50 Bab Ballads, vol 1 | Page 8

MADAME P.
"Allons!" "Go on!" "En
garde!" "Begin!"
(The mothers were of decent size,
Though not particularly tall;
But
in the sketch that meets your eyes
I've been obliged to draw them
small.)
Loud sneered the doughty man of France,
"Ho! ho! Ho! ho! Ha! ha!
Ha! ha!
"The French for 'Pish'" said THOMAS HANCE.
Said
PIERRE, "L'Anglais, Monsieur, pour 'Bah.'"
Said MRS. H., "Come, one! two! three! -
We're sittin' here to see all
fair."
"C'est magnifique!" said MADAME P.,
"Mais, parbleu! ce
n'est pas la guerre!"
"Je scorn un foe si lache que vous,"
Said PIERRE, the doughty son of
France.
"I fight not coward foe like you!"
Said our undaunted
TOMMY HANCE.

"The French for 'Pooh!'" our TOMMY cried.
"L'Anglais pour 'Va!'"
the Frenchman crowed.
And so, with undiminished pride,
Each
went on his respective road.
Ballad: A DISCONTENTED SUGAR BROKER.
A gentleman of City fame
Now claims your kind attention;
East
India broking was his game,
His name I shall not mention:
No one
of finely-pointed sense
Would violate a confidence,
And shall _I_
go
And do it? No!
His name I shall not mention.
He had a trusty wife and true,
And very cosy quarters,
A manager, a
boy or two,
Six clerks, and seven porters.
A broker must be doing
well
(As any lunatic can tell)
Who can employ
An active boy,

Six clerks, and seven porters.
His knocker advertised no dun,
No losses made him sulky,
He had
one sorrow--only one -
He was extremely bulky.
A man must be, I
beg to state,
Exceptionally fortunate
Who owns his chief
And
only grief
Is--being very bulky.
"This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear;
I'm nineteen stone or twenty!

Henceforward I'll go in for air
And exercise in plenty."
Most people
think that, should it come,
They can reduce a bulging tum
To
measures fair
By taking air
And exercise in plenty.
In every weather, every day,
Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,
He took to
dancing all the way
From Brompton to the City.
You do not often
get the chance
Of seeing sugar brokers dance

From their abode
In
Fulham Road
Through Brompton to the City.
He braved the gay and guileless laugh
Of children with their nusses,

The loud uneducated chaff
Of clerks on omnibuses.
Against all
minor things that rack
A nicely-balanced mind, I'll back
The noisy
chaff
And ill-bred laugh
Of clerks on omnibuses.

His friends, who heard his money chink,
And saw the house he rented,

And knew his wife, could never think
What made him discontented.

It never entered their pure minds
That fads are of eccentric kinds,

Nor would they own
That fat alone
Could make one
discontented.
"Your riches know no kind of pause,
Your trade is fast advancing;

You dance--but not for joy, because
You weep as you are dancing.

To dance implies that man is glad,
To weep implies that man is sad;

But here are you
Who do the two -
You weep as you are
dancing!"
His mania soon got noised about
And into all the papers;
His size
increased beyond a doubt
For all his reckless capers:
It may seem
singular to you,
But all his friends admit it true -
The more he found

His figure round,
The more he cut his capers.
His bulk increased--no matter that -
He tried the more to toss it -
He
never spoke of it as "fat,"
But "adipose deposit."
Upon my word, it
seems to me
Unpardonable vanity
(And worse than that)
To call
your fat
An "adipose deposit."
At length his brawny knees gave way,
And on the carpet sinking,

Upon his shapeless back he lay
And kicked away like winking.

Instead of seeing in his state
The finger of unswerving Fate,
He
laboured still
To work his will,
And kicked away like winking.
His friends, disgusted with him now,
Away in silence wended -
I
hardly like to tell you how
This dreadful story ended.

The shocking
sequel to impart,
I must employ the limner's art -
If you would
know,
This sketch will show
How his exertions ended.
MORAL.
I hate to preach--I hate to prate -
- I'm no fanatic croaker,
But learn

contentment from the fate
Of this East India broker.
He'd
everything a man of taste
Could ever want, except a waist;
And
discontent
His size anent,
And bootless perseverance blind,

Completely wrecked the peace of mind
Of this East India broker.
Ballad: THE PANTOMIME "SUPER" TO HIS MASK.
Vast empty shell!
Impertinent, preposterous abortion!
With vacant
stare,
And ragged hair,
And every feature out of all proportion!

Embodiment of echoing inanity!
Excellent type of simpering insanity!

Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!
I ring thy knell!
To-night thou diest,
Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity!

Nine weeks of nights,
Before the lights,
Swamped in thine own
preposterous nonentity,
I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed
diurnally,
Credited for the smile you wear externally -
I feel
disposed to smash thy face, infernally,
As there thou liest!
I've been thy brain:
I'VE been the brain that lit thy dull concavity!

The human race
Invest MY face
With thine expression of
unchecked depravity,
Invested with a ghastly reciprocity,
I'VE been
responsible for thy monstrosity,
I, for thy wanton, blundering ferocity
-
But not again!
'T is time to toll
Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical:
A nine
weeks' run,
And thou hast done
All thou canst do to make thyself
inimical.
Adieu, embodiment of all inanity!
Excellent type of
simpering insanity!
Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity!

Freed is thy soul!
(The Mask respondeth.)
Oh! master mine,

Look thou within thee, ere again ill-using me.
Art
thou aware
Of nothing there
Which might abuse thee, as thou art
abusing me?
A