's name), He heard these dreadful oaths with shame, And chid their want of dress.

(Except a sh.e.l.l--a bangle rare-- A feather here--a feather there The South Pacific Negroes wear Their native nothingness.)

He taught them that a Bishop loathes To listen to disgraceful oaths, He gave them all his left-off clothes-- They bent them to his will.

The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round; In PETER'S left-off clothes they bound (His three-and-twenty suits they found In fair condition still).

The Bishop's eyes with water fill, Quite overjoyed to find them still Obedient to his sovereign will, And said, "Good Rum-ti-Foo!

Half-way I'll meet you, I declare: I'll dress myself in cowries rare, And fasten feathers in my hair, And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo!'" {11}

And to conciliate his See He married PICCADILLILLEE, The youngest of his twenty-three, Tall--neither fat nor thin.

(And though the dress he made her don Looks awkwardly a girl upon, It was a great improvement on The one he found her in.)

The Bishop in his gay canoe (His wife, of course, went with him too) To some adjacent island flew, To spend his honeymoon.