 Ballad No. 1 of More Bab Ballads. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Graham Redman. More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Ballad No. 1, Mr. William. Oh, listen to the tale of Mr. William, if you please, whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas. He forged a party's will, which caused anxiety and strife, resulting in his getting penal servitude for life. He was a kindly, goodly man, and naturally prone, instead of taking others' gold, to give away his own. But he had heard of vice, and longed for only once to strike, to plan one little wickedness, to see what it was like. He argued with himself, and said, A spotless man, am I? I can't be more respectable, however hard I try. For six and thirty years I've always been as good as gold, and now for half an hour I'll plan infamy untold. A baby who is wicked at the early age of one, and then reforms, and dies at thirty-six, a spotless son, is never, never saddled with his babyhood's defect, but earns from worthy men consideration and respect. So one who never reveled in discreditable tricks, until he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six, may then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame, without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame. That babies don't commit such crimes as forgery is true, but little sins develop if you leave them to a crew, and he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll, should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control. The common sin of babyhood objecting to be dressed, if you leave it to accumulate at compound interest, for anything you know may represent, if you're alive, a burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five. Still, I wouldn't take advantage of this fact, but be content with some pardonable folly. It's a mere experiment. The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin. So with something that's particularly tempting, I'll begin. I would not steal a penny, for my income's very fair. I do not want a penny, I have pennies and to spare, and if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till, the sin would be enormous, the temptation being nil. But if I broke a sunder all such petty fogging bounds, and forged a party's will for, say, five hundred thousand pounds, with such an irresistible temptation to a haul, of course the sin must be infinitesimally small. There's Wilson who is dying. He has wealth from stock and rent. If I divert his riches from their natural descent, I'm placed in a position to indulge each little whim. So he diverted them, and they, in turn, diverted him. Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw, temptation isn't recognized by Britain's common law. Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch, and William got a lifer, which annoyed him very much. For, ah, he never reconciled himself to life in jail. He fretted, and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale. He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him so that his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low, and sympathetic jailers would remark, It's very true he ain't been brought up common like the likes of me and you. So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops, and chocolate, and arrow-root, and buns, and malt, and hops. Kind clergyman, besides, grew interested in his fate, affected by the details of his pitiable state. They waited on the secretary somewhere in White Hall, who said he would receive them any day they liked to call. Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case. A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace. It's telling on young William, who's reduced to skin and bone. Remember, he's a gentleman with money of his own. He had an ample income, and, of course, he stands in need of Sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed. No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips. He misses his sea bathing, and his continental trips. He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude. He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food. When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish good from bad, and other educational advantages he's had. A burglar or garota, or indeed a common thief, is very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef, or anything in short that prison kitchens can afford, a cut above the diet in a common work-house ward. But beef and mutton broth don't seem to suit our William's whim, a boon to other prisoners, a punishment to him. It never was intended that the discipline of jail should dash a convict's spirit, sir, or make him thin or pale. God gracious me, that sympathetic secretary cried, suppose in prison fetters Mr. William should have died. Dear me, of course, imprisonment for life, his sentence said. I'm very glad you mentioned it. It might have been for death. Release him with a ticket. He'll be better then, no doubt, and tell him I apologize. So Mr. William's out. I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I'm sure, and not begin experimentalizing any more. End of ballad number one, Mr. William, of More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Ballad number two of More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Bumboat Woman Story I'm old, my dears, and shriveled with age and work and grief. My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by time, the thief. For terrible sights I've seen, and dangers great I've run. I'm nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done. Ah, I've been young in my time, and I've played the deuce with men. I'm speaking of ten years past, I was barely sixty then. My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet. Paul Pineapple's eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet. A Bumboat Woman was I, and I faithfully served the ships with apples and cakes and fowls and beer and hapened ips, and beef for the generous mess where the officers dine at nights, and fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites. Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay, by far the sweetest of all was kind Lieutenant Belay. Lieutenant Belay commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun. She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun. With a laudable view of enhancing his country's naval pride, when people inquired her size, Lieutenant Belay replied, Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the hundred and seventy ones, which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns. Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below. Come down, little Buttercup, come, for he loved to call me so, and he'd tell of the fights at sea in which he'd taken apart, and so Lieutenant Belay won poor Paul Pineapple's heart. But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he, I'm ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German sea, and the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day, for every Portsmouth maid loved good Lieutenant Belay. And I went to a back-back street with plenty of cheap-cheap shops, and I bought an oil-skin hat and a second-hand suit of slops, and I went to Lieutenant Belay, and he never suspected me, and I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea. We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one. Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun. I'm sorry to say that I've heard that sailors sometimes swear, but I never yet heard a bun say anything wrong, I declare. When Jack Tarr's meet they meet with a messmate ho, what cheer! But here on the Hot Cross Bun it was, how do you do, my dear? When Jack Tarr's growl I believe they growl with a big, big D, but the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild dear me. Yet though they were all well-bred, you could scarcely call them slick. Whenever a sea was on they were all extremely sick, and whenever the weather was calm and the wind was light and fair, they spent more time than the sailor should on his back-back hair. They certainly shivered and shook when ordered a loft to run, and they screamed when Lieutenant Belay discharged his only gun, and as he was proud of his gun, such pride is hardly wrong, the Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long. They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it said that Bill had a way of his own of making his lips look red, that Joe looked quite his age, or somebody might declare that Barnacle's long pigtail was never his own own hair. Belay would admit that his men were of no great use to him, but then he would say there is little to do on a gunboat trim. I can hand and reef and steer and fire my big gun too, and it is such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew. I saw him every day how the happy moments sped, reef-topsils, make-all-taught, there's dirty weather ahead. I do not mean the tempest threatened the hot-cross bun. In that case I don't know whatever we should have done. After a fortnight's cruise we put into port one day, and off on leave for a week went kind Lieutenant Belay. And after a long, long week had passed and it seemed like a life, Lieutenant Belay returned to his ship with a fair young wife. He up and he says, says he, O crew of the hot-cross bun, here is the wife of my heart, for the church has made us one. And as he uttered the word the crew went out of their wits and all fell down in so many separate fainting-fits. And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be, and lo the rest of the crew were simple girls like me, who all had fled from their homes in a sailor's blue array to follow the shifting fate of kind Lieutenant Belay. It's strange to think that I should ever have loved young men, but I'm speaking of ten years past. I was barely sixty, then, and now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow, and poor Paul Pineapple's eyes have lost their luster now. End of Ballad No. 2 The Bumboat Woman's Story of More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. The Two Ogres Good children list, if you're inclined, and wicked children too, this pretty ballad is designed especially for you. Two ogres dwelt in Wickham World, each tray's distinctive had, the younger was as good as gold, the elder was as bad. A wicked disobedient son was James McAlpine, and, a contrast to the elder one, a good apple-body bland. McAlpine, brutes like him, are few in greediness delights, a melancholy victim to unchastened appetites. Good, well-bred children, every day he ravenously ate. All boys were fish who found their way into McAlpine's net. Boys whose good breeding is innate, whose sons are always right, and boys who don't expostulate when sent to bed at night, and kindly boys who never search the nests of birds of song, and serious boys for whom in church no sermon is too long. Contrast with James's greedy haste and comprehensive hand, the nice discriminating taste of apple-body bland. Bland only eats bad boys who swear, who can behave but don't, disgraceful lads who say don't care, and shant, and can't, and won't, who wet their shoes and learn to box, and say what isn't true, who bite their nails and jam their frocks, and make long noses too, who kick a nurse's aged shin and sit in sulky moats, and boys who twirl poor kittens in distracting zoetropes. But James, when he was quite a youth, had often been to school, and though so bad, to tell the truth he wasn't quite a fool. At logic few with him could vie. To his peculiar sect he could propose a fallacy with singular effect. So when his mentors said, expound, why eat good children, why? Upon his mentors he would round with this absurd reply, I have been taught to love the good, the pure, the unalloyed, and wicked boys I've understood I always should avoid. Why do I eat good children? Why? Because I love them so. But this was empty sophistry, as your papa can show. Now, though the learning of his friends was truly not immense, they had a way of fitting ends by rule of common sense. Away, away, his mentors cried, thou uncongenial pest, a quirk's a thing we can't abide, a quibble we detest. A fallacy in your reply are intellect-descries, although we don't pretend to spy exactly where it lies. In misery and penal woes must end a glutton's joys, and learn how ogres punish those who dare to eat good boys. Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain, and gagged securely, you shall be placed in drury lane, where only good lads go. Surrounded there by virtuous boys, you'll suffer torture worse than that which constantly annoys disgraceful tantalus. If you would learn the woes that vex pour tantalus down there, pray borough of papa an expurgated lumpriere. But as for bland, who, as it seems, eats only naughty boys, we've planned a recompense that teams with gastronomic joys, where wicked youths in crowds are stowed, he shall unquestioned rule, and have the run of hackney-road reformatory school. End of ballad number three, The Two Ogres of Moor Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number four of Moor Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Little Oliver. Old Joyce, he was a kind old party whom nothing ever could put out, though eighty-two he still was hearty, excepting as regarded gout. He had one unexampled daughter, the Lady Minnie Ha Ha Joyce, fair Minnie Ha Ha, laughing water, so called from her melodious voice. By nature planned for lover capture her beauty every heart assailed. The good old nobleman with rapture observed how widely she prevailed. Aloof from all the lordly flockings of titled swells who worshiped her, there stood in pumps and cotton stockings one humble lover, Oliver. He was no peer by fortune petted, his name recalled no bygone age, he was no lordling coroneted, alas he was a simple page. With vain appeals he never bored her, but stood in silent sorrow by. He knew how fondly he adored her, and knew, alas, how hopelessly. Well grounded by a village-tutor in languages alive and past, he'd say unto himself, Nie Suter, oh, do not go beyond your last. But though his name could boast no handle, he could not every hope resign, as moths will hover round a candle, so hovered he about her shrine. The brilliant candle dazed the moth-well. One day she sang to her papa the air that Marie sings with moth-well in Nidamaya's opera. There in a stable boy it stated, devoutly loved a noble dame who ardently reciprocated his rather injudicious flame. And then, before the piano closing, he listened coyly at the door, she sang a song of her composing, I give one verse from half a score. Why pretty page art ever sighing? Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying? Come set a ringing thy laugh entrancing, and ever singing and ever dancing, ever singing tra-la-la, ever dancing tra-la-la, ever singing ever dancing, ever singing tra-la-la. He skipped for joy like little muttons, he danced like Esmeralda's kid. She did not mean a boy in buttons, although he fancied that she did. Poor lad, convinced he thus would win her, he wore out many pairs of souls. He danced when taking down the dinner, he danced when bringing up the coals. He danced and sang, however laden, with his incessant tra-la-la, which much surprised the noble maiden, and puzzled even her papa. He nourished now his flame and found it, he even danced at work below. The upper servants wouldn't stand it, and bowls the butler told him so. At length, on impulse, acting blindly, his love he laid completely bare. The gentle earl received him kindly, and told the lad to take a chair. Oh, sir! the suitor uttered sadly, don't give your indignation vent. I fear you think I'm acting madly, perhaps you think me insolent. The kindly earl repelled the notion. His noble bosom heaved a sigh. His fingers trembled with emotion, a tear stood in his mild blue eye. For, oh! the scene recalled too plainly the half-forgotten time when he, a boy of nine, had worshipped vainly a governess of forty-three. My boy! he said in tone-consoling, give up this idle fancy-do. The song you heard my daughter trolling did not indeed refer to you. I feel for you, poor boy, acutely. I would not wish to give you pain. Your pangs I estimate minutely. I too have loved and loved in vain. But still your humble rank and station for many surely are not meet. He said much more in conversation, which it were needless to repeat. Now I'm prepared to bet a guinea, were this a mere dramatic case the page would have eloped with many. But no, he only left his place. The simple truth is my detective, with me sensation can't abide. The likely beats the mere effective, and nature is my only guide. End of Ballard No. 4, Little Oliver, of Morbabb Ballards, by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 5, of Morbabb Ballards, by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org, by Graham Redman. Pasha Bailey-Ben A proud Pasha was Bailey-Ben. His wives were three, his tails were ten. His form was dignified, but stout, men called him little roundabout. His Importance Pale pilgrims came from earth-a-sea to wait on Pasha Bailey-B, all bearing presents in a crowd, for B was poor as well as proud. His Presence They brought him onions strung on ropes, and cold-boiled beef and telescopes, and balls of string and shrimps and guns, and chops and tacks and hats and buns. More of them. They brought him white kid gloves and pails and candlesticks and potted quails, and capstan bars and scales and weights, and ornaments for empty grates. Why I mention these? My tale is not of these. Oh, no! I only mention them to show the divers' gifts that divers' men brought earth-a-sea to Bailey-Ben. His Confidant A confidant had Bailey-B, a gay Mongolian dog was he, I am not good at Turkish names, and so I call him Simple James. His Confidant's Countenance A dreadful legend you might trace in Simple James's honest face, for there you read in Nature's Print a scoundrel of the deepest tint. His Character A deed of blood or fire or flames was meat and drink to Simple James. To hide his guilt he did not plan, but owned himself a bad young man. The Author to His Reader And why on earth good Bailey-Ben, the wisest, noblest, best of men, made Simple James his right-hand man, is quite beyond my mental span? The same continued. But there, enough of gruesome deeds, my heart in thinking of them bleeds, and so let Simple James take wing, it is not of him I am going to sing. The Pasha's Clark Good Pasha Bailey kept a Clark, for Bailey only made his mark. His name was Matthew Wickham Coo, a man of nearly forty-two. His Accomplishments No person that I ever knew could yodel half as well as Coo, and Highlanders exclaimed a wheel, when Coo began to dance a reel. His Kindness to the Pasha's Wives He used to dance and sing and play in such an unaffected way he cheered the unexciting lives of Pasha Bailey's lovely wives. The Author to His Reader But why should I encumber you with histories of Matthew Coo? Let Matthew Coo at once take wing, it is not of Coo I am going to sing. The Author's Muse Let me recall my wandering muse, she shall be steady if I choose. She roves instead of helping me to tell the deeds of Bailey B. The Pasha's Visitor One morning knocked at half-past eight a tall red Indian at his gate. In Turkey, as you're perhaps aware, red Indians are extremely rare. The Visitor's Outfit Moccasin's decked his graceful legs, his eyes were black and round as eggs, and on his neck, instead of beads, hung several catawampus seeds. What the Visitor said Ho, ho, he said, thou pale-faced one, poor offspring of an Eastern son, you've never seen the red man skip upon the banks of Mrs. Hip. The Author's Moderation To say that Bailey oped his eyes would feebly paint his great surprise. To say it almost made him die would be to paint it much too high. The Author to his Reader But why should I ransack my head to tell you all that Indian said? We'll let the Indian man take wing, it is not of him I am going to sing. The Reader to the Author Come, come, I say, that's quite enough of this absurd disjointed stuff. Now let's get on to that affair about Lieutenant Colonel Flair. End of Ballot No. 5, Pasha Bailey-Ben, of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballot No. 6 of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Lieutenant Colonel Flair The earth has armies plenty and semi-warlike bands. I daresay there are twenty in European lands. But oh, in no direction you would find one to compare in brotherly affection with that of Colonel Flair. His soldiers might be rated as military pearls, as unsophisticated as pretty little girls. They never smoked or ratted, or talked of sews or polls. The Sergeant Major tatted. The others nursed their dolls. He spent his days in teaching these truly solemn facts. There's little use in preaching or circulating tracts. The vainest plan invented for stifling other creeds, unless it's supplemented with charitable deeds. He taught his soldiers kindly to give at hunger's call. Oh, better far give blindly than never give at all, though sympathy be kindled by imposition's game. Oh, better far be swindled than smother up its flame. His means were far from ample for pleasure or for dress. Yet note this bright example of single-heartedness, though ranking as a Colonel his pay was but a groat, while their reward diurnal was each a five-pound note. Moreover, this evinces his kindness, you'll allow. He fed them all like princes, and lived himself on cow. He set them all regaling on curious wines and deer, while he would sit pale ailing or quuffing ginger beer. Then, at his instigation, a pretty fancy this, their daily pay and ration he had taken change for his. They brought it to him weekly, and he, without a groan, would take it from them meekly, and give them all his own. Though not exactly knighted, as knights of course should be, yet no one so delighted in harmless chivalry. If peasant girl or lady beneath misfortune sank, what air distinctions made he, they were not those of rank. No maiden young and comely who wanted good advice, however poor or homely, need ask him for it twice. He'd wipe away the blindness that comes of teary-dew, his sympathetic kindness no sort of limit new. He always hated dealing with men who schemed or planned. A person harsh, unfeeling, the Colonel could not stand. He hated cold, suspecting official men in blue, who passed their lives detecting the crimes that others do. For men who'd shoot a sparrow or emulate a worm beneath a farmer's harrow, he could not find a term. Humanely, eye and knightly, he dealt with such and one. He took and tied him tightly, and blew him from a gun. The earth has armies plenty, and semi-warlike bands. I'm certain there are twenty in European lands, but oh, in no direction you would find one to compare in brotherly affection with that of Colonel Flair. End of ballad number six, Lieutenant Colonel Flair, of Morbabb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number seven, of Morbabb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Lost Mr. Blake. Mr. Blake was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner, who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak. He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking a glass of grog on a Sunday after dinner, and seldom thought of going to church more than twice, or if Good Friday or Christmas Day happened to come in it three times a week. He was quite indifferent as to the particular kinds of dresses that the clergyman wore at church where he used to go to pray, and whatever he did in the way of relieving a chap's distresses, he always did in a nasty, sneaking, underhanded, hole-and-corner sort of way. I have known him indulge in profane, un-gentlemanly emphatics, when the Protestant church has been divided on the subject of the proper width of a chasable's hem. I have even known him to sneer at albs, and as for Dalmatics, words can't convey an idea of the contempt he expressed for them. He didn't believe in persons who, not being well off themselves, are obliged to confine their charitable exertions to collecting money from wealthier people, and looked upon individuals of the former class as ecclesiastical hawks. He used to say that he would no more think of interfering with his priest's robes than with his church or his steeple, and that he did not consider his soul imperiled because somebody over whom he had no influence, whatever, chose to dress himself up like an exaggerated guy forks. This shocking old vagabond was so unutterably shameless that he actually went accorting a very respectable and pious middle-aged sister by the name of Beegs. She was a rather attractive widow, whose life as such had always been particularly blameless. Her first husband had left her a secure but moderate competence, owing to some fortunate speculations in the matter of figs. She was an excellent person in every way, and won the respect even of Mrs. Grundy. She was a good housewife too, and wouldn't have wasted a penny if she had owned the co-innour. She was just as strict as he was lax in her observance of Sunday, and being a good economist and charitable besides, she took all the bones and cold potatoes and broken pie crusts and candle ends when she had quite done with them, and made them into an excellent soup for the deserving poor. I am sorry to say that she rather took to Blake that outcast of society, and when respectable brothers who were fond of her began to look dubious and took off, she would say, oh, my friends, it's because I hope to bring this poor, benighted soul back to virtue and propriety, and besides the poor, benighted soul, with all his faults, was uncommonly well off. And when Mr. Blake's dissipated friends called his attention to the frown or the pout of her, whenever he did anything which appeared to her to savor of an unmentionable place, he would say that she would be a very decent old girl when all that nonsense was knocked out of her, and his method of knocking it out of her is one that covered him with disgrace. She was fond of going to church services four times every Sunday and four or five times in the week and never seemed to pall of them. So he hunted out all the churches within a convenient distance that had services at different hours, so to speak, and when he had married her he positively insisted upon their going to all of them, so they can drive to do about twelve churches every Sunday, and if they had luck, from twenty-two to twenty-three in the course of the week. She was fond of dropping his sovereigns ostentatiously into the plate, and she liked to see them stand out rather conspicuously against the commonplace half-crowns and shillings. So he took her to all the charity sermons, and if by any extraordinary chance there wasn't a charity sermon anywhere, he would drop a couple of sovereigns, one for him and one for her, into the poor box at the door. And as he always deducted the sums thus given in charity from the housekeeping money and the money he allowed her for her bonnets and frillings, she soon began to find that even charity, if you allow it to interfere with your personal luxuries, becomes an intolerable bore. On Sunday she was always melancholy and anything but good society, for that day in her household was a day of sighings and sobbing and ringing of hands and shaking of heads. She wouldn't hear of a button being sewn on a glove, because it was a work neither of necessity nor of piety, and strictly prohibited her servants from amusing themselves or indeed doing anything at all except dusting the drawing-rooms, cleaning the boots and shoes, cooking the parlour-dinner, waiting generally on the family, and making the beds. But Blake even went further than that, and said that people should do their own works of necessity and not delegate them to persons in a menial situation. So he wouldn't allow his servants to do so much as even answer a bell. Here he is making his wife carry up the water for her bath to the second floor, much against her inclination, and why in the world the gentleman who illustrates these ballads has put him in a cocked hat is more than I can tell. After about three months of this sort of thing, taking the smooth with the rough of it, blacking her own boots and peeling her own potatoes was not her notion of cannubial 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 a miss. 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 weekday, and spend their evenings in cannubial fondlings and affectionate reciprocities. And I should like to know where in the world, or rather out of it, they expect to go. End of Ballad No. 7, Lost, Mr. Blake, of Morbabb Ballads, by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 8, of Morbabb Ballads, by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Baby's Vengeance Weary at heart and extremely ill was Paley Valère of Bromptonville, in a dirty lodging with fever down close to the polygon summer's town. Paley Valère 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 Valère, said the leech, Good-bye, I'll come no more, for you're sure to die. He sighed and he groaned and smote his breast. Oh, send, said he, for Frederick West, air-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 Valère, I will, but don't you fidget yourself, sit still. The terrible tale. It is 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, black-hearted 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, while gradually I began to mend and thrived amazingly on double dinner. And every one, besides my foster-mother, believed that either of us was the other. I came into his wealth, I bore his name, I bear it still, his property I squandered. I mortgaged everything, and now, oh, shame, into a Somers-town shakedown I've wandered. I am no Paley, no Valère, it's true, my boy, the only rightful Paley V is you, my boy. And all I have is yours, and yours is mine. I still may place you in your true position, give me the pounds you've saved, and I'll resign my noble name, my rank, and my condition. So far my wickedness in falsely owning your vasty wealth I am at last atoning. Frederick he was a simple soul, he pulled from his pocket a bulky roll, and gave to Paley his hard-earned store a hundred and seventy pounds or more. Paley Valère, with many a grown, gave Frederick all that he called his own. Two shirts and a sock and a vest of jean, a Wellington boot and a bamboo cane. And Fred, entitled to all things there, he took the fever from Mr. Valère, which killed poor Frederick West. Meanwhile Valère sailed off to Madeira's Isle. End of Ballad No. 8 The Baby's Vengeance of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 9 of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman The Captain and the Mermaids I sing a legend of the sea, so hard a port upon your lee, a ship on starboard tack. She's bound upon a private cruise. This is the kind of spice I use to give a salt sea-snack. Behold, on every afternoon, save in a gale or strong monsoon, great Captain Cable Cleggs, great morally, though rather short, sat at an open weather-port and aired his shapely legs. And Mermaids hung around in flocks on cable-chains and distant rocks to gaze upon those limbs. For legs like those of flesh and bone are things not generally known to any Merman teams. But Mermen didn't seem to care much time, as far as I'm aware, with Cleggs's legs to spend, though Mermaids swam around all day and gazed, exclaiming, That's the way a gentleman should end. A pair of legs with well-cut knees and calves and ankles such as these which we in rapture hail are far more eloquent it's clear when clothed in silk and cursimia than any nasty tail. And Cleggs, a worthy kind old boy, rejoiced to add to others' joy, and when the day was dry, because it pleased the lookers on he sat from morn till night, though constitutionally shy. At first the Mermen laughed, poo-poo, but finally they jealous grew and sounded loud recalls, but vainly, so these fishy males declared they too would clothe their tails in silk and hose and smalls. They set to work, these watermen, and made their nether-robes, but when they drew with dainty touch the cursimia upon their tails, they found it scraped against their scales, and hurt them very much. The silk, besides with which they chose to deck their tails by way of hose, they never thought of shewn, for such a use was much too thin. It tore against the cordal fin, and went in ladders soon. So they designed another plan. They sent their most seductive man this note to him to show. Our monarch sends to Captain Cleggs his humble compliments, and begs he'll join him down below. We've pleasant homes below the sea. Besides, if Captain Clegg should be, as our advices say, a judge of mermaids, he will find our lady-fish of every kind inspection will repay. Good Capel sent a kind reply, for Capel thought he could describe an admirable plan to study all their ways and laws, but not their lady-fish, because he was a married man. The mermon sank, the captain too jumped overboard and dropped from view like stone from catapult, and when he reached the mermon's lair he certainly was welcomed there, but are with what result? They didn't let him learn their law, or make a note of what he saw, or interesting men. The lady-fish he couldn't find, but that, of course, he didn't mind, he didn't come for them. For though when Captain Capel sank, the mermon drawn in double rank gave him a hearty hail, yet when secure of Captain Cleggs they cut off both his lovely legs and gave him such a tale. When Captain Cleggs returned aboard, his blithesome crew convulsive roared to see him altered so. The admiralty did insist that he upon the half-pay list immediately should go. In vain declared the poor old salt, it's my misfortune, not my fault, with tear and trembling lip. In vain poor Capel begged and begged. A man must be completely legged who rules a British ship. So spake the stern first lord aloud. He was a wag, though very proud, and much rejoiced to say, You're only half a Captain now, and so, my worthy friend, I vow you'll only get half-pay. End of Ballad No. 9 The Captain and the Mermaids of Morbabb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 10 of Morbabb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Annie Prothero, a legend of Stratford LeBeau. Oh, listen to the tale of little Annie Prothero. She kept a small post-office in the neighbourhood of Beau. She loved a skilled mechanic, who was famous in his day. A gentle executioner, whose name was Gilbert Clay. I think I hear you say, a dreadful subject for your rhymes. Oh, reader, do not shrink. He didn't live in modern times. He lived so long ago, the sketch will show it at a glance, that all his actions glitter with the limelight of romance. In busy times he laboured at his gentle craft all day. No doubt you mean his cowl-craft, you amusingly will say. But no, he didn't operate with common bits of string. He was a public headsman, which is quite another thing. And when his work was over, they would ramble o'er the lee, and sit beneath the frontage of an elderberry tree. And Annie's simple prattle entertained him on his walk, for public executions formed the subject of her talk. And sometimes he had explained to her, which charmed her very much, how famous operators very, very much in touch. And then, perhaps, he'd show how he himself performed the trick, and illustrate his meaning with a poppy and a stick. Or, if it rained, the little maid would stop at home, and look at his favourable notices, all pasted in a book. And then her cheek would flush, her swimming eyes would dance with joy in a glow of admiration at the prowess of her boy. One summer eve at supper time, the gentle Gilbert said, as he helped his pretty Annie to a slice of collared head, this reminds me, I must settle on the next ensuing day the hash of that unmitigated villain, Peter Gray. He saw his Annie tremble, and he saw his Annie start. Her changing colour trumpeted the flutter at her heart. Young Gilbert's manly bosom rose and sank with jealous fear, and he said, oh, gentle Annie, what's the meaning of this here? And Annie answered, blushing in an interesting way, you think no doubt I'm sighing for that felon, Peter Gray, that I was his young woman is unquestionably true, but not since I began a keeping company with you. Then Gilbert, who was irritable, rose and loudly swore he had no the reason why if she refused to tell him more, and she answered all the woman in her flashing from her eyes, you mustn't ask no questions and you won't be told no lies. Few lovers have the privilege enjoyed, my dear, by you, of chopping off a rival's head and quartering him too. Of vengeance, dear, to Morro, you will surely take your fill, and Gilbert ground his molars as he answered her, I will. Young Gilbert rose from table with a stern, determined look, and frowning took an inexpensive hatchet from its hook, and Annie watched his movements with an interested air. For the Morro, for the Morro, he was going to prepare. He chipped it with a hammer and he chopped it with a bill. He poured sulfuric acid on the edge of it until this terrible Avenger of the Majesty of Law was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw. And Annie said, Oh, Gilbert, dear, I do not understand why ever you are injuring that hatchet in your hand. He said, It is intended for to lacerate and flay the neck of that unmitigated villain Peter Gray. Now, Gilbert, Annie answered, Wicked Headsman, just beware, I won't have Peter tortured with that horrible affair. If you appear with that, you may depend your rule the day. But Gilbert said, Oh, shall I? which was just his nasty way. He saw a look of anger from her eyes distinctly dart, for Annie was a woman and had pity in her heart. She wished him a good evening. He answered with a glare. She only said, Remember, for your Annie will be there. The morrow Gilbert boldly on the scaffold took his stand with a visor on his face and with a hatchet in his hand, and all the people noticed that the engine of the law was far less like a hatchet than a dissipated saw. The felon very coolly loosed his collar and his stock and placed his wicked head upon the handy little block. The hatchet was uplifted for to settle Peter Gray when Gilbert plainly heard a woman's voice exclaiming, Stay! T'was Annie, gentle Annie, as you're easily believe. Oh, Gilbert, you must spare him, for I bring him a reprieve. It came from our home secretary many weeks ago and passed through that post office which I used to keep at Bow. I loved you, loved you madly, and you know it, Gilbert Clay. And as I had quite surrendered all idea of Peter Gray, I quietly suppressed it, as you'll clearly understand, for I thought it might be awkward if he came and claimed my hand. In anger at my secret, which I could not tell before, to lacerate poor Peter Gray vindictively you swore, I told you if you used that blunted axe you'd rue the day, and so you will, young Gilbert, for I'll marry Peter Gray. And so she did. End of Ballad No. 10 Annie Prothero, a legend of Stratford Lobo, of More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 11 of More Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. An Unfortunate Likeness I've painted Shakespeare all my life, an infant, even then at play, a boy, with stage-ambitioned rife, then married to Anne Hathaway. The Bard's First Ticket Night, or Ben, his first appearance on the stage, his call before the curtain, then rejoicings when he came of age. The Bard playwriting in his room the Bard a humble lawyer's clerk, the Bard a lawyer, parson, groom, the Bard dear stealing after dark, the Bard a tradesman and a Jew, the Bard a botanist, a beak, the Bard a skilled musician too, a sheriff and a surgeon-eek. Yet critics say, a friendly stock, that though it's evident I try, yet even I can barely mock the glimmer of his wondrous eye. One morning, as a work, I framed the pastor-person walking hard. My gracious goodness! I exclaimed, how very like my dear old Bard! Oh, what a model he would make! I rushed outside, impulsive me. Forgive the liberty I take, but you're so very—stop! Said he, you needn't waste your breath or time. I know what you are going to say, that you're an artist and that I'm remarkably like Shakespeare, eh? You wished that I would sit to you. I clasped him madly round the waist and breathlessly replied, I do. All right, said he, but please make haste. I led him by his hallowed sleeve and worked away at him a pace. I painted him till dewy eve, there never was a nobler face. Oh, sir, I said, a fortune grand is yours by dint of mearest chance to sport his brow at second hand, to wear his cast-off countenance, to rub his eyes when ere they ache, to cover his baldness ere you're old, to clean his teeth when you awake, to blow his nose when you're cold. His eyeballs glistened in his eyes. I sat and watched and spoke to my pipe. Bravo, I said, I recognize the frenzy of your prototype. His scanty hair he wildly tore. That's right, said I, it shows your breed. He danced, he stamped, he wildly swore. Bless me, that's very fine indeed. Sir, said the grand Shakespearean boy, continuing to blaze away, you think my face a source of joy. That shows you know not what you say. Forgive these yells and cellar flaps. I'm always thrown in some such state when on his face well-meaning chaps this. This wretched man congratulate. For, oh, this face, this pointed chin, this nose, this brow, these eyeballs, too, have always been the origin of all the woes I ever knew. If to the play my way I find to see a grand Shakespearean piece, I have no rest, no ease of mind until the author's puppet sees. Men nudge each other, thus, and say, this certainly is Shakespeare's son, and merry wags, of course, in play, cry, author, when the piece is done. In church the people stare at me, their soul the sermon never binds. I catch them looking round to see, and thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds, and sculptors fraught with cunning while, who find it difficult to crown a bust with browns in sippid smile, or Tomkins' unmannered frown, yet boldly make my face their own, when, oh, presumption, they require to animate a paving-stone with Shakespeare's intellectual fire. At parties where young ladies gaze, and I attempt to speak my joy, hush, pray, some lovely creature says, the fond illusion don't destroy. When ere I speak my soul is wrung with these or some such whisperings, tis pity that a Shakespeare's tongue should say such unshakesperian things. I should not thus be criticised, had I a face of common won't, don't envy me, now be advised, and now I think of it, I don't. End of Ballad No. 11 An Unfortunate Likeness of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 12 of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman Gregory Parable, L. L. D. A leafy cot where no dry rot had ever been by tenant's scene, where ivy clung and wops is stung, where bees is hummed and drummed and strung, where trees is grew and breezes blew, a thatchy roof quite waterproof, where countless herds of dicky birds built twiggy beds to lay their heads. My mother begs I'll make it eggs, but though it's true that dickies do construct a nest with chirpy noise, with view to rest their eggy joys neath ivy sheds, yet eggs and beds, as I explain to her in vain, five hundred times are faulty rhymes. Neath such a cot built on a plot, of freehold land, dwelt Mary and her worthy father, named by me Gregory Parable, L. L. D. He knew no guile, this simple man, no worldly while or plot or plan, except that plot of freehold land that held the cot and Mary and her worthy father, named by me Gregory Parable, L. L. D. A grave and learned scholar he, yet simple as a child could be. He'd shirk his meal to sit and cram a goodish deal of eaten-gram. No man alive could him non-plus with vocative of phylius. No man alive more fully knew the passive of a verb or two. None better knew the worth than he of words that end in B. D. T. Upon his green in early spring he might be seen endeavouring to understand the hooks and crooks of Henry and his Latin books, or calling for his Caesar on the Gallic War, like any Don, or perhaps expounding unto all how mythic bulbous built a wall. So lived the sage who's named by me Gregory Parable, L. L. D. To him one autumn day there came a lovely youth of mystic name, he took a lodging in the house and fell a dodging snipe and grouse, for, oh, that mild scholastic one led shooting for a single gun. By three or four when sport was o'er the mystic one laid by his gun and made sheep's eyes of giant size till after T. and Mary P. and Mary P. so kind was she, she too made eyes of giant size whose every dart right through the heart appeared to run that mystic one. The doctor's whim engrossing him he did not know they flirted so, for save at T. muser musy, as I'm advised, monopolized and rendered blind his giant mind. But looking up above his cup one afternoon he saw them spoon, ah-ha, quote he, you naughty lass, as quaint old Ovid says, an ass. The mystic youth avowed the truth and, claiming Ruth, he said, in soothe I love your daughter, aged man, refuse to join us if you can, treat not my offer, sir, with scorn, I'm wealthy though I'm lowly-born. Young sir, the aged scholar said, I never thought you meant to wed, engrossed completely with my books, I little noticed lover's looks. I've lived so long away from man, I do not know of any plan by which to test a lover's worth, except perhaps the test of birth. I've half forgotten in this wild a father's duty to his child. It is his place, I think it said, to see his daughter's richly wed to dignitaries of the earth, if possible, of noble birth. If noble birth is not at hand, a father may, I understand, and this affords a chance for you, be satisfied to wed her to a busico or bearing, which means anyone who's very rich. Now there's an earl who lives hard by, my child and I will go and try if he will make the maid his bride, if not to you she shall be tied. They sought the earl that very day, the sage began to say his say, the earl, a very wicked man whose face bore vice's blackest ban, cut short the scholar's simple tale and said in voice to make them quail, go along, you're drunk, no doubt, here Peter's turned these people out. The sage rebuffed in mode uncouth, returning met the mystic youth. My darling boy, the scholar said, take, Mary, blessings on your head. The mystic boy undid his vest and took a parchment from his breast and said, now by that noble brow I ne'er knew farther such as thou. The sterling rule of common sense now reaps its proper recompense, rejoice, my soul's unequaled queen, for I am Duke of Gretna Green. End of Ballad No. 12, Gregory Parable, LLD of Morbabb Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. This recording is in the public domain.