Chapter III: Part 3

I knew the Riley girls, and thought
"Now this has turned out as it ought.
Joe is a reg'lar right good sort
To marry 'Cinderella.'"
The younger one, (thus called by me)
A sweet good girl as e'er might be
Was poor; the elder—rich was _she_—
Her name was Arabella.

An Aunt had left her lots of gold,
While 'Cinderella'—so I'm told,—
She left entirely in the cold
Without a single shilling.
The elder one,—though plain to see,—
Of suitors had some two, or three;
Poor Cinderella, nobody
To marry _her_ seemed willing.

Until the noble high-souled Joe—
That Errant-knight of Pimlico—
Came forth, the world at large to show
That _he_ at least knew better.
In spirit I before him bowed,
"To know a man like _that_ I'm proud
And happy!" I remarked aloud,
And sent to him this letter.

"_Dear Joe;—Wealth as you say's a trap
Gold is but dross,—not worth a rap—
How very like you—dear old chap!—
To marry 'Cinderella.'_"
* * *
He wrote:—"_I must expostulate,
I'm not a_ FOOL _at any rate_!
OF COURSE _I've chosen as a mate
The_ RICH _one, Arabella_!"

XL.
THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR'S LITTLE JOKE AND THE
UNFORTUNATE MAN WHO COULD NOT SEE IT.

Again of Mr. Justice Dear
My harmless numbers flowing,
Shall tell a story somewhat queer
About His Worship, showing,
How sensitive the legal wit.
It _is_. There is no doubt of it.

Before good Justice Dear one day
A man—for some small matter,
Was hailed, and, in his own sly way
(The former, not the latter)
Made,—and I thought the Court would choke,—
An unpremeditated joke.

The prosecuting Counsel roared,
The Jury giggled madly,
Only the Prisoner looked bored,
_He_ took it rather sadly.
"Why don't you laugh?" the Usher said,
The Prisoner, he shook his head.

"I cannot see," said he, "that's flat—
A fact that's most annoying,—
What everyone is laughing at,
And seemingly enjoying."
This strange remark, it reached his ear
And irritated Justice Dear.

"When I am pleased to make a joke
That's _not_ the way to treat it."
Thus, warningly, his Worship spoke,
"Now listen! I'll repeat it."
He did. He said it o'er and o'er.
At least a dozen times or more.

"Excuse me, sir," the Prisoner said,
"At _what_ may you be driving?"
Good Justice Dear turned very red,
"This joke of my contriving,
If you don't see it, Sir, you ought;
If not—well—'tis contempt of Court."

The Counsel then explained it, but
Quite failed the point to show him;
The Usher muttered "Tut-tut-tut!"
The Jury whispered "Blow him!"
Then several people wrote it down.
The Prisoner still wore a frown.

"Am I supposed to laugh at _that_?
Why? I can't see the reason."
It was too much. His Lordship sat
Aghast. "'Tis almost treason!
That unpremeditated joke before
Has _never_ failed to raise a roar.

"Defective in morality,
Must be that man misguided,
Who fails its brilliancy to see."
His Lordship then decided
To send the man,—despite his tears,—
To servitude, for twenty years.

XLI.
THAT OF THE LADIES OF ASCENSION ISLAND.

On the Island of Ascension
There are only ladies ten,
The remaining population
Being officers or men.
"Dear me!" I hear you saying,
"How united they must be!"
But in this you'd be mistaken,
As you'll very quickly see.

For each lady on the Island
Thinks _she_ ought to take the lead
In social matters, and on this
They're not at all agreed.
And Mrs. Smith's told Mrs. Brown
She thinks her most absurd,
While others cut each other dead
And don't exchange a word.

This state of thing's been going on
They tell me year by year,
And the husbands have grown tired of it
As we should do I fear;
For connubial felicity
Is doomed, if all our lives
Are spent in listening to the faults
Of other people's wives.

Quite recently a steamer called
For cinnamon and spice,
And her Captain and the officers
Were asked for their advice.
They gave it promptly. It was this—
"'Twere better you agreed,
In social matters, just to let
The _eldest_ lady lead."

They tried it. But—good gracious!
They are worse off than before,
For every lady in the place
Is firm upon that score.
Impossible it is that age
Shall be the final test,
_For every one insists that she
Is younger than the rest_!

XLII.
THAT OF THE ARTICULATING SKELETON.

There was a worthy Doctor once
Who unlike Mother Hubbard
Had _many_ bones (a skeleton)
Shut up within a cupboard.

One night the worthy Doctor dreamt,
(He'd been up rather late)
His articulated skeleton
Did thus articulate:—

"Come! Doctor, come! confess that you're a fraud
A very specious humbug and a sham.
Though meek as any lamb.
Don't glare at me! I'll tell it not abroad
But merely in _your_ ears alone applaud
The wily artifice of pill and dram.

"_You_ know as well as I do, you don't mean,
One half the things you tell 'our patient.' No!
Why, I can clearly show,
That Mrs. Gobbles' ailments are but spleen,
('Tis quite the simplest cause that e'er was seen)
And yet what crack-jaw names you now bestow.

"Because, forsooth, the longer you can prey
Upon her pocket, _that_ doth please you best,
So, Doctor, you protest
'The case is serious,' from day to day,
'And it must run its course,' you gravely say
With wisest head-shake and a look distressed.

"And then those pills! Absurd you know to try
To gammon _me_ with bolluses of bread;
While Aqua P. I've said,
Often, is good (if nothing else be nigh)
To drink when thirsty and our throats are dry,
But _not_ for medicine—though coloured red.

"So, Doctor, when we're by ourselves alone,
Don't try to put on 'side' with me, good lack,
For I can surely track
Full many a 'fatal case' you'd fain disown.
And _I_ can tell aright why you should groan
_When harmless ducks in passing cry 'Quack! Quack!'_

* * *

The Doctor woke. "Dear me!" said he,
"This skeleton's too wise
For me." He therefore packed it up,
And sent it off to Guy's.

XLIII.
THAT OF YE LOVE-PHILTRE: AN OLD-ENGLISH LEGEND.

Sir Peter de Wynkin
He loved a fair mayde,
And he wooed ye fair mayde
For hys bride.
But ye ladye cried "no,"
With a toss of her head,
And Sir Wynkin
Disconsolate sighed.

"Now out! and alas!
And alack-a-day me!"
He sang him
In sorrowful tones,
"She loveth me not
Yet, beshrew me!" said he,
"There's a wizard I wot of
Called—Jones."

Caldweller Ap Jones,
Was a wizard of note,
And he dwelt in a cave
Hard at hand.
Love-philtres and potions
He sold for a groat,
To ye rich and ye poor
Of ye land.

Sir Wynkin, he sought
This same wizard straightway,
And he told him hys
Dolorous plight.
The wizard cried, "Ha!
If you'll do as I say,
Thys small matter
Can soon be set right."

"Thys potion—a love-philtre
Made extra strong—
To ye ladye, by you,
Must be given."
"Oddzooks!" quoth Sir Wynkin.
"Ye ladye ere long
Shall receive it,
Or e'er I be shriven."

Ye bower was high
Where ye fair ladye slept,
But Sir Wynkin climbed up
From ye basement.
By means of ye ivy
He painfully crept,
And ye potion placed
Outside the casement.

"She'll find it," quoth he,
"Ere the morrow is past.
Curiosity'll prompt her
To drink it.
Ye magic will act,
And she'll love me at last.
Ah me! 'Tis sweet joy
E'en to think it."

But alack! and alas!
Ye endyng was sad,
Ye love-philtre caused
Quite a commotion.
For—a toothless old grand-dame
Ye fair ladye had,
And _she_ found, and _she_ drank
Ye love potion!!

Fell madly in love
With Sir Wynkin 'tis said,
And declared that ye Knight
Had betrayed her.
So, distraught, from ye country
Sir Wynkin he fled,
And he died at ye wars—
A Crusader.

XLIV.
THAT OF THE BARGAIN SALE.

I sing of Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe,
And Mrs. Gibson-Brown;
Two ladies resident within
A square, near Camden Town.

Good neighbours they had been, and friends,
For twenty years, or more;
The Tomkins-Smythes they lived at "6,"
The Gibson-Browns at "4."

'Twas in that season of the year
When drapers' bargain sales
Do fascinate the female mind,
And vex the married males.

An illustrated catalogue
Arrived at "Number 4,"
Which Mrs. Gibson-Brown took in
To show her friend next door.

"My dear!" she cried in eager tones,
"_Such_ bargains! Gracious me!
Here's _this_ reduced from two-and-six
To one eleven-three!

"And _those_ which you remember, dear,
We thought so very nice,
They're selling off at really an
Alarming sacrifice!"

"Those _remnants_—" Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe
Remained to hear no more;
She jabbed her bonnet on with pins,
And hurried to the door.

A tram, a 'bus, the tupp'ny tube,
And they were quickly there;
And joining in the buzzing crowd
Of other ladies fair.

They pulled at this, they tugged at that,
They turned and tumbled those;
And pushed, and crowded with the best,
And trod on people's toes.

They glared at other buyers, and
Forestalled them—when they could;
And behaved, indeed, exactly,
As _at sales_ all ladies should.

Till with heavy parcels laden,
Breathless, but with keen delight,
They beheld the remnant counter
("Second turning to the right.")

And (alas! how small a matter
May entirely change life's view)
Both in the self-same instant
Saw a remnant—Navy blue.

They each reached out to take it.
"'Tis mine!" they both did cry.
"I saw it first, my dearest love."
"No, darling, it was I."

"_My_ remnant, and I'll buy it!"
"Indeed? I think you _won't_!"
"Pooh! madame, I will have it!"
"I'll see, ma'am, that you don't!"

And thus, and thus—oh, woesome sight—
They quarrelled, nor would stop
Until the shopwalker he came
And turned them from the shop.

* * *

They never made the quarrel up,
And now, with icy stare,
They pass each other in the street
With noses in the air.

XLV.
THAT OF A DECEASED FLY.

(A Ballade.)

A little busy buzzy fly
Before my window oft would go,
I daily saw him sailing by
And thought that I would like to know
More of that little fly, and oh!
I raised my hat, and bowed, and said,
"How do!" The fly replied, "So, so!"
(Alas! that little fly is dead.)

We grew quite friendly, he and I,
He'd come when called—I called him Joe.—
He was a most amusing fly.
At evening, when the sun was low,
Or, by the firelight's ruddy glow
He'd hopscotch on my buttered bread
Or o'er my jam, with nimble toe.
(Alas! that little fly is dead.)

I saved him once, when none was by;
From out the milk jug's fatal flow
I fished him out, and let him dry.
His gratitude he tried to show
In many ways I know, I know;
_But_—when upon my bald, bald head
He gamboled, could I stand it? _No!
Alas! that little fly is dead!_

ENVOY.

Prince. Pity, not your blame, bestow.
Remember all the tears I've shed.
What _could_ I do? _It tickled so._
Alas! That little fly is dead.

EPILOGUE.

There,—having sung in dulcet tones
Of Brown, and Robinson, and Jones,
Of poets, cannibals, and kings,
Of burglars, dukes, and such like things—
May kindly Fate our fortunes mend.
We wish you joy. This is

Transcriber's Note

The original spelling and punctuation have been retained.

Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

Italicized words and phrases in the text version are presented by surrounding the text with underscores.