Chapter IX

And so Frodgedobbulum, the giant,
Sits on the North Pole incompliant.

He blinks at the snow with its weary white;
He blinks at the spears of the northern light;

Kicks out with one boot; says, “Fi-fo-fum!
I am the Giant Frodgedobbulum!”

But who cares whether he is or not,
Living in such an inclement spot?

Banbury town is the place for me,
And a kiss from merry Marjorie,

With the clerk in the vestry to see all fair--
For she wears orange-flowers in her hair!

She can dance like a leaf, she can sing like a thrush,
She is bold as the north wind, and sweet as a blush;

Her father he tans, her mother she spins;
Frodgedobbulum sits on the Pole for his sins;

But here comes Marjorie, white as milk,
A rose on her bosom as soft as silk,

On her finger a gay gold ring;
The bridegroom holds up his head like a king!

Marjorie has married a gentleman;
Who knows when the wedding began?

THE GUINEA-PIG

“Oh, I never would be a guinea-pig, never!
They have so little brains!”--
The guinea-pig sprang, and--wasn’t it clever?--
He hid in the raspberry canes.

They scratched their fingers, they taxed their wits,
To get the guinea-pig out;
They nearly laughed themselves to fits
To see him run about.

The old and the young, the patient, the bold,
Were in that companie;
But the guinea-pig baffled the young and the old,
And merrily scampered he.

You thought you had him, but oh, mistake!
You grappled a lump of mould--
The guinea-pig stuck to the raspberry brake
As hath before been told.

“Oh, make me into a guinea-pig, make,
And never mind what I said;
For then I can hide in the raspberry brake,
When it’s time to go to bed.”

LITTLE BOY BLUE

All in the morning early,
The Little Boy in Blue
(The grass with rain is pearly)
Has thought of something new.

He saddled dear old Dobbin;
He had but half-a-crown;
And jogging, cantering, bobbing,
He came to London town.

The sheep were in the meadows,
The cows were in the corn;
Beneath the city shadows
At last he stood forlorn.

He stood beneath Bow steeple,
That is in London town;
And tried to count the people
As they went up and down.

Oh, there was not a daisy,
And not a buttercup;
The air was thick and hazy,
The Blue Boy gave it up.

The houses, next, in London,
He thought that he would count;
But still the sum was undone,
So great was the amount.

He could not think of robbing,
He had but half-a-crown;
And so he mounted Dobbin,
And rode back from the town.

The sheep were in the meadows,
The cows were in the corn;
Amid the evening shadows
He stood where he was born.

MISS HOOPER

Miss Hooper was a little girl,
Whose head was always in a whirl;
For she had hoop upon the head--
“My precious, precious hoop!” she said.

Trundling a hoop was her delight
From breakfast time to nearly night,
She loved it so! and, truth to tell,
At last she drove her hoop too well.

That hoop began to go one day
As if it never meant to stay;
Of course the girl would not give in,
But followed it through thick and thin.

The King and Queen came out to see
What sort of hoop this hoop might be;
My Lady said, “I think, my Lord,
That hoop goes of its own accord.”

This vexed the little girl, and so
She gave the hoop another blow,
And off it went--oh, just like mad--
She ran with all the strength she had.

Her hat-strings slipped, her hat hung back,
And soon she felt her waistband crack,
Her dear long hair flew out behind her,--
Her parents sent forth scouts to find her.

The King leapt on his swiftest horse,
And followed her with all his force;
Her father cried, “A thousand pound
To get my girl back safe and sound!”

Some people came and made a dash
To pull her backward by the sash,
But all in vain--she did not stop--
At last she fainted, with a flop.

When she came to she sighed, with pain,
“I’ll never touch a hoop again!”
Is it not sad, when girls and boys
Go to excess like this with toys?

As for the hoop, the people say
It kept on going night and day,
Turning the corners, quite correct,--
A thing which you would not expect.

And so it lived, a hoop at large,
Which no one dared to take in charge;
Of course it thinned, but kept its shape,
A sort of hoop of wooden tape.

It thinned till people took a glass
To see the ghostly circle pass,
And only stopped--the facts are so--
When there was nothing left to go.

A SHOOTING SONG

To shoot, to shoot, would be my delight,
To shoot the cats that howl in the night;
To shoot the lion, the wolf, the bear,
To shoot the mad dogs out in the square.

I learnt to shoot with a pop-gun good,
Made out of a branch of elder-wood;
It was round, and long, full half a yard,
The plug was strong, the pellets were hard.

I should like to shoot with a bow of yew,
As the English at Agincourt used to do;
The strings of a thousand bows went twang!
And a thousand arrows whizzed and sang!

On Hounslow Heath I should like to ride,
With a great horse-pistol at my side:
It is dark--hark! A robber, I know!
Click! crick-crack! and away we go!

I will shoot with a double-barrelled gun,
Two bullets are better than only one;
I will shoot some rooks to put in a pie;
I will shoot an eagle up in the sky.

I once shot a bandit in a dream,
In a mountain-pass I heard a scream;
I rescued the lady and set her free,
“Do not fear, madam, lean on me!”

With a boomerang I could not aim;
A poison blow-pipe would be the same;
A double-barrelled is my desire,
Get out of the way--one, two, three, fire!

A FISHING SONG

There was a boy whose name was Phinn,
And he was fond of fishing;
His father could not keep him in,
Nor all his mother’s wishing.

His life’s ambition was to land
A fish of several pound weight;
The chief thing he could understand
Was hooks, or worms for ground-bait.

The worms crept out, the worms crept in,
From every crack and pocket;
He had a worm-box made of tin,
With proper worms to stock it.

He gave his mind to breeding worms
As much as he was able;
His sister spoke in angry terms
To see them on the table.

You found one walking up the stairs,
You found one in a bonnet,
Or, in the bed-room, unawares,
You set your foot upon it.

Worms, worms, worms for bait!
Roach, and dace, and gudgeon!
With rod and line to Twickenham Ait
To-morrow he is trudging!

O worms and fishes day and night!
Such was his sole ambition;
I’m glad to think you are not quite
So very fond of fishing!

SHOCKHEADED CICELY AND THE TWO BEARS

“O yes! O yes! O yes! ding dong!”
The bellman’s voice is loud and strong;
So is his bell: “O yes! ding dong!”

He wears a red coat with golden lace;
See how the people of the place
Come running to hear what the bellman says!

“O yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Has just returned from the Holy Land,
And freely offers his heart and hand--

O yes! O yes! O yes! ding dong!”--
All the women hurry along,
Maids and widows, a chattering throng.

“O sir, you are hard to understand!
To whom does he offer his heart and hand?
Explain your meaning, we do command!”

“O yes! ding dong! you shall understand!
O yes! Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Invites the ladies of this land

To feast with him in his castle strong
This very day at three. Ding dong!
O yes! O yes! O yes! ding dong!”

Then all the women went off to dress,
Mary, Margaret, Bridget, Bess,
Patty, and more than I can guess.

They powdered their hair with golden dust,
And bought new ribbons--they said they must--
But none of them painted, we will trust.

Long before the time arrives,
All the women that could be wives
Are dressed within an inch of their lives.

Meanwhile, Sir Nicholas Hildebrand
Had brought with him from the Holy Land
A couple of bears--oh, that was grand!

He tamed the bears, and they loved him true,
Whatever he told them they would do--
Hark! ’tis the town clock striking two!