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“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one,
Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,
You’ve never seen the Red Man skip
Upon the banks of Mississip!”
The Author’s Moderation
To say that BAILEY oped his eyes
Would feebly paint his great surprise—
To say it almost made him die
Would be to paint it much too high.
The Author to his Reader
But why should I ransack my head
To tell you all that Indian said;
We’ll let the Indian man take wing,—
’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.
The Reader to the Author
Come, come, I say, that’s quite enough
Of this absurd disjointed stuff;
Now let’s get on to that affair
About LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE.
Ballad: Lieutenant-Colonel Flare
The earth has armies plenty,
And semi-warlike bands,
I dare say there are twenty
In European lands;
But, oh! in no direction
You’d find one to compare
In brotherly affection
With that of COLONEL FLARE.
His soldiers might be rated
As military Pearls.
As unsophisticated
As pretty little girls!
They never smoked or ratted,
Or talked of Sues or Polls;
The Sergeant-Major tatted,
The others nursed their dolls.
He spent his days in teaching
These truly solemn facts;
There’s little use in preaching,
Or circulating tracts.
(The vainest plan invented
For stifling other creeds,
Unless it’s supplemented
With charitable deeds.)
He taught his soldiers kindly
To give at Hunger’s call:
“Oh, better far give blindly,
Than never give at all!
Though sympathy be kindled
By Imposition’s game,
Oh, better far be swindled
Than smother up its flame!”
His means were far from ample
For pleasure or for dress,
Yet note this bright example
Of single-heartedness:
Though ranking as a Colonel,
His pay was but a groat,
While their reward diurnal
Was—each a five-pound note.
Moreover,—this evinces
His kindness, you’ll allow,—
He fed them all like princes,
And lived himself on cow.
He set them all regaling
On curious wines, and dear,
While he would sit pale-ale-ing,
Or quaffing ginger-beer.
Then at his instigation
(A pretty fancy this)
Their daily pay and ration
He’d take in change for his;
They brought it to him weekly,
And he without a groan,
Would take it from them meekly
And give them all his own!
Though not exactly knighted
As knights, of course, should be,
Yet no one so delighted
In harmless chivalry.
If peasant girl or ladye
Beneath misfortunes sank,
Whate’er distinctions made he,
They were not those of rank.
Другие электронные книги автора William Schwenck Gilbert
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