More Bab Ballads

(Blacking her own boots and peeling her own potatoes was not her notion of connubial bliss),
MRS. BLAKE began to find that she had pretty nearly had enough of it,
And came, in course of time, to think that BLAKE’S own original line of conduct wasn’t so much amiss.

And now that wicked person—that detestable sinner (“BELIAL BLAKE” his friends and well-wishers call him for his atrocities),
And his poor deluded victim, whom all her Christian brothers dislike and pity so,
Go to the parish church only on Sunday morning and afternoon and occasionally on a week-day, and spend their evenings in connubial fondlings and affectionate reciprocities,
And I should like to know where in the world (or rather, out of it) they expect to go!

Ballad: The Baby’s Vengeance

Weary at heart and extremely ill
Was PALEY VOLLAIRE of Bromptonville,
In a dirty lodging, with fever down,
Close to the Polygon, Somers Town.

PALEY VOLLAIRE was an only son
(For why?  His mother had had but one),
And PALEY inherited gold and grounds
Worth several hundred thousand pounds.

But he, like many a rich young man,
Through this magnificent fortune ran,
And nothing was left for his daily needs
But duplicate copies of mortgage-deeds.

Shabby and sorry and sorely sick,
He slept, and dreamt that the clock’s “tick, tick,”
Was one of the Fates, with a long sharp knife,
Snicking off bits of his shortened life.

He woke and counted the pips on the walls,
The outdoor passengers’ loud footfalls,
And reckoned all over, and reckoned again,
The little white tufts on his counterpane.

A medical man to his bedside came.
(I can’t remember that doctor’s name),
And said, “You’ll die in a very short while
If you don’t set sail for Madeira’s isle.”

“Go to Madeira? goodness me!
I haven’t the money to pay your fee!”
“Then, PALEY VOLLAIRE,” said the leech, “good bye;
I’ll come no more, for your’re sure to die.”

He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast;
“Oh, send,” said he, “for FREDERICK WEST,
Ere senses fade or my eyes grow dim:
I’ve a terrible tale to whisper him!”

Poor was FREDERICK’S lot in life,—
A dustman he with a fair young wife,
A worthy man with a hard-earned store,
A hundred and seventy pounds—or more.

FREDERICK came, and he said, “Maybe
You’ll say what you happened to want with me?”
“Wronged boy,” said PALEY VOLLAIRE, “I will,
But don’t you fidget yourself—sit still.”

THE TERRIBLE TALE.

“’Tis now some thirty-seven years ago
Since first began the plot that I’m revealing,
A fine young woman, whom you ought to know,
Lived with her husband down in Drum Lane, Ealing.
Herself by means of mangling reimbursing,
And now and then (at intervals) wet-nursing.

“Two little babes dwelt in their humble cot:
One was her own—the other only lent to her:
Her own she slighted.  Tempted by a lot
Of gold and silver regularly sent to her,
She ministered unto the little other
In the capacity of foster-mother.

“I was her own.  Oh! how I lay and sobbed
In my poor cradle—deeply, deeply cursing
The rich man’s pampered bantling, who had robbed
My only birthright—an attentive nursing!
Sometimes in hatred of my foster-brother,
I gnashed my gums—which terrified my mother.

“One day—it was quite early in the week—
I in MY cradle having placed the bantling—
Crept into his!  He had not learnt to speak,
But I could see his face with anger mantling.
It was imprudent—well, disgraceful maybe,
For, oh!  I was a bad, blackhearted baby!

“So great a luxury was food, I think
No wickedness but I was game to try for it.
Now if I wanted anything to drink
At any time, I only had to cry for it!
Once, if I dared to weep, the bottle lacking,
My blubbering involved a serious smacking!

“We grew up in the usual way—my friend,
My foster-brother, daily growing thinner,