The Bab Ballads, vol 2 | Page 9

and he tore his hair,
Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,
And so I
simply said:

"Oh, elderly man, it's little I know
Of the duties of men of the sea,

And I'll eat my hand if I understand
However you can be
"At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the
captain's gig."
Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:
"'Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to
me.
"And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned
(There was seventy-seven
o' soul),
And only ten of the Nancy's men
Said 'Here!' to the
muster-roll.
"There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of
the Nancy brig,
And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the
crew of the captain's gig.
"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,
Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and, accordin' shot
The captain for our meal.
"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.
"And then we murdered the bo'sun tight,
And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the
captain's gig.
"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question,
'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as
sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did,
And the cook he
worshipped me;
But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.
"'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says TOM;
'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll
be,--
'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;
And 'Exactly so,' quoth
he.
"Says he, 'Dear JAMES, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook ME,
While I can--and
will--cook YOU!'
"So he boils the water, and takes the salt
And the pepper in portions
true
(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.
And some
sage and parsley too.
"'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,
Which his smiling features
tell,
''T will soothing be if I let you see
How extremely nice you'll
smell.'
"And he stirred it round and round and round,
And he sniffed at the
foaming froth;
When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.
"And I eat that cook in a week or less,
And--as I eating be
The last
of his chops, why, I almost drops,
For a wessel in sight I see!

"And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark nor play,
But
sit and croak, and a single joke
I have--which is to say:
"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the
captain's gig!'"

The Bishop Of Rum-Ti-Foo
From east and south the holy clan
Of Bishops gathered to a man;

To Synod, called Pan-Anglican,
In flocking crowds they came.

Among them was a Bishop, who
Had lately been appointed to
The
balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo,
And PETER was his name.
His people--twenty-three in sum--
They played the eloquent tum-tum,

And lived on scalps served up, in rum--
The only sauce they knew.

When first good BISHOP PETER came
(For PETER was that
Bishop's name),
To humour them, he did the same
As they of
Rum-ti-Foo.
His flock, I've often heard him tell,
(His name was PETER) loved
him well,
And, summoned by the sound of bell,
In crowds together
came.
"Oh, massa, why you go away?
Oh, MASSA PETER, please
to stay."
(They called him PETER, people say,
Because it was his
name.)
He told them all good boys to be,
And sailed away across the sea,

At London Bridge that Bishop he
Arrived one Tuesday night;
And
as that night he homeward strode
To his Pan-Anglican abode,
He
passed along the Borough Road,
And saw a gruesome sight.
He saw a crowd assembled round
A person dancing on the ground,

Who straight began to leap and bound
With all his might and main.

To see that dancing man he stopped,
Who twirled and wriggled,
skipped and hopped,
Then down incontinently dropped,
And then
sprang up again.
The Bishop chuckled at the sight.
"This style of dancing would
delight
A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.
I'll learn it if I can,
To please
the tribe when I get back."
He begged the man to teach his knack.

"Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!
Replied that dancing man.

The dancing man he worked away,
And taught the Bishop every
day--
The dancer skipped like any fay--
Good PETER did the same.

The Bishop buckled to his task,
With battements, and pas de
basque.
(I'll tell you, if you care to ask,
That PETER was his name.)
"Come, walk like this," the dancer said,
"Stick out your toes--stick in
your head,
Stalk on with quick,