Part 4 (1/2)
”The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, And a delicate dish he made; Then our appet.i.te with the mids.h.i.+pmite We seven survivors stayed.
”And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, And he much resembled pig; Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, On the crew of the captain's gig.
”Then only the cook and me was left, And the delicate question, 'Which Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, And we argued it out as sich.
”For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he wors.h.i.+pped me; But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.
”'I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says TOM; 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be, - 'I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; And 'Exactly so,' quoth he.
”Says he, 'Dear JAMES, to murder me Were a foolish thing to do, For don't you see that you can't cook ME, While I can--and will--cook YOU!'
”So he boils the water, and takes the salt And the pepper in portions true (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot.
And some sage and parsley too.
”'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, Which his smiling features tell, ''T will soothing be if I let you see How extremely nice you'll smell.'
”And he stirred it round and round and round, And he sniffed at the foaming froth; When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the sc.u.m of the boiling broth.
”And I eat that cook in a week or less, And--as I eating be The last of his chops, why, I almost drops, For a wessel in sight I see!
”And I never larf, and I never smile, And I never lark nor play, But sit and croak, and a single joke I have--which is to say:
”Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, And the mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight, and a mids.h.i.+pmite, And the crew of the captain's gig!'”
Ballad: THE BISHOP OF RUM-TI-FOO.
From east and south the holy clan Of Bishops gathered to a man; To Synod, called Pan-Anglican, In flocking crowds they came.
Among them was a Bishop, who Had lately been appointed to The balmy isle of Rum-ti-Foo, And PETER was his name.
His people--twenty-three in sum - They played the eloquent tum-tum, And lived on scalps served up, in rum - The only sauce they knew.
When first good BISHOP PETER came (For PETER was that Bishop's name), To humour them, he did the same As they of Rum-ti-Foo.
His flock, I've often heard him tell, (His name was PETER) loved him well, And, summoned by the sound of bell, In crowds together came.
”Oh, ma.s.sa, why you go away?
Oh, Ma.s.sA PETER, please to stay.”
(They called him PETER, people say, Because it was his name.)
He told them all good boys to be, And sailed away across the sea, At London Bridge that Bishop he Arrived one Tuesday night; And as that night he homeward strode To his Pan-Anglican abode, He pa.s.sed along the Borough Road, And saw a gruesome sight.
He saw a crowd a.s.sembled round A person dancing on the ground, Who straight began to leap and bound With all his might and main.
To see that dancing man he stopped, Who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, Then down incontinently dropped, And then sprang up again.
The Bishop chuckled at the sight.
”This style of dancing would delight A simple Rum-ti-Foozleite.
I'll learn it if I can, To please the tribe when I get back.”
He begged the man to teach his knack.
”Right Reverend Sir, in half a crack!