Chapter I: WAS walking thro' the darkness of

The pleasant town of Birr,
'Twas late, and very lonely,
You could not hear a stir
When turning round a corner, I heard the music sweet,
Of a semi-grand piano, and a singing down the street.

You will say it's not uncommon to hear the pleasant sound,
Of a semi-grand piano upon a midnight round,
But O the silver music, of the voice that mingled there,
With the semi-grand piano, was wonderful, and rare!

I waited on in rapture, and harkened to the strain,
I paused until she finished, and commenced the song again,
And O the magic pathos, of her voice was such, I say'd
"I'll warble when she's finished, an Italian serenade."
And so anon I warbled a heart bewitching thrill,
All in the friendly darkness, beneath her window sill,
I thought it might remind her, of the troubadours of old,
Tho' 'twasn't too romantic, for the night was dev'lish cold!
It wasn't all Italian, but it was much the same,
It was a sweet impromptu, a song without a name,
And if it doesn't bore you, I'll sing you just a verse,
You'll say it might be better; but I think it might be worse.

"O lady who was singing
With happy semi-grand,
A troubadour is waiting,
He's asking for your hand,
Carrissima! Mia! Agrah!
From other lands I roam,
Be ready with the trousseau,
I'll come, and take you home!

Recordar, how I love you,
This lay of mine will tell,
O willow! willow! wirrasthrue!
Mavrone! I love you well!
L'ami l'amo l'amantibus
Ri foldherando dum,
Mein fraulein cushla bawn agrah!
Get up your traps, and come!"

It wasn't all Italian, this song of mine you see,
It wasn't like a tarantelle; 'twasn't like a glee,
'Twas thought of on the spur, its thus that brightest songs are made,
I think that you'll agree with me, 'twas a compo serenade.
I felt the song was working, 'twas amorous, and new,
'Twas making an impression, a thing I always do,
As tho' the middle ages, were back again in Birr,
Hark! hark behind her lattice, at last I heard a stir!

O there's nothing like the feeling that passes through the mind
When you know a lovely lady is pulling up her blind,
And my heart was all a-flutter, in that lonely street of Birr,
When I heard the curtains rustle, with the sylphid hand of her.

I saw the window open, I saw a face to scarce!
I heard a voice that muttered "What are ye doin' there?"
And over me was emptied a full and flowing can!
Which made me hurry homewards, a wet and wiser man!

I sang my song that midnight, with voice of dulcet tone,
My dulcet voice next morning was like a bagpipe groan,
A blanket round my shoulders, my feet were in a pan,
Some doctor's stuff beside me, a sad and wiser man!

CANTICRANK.

IF you have æsthetic notions of the classic beauty rare,
You would never for a moment say that Nature took the prize,
For the elegance of figure, or tint upon her hair,
Of Mother Becca Canticrank, you wouldn't like her eyes;
Her nose you couldn't admirate,
Her teeth are in a chippy state,
Her voice is like a corncrake, her manner like a knife;
A cutting way of dealing
With sentimental feeling,
You wouldn't altogether care to choose her for a wife.
But ah! she is the casket of a compensating excellence,
The odour of a sanctity peculiarly her own,
She knows she is, without a doubt,
Intensely moral out and out,
And so she sits in judgment on a self-constructed throne.
As Censor of corruptousness,
Of Nature in voluptousness,
She rails in holy horror, with a Puritanic rage,
That beauty's form is shocking,
In semi-raiment mocking,
Her own upholstered scragginess in picture or on stage.
Her loathing is the ballet;
For lo! from court and alley,
The thousand Cinderellas are fairy clad and bright,
A direr deed of sinning--
By dint of beauty winning
Their bread, than by the needle, in the murky candlelight,
O Mother Becca Canticrank,
The ways of earth are very rank;
But women live by beauty, intelligence, and toil.
And toil is overcrowded, Mam,
Intelligence is got by cram;
And what's for lovely Sally of the garret, shall she spoil?
No! pray for her, and set her,
As toiler for the sweater,
Or freeze her in the winter, on your doorstep in the street,
With penance to her bones,
By whiting up the stones,
That you may moil her handiwork with smirch of dirty feet.
Or pray for her, and crape her,
As vestal to the draper,
To do the woful penance, of Canticranks to please;
Till worn out and weary,
Unto her bedroom eyrie,
She staggers up at midnight, then bring her to her knees;
Do anything, but let her
Enjoy a way, to better
The miserable midnight of her life, into the day
Of brighter fortune's light;
Aye, crush her back to night,
And teach her how to thank you, by kneeling down to pray.
Yes, hound away the ballet,
Destroy the chance of Sally,
For she has many prizes in the marriage market won.
By hypocritic prudity,
Go boom the semi-nudity,
Of drawing room and salon, for the first and second son.

OF fascinating parts,
He played with female hearts;
'Twas reprehensible, as you may guess;
But still it was his way,
Continued he to play,
Until a maiden asked him for redress,
And folly bore the fruit,
Of breach of promise suit,
He owns a couple of thousand pounds the less,
He's a sorry man to-day, he does confess,
And the wily way of woman he does bless,
And his pipe is all that he will now caress,
He doesn't care to think of it, the mess!

THE Lord of Masherdudom wore on his essencèd curls
A golden zone of strawberry leaves, and rays with pips of pearls,
Tho' he was called an Englishman his blood was Prussian blue,
Which unto his complexion gave a gallimaufry hue,
The Earl of Masherdudom, he was just as he began,
He seemed in perpetuity, a fossil ladies' man,
And yet he wasn't what you'd call an absolute success,
He hankered to be more, than most; he wasn't, he was less,
For he was poisoned with the grip of miser hungered greed,
And racking rent upon the screw, he made his tenants bleed.

He loved his Parson; for he taught that gold was dross, and scutch,
To men who of the sinful chink, had not got overmuch;
He taught by unctions homily, how really false, the leaven
Of gold is to a tenant here, compared with gold in Heaven;
But man with base ingratitude is rife, they did not bless
The Earl of Masherdudom, so he wasn't a success.
One day 'twas ruminating thus, alone, and in his club,
"My politics do fail" he said "to fail, aye there's the rub,
I was a high conservative; I am, what am I now?
An India rubber ball of wind, a pinhole in my brow,
Evaporated of my brain, a shrunken rag, and dust,
A something must be done I wot, I wis a something must;"
He took a portly bottle up, and from its tinselled neck,
He poured the buzzing nectar forth, and without pause or reck,
Into his æsophagus then decanting it straightway
He lit a weed,--he was a man who never smoked a clay,--
"Oddsbodkins to that liberal!"--He swore in antient guise
Of quaintly oath--"He's more than I, I wot, for he is wise
Unto the leading, and the light
That gives to men a glim
Of what they know is just, I'm but
A farthing dip to him,"
Twas thro' his indignation he did make a vulgar slip
And coined so rude a simile,--in re the farthing dip;
"I find my brains have broken loose, my occiputs to let,
But ha! I've got a last resource, that none may wot of yet,
I'll take my diamond ring to-night, and use it round his panes,
And in a mask I'll burgle him, and steal his liberal brains!"

He quaffed the glorious fizz again, a swill both deep and strong
Nor witted he, nor wotted he, it was a lawless wrong
To steal another's brains. He then invested in some crape,
And putty, thus to make his nose more liberal of shape;
He turned his coat, its lining was of party colored trim,
And got a life preserver "now I'll go and burgle him!"

That night
He sneaked the toepath o'er,
With serpentine device,
And round a postal pillar red,
He scouted slyly twice,
Until on india rubber soles,
At length he reached the goal,
And up the garden wall
He clomb,
And down the wall he stole!

Then knotting on his mask of crape, with spry ambition fain,
He slid, and worked his diamond ring around the window pane,
He crept into the servant's hall, no maid, or cook was there;
He took his boots, and gaiters off, and climbed along the stair;
He sought to catch the banister, to guide his pilot fist;
But headlong down the flight he fell, the banister he missed!

And lo! from every room above, the shrieks of horror rose,
From girls in papered tresses, bereft of daylight clothes,
And full for twenty minutes by the clock, their cries increase,
Of "ho! Police" and "robbers hi!" and "murder ho Police!"
The butler fired a pistol shot, the cook discharged a spit!
The boots let fly a bootjack, and the footman all his kit!
The groom ran down the stable stairs with horsey oathings dire,
And a constable came knocking said he "are you's on fire?"

He put his bull's eye on him "Ha! well here's a putty case!
You needn't hide, behind that putty nose upon your face;
I'm on the 'wanted' tack for you a couple of months or three,
So don't you be disorderly, move on, and come with me,"
They put him on his country, and the evidence was queer,
But said his Lordship solemnly,

"The crime that we have here,
Is rare in English jurisprud', a noble drinks, and goes
With mask of crape upon his eyes, and putty on his nose,
To burgle certain premises, but drink being in his head,
Mistook the house, attacked his own, and burgled it instead!
Now this is queer; but I have here, a very antient law,
And from its context, you will mark, I this deduction draw,
That should a man by suicide, attempt to sneak away,
From curses that grow thick on him, we make the coward stay,
And if a man by putty nose, and mask, and diamond ring,
Do burgle his own home, It's just a similar sort of thing,

And so unto the upper house, for thy remaining years,
I sentence thee!" and with his wig, the judge mopped up his tears.