Oh! my name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS - I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever-filled purses, In prophecies, witches, and knells!

If you want a proud foe to "make tracks" - If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax - You've but to look in On our resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe.

We've a first-cla.s.s a.s.sortment of magic; And for raising a posthumous shade With effects that are comic or tragic, There's no cheaper house in the trade.

Love-philtre - we've quant.i.ties of it; And for knowledge if any one burns, We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet Who brings us unbounded returns: For he can prophesy With a wink OF his eye, Peep with security Into futurity, Sum up your history, Clear up a mystery, Humour proclivity For a nativity.

With mirrors so magical, Tetrapods tragical, Bogies spectacular, Answers oracular, Facts astronomical, Solemn or comical, And, if you want it, he Makes a reduction on taking a quant.i.ty!

Oh!

If any one anything lacks, He'll find it all ready in stacks, If he'll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

He can raise you hosts, Of ghosts, And that without reflectors; And creepy things With wings, And gaunt and grisly spectres!

He can fill you crowds Of shrouds, And horrify you vastly; He can rack your brains With chains, And gibberings grim and ghastly.

Then, if you plan it, he Changes organity With an urbanity, Full of Satanity, Vexes humanity With an inanity Fatal to vanity - Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.

Barring tautology, In demonology, 'Lectro biology, Mystic nosology, Spirit philology, High cla.s.s astrology, Such is his knowledge, he Isn't the man to require an apology Oh!

My name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS, I'm a dealer in magic and spells, In blessings and curses, And ever-filled purses - In prophecies, witches, and knells.

If any one anything lacks, He'll find it all ready in stacks, If he'll only look in On the resident Djinn, Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

Ballad: The Fickle Breeze

Sighing softly to the river Comes the loving breeze, Setting nature all a-quiver, Rustling through the trees!

And the brook in rippling measure Laughs for very love, While the poplars, in their pleasure, Wave their arms above!

River, river, little river, May thy loving prosper ever.

Heaven speed thee, poplar tree, May thy wooing happy be!

Yet, the breeze is but a rover, When he wings away, Brook and poplar mourn a lover!

Sighing well-a-day!

Ah, the doing and undoing That the rogue could tell!

When the breeze is out a-wooing, Who can woo so well?

Pretty brook, thy dream is over, For thy love is but a rover!

Sad the lot of poplar trees, Courted by the fickle breeze!

Ballad: The First Lord's Song

When I was a lad I served a term As office boy to an Attorney's firm; I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor, And I polished up the handle of the big front door.

I polished up that handle so successfullee, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

As office boy I made such a mark That they gave me the post of a junior clerk; I served the writs with a smile so bland, And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.

I copied all the letters in a hand so free, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

In serving writs I made such a name That an articled clerk I soon became; I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit For the Pa.s.s Examination at the Inst.i.tute: And that Pa.s.s Examination did so well for me, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip That they took me into the partnership, And that junior partnership I ween, Was the only ship that I ever had seen: But that kind of ship so suited me, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

I grew so rich that I was sent By a pocket borough into Parliament; I always voted at my Party's call, And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.

I thought so little, they rewarded me, By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!

Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be, If you want to rise to the top of the tree - If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool, Be careful to be guided by this golden rule - Stick close to your desks and NEVER GO TO SEA, And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navee!

Ballad: Would You Know?

Would you know the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a?

Eyes must be downcast and staid, Cheeks must flush for shame-a!

She may neither dance nor sing, But, demure in everything, Hang her head in modest way With pouting lips that seem to say, "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die of shame-a!"

Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay With a tongue goes clang-a, Flaunting it in brave array, Maiden may go hang-a!

Sunflower gay and hollyhock Never shall my garden stock; Mine the blushing rose of May, With pouting lips that seem to say "Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die for shame-a!"

Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a!

Ballad: Speculation

Comes a train of little ladies From scholastic trammels free, Each a little bit afraid is, Wondering what the world can be!

Is it but a world of trouble - Sadness set to song?

Is its beauty but a bubble Bound to break ere long?

Are its palaces and pleasures Fantasies that fade?

And the glory of its treasures Shadow of a shade?

Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under, From scholastic trammels free, And we wonder - how we wonder! - What on earth the world can be!

Ballad: Ah Me!

When maiden loves, she sits and sighs, She wanders to and fro; Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes, And to all questions she replies, With a sad heigho!

'Tis but a little word - "heigho!"

So soft, 'tis scarcely heard - "heigho!"

An idle breath - Yet life and death May hang upon a maid's "heigho!"

When maiden loves, she mopes apart, As owl mopes on a tree; Although she keenly feels the smart, She cannot tell what ails her heart, With its sad "Ah me!"

'Tis but a foolish sigh - "Ah me!"

Born but to droop and die - "Ah me!"