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The Bab Ballads
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Of novels returned in endless ranks,
And thousands more, I suffer.
The only line to fitly grace
My humble tomb, when I’ve run my race,
Is, “Reader, this is the resting-place
Of an unsuccessful duffer.”
I’ve fought them all, these ghosts of mine,
But the weapons I’ve used are sighs and brine,
And now that I’m nearly forty-nine,
Old age is my chiefest bogy;
For my hair is thinning away at the crown,
And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;
And a general verdict sets me down
As an irreclaimable fogy.
The Bishop And The ’Busman
It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about
And zealous as could be.
It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney ’bus—
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.
His name was HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON—
This ’bus-directing Jew.
The Bishop said, said he,
“I’ll see what I can do
To Christianise and make you wise,
You poor benighted Jew.”
So every blessed day
That ’bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:
“His name is HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON—
This ’bus-directing Jew.”
At first the ’busman smiled,
And rather liked the fun—
He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,
And said, “Eccentric one!”
And gay young dogs would wait
To see the ’bus go by
(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),
To hear the Bishop cry:
“Observe his grisly beard,
His race it clearly shows,
He sticks no fork in ham or pork—
Observe, my friends, his nose.
“His name is HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON—
This ’bus-directing Jew.”
But though at first amused,
Yet after seven years,
This Hebrew child got rather riled,
And melted into tears.
He really almost feared
To leave his poor abode,
His nose, and name, and beard became
A byword on that road.
At length he swore an oath,
The reason he would know—
“I’ll call and see why ever he
Does persecute me so!”
The good old Bishop sat
On his ancestral chair,
The ’busman came, sent up his name,
And laid his grievance bare.
“Benighted Jew,” he said
(The good old Bishop did),
“Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—
Become a Christian kid!
“I’ll ne’er annoy you more.”
“Indeed?” replied the Jew;
“Shall I be freed?” “You will, indeed!”
Then “Done!” said he, “with you!”
The organ which, in man,
Between the eyebrows grows,
And thousands more, I suffer.
The only line to fitly grace
My humble tomb, when I’ve run my race,
Is, “Reader, this is the resting-place
Of an unsuccessful duffer.”
I’ve fought them all, these ghosts of mine,
But the weapons I’ve used are sighs and brine,
And now that I’m nearly forty-nine,
Old age is my chiefest bogy;
For my hair is thinning away at the crown,
And the silver fights with the worn-out brown;
And a general verdict sets me down
As an irreclaimable fogy.
The Bishop And The ’Busman
It was a Bishop bold,
And London was his see,
He was short and stout and round about
And zealous as could be.
It also was a Jew,
Who drove a Putney ’bus—
For flesh of swine however fine
He did not care a cuss.
His name was HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON—
This ’bus-directing Jew.
The Bishop said, said he,
“I’ll see what I can do
To Christianise and make you wise,
You poor benighted Jew.”
So every blessed day
That ’bus he rode outside,
From Fulham town, both up and down,
And loudly thus he cried:
“His name is HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON—
This ’bus-directing Jew.”
At first the ’busman smiled,
And rather liked the fun—
He merely smiled, that Hebrew child,
And said, “Eccentric one!”
And gay young dogs would wait
To see the ’bus go by
(These gay young dogs, in striking togs),
To hear the Bishop cry:
“Observe his grisly beard,
His race it clearly shows,
He sticks no fork in ham or pork—
Observe, my friends, his nose.
“His name is HASH BAZ BEN,
And JEDEDIAH too,
And SOLOMON and ZABULON—
This ’bus-directing Jew.”
But though at first amused,
Yet after seven years,
This Hebrew child got rather riled,
And melted into tears.
He really almost feared
To leave his poor abode,
His nose, and name, and beard became
A byword on that road.
At length he swore an oath,
The reason he would know—
“I’ll call and see why ever he
Does persecute me so!”
The good old Bishop sat
On his ancestral chair,
The ’busman came, sent up his name,
And laid his grievance bare.
“Benighted Jew,” he said
(The good old Bishop did),
“Be Christian, you, instead of Jew—
Become a Christian kid!
“I’ll ne’er annoy you more.”
“Indeed?” replied the Jew;
“Shall I be freed?” “You will, indeed!”
Then “Done!” said he, “with you!”
The organ which, in man,
Between the eyebrows grows,
Другие электронные книги автора William Schwenck Gilbert
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