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Ballad: The Baby’s Vengeance
Weary at heart and extremely illWas PALEY VOLLAIRE of Bromptonville,In a dirty lodging, with fever down,Close to the Polygon, Somers Town.PALEY VOLLAIRE was an only son(For why? His mother had had but one),And PALEY inherited gold and groundsWorth several hundred thousand pounds.But he, like many a rich young man,Through this magnificent fortune ran,And nothing was left for his daily needsBut duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds.Shabby and sorry and sorely sick,He slept, and dreamt that the clock’s “tick, tick,”Was one of the Fates, with a long sharp knife,Snicking off bits of his shortened life.He woke and counted the pips on the walls,The outdoor passengers’ loud footfalls,And reckoned all over, and reckoned again,The little white tufts on his counterpane.A medical man to his bedside came.(I can’t remember that doctor’s name),And said, “You’ll die in a very short whileIf you don’t set sail for Madeira’s isle.”“Go to Madeira? goodness me!I haven’t the money to pay your fee!”“Then, PALEY VOLLAIRE,” said the leech, “good bye;I’ll come no more, for your’re sure to die.”He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast;“Oh, send,” said he, “for FREDERICK WEST,Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim:I’ve a terrible tale to whisper him!”Poor was FREDERICK’S lot in life,—A dustman he with a fair young wife,A worthy man with a hard-earned store,A hundred and seventy pounds—or more.FREDERICK came, and he said, “MaybeYou’ll say what you happened to want with me?”“Wronged boy,” said PALEY VOLLAIRE, “I will,But don’t you fidget yourself—sit still.”THE TERRIBLE TALE.“’Tis now some thirty-seven years agoSince first began the plot that I’m revealing,A fine young woman, whom you ought to know,Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing.Herself by means of mangling reimbursing,And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.“Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot:One was her own—the other only lent to her:Her own she slighted. Tempted by a lotOf gold and silver regularly sent to her,She ministered unto the little otherIn the capacity of foster-mother.“I was her own. Oh! how I lay and sobbedIn my poor cradle—deeply, deeply cursingThe rich man’s pampered bantling, who had robbedMy only birthright—an attentive nursing!Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother,I gnashed my gums—which terrified my mother.“One day—it was quite early in the week—I in MY cradle having placed the bantling—Crept into his! He had not learnt to speak,But I could see his face with anger mantling.It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe,For, oh! I was a bad, blackhearted baby!“So great a luxury was food, I thinkNo wickedness but I was game to try for it.Now if I wanted anything to drinkAt any time, I only had to cry for it!Once, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking,My blubbering involved a serious smacking!“We grew up in the usual way—my friend,My foster-brother, daily growing thinner,While gradually I began to mend,And thrived amazingly on double dinner.And every one, besides my foster-mother,Believed that either of us was the other.“I came into his wealth—I bore his name,I bear it still—his property I squandered—I mortgaged everything—and now (oh, shame!)Into a Somers Town shake-down I’ve wandered!I am no PALEY—no, VOLLAIRE—it’s true, my boy!The only rightful PALEY V. is you, my boy!“And all I have is yours—and yours is mine.I still may place you in your true position:Give me the pounds you’ve saved, and I’ll resignMy noble name, my rank, and my condition.So far my wickedness in falsely owningYour vasty wealth, I am at last atoning!”* * * * * * *FREDERICK he was a simple soul,He pulled from his pocket a bulky roll,And gave to PALEY his hard-earned store,A hundred and seventy pounds or more.PALEY VOLLAIRE, with many a groan,Gave FREDERICK all that he called his own,—Two shirts and a sock, and a vest of jean,A Wellington boot and a bamboo cane.And FRED (entitled to all things there)He took the fever from MR. VOLLAIRE,Which killed poor FREDERICK WEST. MeanwhileVOLLAIRE sailed off to Madeira’s isle.Ballad: The Captain And The Mermaids
I sing a legend of the sea,So hard-a-port upon your lee!A ship on starboard tack!She’s bound upon a private cruise—(This is the kind of spice I useTo give a salt-sea smack).Behold, on every afternoon(Save in a gale or strong Monsoon)Great CAPTAIN CAPEL CLEGGS(Great morally, though rather short)Sat at an open weather-portAnd aired his shapely legs.And Mermaids hung around in flocks,On cable chains and distant rocks,To gaze upon those limbs;For legs like those, of flesh and bone,Are things “not generally known”To any Merman TIMBS.But Mermen didn’t seem to careMuch time (as far as I’m aware)With CLEGGS’S legs to spend;Though Mermaids swam around all dayAnd gazed, exclaiming, “That’s the wayA gentleman should end!“A pair of legs with well-cut knees,And calves and ankles such as theseWhich we in rapture hail,Are far more eloquent, it’s clear(When clothed in silk and kerseymere),Than any nasty tail.”And CLEGGS—a worthy kind old boy—Rejoiced to add to others’ joy,And, when the day was dry,Because it pleased the lookers-on,He sat from morn till night—though con-Stitutionally shy.At first the Mermen laughed, “Pooh! pooh!”But finally they jealous grew,And sounded loud recalls;But vainly. So these fishy malesDeclared they too would clothe their tailsIn silken hose and smalls.They set to work, these water-men,And made their nether robes—but whenThey drew with dainty touchThe kerseymere upon their tails,They found it scraped against their scales,And hurt them very much.The silk, besides, with which they choseTo deck their tails by way of hose(They never thought of shoon),For such a use was much too thin,—It tore against the caudal fin,And “went in ladders” soon.So they designed another plan:They sent their most seductive manThis note to him to show—“Our Monarch sends to CAPTAIN CLEGGSHis humble compliments, and begsHe’ll join him down below;“We’ve pleasant homes below the sea—Besides, if CAPTAIN CLEGGS should be(As our advices say)A judge of Mermaids, he will findOur lady-fish of every kindInspection will repay.”Good CAPEL sent a kind reply,For CAPEL thought he could descryAn admirable planTo study all their ways and laws—(But not their lady-fish, becauseHe was a married man).The Merman sank—the Captain tooJumped overboard, and dropped from viewLike stone from catapult;And when he reached the Merman’s lair,He certainly was welcomed there,But, ah! with what result?They didn’t let him learn their law,Or make a note of what he saw,Or interesting mem.:The lady-fish he couldn’t find,But that, of course, he didn’t mind—He didn’t come for them.For though, when CAPTAIN CAPEL sank,The Mermen drawn in double rankGave him a hearty hail,Yet when secure of CAPTAIN CLEGGS,They cut off both his lovely legs,And gave him such a tail!When CAPTAIN CLEGGS returned aboard,His blithesome crew convulsive roar’d,To see him altered so.The Admiralty did insistThat he upon the Half-pay ListImmediately should go.In vain declared the poor old salt,“It’s my misfortune—not my fault,”With tear and trembling lip—In vain poor CAPEL begged and begged.“A man must be completely leggedWho rules a British ship.”So spake the stern First Lord aloud—He was a wag, though very proud,And much rejoiced to say,“You’re only half a captain now—And so, my worthy friend, I vowYou’ll only get half-pay!”Ballad: Annie Protheroe. A Legend of Stratford-Le-Bow
Oh! listen to the tale of little ANNIE PROTHEROE.She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of BOW;She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day—A gentle executioner whose name was GILBERT CLAY.I think I hear you say, “A dreadful subject for your rhymes!”O reader, do not shrink—he didn’t live in modern times!He lived so long ago (the sketch will show it at a glance)That all his actions glitter with the lime-light of Romance.In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day—“No doubt you mean his Cal-craft,” you amusingly will say—But, no—he didn’t operate with common bits of string,He was a Public Headsman, which is quite another thing.And when his work was over, they would ramble o’er the lea,And sit beneath the frondage of an elderberry tree,And ANNIE’S simple prattle entertained him on his walk,For public executions formed the subject of her talk.And sometimes he’d explain to her, which charmed her very much,How famous operators vary very much in touch,And then, perhaps, he’d show how he himself performed the trick,And illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick.Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and lookAt his favourable notices, all pasted in a book,And then her cheek would flush—her swimming eyes would dance with joyIn a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy.One summer eve, at supper-time, the gentle GILBERT said(As he helped his pretty ANNIE to a slice of collared head),“This reminds me I must settle on the next ensuing dayThe hash of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY.”He saw his ANNIE tremble and he saw his ANNIE start,Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart;Young GILBERT’S manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear,And he said, “O gentle ANNIE, what’s the meaning of this here?”And ANNIE answered, blushing in an interesting way,“You think, no doubt, I’m sighing for that felon PETER GRAY:That I was his young woman is unquestionably true,But not since I began a-keeping company with you.”Then GILBERT, who was irritable, rose and loudly sworeHe’d know the reason why if she refused to tell him more;And she answered (all the woman in her flashing from her eyes)“You mustn’t ask no questions, and you won’t be told no lies!“Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you,Of chopping off a rival’s head and quartering him too!Of vengeance, dear, to-morrow you will surely take your fill!”And GILBERT ground his molars as he answered her, “I will!”Young GILBERT rose from table with a stern determined look,And, frowning, took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook;And ANNIE watched his movements with an interested air—For the morrow—for the morrow he was going to prepare!He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill,He poured sulphuric acid on the edge of it, untilThis terrible Avenger of the Majesty of LawWas far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.And ANNIE said, “O GILBERT, dear, I do not understandWhy ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand?’He said, “It is intended for to lacerate and flayThe neck of that unmitigated villain PETER GRAY!”“Now, GILBERT,” ANNIE answered, “wicked headsman, just beware—I won’t have PETER tortured with that horrible affair;If you appear with that, you may depend you’ll rue the day.”But GILBERT said, “Oh, shall I?” which was just his nasty way.He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart,For ANNIE was a woman, and had pity in her heart!She wished him a good evening—he answered with a glare;She only said, “Remember, for your ANNIE will be there!”* * * * * * * *The morrow GILBERT boldly on the scaffold took his stand,With a vizor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand,And all the people noticed that the Engine of the LawWas far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw.The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock,And placed his wicked head upon the handy little block.The hatchet was uplifted for to settle PETER GRAY,When GILBERT plainly heard a woman’s voice exclaiming, “Stay!”’Twas ANNIE, gentle ANNIE, as you’ll easily believe.“O GILBERT, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve,It came from our Home Secretary many weeks ago,And passed through that post-office which I used to keep at Bow.“I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, GILBERT CLAY,And as I’d quite surrendered all idea of PETER GRAY,I quietly suppressed it, as you’ll clearly understand,For I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand.“In anger at my secret (which I could not tell before),To lacerate poor PETER GRAY vindictively you swore;I told you if you used that blunted axe you’d rue the day,And so you will, young GILBERT, for I’ll marry PETER GRAY!”[And so she did.Ballad: An Unfortunate Likeness
I’ve painted SHAKESPEARE all my life—“An infant” (even then at “play”!)“A boy,” with stage-ambition rife,Then “Married to ANN HATHAWAY.”“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”),His “First appearance on the stage,”His “Call before the curtain”—then“Rejoicings when he came of age.”The bard play-writing in his room,The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk.The bard a lawyer1—parson2—groom3—The bard deer-stealing, after dark.The bard a tradesman4—and a Jew5—The bard a botanist6—a beak7—The bard a skilled musician8 too—A sheriff{9} and a surgeon{10} eke!Yet critics say (a friendly stock)That, though it’s evident I try,Yet even I can barely mockThe glimmer of his wondrous eye!One morning as a work I framed,There passed a person, walking hard:“My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,“How very like my dear old bard!“Oh, what a model he would make!”I rushed outside—impulsive me!—“Forgive the liberty I take,But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he.“You needn’t waste your breath or time,—I know what you are going to say,—That you’re an artist, and that I’mRemarkably like SHAKESPEARE. Eh?“You wish that I would sit to you?”I clasped him madly round the waist,And breathlessly replied, “I do!”“All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”I led him by his hallowed sleeve,And worked away at him apace,I painted him till dewy eve,—There never was a nobler face!“Oh, sir,” I said, “a fortune grandIs yours, by dint of merest chance,—To sport his brow at second-hand,To wear his cast-off countenance!“To rub his eyes whene’er they ache—To wear his baldness ere you’re old—To clean his teeth when you awake—To blow his nose when you’ve a cold!”His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;“Bravo!” I said, “I recognizeThe phrensy of your prototype!”His scanty hair he wildly tore:“That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.”He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—“Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”“Sir,” said the grand Shakesperian boy(Continuing to blaze away),“You think my face a source of joy;That shows you know not what you say.“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps:I’m always thrown in some such stateWhen on his face well-meaning chapsThis wretched man congratulate.“For, oh! this face—this pointed chin—This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,Have always been the originOf all the woes I ever knew!“If to the play my way I find,To see a grand Shakesperian piece,I have no rest, no ease of mindUntil the author’s puppets cease.“Men nudge each other—thus—and say,‘This certainly is SHAKESPEARE’S son,’And merry wags (of course in play)Cry ‘Author!’ when the piece is done.“In church the people stare at me,Their soul the sermon never binds;I catch them looking round to see,And thoughts of SHAKESPEARE fill their minds.“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,Who find it difficult to crownA bust with BROWN’S insipid smile,Or TOMKINS’S unmannered frown,“Yet boldly make my face their own,When (oh, presumption!) they requireTo animate a paving-stoneWith SHAKESPEARE’S intellectual fire.“At parties where young ladies gaze,And I attempt to speak my joy,‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says,‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrungWith these or some such whisperings:‘’Tis pity that a SHAKESPEARE’S tongueShould say such un-Shakesperian things!’“I should not thus be criticisedHad I a face of common wont:Don’t envy me—now, be advised!”And, now I think of it, I don’t!Ballad: Gregory Parable, LL.D
A leafy cot, where no dry rotHad ever been by tenant seen,Where ivy clung and wopses stung,Where beeses hummed and drummed and strummed,Where treeses grew and breezes blew—A thatchy roof, quite waterproof,Where countless herds of dicky-birdsBuilt twiggy beds to lay their heads(My mother begs I’ll make it “eggs,”But though it’s true that dickies doConstruct a nest with chirpy noise,With view to rest their eggy joys,’Neath eavy sheds, yet eggs and beds,As I explain to her in vainFive hundred times, are faulty rhymes).’Neath such a cot, built on a plotOf freehold land, dwelt MARY andHer worthy father, named by meGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.He knew no guile, this simple man,No worldly wile, or plot, or plan,Except that plot of freehold landThat held the cot, and MARY, andHer worthy father, named by meGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.A grave and learned scholar he,Yet simple as a child could be.He’d shirk his meal to sit and cramA goodish deal of Eton Gram.No man alive could him nonplusWith vocative of filius;No man alive more fully knewThe passive of a verb or two;None better knew the worth than heOf words that end in b, d, t.Upon his green in early springHe might be seen endeavouringTo understand the hooks and crooksOf HENRY and his Latin books;Or calling for his “Caesar onThe Gallic War,” like any don;Or, p’raps, expounding unto allHow mythic BALBUS built a wall.So lived the sage who’s named by meGREGORY PARABLE, LL.D.To him one autumn day there cameA lovely youth of mystic name:He took a lodging in the house,And fell a-dodging snipe and grouse,For, oh! that mild scholastic oneLet shooting for a single gun.By three or four, when sport was o’er,The Mystic One laid by his gun,And made sheep’s eyes of giant size,Till after tea, at MARY P.And MARY P. (so kind was she),She, too, made eyes of giant size,Whose every dart right through the heartAppeared to run that Mystic One.The Doctor’s whim engrossing him,He did not know they flirted so.For, save at tea, “musa musae,”As I’m advised, monopolisedAnd rendered blind his giant mind.But looking up above his cupOne afternoon, he saw them spoon.“Aha!” quoth he, “you naughty lass!As quaint old OVID says, ‘Amas!’”The Mystic Youth avowed the truth,And, claiming ruth, he said, “In soothI love your daughter, aged man:Refuse to join us if you can.Treat not my offer, sir, with scorn,I’m wealthy though I’m lowly born.”“Young sir,” the aged scholar said,“I never thought you meant to wed:Engrossed completely with my books,I little noticed lovers’ looks.I’ve lived so long away from man,I do not know of any planBy which to test a lover’s worth,Except, perhaps, the test of birth.I’ve half forgotten in this wildA father’s duty to his child.It is his place, I think it’s said,To see his daughters richly wedTo dignitaries of the earth—If possible, of noble birth.If noble birth is not at hand,A father may, I understand(And this affords a chance for you),Be satisfied to wed her toA BOUCICAULT or BARING—whichMeans any one who’s very rich.Now, there’s an Earl who lives hard by,—My child and I will go and tryIf he will make the maid his bride—If not, to you she shall be tied.”They sought the Earl that very day;The Sage began to say his say.The Earl (a very wicked man,Whose face bore Vice’s blackest ban)Cut short the scholar’s simple tale,And said in voice to make them quail,“Pooh! go along! you’re drunk, no doubt—Here, PETERS, turn these people out!”The Sage, rebuffed in mode uncouth,Returning, met the Mystic Youth.“My darling boy,” the Scholar said,“Take MARY—blessings on your head!”The Mystic Boy undid his vest,And took a parchment from his breast,And said, “Now, by that noble brow,I ne’er knew father such as thou!The sterling rule of common senseNow reaps its proper recompense.Rejoice, my soul’s unequalled Queen,For I am DUKE OF GRETNA GREEN!”Ballad: The King Of Canoodle-Dum
The story of FREDERICK GOWLER,A mariner of the sea,Who quitted his ship, the Howler,A-sailing in Caribbee.For many a day he wandered,Till he met in a state of rumCALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP,The King of Canoodle-Dum.That monarch addressed him gaily,“Hum! Golly de do to-day?Hum! Lily-white Buckra Sailee”—(You notice his playful way?)—“What dickens you doin’ here, sar?Why debbil you want to come?Hum! Picaninnee, dere isn’t no seaIn City Canoodle-Dum!”And GOWLER he answered sadly,“Oh, mine is a doleful tale!They’ve treated me werry badlyIn Lunnon, from where I hail.I’m one of the Family Royal—No common Jack Tar you see;I’m WILLIAM THE FOURTH, far up in the North,A King in my own countree!”Bang-bang! How the tom-toms thundered!Bang-bang! How they thumped this gongs!Bang-bang! How the people wondered!Bang-bang! At it hammer and tongs!Alliance with Kings of EuropeIs an honour Canoodlers seek,Her monarchs don’t stop with PEPPERMINT DROPEvery day in the week!FRED told them that he was undone,For his people all went insane,And fired the Tower of London,And Grinnidge’s Naval Fane.And some of them racked St. James’s,And vented their rage uponThe Church of St. Paul, the Fishmongers’ Hall,And the Angel at Islington.CALAMITY POP implored himIn his capital to remainTill those people of his restored himTo power and rank again.CALAMITY POP he made himA Prince of Canoodle-Dum,With a couple of caves, some beautiful slaves,And the run of the royal rum.Pop gave him his only daughter,HUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP:FRED vowed that if over the waterHe went, in an English ship,He’d make her his Queen,—though trulyIt is an unusual thingFor a Caribbee brat who’s as black as your hatTo be wife of an English King.And all the Canoodle-DummersThey copied his rolling walk,His method of draining rummers,His emblematical talk.For his dress and his graceful breeding,His delicate taste in rum,And his nautical way, were the talk of the dayIn the Court of Canoodle-Dum.CALAMITY POP most wiselyDetermined in everythingTo model his Court preciselyOn that of the English King;And ordered that every ladyAnd every lady’s lordShould masticate jacky (a kind of tobaccy),And scatter its juice abroad.They signified wonder roundlyAt any astounding yarn,By darning their dear eyes roundly(’T was all they had to darn).They “hoisted their slacks,” adjustingGarments of plantain-leavesWith nautical twitches (as if they wore breeches,Instead of a dress like EVE’S!)They shivered their timbers proudly,At a phantom forelock dragged,And called for a hornpipe loudlyWhenever amusement flagged.“Hum! Golly! him POP resemble,Him Britisher sov’reign, hum!CALAMITY POP VON PEPPERMINT DROP,De King of Canoodle-Dum!”The mariner’s lively “Hollo!”Enlivened Canoodle’s plain(For blessings unnumbered followIn Civilization’s train).But Fortune, who loves a bathos,A terrible ending planned,For ADMIRAL D. CHICKABIDDY, C.B.,Placed foot on Canoodle land!That rebel, he seized KING GOWLER,He threatened his royal brains,And put him aboard the Howler,And fastened him down with chains.The Howler she weighed her anchor,With FREDERICK nicely nailed,And off to the North with WILLIAM THE FOURTHThese horrible pirates sailed.CALAMITY said (with folly),“Hum! nebber want him again—Him civilize all of us, golly!CALAMITY suck him brain!”The people, however, were pained whenThey saw him aboard his ship,But none of them wept for their FREDDY, exceptHUM PICKETY WIMPLE TIP.Ballad: First Love
A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES,And in his church there weekly kneltAt least a hundred souls.There little ELLEN you might see,The modest rustic belle;In maidenly simplicity,She loved her BERNARD well.Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gownUntrimmed with lace or fur,Yet not a husband in the townBut wished his wife like her.Though sterner memories might fade,You never could forgetThe child-form of that baby-maid,The Village Violet!A simple frightened loveliness,Whose sacred spirit-partShrank timidly from worldly stress,And nestled in your heart.POWLES woo’d with every well-worn planAnd all the usual wilesWith which a well-schooled gentlemanA simple heart beguiles.The hackneyed compliments that boreWorld-folks like you and me,Appeared to her as if they woreThe crown of Poesy.His winking eyelid sang a songHer heart could understand,Eternity seemed scarce too longWhen BERNARD squeezed her hand.He ordered down the martial crewOf GODFREY’S Grenadiers,And COOTE conspired with TINNEY toEcstaticise her ears.Beneath her window, veiled from eye,They nightly took their stand;On birthdays supplemented byThe Covent Garden band.And little ELLEN, all alone,Enraptured sat above,And thought how blest she was to ownThe wealth of POWLES’S love.I often, often wonder whatPoor ELLEN saw in him;For calculated he was notTo please a woman’s whim.He wasn’t good, despite the airAn M.B. waistcoat gives;Indeed, his dearest friends declareNo greater humbug lives.No kind of virtue decked this priest,He’d nothing to allure;He wasn’t handsome in the least,—He wasn’t even poor.No—he was cursed with acres fat(A Christian’s direst ban),And gold—yet, notwithstanding that,Poor ELLEN loved the man.As unlike BERNARD as could beWas poor old AARON WOOD(Disgraceful BERNARD’S curate he):He was extremely good.A BAYARD in his moral pluckWithout reproach or fear,A quiet venerable duckWith fifty pounds a year.No fault had he—no fad, exceptA tendency to strum,In mode at which you would have wept,A dull harmonium.He had no gold with which to hireThe minstrels who could bestConvey a notion of the fireThat raged within his breast.And so, when COOTE and TINNEY’S OwnHad tootled all they knew,And when the Guards, completely blown,Exhaustedly withdrew,And NELL began to sleepy feel,Poor AARON then would come,And underneath her window wheelHis plain harmonium.He woke her every morn at two,And having gained her ear,In vivid colours AARON drewThe sluggard’s grim career.He warbled Apiarian praise,And taught her in his chantTo shun the dog’s pugnacious ways,And imitate the ant.Still NELL seemed not, how much he played,To love him out and out,Although the admirable maidRespected him, no doubt.She told him of her early vow,And said as BERNARD’S wifeIt might be hers to show him howTo rectify his life.“You are so pure, so kind, so true,Your goodness shines so bright,What use would ELLEN be to you?Believe me, you’re all right.”She wished him happiness and health,And flew on lightning wingsTo BERNARD with his dangerous wealthAnd all the woes it brings.