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The Bab Ballads-Part15_William S.Gilbert(1836-1911)_English Literature(文学名著)

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For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK - this is BETH!"

Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"

BETH gave a dreadfulshriek -
But before he'd time to speak

I was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve, or even more,

They fastened me full length upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,

I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).

For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,

While a mercenary wopped me with a will
They branded me and broke me on a wheel,

And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,

I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,

Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,

When a yesterday has faded from its page
Ballad: Ellen McJones Aberdeen

MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN
Was the son of an elderly labouring man;

You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight,
And p'r'aps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the lovely Deeside,
Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde,

There wasn't a child or a woman or man
Who could pipe with CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN.

No other could wake such detestable groans,
With reed and with chaunter - with bag and with drones:

All day and ill night he delighted the chiels
With sniggering pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground,
And the neighbouring maidens would gather around

To list to the pipes and to gaze in his een,
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

All loved their McCLAN, save a Sassenach brute,
Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot;

He dressed himself up in a Highlander way,
Tho' his name it was PATTISON CORBY TORBAY.

TORBAY had incurred a good deal of expense
To make him a Scotchman in every sense;

But this is a matter, you'll readily own,
That isn't a question of tailors alone.

A Sassenach chief may be bonily built,
He may purchase a sporran, a bonnet, and kilt;

Stick a skean in his hose - wear an acre of stripes -
But he cannot assume an affection for pipes.

CLONGLOCKETY'S pipings all night and all day
Quite frenzied poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY;

The girls were amused at his singular spleen,
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN,

"MACPHAIRSON CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS, my lad,
With pibrochs and reels you are driving me mad.

If you really must play on that cursed affair,
My goodness! play something resembling an air."

Boiled over the blood of MACPHAIRSON McCLAN -
The Clan of Clonglocketty rose as one man;

For all were enraged at the insult, I ween -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

"Let's show," said McCLAN, "to this Sassenach loon
That the bagpipes CAN play him a regular tune.

Let's see," said McCLAN, as he thoughtfully sat,
"'IN MY COTTAGE' is easy - I'll practise at that."

He blew at his "Cottage," and blew with a will,
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until

(You'll hardly believe it) McCLAN, I declare,
Elicited something resembling an air.

It was wild - it was fitful - as wild as the breeze -
It wandered about into several keys;

It was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh, I'm aware;
But still it distinctly suggested an air.

The Sassenach screamed, and the Sassenach danced;
He shrieked in his agony - bellowed and pranced;

And the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

"Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around;
And fill a' ye lugs wi' the exquisite sound.

An air fra' the bagpipes - beat that if ye can!
Hurrah for CLONGLOCKETTY ANGUS McCLAN!"

The fame of his piping spread over the land:
Respectable widows proposed for his hand,

And maidens came flocking to sit on the green -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

One morning the fidgety Sassenach swore
He'd stand it no longer - he drew his claymore,

And (this was, I think, in extremely bad taste)
Divided CLONGLOCKETTY close to the waist.

Oh! loud were the wailings for ANGUS McCLAN,
Oh! deep was the grief for that excellent man;

The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

It sorrowed poor PATTISON CORBY TORBAY
To find them "take on" in this serious way;

He pitied the poor little fluttering birds,
And solaced their souls with the following words:

"Oh, maidens," said PATTISON, touching his hat,
"Don't blubber, my dears, for a fellow like that;

Observe, I'm a very superior man,
A much better fellow than ANGUS McCLAN."

They smiled when he winked and addressed them as "dears,"
And they all of them vowed, as they dried up their tears,

A pleasanter gentleman never was seen -
Especially ELLEN McJONES ABERDEEN.

Ballad: Peter The Wag
Policeman PETER forth I drag

From his obscure retreat:
He was a merry genial wag,

Who loved a mad conceit.
If he were asked the time of day,

By country bumpkins green,
He not unfrequently would say,

"A quarter past thirteen."
If ever you by word of mouth

Inquired of MISTER FORTH
The way to somewhere in the South,

He always sent you North.
With little boys his beat along

He loved to stop and play;
He loved to send old ladies wrong,

And teach their feet to stray.
He would in frolic moments, when

Such mischief bent upon,
Take Bishops up as betting men -

Bid Ministers move on.
Then all the worthy boys he knew

He regularly licked,
And always collared people who

Had had their pockets picked.
He was not naturally bad,

Or viciously inclined,
But from his early youth he had

A waggish turn of mind.
The Men of London grimly scowled

With indignation wild;
The Men of London gruffly growled,

But PETER calmly smiled.
Against this minion of the Crown

The swelling murmurs grew -
From Camberwell to Kentish Town -

From Rotherhithe to Kew.
Still humoured he his wagsome turn,

And fed in various ways
The coward rage that dared to burn,

But did not dare to blaze.
Still, Retribution has her day,

Although her flight is slow:
ONE DAY THAT CRUSHER LOST HIS WAY

NEAR POLAND STREET, SOHO.
The haughty boy, too proud to ask,

To find his way resolved,
And in the tangle of his task

Got more and more involved.
The Men of London, overjoyed,

Came there to jeer their foe,
And flocking crowds completely cloyed

The mazes of Soho.
The news on telegraphic wires

Sped swiftly o'er the lea,
Excursion trains from distant shires

Brought myriads to see.
For weeks he trod his self-made beats

Through Newport- Gerrard- Bear-
Greek- Rupert- Frith- Dean- Poland- Streets,

And into Golden Square.
But all, alas! in vain, for when

He tried to learn the way
Of little boys or grown-up men,

They none of them would say.
Their eyes would flash - their teeth would grind -

Their lips would tightly curl -
They'd say, "Thy way thyself must find,

Thou misdirecting churl!"
And, similarly, also, when

He tried a foreign friend;
Italians answered, "IL BALEN" -

The French, "No comprehend."
The Russ would say with gleaming eye

" Sevastopol!" and groan.
The Greek said, [GREEK TEXT WHICH CANNOT

BE REPRODUCED]."
To wander thus for many a year

That Crusher never ceased -
The Men of London dropped a tear,

Their anger was appeased
At length exploring gangs were sent

To find poor FORTH'S remains -
A handsome grant by Parliament

Was voted for their pains.
To seek the poor policeman out

Bold spirits volunteered,
And when they swore they'd solve the doubt,

The Men of London cheered.
And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear,



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