More Bab Ballads Part 6

Ballad: An Unfortunate Likeness

I've painted SHAKESPEARE all my life-- "An infant" (even then at "play"!) "A boy," with stage-ambition rife, Then "Married to ANN HATHAWAY."

"The bard's first ticket night" (or "ben."), His "First appearance on the stage,"

His "Call before the curtain"--then "Rejoicings when he came of age."

The bard play-writing in his room, The bard a humble lawyer's clerk.

The bard a lawyer {1}--parson {2}--groom {3}-- The bard deer-stealing, after dark.

The bard a tradesman {4}--and a Jew {5}-- The bard a botanist {6}--a beak {7}-- The bard a skilled musician {8} too-- A sheriff {9} and a surgeon {10} eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock) That, though it's evident I try, Yet even _I_ can barely mock The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning as a work I framed, There pa.s.sed a person, walking hard: "My gracious goodness," I exclaimed, "How very like my dear old bard!

"Oh, what a model he would make!"

I rushed outside--impulsive me!-- "Forgive the liberty I take, But you're so very"--"Stop!" said he.

"You needn't waste your breath or time,-- I know what you are going to say,-- That you're an artist, and that I'm Remarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh?

"You wish that I would sit to you?"

I clasped him madly round the waist, And breathlessly replied, "I do!"

"All right," said he, "but please make haste."

I led him by his hallowed sleeve, And worked away at him apace, I painted him till dewy eve,-- There never was a n.o.bler face!

"Oh, sir," I said, "a fortune grand Is yours, by dint of merest chance,-- To sport HIS brow at second-hand, To wear HIS cast-off countenance!

"To rub HIS eyes whene'er they ache-- To wear HIS baldness ere you're old-- To clean HIS teeth when you awake-- To blow HIS nose when you've a cold!"

His eyeb.a.l.l.s glistened in his eyes-- I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; "Bravo!" I said, "I recognize The phrensy of your prototype!"

His scanty hair he wildly tore: "That's right," said I, "it shows your breed."

He danced--he stamped--he wildly swore-- "Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"

"Sir," said the grand Shakesperian boy (Continuing to blaze away), "You think my face a source of joy; That shows you know not what you say.

"Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps: I'm always thrown in some such state When on his face well-meaning chaps This wretched man congratulate.

"For, oh! this face--this pointed chin-- This nose--this brow--these eyeb.a.l.l.s too, Have always been the origin Of all the woes I ever knew!

"If to the play my way I find, To see a grand Shakesperian piece, I have no rest, no ease of mind Until the author's puppets cease.

"Men nudge each other--thus--and say, 'This certainly is SHAKESPEARE'S son,'

And merry wags (of course in play) Cry 'Author!' when the piece is done.

"In church the people stare at me, Their soul the sermon never binds; I catch them looking round to see, And thoughts of SHAKESPEARE fill their minds.

"And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile, Who find it difficult to crown A bust with BROWN'S insipid smile, Or TOMKINS'S unmannered frown,

"Yet boldly make my face their own, When (oh, presumption!) they require To animate a paving-stone With SHAKESPEARE'S intellectual fire.

"At parties where young ladies gaze, And I attempt to speak my joy, 'Hush, pray,' some lovely creature says, 'The fond illusion don't destroy!'

"Whene'er I speak, my soul is wrung With these or some such whisperings: ''Tis pity that a SHAKESPEARE'S tongue Should say such un-Shakesperian things!'

"I should not thus be criticised Had I a face of common wont: Don't envy me--now, be advised!"

And, now I think of it, I don't!

Ballad: Gregory Parable, LL.D.

A leafy cot, where no dry rot Had ever been by tenant seen, Where ivy clung and wopses stung, Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed, Where treeses grew and breezes blew-- A thatchy roof, quite waterproof, Where countless herds of d.i.c.ky-birds Built twiggy beds to lay their heads (My mother begs I'll make it "eggs,"

But though it's true that d.i.c.kies do Construct a nest with chirpy noise, With view to rest their eggy joys, 'Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds, As I explain to her in vain Five hundred times, are faulty rhymes).

'Neath such a cot, built on a plot Of freehold land, dwelt MARY and Her worthy father, named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

He knew no guile, this simple man, No worldly wile, or plot, or plan, Except that plot of freehold land That held the cot, and MARY, and Her worthy father, named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

A grave and learned scholar he, Yet simple as a child could be.

He'd s.h.i.+rk his meal to sit and cram A goodish deal of Eton Gram.

No man alive could him nonplus With vocative of filius; No man alive more fully knew The pa.s.sive of a verb or two; None better knew the worth than he Of words that end in b, d, t.

Upon his green in early spring He might be seen endeavouring To understand the hooks and crooks Of HENRY and his Latin books; Or calling for his "Caesar on The Gallic War," like any don; Or, p'raps, expounding unto all How mythic BALBUS built a wall.

So lived the sage who's named by me GREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.

To him one autumn day there came A lovely youth of mystic name: He took a lodging in the house, And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse, For, oh! that mild scholastic one Let shooting for a single gun.

By three or four, when sport was o'er, The Mystic One laid by his gun, And made sheep's eyes of giant size, Till after tea, at MARY P.

And MARY P. (so kind was she), She, too, made eyes of giant size, Whose every dart right through the heart Appeared to run that Mystic One.

The Doctor's whim engrossing him, He did not know they flirted so.

For, save at tea, "musa musae,"

As I'm advised, monopolised And rendered blind his giant mind.

But looking up above his cup One afternoon, he saw them spoon.

"Aha!" quoth he, "you naughty la.s.s!

As quaint old OVID says, 'Amas!'"

The Mystic Youth avowed the truth, And, claiming ruth, he said, "In sooth I love your daughter, aged man: Refuse to join us if you can.

Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn, I'm wealthy though I'm lowly born."

"Young sir," the aged scholar said, "I never thought you meant to wed: Engrossed completely with my books, I little noticed lovers' looks.

I've lived so long away from man, I do not know of any plan By which to test a lover's worth, Except, perhaps, the test of birth.

I've half forgotten in this wild A father's duty to his child.

It is his place, I think it's said, To see his daughters richly wed To dignitaries of the earth-- If possible, of n.o.ble birth.

If n.o.ble birth is not at hand, A father may, I understand (And this affords a chance for you), Be satisfied to wed her to A BOUCICAULT or BARING--which Means any one who's very rich.

Now, there's an Earl who lives hard by,-- My child and I will go and try If he will make the maid his bride-- If not, to you she shall be tied."