Part 4 (2/2)

For John was on duty next day with the Force, To punish all Epsom crimes; Some people will cross when they're clearing the course (I do it myself, sometimes).

The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads, On maidens with gamboge hair, On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads (For I, with my harp, was there).

And Jimmy went down with his Jane that day And John by the collar or nape Seized everybody who came in his way (And I had a narrow escape).

He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim, And envied the well made elf; And people remarked that he muttered ”Oh, dim!”

(I often say ”dim!” myself).

John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves; For his sergeant he told, aside, That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves (And I think he was justified).

But James wouldn't dream of abstracting a fork, And Jenny would blush with shame At stealing so much as a bottle or cork (A bottle I think fair game).

But, ah! there's another more serious crime!

They wickedly strayed upon The course, at a critical moment of time (I pointed them out to John).

The crusher came down on the pair in a crack-- And then, with a demon smile, Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back (I played on my harp the while).

Stern Johnny their agony loud derides With a very triumphant sneer-- They weep and they wail from the opposite sides (And I shed a silent tear).

And Jenny is crying away like mad, And Jimmy is swearing hard; And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad (And I am a doggerel bard).

But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again The scenes of our Isthmian Games-- John caught him and collared him, giving him pain (I felt very much for James).

John led him away with a victor's hand, And Jimmy was shortly seen In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand (As many a time I've been).

And Jimmy, bad boy, was imprisoned for life, Though Emily pleaded hard; And Johnny had Emily Jane to wife (And I am a doggerel bard).

[_W.S. Gilbert_

ELLEN M'JONES ABERDEEN

Macphairson Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan Was the son of an elderly laboring man, You've guessed him a Scotchman, shrewd reader, at sight, And p'raps altogether, shrewd reader, you're right.

From the bonnie blue Forth to the hills of Deeside, Round by Dingwall and Wrath to the mouth of the Clyde, There wasn't a child or woman or man Who could pipe with Clonglocketty Angus M'Clan.

No other could wake such detestable groans, With reed and with chanter--with bag and with drones: All day and all night he delighted the chiels With sn.i.g.g.e.ring pibrochs and jiggety reels.

He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, And the neighboring maidens would gather around To list to his pipes and to gaze in his een, Especially Ellen M'Jones Aberdeen.

All loved their M'Clan, save a Sa.s.senach brute, Who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot!

He dressed himself up in a Highlander way, Though his name it was Pattison Corby Torbay.

Torbay had incurred a good deal of expense To make him a Scotchman in every sense: But this is a matter, you'll readily own, That isn't a question of tailors alone.

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