They found him, on the floor -
It leads from Richmond Buildings - near
The Royalty stage-door.
With
brandy cold and
brandy hot
They plied him, starved and wet,
And made him
sergeant on the spot -
The Men of London's pet!
Ballad: Ben Allah Achmet; - Or, The Fatal Tum
I once did know a Turkish man
Whom I upon a two-pair-back met,
His name it was EFFENDI KHAN
BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET.
A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew -
I've often eaten of his bounty;
The Turk and he they lived at Hooe,
In Sussex, that
delightful county!
I knew a nice young lady there,
Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON,
And though she wore another's hair,
She was an interesting person.
The Turk adored the maid of Hooe
(Although his harem would have shocked her).
But BROWN adored that
maiden too:
He was a most seductive doctor.
They'd follow her where'er she'd go -
A course of action most improper;
She neither knew by sight, and so
For neither of them cared a copper.
BROWN did not know that Turkish male,
He might have been his sainted mother:
The people in this simple tale
Are total strangers to each other.
One day that Turk he sickened sore,
And suffered agonies oppressive;
He threw himself upon the floor
And rolled about in pain excessive.
It made him moan, it made him groan,
And almost wore him to a mummy.
Why should I
hesitate to own
That pain was in his little tummy?
At length a doctor came, and rung
(As ALLAH ACHMET had desired),
Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue,
And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired:
"Where is the pain that long has preyed
Upon you in so sad a way, sir?"
The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said:
I don't exactly like to say, sir."
"Come, nonsense!" said good DOCTOR BROWN.
"So this is Turkish coyness, is it?
You must
contrive to fight it down -
Come, come, sir, please to be explicit."
The Turk he shyly bit his thumb,
And coyly blushed like one half-witted,
"The pain is in my little tum,"
He, whispering, at length admitted.
"Then take you this, and take you that -
Your blood flows
sluggish in its
channel -
You must get rid of all this fat,
And wear my medicated flannel.
"You'll send for me when you're in need -
My name is BROWN - your life I've saved it."
"My rival!" shrieked the invalid,
And drew a
mighty sword and waved it:
"This to thy weazand, Christian pest!"
Aloud the Turk in
frenzy yelled it,
And drove right through the doctor's chest
The sabre and the hand that held it.
The blow was a
decisive one,
And DOCTOR BROWN grew
deadly pasty,
"Now see the
mischief that you've done -
You Turks are so
extremely hasty.
"There are two DOCTOR BROWNS in Hooe -
HE'S short and stout, I'M tall and wizen;
You've been and run the wrong one through,
That's how the error has arisen."
The accident was thus explained,
Apologies were only heard now:
"At my mistake I'm really pained -
I am, indeed - upon my word now.
"With me, sir, you shall be interred,
A mausoleum grand awaits me."
"Oh, pray don't say another word,
I'm sure that more than compensates me.
"But p'r'aps, kind Turk, you're full inside?"
"There's room," said he, "for any number."
And so they laid them down and died.
In proud Stamboul they sleep their slumber,
Ballad: The Three Kings Of Chickeraboo
There were three niggers of Chickeraboo -
PACIFICO, BANG-BANG, POPCHOP - who
Exclaimed, one
terriblysultry day,
"Oh, let's be kings in a
humble way."
The first was a highly-accomplished "bones,"
The next elicited banjo tones,
The third was a quiet, retiring chap,
Who danced an excellent break-down "flap."
"We niggers," said they, "have formed a plan
By which,
whenever we like, we can
Extemporise kingdoms near the beach,
And then we'll
collar a kingdom each.
"Three casks, from somebody else's stores,
Shall represent our island shores,
Their sides the ocean wide shall lave,
Their heads just topping the briny wave.
"Great Britain's navy scours the sea,
And everywhere her ships they be;
She'll recognise our rank, perhaps,
When she discovers we're Royal Chaps.
"If to her skirts you want to cling,
It's quite sufficient that you're a king;
She does not push
inquiry far
To learn what sort of king you are."
A ship of several thousand tons,
And mounting seventy-something guns,
Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,
Discovering kings and countries new.
The brave REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP,
Commanding that
magnificent ship,
Perceived one day, his glasses through,
The kings that came from Chickeraboo.
"Dear eyes!" said ADMIRAL PIP, "I see
Three flourishing islands on our lee.
And, bless me! most
remarkable thing!
On every island stands a king!
"Come, lower the Admiral's gig," he cried,
"And over the dancing waves I'll glide;
That low obeisance I may do
To those three kings of Chickeraboo!"
The Admiral pulled to the islands three;
The kings saluted him graciousLEE.
The Admiral, pleased at his
welcome warm,
Unrolled a printed Alliance form.
"Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray -
I come in a friendly kind of way -
I come, if you please, with the best intents,
And QUEEN VICTORIA'S compliments."
The kings were pleased as they well could be;
The most retiring of the three,
In a "cellar-flap" to his joy gave vent
With a banjo-bones accompaniment.
The great REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP
Embarked on board his jolly big ship,
Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,
And off he sailed to his native shore.
ADMIRAL PIP directly went
To the Lord at the head of the Government,
Who made him, by a stroke of a quill,
BARON DE PIPPE, OF PIPPETONNEVILLE.
The College of Heralds
permission yield
That he should quarter upon his shield
Three islands, VERT, on a field of blue,
With the
pregnant motto "Chickeraboo."
Ambassadors, yes, and attaches, too,
Are going to sail for Chickeraboo.
And, see, on the good ship's
crowded deck,
A
bishop, who's going out there on spec.
And let us all hope that blissful things
May come of
alliance with darky kings,
And, may we never,
whatever we do,
Declare a war with Chickeraboo!
Ballad: Joe Golightly - Or, The First Lord's Daughter
A tar, but
poorly prized,
Long, shambling, and unsightly,
Thrashed, bullied, and despised,
Was
wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY.
He bore a workhouse brand;
No Pa or Ma had claimed him,
The Beadle found him, and
The Board of Guardians named him.
P'r'aps some Princess's son -
A
beggar p'r'aps his mother.
HE rather thought the one,
I rather think the other.
He liked his ship at sea,
He loved the salt sea-water,
He worshipped junk, and he
Adored the First Lord's daughter.
The First Lord's daughter, proud,
Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly;
She sneered at Barts. aloud,
And spurned poor Joe Golightly.
Whene'er he sailed afar
Upon a Channel
cruise, he
Unpacked his light guitar
And sang this
ballad (Boosey):
Ballad
The moon is on the sea,
Willow!
The wind blows towards the lee,
Willow!
But though I sigh and sob and cry,
No Lady Jane for me,
Willow!
She says, "'Twere folly quite,
Willow!
For me to wed a wight,
Willow!
Whose lot is cast before the mast";
And possibly she's right,
Willow!