50 Bab Ballads, vol 1 | Page 9

brain that mourns THINE unredeemed rascality?
A

soul that weeps at THY threadbare morality?
Both grieving that
THEIR individuality
Is merged in thine?
Ballad: THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE
GOBLIN.
O'er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin'
An
elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost
was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin
imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.
And as they exercised their joints,
Promoting quick digestion,
They
talked on several curious points,
And raised this delicate question:

"Which of us two is Number One -
The ghostie, or the goblin?"

And o'er the point they raised in fun
They fairly fell a-squabblin'.
They'd barely speak, and each, in fine,
Grew more and more
reflective:
Each thought his own particular line
By chalks the more
effective.
At length they settled some one should
By each of them
be haunted,
And so arrange that either could
Exert his prowess
vaunted.
"The Quaint against the Statuesque" -
By competition lawful -
The
goblin backed the Quaint Grotesque,
The ghost the Grandly Awful.

"Now," said the goblin, "here's my plan -
In attitude commanding,
I
see a stalwart Englishman
By yonder tailor's standing.
"The very fittest man on earth
My influence to try on -
Of gentle,
p'r'aps of noble birth,
And dauntless as a lion!
Now wrap yourself
within your shroud -
Remain in easy hearing -
Observe--you'll hear
him scream aloud
When I begin appearing!
The imp with yell unearthly--wild -
Threw off his dark enclosure:

His dauntless victim looked and smiled
With singular composure.

For hours he tried to daunt the youth,
For days, indeed, but vainly -


The stripling smiled!--to tell the truth,
The stripling smiled inanely.
For weeks the goblin weird and wild,
That noble stripling haunted;

For weeks the stripling stood and smiled,
Unmoved and all undaunted.

The sombre ghost exclaimed, "Your plan
Has failed you, goblin,
plainly:
Now watch yon hardy Hieland man,
So stalwart and
ungainly.
"These are the men who chase the roe,
Whose footsteps never falter,

Who bring with them, where'er they go,
A smack of old SIR
WALTER.
Of such as he, the men sublime
Who lead their troops
victorious,
Whose deeds go down to after-time,
Enshrined in annals
glorious!
"Of such as he the bard has said
'Hech thrawfu' raltie rorkie!
Wi'
thecht ta' croonie clapperhead
And fash' wi' unco pawkie!'
He'll
faint away when I appear,
Upon his native heather;
Or p'r'aps he'll
only scream with fear,
Or p'r'aps the two together."
The spectre showed himself, alone,
To do his ghostly battling,
With
curdling groan and dismal moan,
And lots of chains a-rattling!
But
no--the chiel's stout Gaelic stuff
Withstood all ghostly harrying;
His
fingers closed upon the snuff
Which upwards he was carrying.
For days that ghost declined to stir,
A foggy shapeless giant -
For
weeks that splendid officer
Stared back again defiant.
Just as the
Englishman returned
The goblin's vulgar staring,
Just so the
Scotchman boldly spurned
The ghost's unmannered scaring.
For several years the ghostly twain
These Britons bold have haunted,

But all their efforts are in vain -
Their victims stand undaunted.

This very day the imp, and ghost,

Whose powers the imp derided,

Stand each at his allotted post -
The bet is undecided.
Ballad: THE PHANTOM CURATE. A FABLE.

A Bishop once--I will not name his see -
Annoyed his clergy in the
mode conventional;
From pulpit shackles never set them free,
And
found a sin where sin was unintentional.
All pleasures ended in abuse
auricular -
The Bishop was so terribly particular.
Though, on the whole, a wise and upright man,
He sought to make of
human pleasures clearances;
And form his priests on that
much-lauded plan
Which pays undue attention to appearances.
He
couldn't do good deeds without a psalm in 'em,
Although, in truth, he
bore away the palm in 'em.
Enraged to find a deacon at a dance,
Or catch a curate at some mild
frivolity,
He sought by open censure to enhance
Their dread of
joining harmless social jollity.
Yet he enjoyed (a fact of notoriety)

The ordinary pleasures of society.
One evening, sitting at a pantomime
(Forbidden treat to those who
stood in fear of him),
Roaring at jokes, sans metre, sense, or rhyme,

He turned, and saw immediately in rear of him,
His peace of mind
upsetting, and annoying it,
A curate, also heartily enjoying it.
Again, 't was Christmas Eve, and to enhance
His children's pleasure
in their harmless rollicking,
He, like a good old fellow, stood to dance;

When something checked the current of his frolicking:
That curate,
with a maid he treated lover-ly,
Stood up and figured with him in the
"Coverley!"
Once, yielding to an universal choice
(The company's demand was an
emphatic one,
For the old Bishop had a glorious voice),
In a quartet
he joined--an operatic one.
Harmless enough, though ne'er a word of
grace in it,
When, lo! that curate came and took the bass in it!
One day, when passing through a quiet street,
He stopped awhile and
joined a Punch's gathering;
And chuckled more than solemn folk

think meet,
To see that gentleman his Judy lathering;
And heard, as
Punch was being treated penalty,
That phantom curate laughing all
hyaenally.
Now at a picnic, 'mid fair golden curls,
Bright eyes, straw hats,
bottines that fit amazingly,
A croquet-bout is planned by all the girls;

And he, consenting, speaks of croquet praisingly;
But suddenly
declines to play at all in