ABSURD DITTIES

THESE

TO

MY FRIEND

T. FRANCIS VERE FOSTER.

G. E. F.

ABSURD DITTIES

BY

G. E. FARROW

Author of "The Wallypug of Why" etc.

WITH PICTORIAL ABSURDITIES

BY

JOHN HASSALL

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Ltd.

New York: E. P. Dutton and Co.

1903

CONTENTS.

ABSURD DITTIES.

I.
THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR.

"'Tis really very, very queer!"

Ejaculated Justice Dear,

"That, day by day, I'm sitting here

Without a single 'case.'

This is the twenty-second pair

Of white kid gloves, I do declare,

I've had this month. I can not wear

White 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 score

Of 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 clear

On 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 smile

May turn to Fortune's frown;

And how a sudden rise in life

May bring a person down.

He lived—as I remarked before—

Within a highly genteel square

At 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 Town

To take a West End flat.

It was a very stylish flat,

With such appointments on each floor

As Mr. Brown

At Camden Town

Had 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 Town

We'd nothing half as good as this."

From early morn till dewy eve

He 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 Brown

At Camden Town

(The place where he had lived before);

And now, alas! a-lack-a-day!

In black and solemn gowns,

Disconsolate walk Mrs. Brown

And 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 you

Of 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 trace

Of 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 Grace

Wed 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 demise

But 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 Miss

Who (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 hymns

Amongst his flock down by the shore—

Discovered, and they open tore

The case. Behold! The contents bore

The magic name of Sims.

"What! G. R. Sims?" quoth Bishop P.

(Visions of "Billy's Rose" had he),

"Good gracious now! It Sims to me

I've heard that name before."

(Oh, well bred flock! there was not one

Who 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 'ead

As 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 neck

Of one large bottle from the wreck,

Proceeding then His Grace to deck

With towels (careful man,

This was to save his coat of black,

For "Tatcho" running down one's back

Is 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 glee

The 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 sentiment

Is summed up in "Hooray!"

IV.
THAT OF CAPTAIN ARCHIBALD McKAN.

There never lived a worthier man

Than 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 roar

Reverberate from shore to shore

Of "Ease her! Back her! Hard astern!"

His duty done, with smile he'd turn

And be most affable and mild

To every woman, man, or child

Aboard, would Captain A. McKan.

He reassured the anxious fears

Of nervous ladies—pretty dears!—

He in his pocket carried toys

And sweets for little girls and boys;

He talked in quite familiar way

With 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 day

A certain girl rode all the way

From 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 persistently

Select 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;