Ballads By William Makepeace Thackeray Part 32

For two pound seventeen This livery-man eplied, For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, Which the thief had took to ride.

"Do you see anythink green in me?"

Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.

"Because a raskle chews My oss away to robb, And goes tick at your Mews For seven-and-fifty bobb, Shall I be call'd to pay?--It is A iniquitious Jobb."

Thus Mr. Jacob cut The conwasation short; The livery-man went ome, Detummingd to ave sport, And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court.

Pore Jacob went to Court, A Counsel for to fix, And choose a barrister out of the four, An attorney of the six: And there he sor these men of Lor, And watch'd 'em at their tricks.

The dreadful day of trile In the Pallis Court did come; The lawyers said their say, The Judge look'd wery glum, And then the British Jury cast Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.

O a weary day was that For Jacob to go through; The debt was two seventeen (Which he no mor owed than you), And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two.

And then there was his own, Which the lawyers they did fix At the wery moderit figgar Of ten pound one and six.

Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, And all its bold ver-d.i.c.ks!

I cannot settingly tell If Jacob swaw and cust, At aving for to pay this sumb; But I should think he must, And av drawn a cheque for L24 4s. 8d.

With most igstreme disgust.

O Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound.

A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound.

Good sport it is to you To grind the honest pore, To pay their just or unjust debts With eight hundred per cent. for Lor; Make haste and get your costes in, They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn, Thou shameless and Unjust; Thou Swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth august: Come down, thou h.o.a.ry blasphemy, For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply your iron pen, And rise up, Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den; That sty for fattening lawyers in, On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X.

THE SPECULATORS.

The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep.

I pa.s.s'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Hay-market.

Two gents of dismal mien, And dank and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin, Swaggering over the flags:

Swaggering over the stones, These shabby bucks did walk; And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk.

Was I sober or awake?

Could I believe my ears?

Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares.

I wondered more and more: Says one--"Good friend of mine, How many shares have you wrote for, In the Diddles.e.x Junction line?"

"I wrote for twenty," says Jim, "But they wouldn't give me one;"

His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly he had done:

"O Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of this bad town; I always write for five hundred shares, And THEN they put me down."

"And yet you got no shares,"

Says Jim, "for all your boast;"

"I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where Was the penny to pay the post?"

"I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up; But here's 'taters smoking hot--I say, Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumbnail.

Their talk did me perplex, All night I tumbled and tost, And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and lost.

"Bless railroads everywhere,"

I said, "and the world's advance; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, France; For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance."

A WOEFUL NEW BALLAD

OF THE PROTESTANT CONSPIRACY TO TAKE THE POPE'S LIFE.

(BY A GENTLEMAN WHO HAS BEEN ON THE SPOT.)

Come all ye Christian people, unto my tale give ear, 'Tis about a base consperracy, as quickly shall appear; 'Twill make your hair to bristle up, and your eyes to start and glow, When of this dread consperracy you honest folks shall know.

The news of this consperracy and villianous attempt, I read it in a newspaper, from Italy it was sent: It was sent from lovely Italy, where the olives they do grow, And our holy father lives, yes, yes, while his name it is No NO.

And 'tis there our English n.o.blemen goes that is Puseyites no longer, Because they finds the ancient faith both better is and stronger, And 'tis there I knelt beside my lord when he kiss'd the POPE his toe, And hung his neck with chains at St. Peter's Vinculo.

And 'tis there the splendid churches is, and the fountains playing grand, And the palace of PRINCE TORLONIA, likewise the Vatican; And there's the stairs where the bagpipe-men and the piffararys blow.

And it's there I drove my lady and lord in the Park of Pincio.

And 'tis there our splendid churches is in all their pride and glory, Saint Peter's famous Basilisk and Saint Mary's Maggiory; And them benighted Prodestants, on Sunday they must go Outside the town to the preaching-shop by the gate of Popolo.

Now in this town of famous Room, as I dessay you have heard, There is scarcely any gentleman as hasn't got a beard.

And ever since the world began it was ordained so, That there should always barbers he wheresumever beards do grow.

And as it always has been so since the world it did begin, The POPE, our Holy Potentate, has a beard upon his chin; And every morning regular when c.o.c.ks begin to crow, There comes a certing party to wait on POPE PIO.

There comes a certing gintlemen with razier, soap, and lather, A shaving most respectfully the POPE, our Holy Father.

And now the dread consperracy I'll quickly to you show, Which them sanguinary Prodestants did form against NONO.