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The MARQUIS C., and VISCOUNT D.
"But you will not be quite alone,

For though they've chaplains of their own,
Of course this noble well-bred clan

Receive the parish clergyman."
"Oh, silence, sir!" said SIMON M.,

"Dukes - Earls! What should I care for them?
These worldly ranks I scorn and flout!"

"Of course," the agent said, "no doubt!"
"Yet I might show these men of birth

The hollowness of rank on earth."
The agent answered, "Very true -

But I should not, if I were you."
"Who sells this rich advowson, pray?"

The agent winked - it was his way -
"His name is HART; 'twixt me and you,

He is, I'm grieved to say, a Jew!"
"A Jew?" said SIMON, "happy find!

I purchase this advowson, mind.
My life shall be devoted to

Converting that unhappy Jew!"
Ballad: MY DREAM.

THE other night, from cares exempt,
I slept - and what d'you think I dreamt?

I dreamt that somehow I had come
To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom -

Where vice is virtue - virtue, vice:
Where nice is nasty - nasty, nice:

Where right is wrong and wrong is right -
Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise,
Are born astonishingly wise;

With every Science on their lips,
And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them
They crow binomial theorem,

With views (it seems absurd to us)
On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said,
Is born with learning in his head,

He must forget it, if he can,
Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here,
Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;

The wisdom we so highly prize
Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way,
Must learn some nonsense every day;

And cut, to carry out this view,
His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils,
Intent on giant-killers' toils;

And sages close their aged eyes
To other sages' lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound,
Commit all robbers who are found;

But there the Beaks (so people said)
Commit all robberies instead.

Our Judges, pure and wise in tone,
Know crime from theory alone,

And glean the motives of a thief
From books and popular belief.

But there, a Judge who wants to prime
His mind with true ideas of crime,

Derives them from the common sense
Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away
Who practisevirtue every day -

Of course, I mean to say, you know,
What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do
What we consider just and true,

And only good men do, in fact,
What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls,
The girls are boys - the boys are girls!

The men are women, too - but then,
PER CONTRA, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings
This seems an awkward state of things,

But if to think it out you try,
It doesn't really signify.

With them, as surely as can be,
A sailor should be sick at sea,

And not a passenger may sail
Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck)
Is always shot for showing pluck

(That is, if others can be found
With pluck enough to fire a round).

"How strange!" I said to one I saw;
"You quite upset our every law.

However can you get along
So systematically wrong?"

"Dear me!" my mad informant said,
"Have you no eyes within your head?

You sneer when you your hat should doff:
Why, we begin where you leave off!

"Your wisest men are very far
Less learned than our babies are!"

I mused awhile - and then, oh me!
I framed this brilliant repartee:

"Although your babes are wiser far
Than our most valued sages are,

Your sages, with their toys and cots,
Are duller than our idiots!"

But this remark, I grieve to state,
Came just a little bit too late

For as I framed it in my head,
I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, 'stead of here,
My lot were in that favoured sphere! -

Where greatest fools bear off the bell
I ought to do extremely well.

Ballad: THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO AGAIN.
I OFTEN wonder whether you

Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo

Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p'r'aps may bring

Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning

That PETER was his name.
Remember how that holy man

Came with the great Colonial clan
To Synod, called Pan-Anglican;

And kindly recollect
How, having crossed the ocean wide,

To please his flock all means he tried
Consistent with a proper pride

And manly self-respect.
He only, of the reverend pack

Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back

To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim

For "PETER" on the scroll of Fame
(For PETER was that Bishop's name,

As I've already told).
He carried Art, he often said,

To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops' aid)

Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught

As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought

To bless the Negro's home.
And he had other work to do,

For, while he tossed upon the Blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo

Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear -

They learnt to say, "I do not care,"
Though they, of course, were well aware

How folks, who say so, end.
Some sailors, whom he did not know,

Had landed there not long ago,
And taught them "Bother!" also, "Blow!"

(Of wickedness the germs).
No need to use a casuist's pen

To prove that they were merchantmen;
No sailor of the Royal N.

Would use such awful terms.
And so, when BISHOP PETER came

(That was the kindly Bishop's name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,

And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell - a bangle rare -

A feather here - a feather there
The South Pacific Negroes wear

Their native nothingness.)
He taught them that a Bishop loathes

To listen to disgraceful oaths,
He gave them all his left-off clothes -

They bent them to his will.
The Bishop's gift spreads quickly round;

In PETER'S left-off clothes they bound
(His three-and-twenty suits they found

In fair condition still).
The Bishop's eyes with water fill,

Quite overjoyed to find them still
Obedient to his sovereign will,

And said, "Good Rum-ti-Foo!
Half-way I'll meet you, I declare:

I'll dress myself in cowries rare,
And fastenfeathers in my hair,

And dance the 'Cutch-chi-boo!'" (13)
And to conciliate his See

He married PICCADILLILLEE,
The youngest of his twenty-three,

Tall - neither fat nor thin.
(And though the dress he made her don

Looks awkwardly a girl upon,
It was a great improvement on

The one he found her in.)
The Bishop in his gay canoe

(His wife, of course, went with him too)
To some adjacent island flew,

To spend his honeymoon.
Some day in sunny Rum-ti-Foo

A little PETER'll be on view;


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