Part 9 (1/2)

”They both are here to bid you shun The other one's society, For Total Abstinence is one, The other, Inebriety.”

He waved his hand--a vapour came - A wizard POLTER reckoned him; A bogy rose and called his name, And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster's salient points to sum, - His heavy breath was portery: His glowing nose suggested rum: His eyes were gin-and-WORtery.

His dress was torn--for dregs of ale And slops of gin had rusted it; His pimpled face was wan and pale, Where filth had not encrusted it.

”Come, POLTER,” said the fiend, ”begin, And keep the bowl a-flowing on - A working man needs pints of gin To keep his clockwork going on.”

BOB shuddered: ”Ah, you've made a miss If you take me for one of you: You filthy beast, get out of this - BOB POLTER don't wan't none of you.”

The demon gave a drunken shriek, And crept away in stealthiness, And lo! instead, a person sleek, Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

”In me, as your adviser hints, Of Abstinence you've got a type - Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints I am the happy prototype.

”If you abjure the social toast, And pipes, and such frivolities, You possibly some day may boast My prepossessing qualities!”

BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink: ”You almost make me tremble, you!

If I abjure fermented drink, Shall I, indeed, resemble you?

”And will my whiskers curl so tight?

My cheeks grow smug and muttony?

My face become so red and white?

My coat so blue and b.u.t.tony?

”Will trousers, such as yours, array Extremities inferior?

Will chubbiness a.s.sert its sway All over my exterior?

”In this, my unenlightened state, To work in heavy boots I comes; Will pumps henceforward decorate My tiddle toddle tootsic.u.ms?

”And shall I get so plump and fresh, And look no longer seedily?

My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?”

The phantom said, ”You'll have all this, You'll know no kind of huffiness, Your life will be one chubby bliss, One long unruffled puffiness!”

”Be off!” said irritated BOB.

”Why come you here to bother one?

You pharisaical old sn.o.b, You're wuss almost than t'other one!

”I takes my pipe--I takes my pot, And drunk I'm never seen to be: I'm no teetotaller or sot, And as I am I mean to be!”

Ballad: THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB.

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!

Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!

Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!