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To my great oak tree!"
Sing hey,

Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free

For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Ballad: King Goodheart

There lived a King, as I've been told
In the wonder-working days of old,

When hearts were twice as good as gold,
And twenty times as mellow.

Good temper triumphed in his face,
And in his heart he found a place

For all the erring human race
And every wretched fellow.

When he had Rhenish wine to drink
It made him very sad to think

That some, at junket or at jink,
Must be content with toddy:

He wished all men as rich as he
(And he was rich as rich could be),

So to the top of every tree
Promoted everybody.

Ambassadors cropped up like hay,
Prime Ministers and such as they

Grew like asparagus in May,
And Dukes were three a penny:

Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,
And Bishops in their shovel hats

Were plentiful as tabby cats -
If possible, too many.

On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,
Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed,

With Admirals the ocean teemed,
All round his wide dominions;

And Party Leaders you might meet
In twos and threes in every street

Maintaining, with no little heat,
Their various opinions.

That King, although no one denies,
His heart was of abnormal size,

Yet he'd have acted otherwise
If he had been acuter.

The end is easily foretold,
When every blessed thing you hold

Is made of silver, or of gold,
You long for simple pewter.

When you have nothing else to wear
But cloth of gold and satins rare,

For cloth of gold you cease to care -
Up goes the price of shoddy:

In short, whoever you may be,
To this conclusion you'll agree,

When every one is somebody,
Then no one's anybody!

Ballad: Sleep On!
Fear no unlicensed entry,

Heed no bombastic talk,
While guards the British Sentry

Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.
Let European thunders

Occasion no alarms,
Though diplomatic blunders

May cause a cry "To arms!"
Sleep on, ye pale civilians;

All thunder-clouds defy:
On Europe's countless millions

The Sentry keeps his eye!
Should foreign-born rapscallions

In London dare to show
Their overgrown battalions,

Be sure I'll let you know.
Should Russians or Norwegians

Pollute our favoured clime
With rough barbaric legions,

I'll mention it in time.
So sleep in peace, civilians,

The Continent defy;
While on its countless millions

The Sentry keeps his eye !
Ballad: The Love-Sick Boy

When first my old, old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;

My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy!

No terms seemed too extravagant
Upon her to employ -

I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,
Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense;
And love unchanged will cloy,

And she became a bore intense
Unto her love-sick boy?

With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,
And I grew cold and coy,

At last, one morning, I became
Another's love-sick boy!

Ballad: Poetry Everywhere
What time the poet hath hymned

The writhing maid, lithe-limbed,
Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,

How can he paint her woes,
Knowing, as well he knows,

That all can be set right with calomel?
When from the poet's plinth

The amorous colocynth
Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,

How can he hymn their throes
Knowing, as well he knows,

That they are only uncompounded pills?
Is it, and can it be,

Nature hath this decree,
Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?

Or that in all her works
Something poetic lurks,

Even in colocynth and calomel?
Ballad: He Loves!

He loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed

Tears - bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead -

If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,

Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy - he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,

Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,

Then let her hallowedbridal dress -
Her little dainty gloves -

Her withered flowers - her faded tress -
Plead for my boy - he loves!

Ballad: True Diffidence
My boy, you may take it from me,

That of all the afflictions accurst
With which a man's saddled

And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature's the worst.

Though clever as clever can be -
A Crichton of early romance -

You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,

Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.
Now take, for example, MY case:

I've a bright intellectual brain -
In all London city

There's no one so witty -
I've thought so again and again.

I've a highly intelligent face -
My features cannot be denied -

But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in - and why, sir?

I'm modesty" target="_blank" title="n.谨慎;端庄;羞怯">modesty personified!
As a poet, I'm tender and quaint -

I've passion and fervour and grace -
From Ovid and Horace

To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back place.

Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as I,

To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?

I'm diffident, modest, and shy!
Ballad: The Tangled Skein

Try we life-long, we can never
Straighten out life's tangled skein,

Why should we, in vain endeavour,
Guess and guess and guess again?

Life's a pudding full of plums
Care's a canker that benumbs.

Wherefore waste our elocution
On impossible solution?

Life's a pleasant institution,
Let us take it as it comes!

Set aside the dull enigma,
We shall guess it all too soon;

Failure brings no kind of stigma -
Dance we to another tune!

String the lyre and fill the cup,
Lest on sorrow we should sup;

Hop and skip to Fancy's fiddle,
Hands across and down the middle -

Life's perhaps the only riddle
That we shrink from giving up!

Ballad: My Lady
Bedecked in fashion trim,

With every curl a-quiver;
Or leaping, light of limb,

O'er rivulet and river;
Or skipping o'er the lea

On daffodil and daisy;
Or stretched beneath a tree,

All languishing and lazy;
Whatever be her mood -

Be she demurely prude
Or languishingly lazy -

My lady drives me crazy!
In vain her heart is wooed,

Whatever be her mood!
What profit should I gain

Suppose she loved me dearly?


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