Chapter I: STOLE the Prince, and I brought him here,

And left him, gaily prattling
With a highly respectable Gondolier,
Who promised the Royal babe to rear,
And teach him the trade of a timoneer
With his own beloved bratling.

Both of the babes were strong and stout,
And, considering all things, clever.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.

Time sped, and when at the end of a year
I sought that infant cherished,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—
I dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear—
That Gondolier had perished!

A taste for drink, combined with gout,
Had doubled him up for ever.
Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.

But owing, I’m much disposed to fear,
To his terrible taste for tippling,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Could never declare with a mind sincere
Which of the two was his offspring dear,
And which the Royal stripling!

Which was which he could never make out,
Despite his best endeavour.
Of _that_ there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.

The children followed his old career—
(This statement can’t be parried)
Of a highly respectable Gondolier:
Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—
But _which_ of the two is not quite clear—
Is the Royal Prince you married!

Search in and out and round about
And you’ll discover never
A tale so free from every doubt—
All probable, possible shadow of doubt—
All possible doubt whatever!

THE FAIRY QUEEN’S SONG

OH, foolish fay,
Think you because
Man’s brave array
My bosom thaws
I’d disobey
Our fairy laws?
Because I fly
In realms above,
In tendency
To fall in love
Resemble I
The amorous dove?

Oh, amorous dove!
Type of Ovidius Naso!
This heart of mine
Is soft as thine,
Although I dare not say so!

On fire that glows
With heat intense
I turn the hose
Of Common Sense,
And out it goes
At small expense!
We must maintain
Our fairy law;
That is the main
On which to draw—
In that we gain
A Captain Shaw.

Oh, Captain Shaw!
Type of true love kept under!
Could thy Brigade
With cold cascade
Quench my great love, I wonder!

IS LIFE A BOON

IS life a boon?
If so, it must befall
That Death, whene’er he call,
Must call too soon.
Though fourscore years he give
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I,
Who perish in July?
I might have had to die
Perchance in June!

Is life a thorn?
Then count it not a whit!
Man is well done with it;
Soon as he’s born
He should all means essay
To put the plague away;
And I, war-worn,
Poor captured fugitive,
My life most gladly give—
I might have had to live
Another morn!

THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL