Absurd Ditties
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I
THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR
"'Tis really very, very queer!"Ejaculated Justice Dear,"That, day by day, I'm sitting hereWithout a single 'case.'This is the twenty-second pairOf white kid gloves, I do declare,I've had this month. I can not wearWhite kids at such a pace."His Lordship thought the matter o'er."Crimes ne'er have been so few before;Not long ago, I heard a scoreOf charges every day;And now – dear me! how can it be? —And, pondering thus, went home to tea.(He lives Bayswater way.)A frugal mind has Justice Dear(Indeed, I've heard folks call him "near"),And, caring naught for jibe or jeer,He rides home on a bus.It singularly came to pass,This day, he chanced to ride, alas!Beside two of the burglar class;And one addressed him thus:"We knows yer, Mr. Justice Dear,You've often giv' us 'time' – d'ye hear? —And now your pitch we're going to queer,We criminals has struck!We're on the 'honest livin' tack,An' not another crib we'll crack,So Justices will get the sack!How's that, my legal buck?"This gave his Lordship quite a fright,He had not viewed it in that light."Dear me!" he thought, "these men are right,I'd better smooth them down."Let's not fall out, my friends," said he,"Continue with your burglarie;Your point of view I clearly see.Ahem! Here's half-a-crown."The morning sun shone bright and clearOn angry Mr. Justice Dear;His language was not good to hear;With rage he'd like to burst.His watch and chain, and several rings,His silver-plate, and other things,Had disappeared on magic wings —They'd burgled his house first!II
THAT OF THE LATE MR. BROWN
Life has its little ups, and downs,As has been very truly said,And Mr. Brown,Of Camden Town(Alas! the gentleman is dead),Found out how quickly Fortune's smileMay turn to Fortune's frown;And how a sudden rise in lifeMay bring a person down.He lived – as I remarked before —Within a highly genteel squareAt Camden Town,Did Mr. Brown(He had been born and brought up there);But – waxing richer year by year —Grew prosperous and fat,And left the square at Camden TownTo take a West End flat.It was a very stylish flat,With such appointments on each floorAs Mr. BrownAt Camden TownHad never, never seen before:Electric lights; hydraulic lifts,To take one up and down;And telephones to everywhere.(These quite bewildered Brown.)The elevator pleased him most;To ride in it was perfect bliss."I say!" cried Brown,"At Camden TownWe'd nothing half as good as this."From early morn till dewy eveHe spent his time – did Brown —In being elevated up,And elevated down.One night – I cannot tell you why —When all the household soundly slept,Poor Mr. Brown(Late Camden Town)Into the elevator stept;It stuck midway 'twixt floor and floor,And when they got it down,They found that it was all U. – P.With suffocated Brown.Yes, life is full of ups and downs,As someone said in days of yore.They buried BrownAt Camden Town(The place where he had lived before);And now, alas! a-lack-a-day!In black and solemn gowns,Disconsolate walk Mrs. BrownAnd all the little Browns.III
THAT OF OUR OLD FRIEND BISHOP P
(With many thanks to Mr. W. S. Gilbert for his kind assurances that the inclusion of these verses causes him no offence.)Twice Mr. Gilbert sang to youOf Bishop P., of Rum-ti-foo;Now, by your leave, I'll do that too,Altho' I'm bound to fail(So you will tell me to my face)In catching e'en the slightest traceOf true Gilbertian charm, or grace,To decorate my tale.Still, I will tell, as best I can,How Bishop Peter – worthy man —Is getting on by now.Now where shall I begin? Let's see?You know, I think, that Bishop P.(Wishful to please his flock was he)Once took the bridegroom's vow.You doubtless recollect, His GraceWed Piccadil'lee of that place,And Peterkins were born apace,When she became his bride.In fact I'm told that there were three,When dusky Piccadillillee,In odour of sanctittittee,Incontinently died.Some years have passed since her demiseBut Bishop Peter – bless his eyes —That saintly prelate, kind, and wise,Is excellently well.And, not so very long ago,He sought to wed – this gallant beau(His faithful flock desired it so) —Another Island belle.There was one difficulty, this:Our Peter wooed a dusky MissWho (tho' inclined to married bliss)Declared him rather old;Who giggled at his bald, bald head,And even went so far, 'tis said,As to decline His Grace to wed,Did Lollipoppee bold.But, one day, on that far-off reef,A merchant vessel came to grief,And all the cargo – to be brief —Was washed upon the shore.Most of the crew, I grieve to state,Except the Bos'un and the Mate,Were lost. Theirs was a woesome fate,And one we all deplore.Amongst the wreckage on the strand,A box of "Tatcho" came to land,Which, there half buried in the sand,The Bishop – singing hymnsAmongst his flock down by the shore —Discovered, and they open toreThe case. Behold! The contents boreThe magic name of Sims."What! G. R. Sims?" quoth Bishop P.(Visions of "Billy's Rose" had he),"Good gracious now! It Sims to meI've heard that name before."(Oh, well bred flock! there was not oneWho did not laugh at this poor pun;They revelled in their Bishop's fun.They even cried "Encore!")Then spake the Mate (whose name was Ted):"Now this 'ere stuff, so I've 'eard said,Will make the 'air grow on yer 'eadAs thick as any mat.""Indeed?" quoth worthy Bishop P.;"Then 'tis the very thing for me,For I am bald, as you may see."His Grace removed his hat.The Bo'sun quickly broke the neckOf one large bottle from the wreck,Proceeding then His Grace to deckWith towels (careful man,This was to save his coat of black,For "Tatcho" running down one's backIs clearly off its proper tack).And then the fun began.For Ted he rubbed the liquid through,As hard as ever he could do.And worthy Jack rubbed some in too(The Bo'sun's name was Jack).And day by day they did the same.Now "Tatcho" ne'er belies its fame,And soon a little hair there came(His Lordship's hair is black).Miss Lollipoppee views with gleeThe change in worthy Bishop P.Now quite agreed to wed is she(The banns were called to-day).No "just cause or impediment"Can interfere with their content;The natives' loyal sentimentIs summed up in "Hooray!"IV
THAT OF CAPTAIN ARCHIBALD McKAN
There never lived a worthier manThan Captain Archibald McKan.I knew him well some time ago(I speak of twenty years or so);Sans peur et sans reproche was he;He was the soul of chivalry,Was Captain Archibald McKan.True greatness showed in all his mien,No haughty pride in him was seen,Though, captain of a steamer, he,From Greenwich unto far Chelsea,That, spite of weather, wind, and tide,From early Spring to Autumn plied,Brave, modest Captain A. McKan.However sternly might his roarReverberate from shore to shoreOf "Ease her! Back her! Hard astern!"His duty done, with smile he'd turnAnd be most affable and mildTo every woman, man, or childAboard, would Captain A. McKan.He reassured the anxious fearsOf nervous ladies – pretty dears! —He in his pocket carried toysAnd sweets for little girls and boys;He talked in quite familiar wayWith men who voyaged day by day,Did Captain Archibald McKan.In fact, as I've already said,No man alive – or even dead —Was freer from reproach than he;And yet of Fortune's irony(Though such a very decent sort)This worthy man was e'en the sport.Alas! was Captain A. McKan!"Cherchez la femme." The phrase is trite,Yet here, as usual, 'twas right.Our Captain noted every dayA certain girl rode all the wayFrom Greenwich Pier to Wapping Stair."It cannot be to take the air,"Thought Captain Archibald McKan.She calmly sat, with downcast eye;And looking both demure and shy;Yet, once, he caught a roving glance,Which made his pulses wildly dance;And, – though as modest as could be —"I do believe she's gone on me,"Considered Captain A. McKan."Why else should she persistentlySelect my boat alone?" thought he;"I wonder why she comes? I'll ask,Though 'tis a very ticklish task."So, walking forward with a smile,Beside the lass he stood awhile,Then coughed, did Captain A. McKan."You're frequently aboard my boat,"Began he; "she's the best afloat;But, pray, may I enquire, do youSo very much admire the view?""Er – moderately, sir," said she."Exactly so! It must be me!"Decided Captain A. McKan."Come, tell me, Miss, now no one's by,"He whispered; "Won't you tell me whyYou come so oft? There's naught to dread."The lady looked surprised, and said:"My husband works at Wapping Stair,I daily take his dinner there."Poor Captain Archibald McKan!V
THAT OF MATILDA
Yes, I love you, dear Matilda,But you may not be my bride,And the obstacles are manyWhich have caused me to decide.Firstly, what is most annoying,And I'm not above confessing,Is, that I think you indolent,And over-fond of dressing.I've known you spend an hour or twoIn a-sitting on a chair,And a-fussing and attendingTo your toilet or your hair.There's another little matter —You may say a simple thing —Yet, Matilda, I must own it,I object to hear you sing.For the sounds you make in singingAre so very much like squalling,That the only term appropriateTo them is caterwauling.Indeed, I've never heard such horridNoises in my life,And I'd certainly not tolerateSuch singing in a wife.And, Matilda dear, your language!It is really very bad;The expressions which you use at times,They make me feel quite sad.It is very, very shocking,But I do not mind declaringThat I've heard some sounds proceedingFrom your lips so much like swearing,That I've had to raise a finger,And to close at least one ear,For I couldn't feel quite certainWhat bad words I mightn't hear.But worse than this, Matilda:I hear, with pious grief,Many rumours that MatildaIs no better than a thiefAnd I'm shocked to find my darlingSo entirely lost to feeling,As to go and give her mind upUnto picking and a-stealing.Oh, Matilda! pray take warning,For a prison cell doth yearnFor a person that appropriatesAnd takes what isn't her'n.And the culminating blow is this:You stay out late at night.Now, Matilda dear, you must confessTo do this is not right.Where you go to, dear, or what you do,There really is no telling,And with rage and indignationMy fond foolish heart is swelling.Yet the faults which I've enumera-Ted can't be wondered at,When one realises clearlyThat "Matilda" – is a cat.VI
THAT OF "DOCTHOR" PATRICK O'DOOLEY
In the South Pacific OceanIn an oiland called Koodoo,An' the monarch ov thot oilandIz King Hulla-bulla-loo.Oi wuz docthor to thot monarchWonct. Me name iz Pat O'Dooley.Yis, you're roight. Oi come from Oirland,From the County Ballyhooly.An' Oi'll tell yez how Oi came to beA docthor in Koodoo;May the Divil burn the ind ov me,If ivery word's not thrue.Oi wuz sailin' to Ameriky,Aboard the "Hilly Haully,"Which wuz drounded in the ocean,For the toime ov year wuz squally.An' Oi floated on a raft, sor,For some twinty days or more,Till Oi cum to Koodoo Island,Phwich Oi'd niver seen before.But the natives ov thot counthry,Sure, would take a lot ov batin',For a foine young sthrappin' fellerThey think moighty pleasint atin'.An' they wint an' told the King, sor,Him called Hulla-bulla-loo."Ye come from Oirland, sor?" sez he."Bedad!" sez Oi, "thot's true."Thin he whispered to the cook, sor;An' the cook he giv me warnin':"It's Oirish stew you'll be," sez he,"To-morrow, come the marnin'."But to-morrow, be the Powers, sor,The King wuz moighty bad,Wid most odjus pains insoide him,An' they nearly drove him mad;So he sint a little note, sor,By the cook, apologoizin'For not cooking me that day, sor,Wid politeness most surprisin'!An' Oi wrote him back a letther,Jist expressin' my regret,Thot Oi shouldn't hiv the honor,Sor, ov bein' cooked an' et;An' Oi indid up the lettherWid a midical expresshin,As would lead him to imagineOi belonged to the professhin.Och! he sint for me at wonct, sor."If ye'll only save me loife,"Sez he, "Oi'll give yez money,An' a most attractive woife,An' ye won't be in the menuOv me little dinner partyIf ye'll only pull me round," sez he,"An' make me sthrong an' hearty."So Oi made a diagnosisWid my penknife an' some sthring(Though Oi hadn't got a notionHow they made the blessid thing;But Oi knew thot docthors did itPhwen they undertook a case, sor),An' Oi saw his pulse, an' filt his tongue,An' pulled a sarious face, sor.Thin Oi troied a bit ov blarney."Plaze, yer gracious Madjisty,It's yer brains iz much too big, sor,For yer cranium, ye see."But the King he looked suspicious,An' he giv a moighty frown, sor."The pain's not there at all," sez he,"The pain is further down, sor.""Oi'm commin', sor, to thot," sez Oi."Lie quiet, sor, an' still,While Oi go an' make yer MadjistyMe cilebratid pill."In the pocket ov me jacketOi had found an old ship's biscuit("An' Oi think," sez Oi, "'twill do," sez Oi,"At any rate Oi'll risk it").The biscuit it wuz soft an' blackBy raisin ov the wet,An' it made the foinist pill, sor,Thot Oi've iver seen as yet;It wuz flavoured rayther sthronglyWid salt wather an' tobaccy,But, be jabers, sor, it did the thrick,An' cured the blissid blackie!The King wuz as deloighted,An' as grateful as could be,An' he got devorced from all his woives,An' giv the lot to me;But a steamer, passin' handy,Wuz more plazin' to "yours trooly,"An' among the passingers aboardWuz the "Docthor", – Pat O'Dooley.VII
THAT OF MY AUNT BETSY
You may have met, when walking outor thereabout,A lady (angular and plain)Escorted by an ancient swain,Or, possibly, by two,Each leading by a piece of stringA lazy, fat, and pampered thingSupposed to be a dog. You may,Perhaps, have noticed them, I say,And, if so, thought, "They doPresent unto the public gazeA singular appearance – very."That lady, doubtless, was my aunt,Miss Betsy Jane Priscilla Perry.The gentleman – or gentlemen—Attending her were Captain VenneAnd Major Alec Stubbs. These twoFor many years had sought to wooMy maiden aunt, Miss P.,Who never could make up her mindWhich one to marry, so was kindTo one or other – each in turn —Thus causing jealous pangs to burn.I incidentallyShould mention here the quadrupeds —Respectively called "Popsey Petsey," —A mongrel pug; – and "Baby Heart," —A poodle – both belonged to Betsy.You'd notice Captain Venne was tall,And Major Stubbs compact and small;These two on nought could e'er agree,Except in this – they hated me,Sole nephew to Aunt Bess.My aunt was very wealthy, andI think you'll quickly understandThe situation, when I sayThat Captain Venne was on half-pay,And Major Stubbs on less.To me it was so very plainAnd evident, I thought it funnyMy aunt should never, never seeThey wanted, not her, but her money.And Stubbs and Venne they did arrangeA plan, intended to estrangeMy aunt and me. They told her lies;And one day, to my great surprise,A letter came for me.Requesting me to "call at six,"For aunt had "heard of all the tricksI had been up to," and "was sadAt hearing an account so bad."I went – in time for tea.My aunt was looking so severeI felt confused, a perfect noodleWhile Major Stubbs caressed the pug,And Captain Venne he nursed the poodle."Dear Major Stubbs," my aunt began,"Has told me all – quite all he can—Of your sad goings on. Oh, fie!Where will you go to when you die,You naughty wicked boy?"And Captain Venne has told me tooWhat very dreadful things you do.Of course I cannot but believeMy two dear friends. They'd not deceive,Nor characters destroy,Without a cause. Go, leave me now,You'll see my purpose shall not falterI'll send at once for Lawyer Slymm,My latest will to bring and alter."I fear I lost my temper – quite;I know I said what wasn't right;You see, I felt it hard to bear(And really, I contend, unfair),To be misjudged like this.I tried to argue, but 'twas vain,"My mind is fixed – my way is plain,"My aunt declared. "Then hear me now!"I hotly cried, "There's naught, I vow,To cause you to dismissYour nephew thus, but, as you please.And if, perchance, you wish to do it,Your money leave to your two friends;They want it, and – they're welcome to it."I hurried out. I slammed the door.I vowed I'd never call there more.And neither did I, in my pride,Till six weeks since, when poor aunt died,And then, from Lawyer SlymmI got a little note, which said:"The will on Tuesday will be read."I went, and found that "Baby Heart"From Captain Venne must ne'er depart —She had been left to him;While "Popsey Petsey" Major StubbsReceived as his sole legacyAnd that was all. The money – oh!The money – that was left to me.VIII
THAT OF THE TUCK-SHOP WOMAN
Of all the schools throughout the landSt. Vedast's is the oldest, andAll men are proud(And justly proud)Who claim St. Vedast's as their Al-Ma mater. There I went a cal-Low youth. Don't think I'm going to paintThe glories of this school – I ain't.The Rev. Cecil Rowe, M.A.,Was classics Master in my day,A learned man(A worthy man)In fact you'd very rarely seeA much more clever man than he.But if you think you'll hear a lotAbout this person, – you will not.The porter was a man named Clarke;We boys considered it a larkTo play him tricks(The usual tricksBoys play at public schools like this),And Clarke would sometimes take amissThese tricks. But don't think I would goAnd only sing of him. Oh, no!This ditty, I would beg to state,Professes likewise to relateThe latter words(The solemn words)Of her who kept the tuck-shop atSt. Vedast's. I'd inform you thatThe porter was her only son(The reason was – she had but one).For many years the worthy soulHad kept the shop – the well-loved goalOf little boys(And larger boys)Who bought the tarts, and ginger popAnd other things sold at her shop —But, feebler growing year by year,She felt her end was drawing near.She therefore bade her son attend,That she might whisper, ere her end,A startling tale(A secret tale)That on her happiness had preyed,And heavy on her conscience weighedFor many a year. "Alas! my son,"She sighed, "injustice has been done."Let not your bitter anger rise,Nor gaze with sad reproachful eyesOn one who's been(You know I've been)For many years your mother, dear;And though you think my story queer,Believe – or I shall feel distressed —I thought I acted for the best."When you were but a tiny boy(Your mother's and your father's joy),Good Mr. Rowe(The Revd. Rowe)Was but a little baby too,Who very much resembled you,And, being poorly off in purse,I took this baby out to nurse."Alike in features and in size —So like, indeed, the keenest eyesWould find it hard(Extremely hard)To tell the t'other from the one – ""Hold! though your tale is but begun,"The porter cried, "a man may guessThe secret of your keen distress."You changed the babes at nurse, and I(No wonder that you weep and sigh),Tho' callèd Clarke(School Porter Clarke),Am really Mr. Rowe. I see.And he, of course, poor man, is me,While all the fortune he has knownThrough these long years should be my own."Oh falsely, falsely, have you doneTo call me all this time your son;I've always felt(Distinctly felt)That I was born to better thingsThan portering, and such-like, brings,I'll hurry now, and tell poor RoweWhat, doubtless, he will feel a blow.""Stay! stay!" the woman cried, "'tis true,My poor ill-treated boy, that youHave every right(Undoubted right)To feel aggrieved. I had the chanceYour future welfare to advanceBy changing babes. I knew I'd rue it,My poor boy – but —I didn't do it."IX
THAT OF S. P. IDERS WEBBE, SOLICITOR
Young Mr. S. P. Iders Webbe,Solicitor, of Clifford's Inn,Sat working in his chambers, whichWere far removed from traffic's din.To those in legal trouble heLent ready ear of sympathy —And six-and-eightpence was his fee.To widows and to orphans, too,Young Mr. Webbe was very nice,And turned none from his door awayWho came to seek for his advice:To these, I humbly beg to state —The sad and the disconsolate —His fee was merely six-and-eight.He'd heave a sympathetic sigh,And squeeze each bankrupt client's handWhile listening to a tale of woeSalt tears within his eyes would stand.Naught, naught his sympathies could stem,And he would only charge – ahem! —A paltry six-and-eight to them.This gentleman, as I observed,Was calmly seated at his work,When, from the waiting-room, a cardWas brought in by the junior clerk."Nathaniel Blobbs? Pray ask him toStep in," said Webbe. "How do you do?A very pleasant day to you.""A pleasant day be hanged!" said Blobbs,A wealthy man and very stout(That he was boiling o'er with rageThere could not be the slightest doubt)."I'm given, sir, to understandYou're suitor for my daughter's hand.An explanation I demand!"I know your lawyer's tricks, my man;In courting of my daughter Jane —Who's rather plain and not too young —My money's what you seek to gain.Confound you, sir!" the man did roar."My daughter Jane is no match forA beggarly solicitor!"At words like these most gentlemenWould really have been somewhat riled;But do not think that Mr. WebbeWas angry. No; he merely smiled.But, oh! my friends, the legal smileIs not to trust. 'Tis full of guile.(So smiles the hungry crocodile.)"I see," Webbe most politely said,"My worthy sir, your point of view.You're wealthy; I am poor. Of course,What I proposed would never do.If only, now, I'd property,And you were – well, as poor as me– ""Pooh! that," cried Blobbs, "can never be.""Think not?" said Webbe. "Well, p'r'aps you're right.And so – there's nothing more to say.You must be going? What! so soon?I'm sorry, sir, you cannot stay!"Blobbs went – and slammed the outer door.Webbe calmly made the bill out forThe interview – a lengthy score.He charged – at highest legal rate —For every word he'd uttered; andHe even put down six-and-eight"To asking for Miss Blobbs's hand";Next, in the Court of Common PleasA "Breach of Promise" case, with ease,He instituted – if you please.He gained the day, because the maidWas over age, the Judge averred,And Blobbs was forced to "grin and pay,"Although he vowed 'twas most absurd.The "damages," of course, were slight;But "legal costs" by no means light.(Webbe shared in these as was his right.)Outside the Court indignant BlobbsGave vent to some expressions whichWere libellous, and quickly WebbeWas "down on him" for "using sich."Once more the day was Webbe's, and he,By posing as a damagee,Obtained a thousand pounds, you see.With this round sum he then contrivedTo buy a vacant small estateAdjoining Blobbs, who went and didSomething illegal with a gate.Webbe "had him up" for that, of course;Then something else (about a horse),And later on a water-course.He sued for this, he sued for that,Till action upon action lay,And in the Royal Courts of Law"Webbe versus Blobbs" came on each day."Law costs" and big "retaining fees,""Mulcted in fines" – such things as theseMade Blobbs feel very ill at ease.As Webbe grew rich, so he grew poor,Till finally he said: "Hang pride!I'll let this fellow, if he must,Have Jane, my daughter, for his bride."He went once more to Clifford's Inn.Webbe welcomed him with genial grin:"My very dear sir, pray step in.""Look here!" cried Blobbs. "I'll fight no more!You lawyer fellows, on my life,Will have your way. I must give in.My daughter Jane shall be your wife!""Dear me! this is unfortunate,"Said Webbe. "I much regret to stateYour condescension comes too late."For, sir, I marry this day week(Being a man of property)The young and lovely daughter ofSir Simon Upperten, M.P."Then, in a light and airy way:"I think there's nothing more to say.Pray, mind the bottom step. Good day!"X
THAT OF MONSIEUR ALPHONSE VERT
Your Mistair Rudyar' Kipling sayZe cricquette man is "flannel fool."Ah! oui! Très bon! I say so too,Since Mastair Jack, enfant at school,He show me how to play ze same.I like it not – ze cricquette game.My name is Monsieur Alphonse Vert(You call him in ze English "Green");I go to learn ze English tongue,And lodge myself at Ealing DeanIn family of Mistair Brown,Who has affaire each day "in town."Miss Angelina Brown she isTrès charmante– what you call "so pretty";I walk and talk wiz her sometimesWhen Mr. Brown go to ze City;I fall in love (pardon zese tears)All over head, all over ears.I buy her books, and flowers (bouquet),And tickets for la matinée,And to ze cricquette match we go,Hélas! upon one Saturday.To me she speak zere not at all.But watch ze men, and watch ze ball.Ze cricquette men zey run, zey bat,Zey throw ze ball, zey catch, zey shout;And Angelina clap her hands.Vot for, I know not, all about,And in myself I say "Ah! oui!I too a cricquette man shall be."To Angelina's brother Jack(His name is also Mastair Brown)I say, "Come, teach me cricquette match,And I will give you half-a-crown."Jack say, "My eye!" (in French mes yeux)1"Oh! what a treat!" (in French c'est beau).After, to Ealing Common weGo out, with "wicquette" and with "ball,"And what Jack calls a "cricquette-bat."(Zese tings I do not know at all;But Angelina I would catch,So "Allons! Vive la cricquette match!")I hold ze "bat," Jack hold ze "ball.""Now zen! Look out!" I hear him cry.I drop ze "bat," I look about;Ze ball – he hit me in ze eye."I cry, "Parbleu!" Ze stars I see.I think it is "all up" wiz me.I try again. Ze "ball" is hard.I catch him two times – on ze nose.I run, I fall, I hurt my arm,I spoil my new white flannel clothes,In every part I'm bruised and sore,So cricquette match I play no more.I change my clothes, I patch my eye,I tie my nose up in a sling,And to Miss Angelina BrownMyself and all my woes I bring."Ah, see," I cry, "how love can makeAlphonse a hero for thy sake."But Angelina laugh and laugh,And say, "I know it isn't rightTo laugh; but you must please forgiveMe. You look such a fright!"And next day Jack say, "I say, Bones,My sister's going to marry Jones."