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Bethink you how I’ve kept the vow
I made one winter day, MATILDA—
That, come what could, I never would
Remain too long away, MATILDA.
And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,
I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA,
To keep the vow I made—and now
You treat me so unkind, MATILDA!
For when at sea, off Caribbee,
I felt my passion burn, MATILDA,
By passion egged, I went and begged
The captain to return, MATILDA.
And when, my pet, I couldn’t get
That captain to agree, MATILDA,
Right through a sort of open port
I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!
Remember, too, how all the crew
With indignation blind, MATILDA,
Distinctly swore they ne’er before
Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA.
And how they’d shun me one by one—
An unforgiving group, MATILDA—
I stopped their howls and sulky scowls
By pizening their soup, MATILDA!
So pause to think, before you drink
The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA;
Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,
Before you give me up, MATILDA.
Recall again the mental pain
Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA,
And be assured that I’ve endured
It, all along of you, MATILDA!
Ballad: The Reverend Simon Magus
A rich advowson, highly prized,
For private sale was advertised;
And many a parson made a bid;
The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.
He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I
Have come prepared at once to buy
(If your demand is not too big)
The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”
“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—
The snuggest vicarage on earth;
No sort of duty (so I hear),
And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
“If on the price we should agree,
The living soon will vacant be;
The good incumbent’s ninety five,
And cannot very long survive.
See—here’s his photograph—you see,
He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me!
Poor soul!” said SIMON. “His decease
Would be a merciful release!”
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—
The agent blew his nose and winked—
And poked the parson’s ribs in play—
It was that agent’s vulgar way.
The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieve
This light demeanour to perceive;
It’s scarcely comme ilfaut, I think:
Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—
Your mission is to sell the souls
Of human sheep and human kids
To that divine who highest bids.
“Do well in this, and on your head
Unnumbered honours will be shed.”
The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,
I have been doing very well.”
“You should,” said SIMON, “at your age;
But now about the parsonage.
How many rooms does it contain?
Show me the photograph again.
“A poor apostle’s humble house
Must not be too luxurious;
No stately halls with oaken floor—
It should be decent and no more.
“ No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—
No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”
“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:
This property won’t do for you.”
“All these about the house you’ll find.”—
“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;
I made one winter day, MATILDA—
That, come what could, I never would
Remain too long away, MATILDA.
And, oh! the crimes with which, at times,
I’ve charged my gentle mind, MATILDA,
To keep the vow I made—and now
You treat me so unkind, MATILDA!
For when at sea, off Caribbee,
I felt my passion burn, MATILDA,
By passion egged, I went and begged
The captain to return, MATILDA.
And when, my pet, I couldn’t get
That captain to agree, MATILDA,
Right through a sort of open port
I pitched him in the sea, MATILDA!
Remember, too, how all the crew
With indignation blind, MATILDA,
Distinctly swore they ne’er before
Had thought me so unkind, MATILDA.
And how they’d shun me one by one—
An unforgiving group, MATILDA—
I stopped their howls and sulky scowls
By pizening their soup, MATILDA!
So pause to think, before you drink
The dregs of Lethe’s cup, MATILDA;
Remember, do, what I’ve gone through,
Before you give me up, MATILDA.
Recall again the mental pain
Of what I’ve had to do, MATILDA,
And be assured that I’ve endured
It, all along of you, MATILDA!
Ballad: The Reverend Simon Magus
A rich advowson, highly prized,
For private sale was advertised;
And many a parson made a bid;
The REVEREND SIMON MAGUS did.
He sought the agent’s: “Agent, I
Have come prepared at once to buy
(If your demand is not too big)
The Cure of Otium-cum-Digge.”
“Ah!” said the agent, “there’s a berth—
The snuggest vicarage on earth;
No sort of duty (so I hear),
And fifteen hundred pounds a year!
“If on the price we should agree,
The living soon will vacant be;
The good incumbent’s ninety five,
And cannot very long survive.
See—here’s his photograph—you see,
He’s in his dotage.” “Ah, dear me!
Poor soul!” said SIMON. “His decease
Would be a merciful release!”
The agent laughed—the agent blinked—
The agent blew his nose and winked—
And poked the parson’s ribs in play—
It was that agent’s vulgar way.
The REVEREND SIMON frowned: “I grieve
This light demeanour to perceive;
It’s scarcely comme ilfaut, I think:
Now—pray oblige me—do not wink.
“Don’t dig my waistcoat into holes—
Your mission is to sell the souls
Of human sheep and human kids
To that divine who highest bids.
“Do well in this, and on your head
Unnumbered honours will be shed.”
The agent said, “Well, truth to tell,
I have been doing very well.”
“You should,” said SIMON, “at your age;
But now about the parsonage.
How many rooms does it contain?
Show me the photograph again.
“A poor apostle’s humble house
Must not be too luxurious;
No stately halls with oaken floor—
It should be decent and no more.
“ No billiard-rooms—no stately trees—
No croquêt-grounds or pineries.”
“Ah!” sighed the agent, “very true:
This property won’t do for you.”
“All these about the house you’ll find.”—
“Well,” said the parson, “never mind;
Другие электронные книги автора William Schwenck Gilbert
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