 Ballad No. 31 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman Temporar Mutantua Letters, Letters, Letters, Letters, Some that please and some that bore, Some that threaten prison fetters, metaphorically fetters such as bind insolvent debtors, Invitations by the score, One from cogs and wiles and railer, My a-turn is off the strand, One from copper-block my tailor, My unreasonable tailor, One in flags, disgusting hand, One from Ephraim and Moses, Wanting coin without a doubt, I should like to pull their noses, Their uncompromising noses, One from Alice with the roses, Ah, I know what that's about. Time was when I waited, waited for the missives that she wrote, Humble postman execrated, Loudly deeply execrated, When I heard I wasn't fated To be gladdened with a note. Time was when I had not have bartered Of her little pen-a-dip for a peerage duly Garded, for a peerage stardant-gattered With a palace office-charted or a secretary-ship. But the time for that is over, And I wish we'd never met. I'm afraid I've proved a rover, I'm afraid a heartless rover. Quarters in a place like Dover tend to make a man forget. Bills for carriages and horses, Bills for wine and light-cigar, Matters that concern the forces, News that may affect the forces, News affecting my resources, Much more interesting are. And the tiny little paper With the words that seem to run from her Little finger's taper, They are very small and taper, By the tailor and the draper Are in interest outdone. And unopened it's remaining, I can read her gentle hope, Her entreaties uncomplaining, She was always uncomplaining, Her devotion never waning Through the little envelope. End of Ballad No. 31, Temporar Mutantua, From the Bab-Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 32 of the Bab-Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. At a Pentamime by Abilius One. An actor sits in doubtful gloom, His stock-in-trade unfurled, In a damp funereal dressing-room In the theatre-royal world. He comes to town at Christmas-time, And braves its icy breath, To play in that favourite pantomime, Harlequin, life and death. A hoary-flowing wig, His weird unearthly cranium-caps, He hangs a long, benevolent beard On a pair of empty chaps. To smooth his ghastly features down The actor's arty-cribs, A long and a flowing padded gown Bidex his rattling ribs. He cries, Go on, begin, begin, Turn on the light of lime, I'm dressed for jolly old Christmas In a favourite pantomime. The curtains up, The stage all black, Time and the year nigh sped, Time as an advertising quack, The old year nearly dead. The wand of time is waved and low, Revealed old Christmas stands, With little children chuckle and crow, At laugh and clap their hands. The cruel old scoundrel Brightens up at the death of the olden year, And he waves a gorgeous golden cup, And bids the world good cheer. The little ones hail the festive king, No thought can make them sad. Their laughter comes with a sounding ring, They clap and crow like mad. They only see in the humbug old A holiday every year, And handsome gifts and joys untold, And unaccustomed cheer. The old ones, palsy'd, blear and whore, Their breasts in anguish beat. They've seen him seventy times before, How well they know that cheat. They've seen that ghastly pantomime, They've felt its blighting breath. They know that rollicking Christmas time meant cold and want and death, Starvation, poor law-union fair, And deadly cramps and chills, And illness, illness everywhere, And crime and Christmas bills. They know old Christmas well, I wean, Those men of ripe and age. They've often, often, often seen That actor off the stage. They see in his gay rotundity A clumsy stuffed outdress. They see in the cup he waves on high A tinseled emptiness. Those aged men, so lean and wan, They've seen it all before. They know they'll see the charlatan But twice or three times more. And so they bear with dance and song And crimson foil and green. They wearily sit and grimly long For the transformation scene. End of ballad number thirty-two At a pantomime by a billious one From the Bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number thirty-three of the Bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. King Boria Bungally Boo. King Boria Bungally Boo was a man-eating African swell. His sigh was a hullabaloo, His whisper a horrible yell, a horrible, horrible yell. Four subjects and all of them mailed to Boria doubled the knee. They were once on a far larger scale, But he had eaten the balance, you see. Scale and balance is punning, you see. There was haughty pish-tush-poo-bar. There was lumbering doodle-dum-day, Despairing a lacquer-day-ah, and good little tootle-tum-tay, Exemplary tootle-tum-tay. One day there was grief in the crew, For they hadn't a morsel of meat. And Boria Bungally Boo was dying for something to eat. Come provide me with something to eat. A lacquer-day, famished I feel. Oh, good little tootle-tum-tay, Where on earth shall I look for a meal, For I haven't no dinner to-day, Not a morsel of dinner to-day. Dear tootle-tum, what shall we do? Come get us a meal, or in truth, If you don't we shall have to eat you, O adorable friend of our youth, Thou beloved little friend of our youth. And he answered, O Bungally Boo, For a moment I hope you will wait. Tippi Whippity told the Rallu Is the queen of a neighbouring state, A remarkably neighbouring state. Tippi Whippity told the Rallu She would pickle delishously cold, And her four pretty Amazons, too, Are enticing, and not very old. Twenty-seven is not very old. There is neat little titty-full-day, There is rollicking-troll-a-roll-a, There is jocular waggity-way, There is musical-dough-ramey-far, There's the nightingale-dough-ramey-far. So the forces of Bungally Boo marched forth in a terrible row, And the ladies who fought for Queen Lou prepared to encounter the foe, This dreadful insatiate foe. But they sharpened no weapons at all, And they poisoned no arrows, not they. They made ready to conquer or fall In a totally different way, An entirely different way. With a crimson and pearly white dye They endeavored to make themselves fair. With black they encircled each eye, And with yellow they painted their hair. It was wool, but they thought it was hair. But the forces they met in the field, And the men of King Boria said, Amazonians immediately yield, And their arrows they drew to the head, Yes drew them right up to the head. But jocular waggity-way, Ogledoodledum-day, which was wrong, And neat little titty-full-day, Said Tootletum, you go along, You naughty old dear, go along. But rollicking Trella-ralla, Tapped a lackaday-ar with her fan, And musical-do-re-mi-far, Said Pish, go away, you bad man, Go away, you delightful young man. And the Amazons simpered and sighed, And they ogled and giggled and flushed, And they opened their pretty eyes wide, And they chuckled and flirted and blushed, At least if they could, they'd have blushed. But Houghty Pish-tash-pubar said, Alacaday, what does this mean? And despairing Alacaday-ar said, They think us uncommonly green, Ha-ha, most uncommonly green. Even blundering Doodledum-day Was insensible quite to their leers, And said good little Tootletum-tay, It's your blood we desire, pretty dears, We have come for our dinners, my dears. And the queen of the Amazons fell To borrow a bungally boo, In a mouthful he gulped, With a yell-tippy-whippity-tolderalloo, The pretty queen-tolderalloo. And neat little titty-fall-day Was eaten by Pish-pubar, And light-hearted waggity-way By Dismal Alacaday-ar, Despairing Alacaday-ar. And rollicking Trellerallah Was eaten by Doodledum-day, And musical do-ray-me-far By good little Tootletum-tay, Exemplary Tootletum-tay. End of ballad number thirty-three, King Boria Bungally Boo, From the Bab-ballads, This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number thirty-four Of the Bab-ballads by W. S. Gilbert, Red for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Peri-winkle-girl. I've often thought that headstrong youths of decent education Determine all important truths With strange precipitation. The ever-ready victims, they, Of logical illusions, And in a self-assertive way They jump at strange conclusions. Now take my case, As sorrow could my ample forehead wrinkle, I had determined That I should not care to be a winkle. A winkle, I would oft advance With reddiness provoking, Can seldom flirt and never dance, Or soothe his mind by smoking. In short I spurned the Shelley-joy, And spoke with strange decision. Men pointed to me As a boy who held them in derision. But I was young, too young by far, Or I had been more wary. I knew not, then, That winkles are the stock-in-trade of Mary. I had not watched her sunlight blithe As o'er their shells it dances. I've seen those winkles almost writhe Beneath her beaming glances. Of slighting all the winkly brood I surely had been cherry If I had known they formed The food and stock-in-trade of Mary. Both high and low and great and small Fell prostrate at her tootsies. They all were noblemen, And all had balances at cootsies. Dukes with the lovely maiden dealt, Duke Bailey and Duke Humphrey, Who ate her winkles till they felt exceedingly uncomfy. Duke Bailey greatest wealth computes, And sticks they say at no thing. He wears a pair of golden boots And silver under-clothing. Duke Humphrey, as I understand, Though mentally acuter, His boots are only silver And his under-clothing pewter. A third adorer had the girl, A man of lowly station, A miserable, groveling earl Besought her approbation. This humble cad she did refuse With much contempt and clothing. He wore a pair of leather-shoes And cambrick under-clothing. Ha-ha! she cried upon my word, Well, really, come, I never! Oh, go along, it's too absurd! My goodness, did you ever? Two dukes would Mary make a bride, And from her foes defend her. Well, not exactly that, they cried. We offer guilty splendour. We do not offer marriage-right, So please dismiss the notion. Oh, dear, said she, that alters Quite the state of my emotion. The earl he up, and says, Says he, dismiss them to their orges, For I am game to marry The quite regular at St. George's. He'd had, it happily befell, A decent education, His views would have befitted Well, a far superior station. His sterling worth had worked a cure, She never heard him grumble, His saw his soul was good and pure, Although his rank was humble. Her views of earldoms And their lot all underwent expansion. Come, virtue, in an earldom's cot, Go, vice, in dukel mansion! End of Ballard No. 34 The Periwinkle Girl From the Bab-Ballards. This recording is in the public domain. Card No. 35 of the Bab-Ballards by W. S. Gilbert Red for Librivox.org by Graham Redman Thompson Green and Harriet Hale To be sung to the air of an horrible tale. O list to this incredible tale Of Thompson Green and Harriet Hale, Its truth in one remark, your son, Twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twam! O Thompson Green was an auctioneer, And made three hundred pounds a year, And Harriet Hale, most strange to say, Gave Piano forty lessons at a sovereign a day. O Thompson Green, I may remark, Met Harriet Hale in Regions Park, Where he, in a casual kind of ways, Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day. They met again, and strange, though true, He courted her for a month or two. Then to her par, he said, says he, Old man, I love your daughter, And your daughter worships me. Their names were regularly banned, The wedding-day was settled, and I've ascertained, by dint of search, They were married on the choir to St. Mary Abbott's Church. O list to this incredible tale Of Thompson Green and Harriet Hale, Its truth in one remark, your son, Twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twam! That very same afternoon, They started on their honeymoon, and, o astonishment, Took flight to a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin Isle of White. But now, you'll doubt my word, I know, In a month they both returned, And lo, astounding fact, This happy pair took a gentlemanly residence In Cannonbury Square. They led a weird and reckless life, They dined each day this man and wife, Pray disbelieve it, if you please, On a joint of meat, a pudding, And a little bit of cheese. In time came those maternal joys Which take the form of girls or boys, And strange to say, of each that one, A tiddy-iddy daughter and a tiddy-iddy son. O list to this incredible tale Of Thompson Green and Harriet Hale, Its truth in one remark, your son, Twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twam! My name for truth is gone, I fear, But monstrous, as it may appear, They let their drawing-room one day To an eligible person in the cotton-broken way. Whenever Thompson Green fell sick, His wife called in a doctor quick, From whom some words like these would come, Harriet missed some endom-horsters In a cochlearium. For thirty years this curious pair Hung out in Cannonbury Square, And somehow wonderful to say They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way. Well Thompson Green fell ill and died, For just a year his widow cried, And then her heart she gave away To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broken way. O list to this incredible tale Of Thompson Green and Harriet Hale, Its truth in one remark, your son, Twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twaddle, twam! End of ballad number thirty-five, Thompson Green and Harriet Hale, From the Bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Board number thirty-six of the Bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Bob Polter Bob Polter was a navy, And his hands were coarse and dirty too. His homely face was rough and tanned, His time of life was thirty-two. He lived among a working clan, A wife he hadn't got at all, A decent, steady sober man, No saint, however, not at all. He smoked, but in a modest way, Because he thought he needed it. He drank a pot of beer a day, And sometimes he exceeded it. At times he'd pass with other men A loud convivial night or two, With very likely now and then On Saturdays a fight or two. But still he was a sober soul, A labour-never-sherking man, Who paid his way, Upon the whole a decent English working man. One day when at the Nelson's head, For which he may be blamed of you, A holy man appeared and said, Oh, Robert, I'm ashamed of you! He laid his hand on Robert's beer Before he could drink up any, And on the floor with sigh and tear He poured the pot of trepony. Oh, Robert, at this very bar A truth you'll be discovering, A good and evil genius Are around your nautil hovering. They both are here to bid you shun The other one's society, For total abstinence is one, The other in a briety. He waved his hand, a vapour came, A wizard polter reckoned him, A bogey rose, and called his name, And with his finger beckoned him. The monster's salient points to some, His heavy breath was portery, His glowing nose suggested rum, His eyes were gin and watery. His dress was torn, For dregs avail 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 aflowing on, A working man needs pints of gin To keep his clockwork going on. Bob shuddered, Ah, you've made amiss If you take me for one of you, You filthy beast, get out of this, Bob polter, don't want none of you! The demon gave a drunken shriek And crept away in stealthiness, And lo! instead a person's sleek Who seemed to burst with healthiness. In me, as your advisor hints Of abstinence you've got a type, Of Mr. Tweedy's pretty prince, 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 him 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 muttony? Will trousers such as yours Array extremities inferior? Will chubbiness assert 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 tootsie-comes? And shall I get so plump and fresh And look no longer seedily? My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so tweedily? The phantom said, You'll have all this, You'll know no kind of puffiness. 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 snob, You're worse almost than to the one. I takes my pipe, I takes my pot, And drunk I'm never seen to be. I'm no tea-totaler or sot, And as I am I mean to be." End of ballad No. 36 Bob Polter from the Babb ballads. This recording is in the public domain. End No. 37 of the Babb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Red for Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The story of Prince Agib. Strike the concertina's melancholy string, Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything. Let the piano's marshal blast Rouse the echoes of the past, For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing. Of Agib, who amid tartaric scenes Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens, His gentle spirit rolls In the melody of souls, Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means. Of Agib, who could readily at sight Strum a march upon the loud theodolite, He would diligently play On the zoetrope all day, And blow the gape and technicon all night. In winter, I am shaky in my dates, Came two starving tartar minstrels to his gates. Oh, Allah be obeyed how infernally they played! I remember that they called themselves the Waits. Oh, that day of sorrow, misery, and rage, I shall carry to the catacombs of age, Photographically lined on the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page. Alas, Prince Agib went and asked them in, Gave them beer and eggs and sweets and scent and tin, And when, as snobs would say, They had put it all away, He requested them to tune up and begin. Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before. The consequence is true of that awful interview, For I listened at the keyhole in the door. They played him a sonata, Let me see, medulla oblongata, key of G. Then they began to sing that extremely lovely thing, Scared-sando marnontropo P.P.P. He gave them money more than they could count, Sent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer in little kegs, many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount. Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale, For even at this day, though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail. The elder of the brothers gave a squeal, All overish it made me for to feel. Oh, Prince, he says, as he, if a prince indeed you be, I've a mystery I'm going to reveal. Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you sayeth, No weights in truth are we, as you fancy, That we be, for, to ramble, I am Alec, this is Beth. Said Agib, oh, a cursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind. Beth gave a dreadful shriek, but before he had time to speak, I was mercilessly collared from behind. In number ten or twelve or even more, They farcened me full length upon the floor. On my face extended flat, I was walloped with a cat for listening at the keyhole of a door. Oh, the horror of that agonizing thrill, I can feel the place in frosty weather still. For a week from ten to four I was farsen to the floor, While a mercenary wopped me with a will. They branded me and broke me on a wheel, And they left me in an hospital to heal. And upon my solemn word I have never, never heard What those tartars had determined to reveal. But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage I shall carry to the catacombs of age, Te graphically lined on the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page. End of ballad number thirty-seven The story of Prince Agib from the Bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number thirty-eight of the Bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Ellen McJones Aberdeen MacPherson Clunglockety Angus MacLann was the son of an elderly laboring man. You've guessed him a Scotchman shrewd reader at sight, and perhaps altogether shrewd reader you're right. From the Bonnie blue forth to the lovely D-side, round by Dingwall and wroth to the mouth of the Clyde, there wasn't a child or a woman or man who could pipe with clunglockety Angus MacLann. No other could wake such detestable groans with reed and with chaunter, with bag and with drones. All day and all night he delighted the chills with sniggering peabrocks and jiggity reels. He'd clamber a mountain and squat on the ground, and the neighbouring maidens would gather around to list to the pipes and to gaze in his ene. Finally Ellen McJones Aberdeen. All loved their MacLann, savor Sassanach Brute, who came to the Highlands to fish and to shoot. He dressed himself up in the Highland away, though his name it was Patterson 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. A Sassanach chief may be bonilly built. He may purchase a sparran, a bonnet, and kilt. Stick a skein in his hose where an acre of stripes. But he cannot assume an affection for pipes. Clunglockety's pipings all night and all day quite frenzied poor Patterson Corby Torbay. The girls were amused at his singular spleen, especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen. McPherson Clunglockety angers my lad with peabrochs and reels you are driving me mad. If you really must play on that cursed affair, my goodness, play something resembling an heir. Boiled over the blood of McPherson McLann, the clan of Clunglockety rose as one man for all were enraged at the insult I wean, especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen. Let's show, said McLann, to this Sassanach loon that the bagpipes can play him a regular tune. Let's see, said McLann, as he thoughtfully sat. In my cottage is easy. I'll practice at that. He blew at his cottage and blew with a will for a year, seven months, and a fortnight until, y'all hardly believe it, McLann, I declare, elicited something resembling an heir. It was wild, it was fitful, as wild as the breeze, it wandered about into several keys, it was jerky, spasmodic, and harsh I'm aware, but still it distinctly suggested an heir. The Sassanach screamed and the Sassanach danced, he shrieked in his agony bellowed and pranced, and the maidens who gathered rejoiced at the scene, especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen. Hech gather, hech gather, hech gather around, and fill all your lugs with the exquisite sound, and air-free the bagpipes, beat that, if you can, hurrah for Clunglockety Angus McLann. The fame of his piping spread over the land, respectable widows proposed for his hand, and maidens came flocking to sit on the green, especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen. One morning the fidgety Sassanach swore he'd stand it no longer, he drew his claymore, and this was, I think, in extremely bad taste, divided Clunglockety close to the waist. Oh, loud were the wailings for Angus McLann, oh, deep was the grief for that excellent man! The maids stood aghast at the horrible scene, especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen. It sorrowed poor Paterson Corbett or Bay to find them take on in this serious way. He pitted the poor little fluttering birds, and solaced their souls with the following words. Oh, maidens, said Paterson, touching his hat, don't blubber my dears for a fellow like that. Observe, I'm a very superior man, a much better fellow than Angus McLann. They smiled when he winked and addressed them as dears, and they all of them vowed as they dried up their tears, a pleasanter gentleman never was seen, especially Ellen McJones Aberdeen. End of ballad number thirty-eight, Ellen McJones Aberdeen from The Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number thirty-nine of The Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Peter the Wag. Policeman Peter Forth I drag from his obscure retreat. He was a merry genial wag, who loved a mad conceit. If he were asked the time of day by country bumpkin's green, he not unfrequently would say a quarter past thirteen. If ever you by word of mouth inquired of Mr. Forth, the waiter somewhere in the South, he always sent you north. With little boys his beat along he loved to stop and play. He loved to send old ladies wrong, and teach their feet to stray. He would in frolic moments, when such mischief bent upon, take bishops up as betting men, bid ministers move on. Then all the worthy boys he knew he regularly licked, and always collared people who had had their pockets picked. He was not naturally bad or viciously inclined, but from his early youth he had a waggish turn of mind. The men of London grimly scowled, with indignation wild, the men of London gruffly growled. But Peter calmly smiled. Since this minion of the crown the swelling murmurs grew, from Camberwell to Kentishtown, from Rotherhithe to Q. Still humoured he his waggish turn, and fed in various ways the coward rage that dared to burn, but did not dare to blaze. Still retribution has her day, although her flight is slow. One day that crusher lost his way near Poland Street Soho. The haughty boy, too proud to ask, to find his way resolved, and in the tangle of his task got more and more involved. The men of London overjoyed came there to jeer their foe, and flocking crowds completely cloyed the mazes of Soho. The news on telegraphic wires sped swiftly earthily. Excursion trains from distant shires brought myriads to sea. For weeks he trod his self-made beats through Newport, Gerard, Bear, Greek, Rupert, Frith, Dean, Poland Streets, and into Golden Square. Not all alas in vain, for when he tried to learn the way of little boys or grown-up men, they none of them would say. Their eyes would flash, their teeth would grind, their lips would tightly curl, they'd say, thy way thyself must find, thou misdirecting churl. And similarly also, when he tried a foreign friend, Italians answered, Il balen, the French, no comprehend. The rusts would say with gleaming eye, Sevastopol, and groan. The Greek said, tupto, tupto, my, tupto, tuptine, tuptone. To wonder thus for many a year the crusher never ceased. The men of London dropped a tear, their anger was appeased. At length exploring gangs were sent to find poor forth's remains. A handsome grant by Parliament was voted for their pains. To seek the poor policeman out bold spirits volunteered, and when they swore they'd solved the doubt. The men of London cheered, and in a yard dark dank and drear they found him on the floor. It leads from Richmond buildings near the royalty's stage door. With brandy cold and brandy hot they plied him, starved and wet, and made him sergeant on the spot. The men of London's pet. End of Ballard No. 39, Peter the Wag, from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 40 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Ben Allah Ahmed, or the Fatal Tom. I once did know a Turkish man whom I upon a two-pair backmet. His name it was Effendi Khan Bakşiş Pasha Ben Allah Ahmed. A Dr. Brown I also knew, I've often eaten, of his bounty. The Turk and he they lived at Hu in Sussex, that delightful county. I knew a nice young lady there. Her name was Emily MacPherson. And though she wore another's hair she was an interesting person. The Turk adored the maid of Hu, although his harem would have shocked her. But Brown adored that maiden too. He was a most seductive doctor. They'd follow her where ere she'd go, a course of action most improper. She neither knew by sight, and so for neither of them cared a copper. Brown did not know that Turkish male. He might have been his sainted mother. The people in this simple tale are total strangers to each other. One day that Turk he's sickened, sore, and suffered agonies oppressive. He threw himself upon the floor, and rolled about in pain excessive. It made him moan, it made him groan, and almost wore him to a mummy. Why should I hesitate to own that pain was in his little tummy? At length a doctor came and rung, as Allah Ahmed had desired, who felt his pulse looked up his tongue, and hemmed and hoared, and then inquired, Where is the pain that long has preyed upon you in so sad a way, sir? The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said, I don't exactly like to say, sir. Come, nonsense, said good Dr. Brown, so this is Turkish coiness, is it? You must contrive to fight it down. Come, come, sir, please, to be explicit. The Turk he shyly bit his thumb, and coyly blushed like one half-witted. The pain is in my little tum. He whispering at length admitted. Then take you this, and take you that, your blood flows sluggish in its channel. You must get rid of all this fat, and wear my medicated flannel. You'll send for me when you're in need. My name is Brown, your life I've saved it. My rival, shrieked the invalid, and drew a mighty sword and waved it. This to thy weasened Christian pest, allowed the Turk in frenzy yelled it, and drove right through the doctor's chest the sabre and the hand that held it. The blow was a decisive one, and Dr. Brown grew deadly pasty. Now see the mischief that you've done, you Turks are so extremely hasty. There are two Dr. Browns in who, he's short and stout, I'm tall and whizzen. You've been and run the wrong one through, that's how the error has arisen. The accident was thus explained, apologies were only hurt now. At my mistake I'm rarely pained, I am indeed upon my word now. With me, sir, you shall be interred. A mausoleum grande awaits me. Oh, pray don't say another word, I'm sure that more than compensates me. But perhaps kind Turk, you're full inside. There's room, said he, for any number. And so they laid them down and died. Being proud, Stambul, they sleep their slumber. End of Ballad No. 40 Ben-Alar Ahmed or the Fatal Tom from the Bab Ballads This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 41 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Redford Librivox.org by Graham Redman The Three Kings of Chikarabu There were three niggers of Chikarabu, Pacifico, Bang Bang, Pop-Chop, who exclaimed one terribly sultry day. Oh, let's speak kings, in a humble way. The first was a highly accomplished Bones, the next elicited banjo-tones, the third was a quiet retiring chap who danced an excellent breakdown flap. We niggers, said they, have formed a plan by which, whenever we like, we can extemporize kingdoms near the beach, and then we'll collar a kingdom each. Three casks from somebody else's stores shall represent our island shores, their sides the ocean-wide shall lave their heads just topping the briny wave. Great Britain's navy scours the sea, and everywhere her ships they be. She'll recognize our rank, perhaps, when she discovers we're royal chaps. If to her skirts you want a cling, it's quite sufficient that you're a king. She does not push inquiry far to learn what sort of king you are. A ship of several thousand tons, and mounting seventy-something guns, plowed every year the ocean blew, discovering kings and countries new. The brave, rare Admiral Bailey Pipp, commanding that magnificent ship, perceived one day his glasses through the kings that came from Chickoraboo. Dear eyes, said Admiral Pipp, I see three flourishing islands on our lee, and bless me, most remarkable thing, on every island stands a king. Come lower the Admiral's gig, he cried, and over the dancing waves I'll glide, that low obeisance I may do to those three kings of Chickoraboo. The Admiral pulled to the island's three, the kings saluted him graciously. The Admiral pleased at his welcome warm, unrolled a printed alliance form. Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray, I come in a friendly kind of way. I come, if you please, with the best intents, and Queen Victoria's compliments. The kings were pleased as they well could be, the most retiring of the three in a cellar flap to his joy gave vent, with the banjo-bones accompaniment. The great, rare Admiral Bailey Pipp embarked on board his jolly big ship. Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore, and off he sailed to his native shore. Admiral Pipp directly went to the lord at the head of the government, who made him by a stroke of a quill, barren'd a pip of Piptonville. The College of Heralds' permission yielded that he should quarter upon his shield three islands vert on a field of blue, with the pregnant motto Chickoraboo. Ambassadors, yes, and attachés, too, are going to sail for Chickoraboo, and see on the good ship's crowded deck a bishop who's going out there on speck. And let us all hope that blissful things may come of alliance with darky kings, and may we never, whatever we do, declare a war with Chickoraboo. End of Ballad No. 41 The Three Kings of Chickoraboo from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 42 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Redford Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Joe go likely, or the first lord's daughter. Atar but poorly prized, long, shambling, and unsightly, thrashed, bullied, and despised was wretched Joe go likely. He bore a work-house-brand, no par or ma had claimed him, the beadle found him, and the board of guardians named him. Perhaps some princess's son, a beggar, perhaps his mother. He rather thought the one, I rather think the other. He liked his ship at sea, he loved the salt sea water, he worshipped junk, and he adored the first lord's daughter. The first lord's daughter, proud, snubbed earls and vikings nightly. She sneered at barts, allowed, and spurned poor Joe go likely. When air he sailed afar, upon a channel-cruise he unpacked his light guitar, and sang this ballad, boozy. The moon is on the sea willow. The wind blows towards the lee willow, but though I sigh, and sob, and cry, no Lady Jane for me willow. She says to her folly quite willow, for me to wed a white willow, whose lot is cast before the mast, and possibly she's right willow. His skipper, Captain Joyce, he gave him many a rating, and almost lost his voice from thus expostulating. Lay after you, Lubber-Doo, what's come to that young man, Joe, belay, vast heaving you? Do kindly stop that, Banjo. I wish I do, O law, your ship to board a trader. Are you a sailor, or a negro serenader? But still the stricken lad aloft, or on his pillow, howled forth in accent sad, his aggravating willow. Stern love of duty had been Joyce's chiefest beauty. Says he, I love that lad, but duty, dammy duty! Twelve months black hole I say, where daylight never flashes, and always twice a day a good six dozen lashes. But Joseph had a mate, a sailor stout and lusty, a man of low estate, but singularly trusty. Says he, cheer up, young Joe, I'll tell you what I'm after. To that fuss-lord I'll go, and ax him for his data. To that fuss-lord I'll go, and say you love her dearly. And Joe said, weeping low, I wish you would, sincerely. That sailor to that lord went, soon as he had landed, and of his own accord an interview demanded. Says he, with Siemens' role. My captain, what's a tartar, gov' Joe, twelve months black hole for lov'ring your data. He loves Miss Lady Jane. I own she is his betters. But if you'll jine them twain, they'll free him from his fetters. And if so be as how you'll let her come aboard ship, I'll take her with me now. Get out," remarked his lordship. That honest tar repaired to Joe upon the billow, and told him how he had faired. Joe only whispered, willow. And for that dreadful crime young sailors learn to shun it. He's working out his time. In six months he'll have done it. To the terrestrial globe by a miserable wretch. Roll on, thou ball, roll on. Through pathless realms of space, roll on. What though I'm in a sorry case? What though I cannot meet my bills? What though I suffer two-thakes ills? What though I swallow countless pills? Never you mind, roll on. Roll on, thou ball, roll on. You seize a vinky air, roll on. It's true I've got no shirts to wear. It's true my butcher's bill is due. It's true my prospects all look blue. But don't let that unsettle you. Never you mind, roll on. It rolls on. It was of Ballard No. 43 to the terrestrial globe by a miserable wretch from the Bab-Ballards. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 44 of the Bab-Ballards by W. S. Gilbert, Redfield Librivox.org by Graham Redman. Gentle Alice Brown. It was a robber's daughter, and her name was Alice Brown. Her father was the terror of a small Italian town. Her mother was a foolish, weak, but amiable old thing. But it isn't of her parents that I'm going for to sing. As Alice was a-sitting at her windowsill one day, a beautiful young gentleman he chanced to pass that way. She cast her eyes upon him, and he looked so good and true that she thought, I could be happy with a gentleman like you. And every morning passed her house that cream of gentlemen. She knew she might expect him at a quarter unto ten. A sorter in the custom house it was his daily road. The custom house was fifteen minutes' walk from her abode. But Alice was a pious girl who knew it wasn't wise to look at strange young sorters with expressive purple eyes. So she sought the village priest to whom her family confessed, the priest by whom their little sins were carefully assessed. Oh, holy father, Alice said, to would grieve you would it not to discover that I was a most disreputable lot? Of all unhappy sinners I'm the most unhappy one. The padre said, What ever have you been and gone and done? I have helped Mamar to steal a little kitty from its dad. I've assisted dear papa in cutting up a little lad. I've planned a little burglary and forged a little check, and slain a little baby for the coral on its neck. The worthy pastor heaved a sigh and dropped a silent tear, and said, You mustn't judge yourself too heavily, my dear. It's wrong to murder babies, little corals, for to fleece. But sins like these one expiates at half a crown apiece. Girls will be girls, you're very young and flighty in your mind. Old heads upon young shoulders we must not expect to find. We mustn't be too hard upon these little girlish tricks. Let's see, five crimes at half a crown, exactly twelve and six. Oh, father, little Alice cried, Your kindness makes me weep. You do these little things for me so singularly cheap. Your thoughtful liberality I never can forget. And oh, there is another crime I haven't mentioned yet. A pleasant-looking gentleman with pretty purple eyes I've noticed at my window as I've sat a-catching flies. He passes by it every day, as certain as can be. I blush to say I've winked at him, and he has winked at me. For shame, said Father Paul, my earring daughter, on my word, this is the most distressing news that I have ever heard. Why, naughty girl, your excellent papa has pledged your hand to a promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band. This dreadful piece of news will pain your worthy parents so. They are the most remunerative customers I know. For many, many years they've kept starvation from my doors. I never knew so criminal a family as yours. The common country folk in this insipid neighborhood have nothing to confess. They're so ridiculously good. And if you marry any one respectable at all, why, your reform, and what will then become of Father Paul? The worthy priest he up and drew his cowl upon his crown, and started off in haste to tell the news to Robert Brown, to tell him how his daughter, who was now for marriage fit, had winked upon a sorter who reciprocated it. Good Robert Brown, he muffled up his anger pretty well. He said, I have a notion, and that notion I will tell. I will nab this gay young sorter, terrify him into fits, and get my gentle wife to chop him into little bits. I've studied human nature, and I know a thing or two. Though a girl may fondly love a living gent, as many do, a feeling of disgust upon her senses there will fall when she looks upon his body chopped particularly small. He traced that gallant sorter to a still suburban square. He watched his opportunity, and seized him unaware. He took a life preserver, and he hit him on the head, and Mrs. Brown dissected him before she went to bed. And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind. She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind, until at length Good Robert Brown bestowed her pretty hand on the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band, end of ballad number forty-four, gentle Alice Brown, and of the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain.