The Bab Ballads Part 7

"Ho, ho!" he cries, "you bow your crests-- My eloquence has set you weeping; In shame you bend upon your b.r.e.a.s.t.s!"

(And so they did, for they were sleeping.)

He proved them this--he proved them that-- This good but wearisome ascetic; He jumped and thumped upon his hat, He was so very energetic.

His Bishop at this moment chanced To pa.s.s, and found the road enc.u.mbered; He noticed how the Churchman danced, And how his congregation slumbered.

The hundred and eleventh head The priest completed of his stricture; "Oh, bos.h.!.+" the worthy Bishop said, And walked him off as in the picture.

The Yarn Of The "Nancy Bell"

'Twas on the sh.o.r.es that round our coast From Deal to Ramsgate span, That I found alone on a piece of stone An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long, And weedy and long was he, And I heard this wight on the sh.o.r.e recite, In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mids.h.i.+pmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair, Till I really felt afraid, For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand However you can be

"At once a cook, and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mids.h.i.+pmite, And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which Is a trick all seamen larn, And having got rid of a thumping quid, He spun this painful yarn:

"'Twas in the good s.h.i.+p Nancy Bell That we sailed to the Indian Sea, And there on a reef we come to grief, Which has often occurred to me.

"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned (There was seventy-seven o' soul), And only ten of the Nancy's men Said 'Here!' to the muster-roll.

"There was me and the cook and the captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And the bo'sun tight, and a mids.h.i.+pmite, And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink, Till a-hungry we did feel, So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appet.i.te with the mids.h.i.+pmite We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he wors.h.i.+pped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says TOM; 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,-- 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear JAMES, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook ME, While I can--and will--cook YOU!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.

And some sage and parsley too.

"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the sc.u.m of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less, And--as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have--which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mids.h.i.+pmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!'"

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 humour 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-Foozleite.

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, and pas de basque.

(I'll tell you, if you care to ask, That PETER was his name.)

"Come, walk like this," the dancer said, "Stick out your toes--stick in your head, Stalk on with quick, galvanic tread-- Your fingers thus extend; The att.i.tude's considered quaint."

The weary Bishop, feeling faint, Replied, "I do not say it ain't, But 'Time!' my Christian friend!"