Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs Part 2

I showed him where to buy his hat, To coat him, trouser him, and boot him; But no--he wouldn't hear of that-- "He didn't think the style would suit him!"

I offered him a country seat, And made no end of an oration; I made it certainly complete, And introduced the deputation.

But no--the clown my prospects blights-- (The worth of birth it surely teaches!) "Why should I want to spend my nights In Parliament, a-making speeches?

"I haven't never been to school-- I ain't had not no eddication-- And I should surely be a fool To publish that to all the nation!"

I offered him a trotting horse-- No hack had ever trotted faster-- I also offered him, of course, A rare and curious "old Master."

I offered to procure him weeds-- Wines fit for one in his position-- But, though an a.s.s in all his deeds, He'd learnt the meaning of "commission."

He called me "thief" the other day, And daily from his door he thrusts me; Much more of this, and soon I may Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me.

So deaf to all sound Reason's rule This poor uneducated clown is, You cannot fancy what a fool Poor rich uneducated Brown is.

THE THREE KINGS OF CHICKERABOO.

There were three n.i.g.g.e.rs of Chickeraboo-- Pacifico, Bang-Bang, Popchop--who Exclaimed, one terribly sultry day, "Oh, let's be kings in a humble way."

The first was a highly-accomplished "bones,"

The next elicited banjo tones, The third was a quiet, retiring chap, Who danced an excellent break-down "flap."

"We n.i.g.g.e.rs," said they, "have formed a plan By which, whenever we like, we can Extemporize islands near the beach, And then we'll collar an island each.

"Three casks, from somebody else's stores, Shall rep-per-esent our island sh.o.r.es, Their sides the ocean wide shall lave, Their heads just topping the briny wave.

"Great Britain's navy scours the sea, And everywhere her s.h.i.+ps they be, She'll recognize our rank, perhaps, When she discovers we're Royal Chaps.

"If to her skirts you want to cling, It's quite sufficient that you're a king: She does not push inquiry far To learn what sort of king you are."

A s.h.i.+p of several thousand tons, And mounting seventy-something guns, Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue, Discovering kings and countries new.

The brave Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip, Commanding that superior s.h.i.+p, Perceived one day, his gla.s.ses through, The kings that came from Chickeraboo.

"Dear eyes!" said Admiral Pip, "I see Three flouris.h.i.+ng islands on our lee.

And, bless me! most extror'nary thing!

On every island stands a king!

"Come, lower the Admiral's gig," he cried, "And over the dancing waves I'll glide; That low obeisance I may do To those three kings of Chickeraboo!"

The admiral pulled to the islands three; The kings saluted him gracious_lee_.

The admiral, pleased at his welcome warm, Pulled out a printed Alliance form.

"Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray-- I come in a friendly kind of way-- I come, if you please, with the best intents, And Queen Victoria's compliments."

The kings were pleased as they well could be; The most retiring of all the three, In a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave vent With a banjo-bones accompaniment.

The great Rear-Admiral Bailey Pip Embarked on board his jolly big s.h.i.+p, Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore, And off he sailed to his native sh.o.r.e.

Admiral Pip directly went To the Lord at the head of the Government, Who made him, by a stroke of a quill, Baron de Pippe, of Pippetonneville.

The College of Heralds permission yield That he should quarter upon his s.h.i.+eld Three islands, _vert_, on a field of blue, With the pregnant motto "Chickeraboo."

Amba.s.sadors, yes, and attaches, too, Are going to sail for Chickeraboo, And, see, on the good s.h.i.+p's crowded deck, A bishop, who's going out there on spec.

And let us all hope that blissful things May come of alliance with darkey kings.

Oh, may we never, whatever we do, Declare a war with Chickeraboo!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO.

From east and south the holy clan Of bishops gathered, to a man; To synod, called Pan-Anglican; In flocking crowds they came.

Among them was a Bishop, who Had lately been appointed to The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo, And Peter was his name.

His people--twenty-three in sum-- They played the eloquent tum-tum And lived on scalps served up in rum-- The only sauce they knew, When, first good Bishop Peter came (For Peter was that Bishop's name), To humor them, he did the same As they of Rum-ti-Foo.

His flock, I've often heard him tell, (His name was Peter) loved him well, And summoned by the sound of bell, In crowds together came.

"Oh, ma.s.sa, why you go away?

Oh, Ma.s.sa Peter, please to stay."

(They called him Peter, people say, Because it was his name.)

He told them all good boys to be, And sailed away across the sea.

At London Bridge that Bishop he Arrived one Tuesday night-- And as that night he homeward strode To his Pan-Anglican abode, He pa.s.sed along the Borough Road And saw a gruesome sight.

He saw a crowd a.s.sembled round A person dancing on the ground, Who straight began to leap and bound With all his might and main.

To see that dancing man he stopped.

Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, Then down incontinently dropped, And then sprang up again.

The Bishop chuckled at the sight, "This style of dancing would delight A simple Rum-ti-Foozle-ite.

I'll learn it, if I can, To please the tribe when I get back."

He begged the man to teach his knack.

"Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack,"

Replied that dancing man.

The dancing man he worked away And taught the Bishop every day-- The dancer skipped like any fay-- Good Peter did the same.

The Bishop buckled to his task With _battements_, cuts, and _pas de basque_ (I'll tell you, if you care to ask, That Peter was his name).