 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Graham Redman. The Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert, No. 1, Captain Rhys. Of all the ships upon the blue, no ship contained a better crew than that of worthy Captain Rhys, commanding of the mantelpiece. He was adored by all his men, for worthy Captain Rhys R. N. did all that lay within him to promote the comfort of his crew. If ever they were dull or sad, their Captain danced to them like mad, or told to make the time pass by, droll legends of his infancy. A feather-bed had every man, warm slippers and hot water can, brown Windsor from the Captain's store, a valet too, to every four. Did they with thirst in summer burn, low seltzer-jeans at every turn, and on all very sultry days cream ices handed round on trays? Then current wine and ginger-pops stood handily on all the tops, and also, with amusement-rife, a zoetrope or feel of life. New volumes came across the sea from Mr. Moody's library. The times and Saturday review beguiled the leisure of the crew. Kind-hearted Captain Rhys R. N. was quite devoted to his men. In point of fact, good Captain Rhys beatified the mantelpiece. One summer eve at half-past ten he said, addressing all his men, Come, tell me please what I can do to please and gratify my crew. By any reasonable plan I'll make you happy if I can. My own convenience count as nil. It is my duty, and I will." Then up and answered William Lee, the kindly Captain's coxswain he, a nervous, shy, low-spoken man, he cleared his throat, and thus began, You have a daughter, Captain Rhys, ten female cousins, and a niece. Amar, if what I'm told is true, six sisters, and an aunt or two. Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, more friendly like we all should be if you united of them to unmarried members of the crew. If you'd ameliorate our life, let each select from them a wife. And as for nervous me, old pal, give me your own enchanting gal. Good Captain Rhys, that worthy man, debated on his coxswain's plan. I quite agree, he said, O Bill. It is my duty, and I will. My daughter, that enchanting girl, has just been promised to an earl, and all my other family to peers of various degree. But what are dukes and vikings to the happiness of all my crew? The word I gave you, I'll fulfil. It is my duty, and I will. As you desire it shall befall, I'll settle thousands on you all, and I shall be, despite my horde, the only bachelor on board. The bosom of the mantelpiece he blushed and spoke to Captain Rhys. I beg your honour's leave, he said. If you would wish to go and wed, I have a widowed mother who would be the very thing for you. She long has loved you from afar. She washes for you, Captain R. The captain saw the dame that day, addressed her in his playful way, and did it want a wedding-ring? It was a tempting equal-sing. Well, well, the chaplain I will seek will all be married this day weak at Yonder Church upon the hill. It is my duty, and I will. The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, and widowed ma of Captain Rhys, attended there as they were bid. It was their duty, and they did. End of Captain Rhys from the Bab Ballads. Mr. Clayton Hooper, who had a cure of souls at Spifter next to Hooper, he lived on curds and whey, and daily sang their praises, and then he'd go and play with butter-cups and daisies. Wild croquet Hooper banned at all the sports of Mammon. He ward with cribbage, and he exorcised backgammon. His helmet was a glance that spoke of holy gladness, a saintly smile, his lance, his shield, a tear of sadness. His vicar smiled to see this armour on him buckled. With pardonable glee he blessed himself and chuckled. In mildness to abound my curret soul-designies, in all the country round there's none so mild as mine is. And Hooper disinclined his trumpet to be blowing, yet didn't think you'd find a milder curret going. A friend arrived one day at Spifter next to Hooper, and in this shameful way he spoke to Mr. Hooper. You think your famous name for mildness can't be shaken, that none can blot your fame, but, Hooper, you're mistaken. Your mind is not as blank as that of Hopley Porter, who holds a curret's rank at Ass's milk-cum-water. He plays the airy flute, and looks depressed and blighted. Doves round about him toot, and Lampkin's dance delighted. He labours more than you at worsted work, and frames it, in Old Maid's album's two-stick seaweed, yes, and names it. The tempter said his say, which pierced him like a needle. He summoned straight away his sexton and his beetle. These men were men who could hold liberal opinions. On Sundays they were good. On weekdays they were minions. To Hopley Porter go. Your fare I will afford you. Deal him a deadly blow, and blessings shall reward you. But stay! I do not like undue assassination, and so, before you strike, make this communication. I'll give him this one chance. If he'll more gaily bear him, play croquet, smoke, and dance, I willingly will spare him. They went those minions true to Ass's milk-cum-water, and told their errand to the reverend Hopley Porter. What? said that reverend Gent? Dance through my hours of leisure, smoke, bathe myself with scent, play croquet. Oh, with pleasure! Where all my hair in curl, stand at my door and wink so, at every passing-girl, my brother's I should think so. For years I've longed for some excuse for this revulsion, now that excuse has come, I do it on compulsion. He smoked and winked away this reverend Hopley Porter, the deuce there was to pay at Ass's milk-cum-water. And Hooper holds his ground, in mild-less, daily growing. They think him all around the mildest curate going. End of ballad number two, The Rival Curates from the Bad Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number three of the Bad Ballads by W. S. Gilbert, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Only a dancing girl. Only a dancing girl with an unromantic style, with borrowed colour and curl, with fixed mechanical smile, with many a hack knit while, with ungrammatical lips and corns that mar her trips. Hung from the flies in air she acts a palpable lie. She's as little a fairy there as unpoetical I. I hear you asking why, why in the world I sing this tawdry, tinseled thing? No airy-fair is she as she hangs in arsenic green, from a highly impossible tree in a highly impossible scene, herself not over-clean. Forfeits don't suffer, I'm told, from bunions, coughs, or cold. And stately dames that bring their daughters there to see, pronounce the dancing thing no better than she should be, with her skirt at her shameful knee, and her painted, tainted fizz. Ah, matron, which of us is? And in sooth it oft occurs that while these matrons sigh, their dresses are lower than hers, and sometimes half as high, and their hair is hair they buy, and they use their glasses too in a way she had blush to do. But change her gold and green for a coarse merino gown, and see her upon the scene of her home when coaxing down her drunken father's frown in his squalid, cheerless den. She's a fairy truly, then. General John and Private James of the sixty-seventy-first. General John was a soldier tried, a chief of war-like dons. A haughtiest tried, and a withering pride, were Major General John's. A sneer would play on his marshal-fizz's superior birth to show. Pish! was a favourite word of his. And he often said, Ho, ho! All Private James described might be as a man of a mournful mind. No characteristic tray had he of any distinctive kind. From the ranks one day cried Private James, O Major General John, I've doubts of our respective names my mournful mind upon. A glimmering thought occurs to me, its source I can't unearth, but I've a kind of a notion we were cruelly changed at birth. I've a strange idea that each other's names we've each of us here got on. Such things have been, said Private James. They have, sneered General John. My General John I swear upon my oath I thinked is so. Pish! proudly sneered his General John. And he also said, Ho, ho! My General John, my General John, my General John quiff he, this aristocratical sneer upon your face I blushed to see. No truly great or generous cove deserving of them names would sneer at a fixed idea that's drove in the mind of a Private James. Said General John, upon your claims no need your breath to waste, if this is a jokeful Private James, it's a joke of doubtful taste. But being a man of doubtless worth, if you feel certain quite that we were probably changed at birth, I'll venture to say you're right. So General John, as Private James fell in parade upon, and Private James, by change of names, was Major General John. End of ballad number four, General John from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number five of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. To a Little Maid by a Policeman. Come with me, Little Maid. May shrink not, thus afraid, I'll harm thee not. Fly not, my love, from me. I have a home for thee, a fairy grot where mortal I can rarely pry, there shall thy dwelling be. List to me while I tell the pleasures of that cell, O Little Maid, what though its couch be rude, only the only food within its shade, no thought of care can enter there, no vulgar swain intrude. Come with me, Little Maid, come to the rocky shade I love to sing. Live with us, Maiden Rare, come, for we want thee there. Thou elfin thing, to work thy spell in some cool cell, in stately Pentonville. End of ballad number five, To a Little Maid by a Policeman from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number six of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. John and Freddie John courted lovely Mary Ann, so likewise did his brother Freddie. Fred was a very soft young man, while John, though quick, was most unsteady. Fred was a graceful kind of youth, but John was very much the strongest. Oh, dance away, said she, in truth I'll marry him who dances longest. John tries the maiden's taste to strike with gay grotesque outrageous dresses and dances comically like Kledosh and Coe at the princesses. But Freddie tries another style. He knows some graceful steps and does them. A breathing poem, woman's smile, a man all poessy and bosom. Now Fred is operatic par. Now John is hornpipe seems entrapping. Now Fred is graceful entrechard. Now John is skillful cellar-flapping. For many hours, for many days, for many weeks performed each brother. For each was active in his ways, and neither would give in to t'other. After a month of this, they say, the maid was getting bored and moody, a wandering curate passed that way and talked a lot of goody-goody. Oh, my, said he with solemn frown, I tremble for each dancing freighter, like unregenerated clown and harlequin at some theatre. He showed that men in dancing do both impiously and absurdly, and proved his proposition true with firstly, secondly, and thirdly. For months both John and Freddie danced the curate's protest little heeding. For months the curate's words enhanced the sinfulness of their proceeding. At length they bowed to nature's rule. Their steps grew feeble and unsteady till Freddie fainted on a stool, and Johnny on the top of Freddie. Decide, quoth they, let him be named, who henceforth as his wife may rank you. I've changed my views, the maiden said. I only marry curates, thank you. Says Freddie, here is going's on to bust myself with rage I'm ready. I'll be a curate, whispers John. And I, exclaimed poetic Freddie. But while they read for it these chaps, the curate booked the maiden Bonnie, and when she's buried him perhaps she'll marry Frederick, or Johnny, End of ballad number six, John and Freddie, from the Bad Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number seven of the Bad Ballads by W. S. Gilbert, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Sir Guy the Crusader Sir Guy was a doughty crusader, a muscular knight ever ready to fight a very determined invader, and Dickie de Leon's delight. Lenore was a Saracen maiden, brunette, statuesque, the reverse of grotesque. Her father was a bag-man from Aden, her mother she played in Berlesque. A quarry-fey pretty and loyal, in amber and red the ballet she led. Her mother performed at the Royal, Lenore at the Saracen's head. Of face and of figure majestic, she dazzled the sits, ecstaticised pits. Her troubles were only domestic, but drove her half out of her wits. Her father incessantly lashed her, on water and bread she was grudgingly fed. Whenever her father he thrashed her, her mother sat down on her head. Guy saw her and loved her with reason, for beauty so bright sent him mad with delight. He purchased a stall for the season and sat in it every night. His views were exceedingly proper. He wanted to wed, so he called at her shed, and saw her progenitor flop her. Her mother sat down on her head. So pretty, said he, and so trusting, you brute of a dad, you unprincipled cad, your conduct is really disgusting. Come, come, now admit it's too bad. You're a turbant old turk and malignant. Your daughter, Lenore, I intensely adore, and I cannot help feeling indignant a fact that I hinted before. To see a front father employing a deuce of an out-foot of banger about to a sensitive lover's annoying," said the bagman, "'Crasada, get out!' Says Guy, shall a warrior laden with a big spiky knob sit in peace on his knob, while a beautiful Saracen maiden is whipped by a Saracen snob. To London I'll go from my charmer, which he did with his loot, seven hats, and a flute, and was nabbed for his sit-in-them armor at Mr. Ben Samuel's suit. Sir Guy, he was lodged in the compter. Her father, in a rage, died—don't know, his age—his daughter. She married the prompter, grew bulky, and quitted the stage. End of ballad No. 7, Sir Guy the Crusader from the Babb ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 8 of the Babb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Haunted. Haunted. Guy, in a social way, by a body of ghosts in dread array. But no conventional spectres, they, appalling grim and tricky. I quail at mine, as I'd never quail at a fine traditional spectre pale, with a turnip head and a ghostly wail, and a splash of blood on the dickey. Mine are horrible social ghosts. Speeches, and women, and guests, and hosts. Weddings, and morning-calls, and toasts, in every bad variety. Ghosts who hover about the grave, of all that's manly, free, and brave. You'll find their names on the architrave of that charnel-house society. Black Monday, black as its schoolroom ink, with its dismal boys that snivel and think of its nauseous messes to eat and drink, and its frozen tank to wash in. That was the first that brought me grief, and made me weep till I sought relief in an emblematical handkerchief, to choke such baby Bosch in. First and worst in the grim array, ghosts of ghosts that have gone their way, which I wouldn't revive for a single day, for all the wealth of Plutus, are the horrible ghosts that school days scared. If the classical ghost that Brutus dared was the ghost of his Caesar unprepared, I'm sure I pity Brutus. I passed to Critical 17, the ghost of that terrible wedding scene, when an elderly charnel stole my queen, and woke my dream of heaven. No schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room-girls was my gushing innocent queen of pearls. If she wasn't a girl of a thousand girls, she was one of forty-seven. I see the ghost of my first cigar, of the thence arising family jar, of my maiden brief. I was at the bar, and I called the judge a wash-up, of reckless days and reckless nights, with wrenched-off knockers, extinguished lights, unholy songs and tipsy fights, which I strove in vain to hush up. Ghosts of fraudulent joint-stock banks, ghosts of copy-declined with thanks, of novels returned in endless ranks, and thousands more I suffer. The only line to fitly grace my humble tomb when I've run my race is, reader, this is the resting place of an unsuccessful duffer. I fought them all, these ghosts of mine, but the weapons I've used are sighs and brine, and now that I'm nearly forty-nine, old age is my chiefest bogey. For my hair is thinning away at the crown, and the silver fights with the worn-out brown, and a general verdict sets me down as an irreclaimable fogey. End of Ballard No. 8 Haunted from the Bab-Ballards This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 9 of the Bab-Ballards by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman The Bishop and the Busman It was a Bishop bold, and London was his sea. He was short and stout and roundabout, and zealous as could be. It also was a Jew who drove a Putney bus. For flesh of swine, however fine, he did not care a cuss. His name was Hash-Baz-Ben, and Jeddi-Dyer too, and Solomon and Zabulon, this bus-directing Jew. The Bishop said, said he, I'll see what I can do to Christianize and make you wise, you poor, benighted Jew. So every blessed day that bus he rode outside, from Fulham Town, both up and down, and loudly thus he cried, His name is Hash-Baz-Ben, and Jeddi-Dyer too, and Solomon and Zabulon, this bus-directing Jew. At first the Busman smiled, and rather liked the fun. He merely smiled that Hebrew child, and said, eccentric one. And gay young dogs would wait to see the bus go by. These gay young dogs in striking dogs, to hear the Bishop cry. Observe his grisly beard, his race it clearly shows. He sticks no fork in ham or pork. Observe, my friends, his nose. His name is Hash-Baz-Ben, and Jeddi-Dyer too, and Solomon and Zabulon, this bus-directing Jew. But though at first amused, yet after seven years this Hebrew child got rather riled, and melted into tears. He really almost feared to leave his poor abode. His nose and name and beard became a by-word on that road. At length he swore an oath, the reason he would know. I'll call and see why ever he does persecute me so. The good old Bishop sat on his ancestral chair. The busman came, sent up his name, and laid his grievance bare. Ben-ighted Jew, he said, the good old Bishop did, be Christian you, instead of Jew, become a Christian kid. I'll nare annoy you more. Indeed, replied the Jew, shall I be freed? You will indeed. Then Dunn said he with you. The organ which in man between the eyebrows grows fell from his face, and in its place he found a Christian nose. His tangled Hebrew beard, which to his waist came down, was now a pair of Whiskers' Fair, his name Adolphus Brown. He wedded in a year that Prelate's daughter Jane. His grown quite fair, has Orban hair. His wife is far from plain. End of ballad number nine, The Bishop and the Busman, from the Bad Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number ten of the Bad Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Redfield Librivox.org by Graham Redman. The Troubadour. A Troubadour he played without a castle wall. Within, a hapless maid responded to his call. Oh, Willow, woe is me, a lack and well a day. If I were only free, I'd hide me far away. Unknown her face and name, but this he knew right well, the maidens wailing came from out a dungeon cell. A hapless woman lay within that dungeon grim. That fact, I've heard him say, was quite enough for him. I will not sit or lie, or eat or drink, I vow, till thou art free as I, or I as pent as thou. Her tears then ceased to flow, her wails no longer rang, and tuneful in her woe the prisoned maidens sang, Oh, stranger, as you play, I recognize your touch, and all that I can say is, thank you very much. He seized his clarion straight and blew thereat until a warden oaked the gate. Oh, what might be your will? I've come, so knave, to see the master of these halls. A maid unwillingly lies prisoned in their walls. With barely stifled sigh that porter drooped his head. With tear-drops in his eye. A many, sir, he said. He stayed to hear no more, but pushed that porter by, and shortly stood before Sir Hugh the Peckham Rye. Sir Hugh, he darkly frowned. What would you, sir, with me? The troubadour he downed upon his bended knee. I've come, the Peckham Rye, to do a Christian task. You ask me, what would I? It is not much, I ask. Release these maidens, sir, whom you dominion ear, particularly her upon the second floor. And if you don't, my lord," he here stood bolt upright and tapped a tailor's sword, come out, you cad, and fight. Sir Hugh, he called, and ran the warden from the gate. Go show this gentleman the maid in forty-eight. By many a cell they passed, and stopped at length before a portal bolted fast. The man unlocked the door. He called inside the gate with course and brutal shout. Come, step it, forty-eight. And forty-eight stepped out. They get it pretty hot, the maidens, what we catch. Two years this lady's got for collaring a watch. Oh, ah, indeed, I see," the troubadour exclaimed. If I may make so free, how is this castle named? The warden's eyelids fill, and sighing he replied, of gloomy Pentonville, this is the female side. The minstrel did not wait the warden's stout to thank, but recollected straight hid business at the bank. End of Ballard No. 10, the troubadour, from the Babb ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 11 of the Babb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. III At a pleasant evening-party I had taken down to supper, one whom I will call Elvira, and we talked of love and Tupper. Mr. Tupper and the poets very lightly with them dealing, for I've always been distinguished for a strong poetic feeling. Then we let off paper-crackers, each of which contained a motto, and she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to. Then she whispered, to the ballroom we had better, dear, be walking, if we stop down here much longer, really people will be talking. There were noblemen in coronets and military cousins, there were captains by the hundred, there were baronets by dozens. Yet she heeded not their offers, but dismissed them with a blessing. Then she let down all her back hair, which had taken long in dressing. Then she had convulsive sobbing in her agitated throttle. Then she wiped her pretty eyes and smelt her pretty smelling bottle. So I whispered, dear Elvira, say, what can the matter be with you? Does anything you've eaten, darling Popsie, disagree with you? But spite of all I said, her sobs grew more and more distressing, and she tore her pretty back hair, which had taken long in dressing. Then she gazed upon the carpet, at the ceiling, then above me, and she whispered, Ferdinando, do you really, really love me? Love you, said I, then I sighed, and then I gazed upon her sweetly, for I think I do this sort of thing particularly neatly. Send me to the Arctic regions, or a limitable Asia, on a scientific goose-chase, with my coxwell or my glacier. Tell me, wither I may hide me, tell me, dear one, that I may know, is it up the highest Andes, down a horrible volcano? But she said, it isn't polar bears or hot volcanic grottos, only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottos. Part 2 Tell me, Henry Wadsworth, Alfred, poet-close, or Mr. Tupper, do you write the bonbon mottos my alveora pulls at supper? But Henry Wadsworth smiled, and said he had not had that honour, and Alfred, too, disclaimed the words that told so much upon her. Mr. Martin Tupper, poet-close, I beg of you, informus! But my questions seem to throw them both into a rage enormous. Mr. Close expressed a wish that he could only get a night to me, and Mr. Martin Tupper sent the following reply to me, a fool is bent upon a twig, but wise men dread a bandit, which I know was very clever, but I didn't understand it. Seven weary years I wandered, Patagonia, China, Norway, but last I sank exhausted at a pastry-cook his Norway. There were fuchsias and uraniums and daffodils and myrtle, so I entered, and I ordered half a basin of mock-turtle. He was plump, and he was chubby, he was smooth, and he was rosy, and his little wife was pretty and particularly cosy. And he chirped and sang and skipped about, and laughed with laughter hearty. He was wonderfully active for so very stout a party. And I said, O gentle pie-man, why so very, very merry, is it purity of conscience, or your one and seven sherry? But he answered, I am so happy, no profession could be dearer. If I am not humming tralala, I am singing tiralira. First I go and make the patties and the puddings and the jellies, then I make a sugar-bird-cage, which upon a table swell is, then I polish all the silver, which are supper-table lacquers, then I write the pretty mottos, which you find inside the crackers. Found at last I madly shouted, Gentle pie-man, you astound me! Then I waved the turtle-soup enthusiastically round me, and I shouted and I danced until it quite a crowd around him, and I rushed away exclaiming, I have found him, I have found him! And I heard the gentle pie-man in the road behind me trilling, tiralira, stop him, stop him, tralala, the soups are shilling! But until I reached Elvira's home I never, never waited, and Elvira to her Ferdinand's irrevocably mated. End of ballad number eleven, Ferdinando and Elvira, or the gentle pie-man, from the Bab-ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number twelve of the Bab-ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Lorenzo de Lardy Delilah de Lardy adored the very correctest of cards. Lorenzo de Lardy, a lord, he was one of Her Majesty's guards. Delilah de Lardy was fat, Delilah de Lardy was old, no doubt in the world about that, but Delilah de Lardy had gold. Lorenzo de Lardy was tall, the flower of maidenly pets. Young ladies would love at his call. But Lorenzo de Lardy had debts. His money-position was queer, and one of his favourite freaks was to hide himself three times a year in Paris for several weeks. Many days didn't pass him before he fanned himself into a flame for a beautiful damned eucomptoire, and this was her singular name. Alice Eulalie Coraline, Eufrausine Colombine-Aterès, Juliette Stephanie Célestine, Charlotte Rousse de la Sausse-Mayonnaise. She booked all the orders and tin, a-cootered in Chaux-et-Fallal, at a two-fifty restaurant in the glittering Palais Royale. Here'd Gaze in her orbit of blue, her hand he would tenderly squeeze. But the words of her tongue that he knew were limited strictly to these. Coraline, Célestine, Eulalie, Roup-la, je vous aime, oui, Moussou, combien donnez-moi aujourd'hui? Bonjour, Mamoiselle, parlez-vous. Mamoiselle de la Sausse-Mayonnaise was a witty and beautiful miss, extremely correct in her ways. But her English consisted of this. Oh, my pretty man, if you please! Blomboudine, bif-tech, curry-lam, boule-dog, two francs-half, quite a cheese, rose-bif, me speak English goddamn. Here'd Gaze in her eyes all the day admiring their sparkle and dance and list while she rattled away in the musical accents of France. A waiter, for seasons before, had basked in her beautiful gaze and burnt to dismemberment l'eau, he loved de la Sausse-Mayonnaise. He said to her, m'échante-terreze, avec des esprits à tue m'accable, pens-tu de la Sausse-Mayonnaise, ses intentions sont honorable? Flûtez toujours ma belle-sie, tu ose, je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère, je lui dirai de quoi l'encompose, volovante à la financière. Lord Lardy knew nothing of this. The waiter's devotion ignored, but he gazed on the beautiful miss and never seemed weary or bored. The waiter would screw up his nerve, his fingers he'd snap and he'd dance, and Lord Lardy would smile and observe, how strange are the customs of France! Well, after delaying a space, his tradesmen no longer would wait, returning to England a pace he yielded himself to his fate. Lord Lardy espoused, with a groan, Miss Dardy's developing charms, and agreed to tag on to his own her name and her newly found arms. The waiter he knelt at the toes of an ugly and thin choriffet who danced in the hindermost rows at the théâtre de Varieté. Mademoiselle de la sauce-mayonnaise didn't yield to a gnaughting despair, but married a soldier, and plays as a pretty and perte vivendière. End of ballad number twelve, Lorenzo de Lardy, from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number thirteen of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Disillusioned by an ex-enthusiast. Oh, that my soul its gods could see, as years ago they seemed to me when first I painted them, invested with the circumstance of old conventional romance exploded theorem. The bard who could all men above inflame my soul with songs of love, and, with his verse, inspire the craven soul who feared to die with all the glow of chivalry and old heroic fire. I found him in a beer-house tap, awaking from a gin-borne nap with pipe and sloven dress. Amusing chums who fooled his bent with muddy mordlin sentiment and tipsy foolishness. The novelist whose painting penned to legions of fictitious men a real existence-lens, brain-people whom we rarely fail when ere we hear their names to hail as old and welcome friends. I found in clumsy snuffy suit in seedy glove and blue-her-boot uncomfortably big, particularly commonplace with vulgar coarse, knock-broken face and spectacles and wig. My favourite actor who at will with mimic woe my eyes could fill with unaccustomed brine, a being who appeared to me before I knew him well, to be a song in carnodyne. I found a coarse unpleasant man with speckled chin, unhealthy man of self-importance full, existing in an atmosphere that reeked of gin and pipes and beer, conceited, fractious, dull. The warrior whose ennobled name is woven with his country's fame triumphant over all. I found weak, palsy, bloated, blear. His province seemed to be to leer at Bonnets in Palmale. Would that ye all were shone who write, bathed in your own innate limelight, and ye who battles wage, or that in darkness I had died before my soul had ever sighed to see you off the stage? End of Ballard No. 13 Disillusioned by an ex-enthusiast from the Bad Ballards. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 14 of the Bad Ballards by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Babette's Love Babette, she was a fisher-gall, with jupin striped and cap in crimps. She passed her days inside the howl, or catching little nimble shrimps. Yet she was sweet as flowers in May with no professional bouquet. Jaco was of the customs-bold an officer at Gay Boulogne. He loved Babette, his love he told, and sighed, Oh, soyez-vous, my own. But no, said she, Jaco, my pet, vous êtes trop scraggie, poor Babette. Of one alone I nightly dream, an able mariner is he, and Gayle serves the General Steam Boat Navigation Company. I'll marry him, if he but will. His name I rather think is Bill. I see him when he's not aware upon our hospitable coast, reclining with an easy air upon the port against a post, thinking of, I'll dare to say, his native Chelsea far away. Oh, moi, exclaimed the customs-bold, mes yeux, he said, which means my eye. Oh, cher, he also cried, I'm told, par-jeuves, he added with a sigh. Oh, moi, oh, cher, mes yeux, par-jeuves, je n'aime pas cet enticing-cove. The panther's captain stood hard by. He was a man of moral strict. If ere a sailor winked his eye, straight way he had that sailor licked. Masked headed all, such was his code, who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed. He wept to think a tar of his should lean so gracefully on posts, he sighed and sobbed to think of this, on foreign French and friendly coasts. It's human nature, perhaps, if so, oh, isn't human nature low. He called his bill, who pulled his curl. He said, my bill, I understand you've captivated some young girl, on this here French and foreign land. Attend a heart your beauty's jog, they do, you know they do, you dog. You have a graceful way I learn of leaning ereally on posts, by which you've been and cause to burn a tender flame on these here coasts. A fisher girl I much regret. Her age sixteen, her name Babette. You'll marry her, you gentle tar. Your union I myself will bless. And when you matrimonial I will appoint her stewedess. But William hitched himself and sighed, and cleared his throat, and thus replied, not so. Unless you're fond of strife, you'd better mind your own affairs. I have an able bodied wife awaiting me at whopping stairs. If all this here to her I tell, she'll larep you, and me as well. Skin deep and valued at a pin is beauty such as Venus owns. Her beauty is beneath her skin, and lies in layers on her bones. The other sailors of the crew they always call her whopping stew. Oh, ho! the captain said, I see. And is she then so very strong? She'd take your honour scruff, said he, and pitch you over to belong. I pardon you, the captain said, the fair Babette you needn't wed. Perhaps the customs had his will and coaxed the scornful girl to wed. Perhaps the captain and his bill and William's little wife are dead. Or perhaps they're all alive and well. I cannot, cannot, cannot tell. End of Ballad No. 14 Babette's Love from the Babballads This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 15 of the Babballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman To my bride, whoever she may be. Oh, little maid, I do not know your name or who you are, so as a safe precaution I'll add. Oh, buxom widow, married dame, as one of these must be your present portion. Listen while I unveil prophetic law for you, and sing the fate that fortune has in store for you. You'll marry soon, within a year or twain, a bachelor of circa two and thirty. Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain, and when you're intimate you'll call him Bertie. Neat, dresses well, his temper has been classified as hasty, but he's very quickly pacified. You'll find him working mildly at the bar, after a touch at two or three professions. From easy affluence extremely far, a brief or two on circuit, soup at sessions, a pound or two from whisked and backing horses, and say three hundred from his own resources. Quiet in harness, free from serious vice, his faults are not particularly shady. You'll never find him shy, for once or twice already he's been driven by a lady who parts with him, perhaps a poor excuse for him, because she hasn't any further use for him. Oh, bride of mine, tall, dumpy, dark or fair, oh widow, wife may be or blushing maiden, I've told your fortune, solved the gravest care with which your mind has hitherto been laden. I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it. Now tell me mine, and please be quick about it. You, only you, can tell me, and you will, to whom I'm destined shortly to be mated. Will she run up a heavy Moody's spill? If so, I want to hear her income stated. This is a point which interests me greatly. To quote the bard. Oh, have I seen her lately? Say, must I wait till husband number one is comfortably stowed away at Woking? How is her hair most usually done? And tell me, please, will she object to smoking? The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention. Come, Sibyl, prophesy, I'm all attention. End of ballad number fifteen. To my bride, whoever she may be, from the Bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number sixteen of the Bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert. The Folly of Brown by a General Agent. I knew a boar, a clownish card, his only friends were pigs and cows, and the poultry of a small farmyard, who came into two hundred thousand. Good fortune worked no change in Brown, though she's a mighty social chymist. He was a clown, and by a clown I do not mean a pen to my mist. It left him quiet, calm, and cool, though hardly knowing what a crown was, you can't imagine what a fool, poor, rich, uneducated Brown was. He scouted all who wished to come and give him monetary schooling, and I propose to give you some idea of his insensate fooling. I formed a company or two. Of course I don't know what the rest meant, I formed them solely with a view to help him to a sound investment. Their objects were their only cares to justify their boards in showing a handsome dividend on shares and keep their good promoter going. But no, the loud sticks to his brass, though shares at par I freely proffer, yet will it be believed the arse declines with thanks my well-meant offer. He adds with Bunkin's stolid grin, a weakly intellect denoting, he had rather not invested in a company of my promoting. I have two hundred thou or more, said I. You'll waste it, lose it, lend it. Come, take my furnished second floor, I'll gladly show you how to spend it. But will it be believed that he, with grin upon his face of poppy, declined my aid while thanking me for what he called my philanthropy? Some blind suspicious fools rejoice in doubting friends who wouldn't harm them. They will not hear the charmer's voice, however wisely he may charm them. I showed him that his coat, all dust, top boots, and cords provoked compassion, and proved that men of station must conform to the decrees of fashion. I showed him where to buy his hat, to coat him, trouser him, and boot him. But no, he wouldn't hear of that. He didn't think the style would suit him. I offered him a countess's seat, and made no end of a narration. I made it certain to complete and introduce the deputation. But no, the clown my prospect blights. Of birth it surely teaches. Why should I want to spend my nights in Parliament and making speeches? I haven't never been to school, I ain't had not no education, and I should surely be a fool to publish that to all the nation. I offered him a trotting horse, no hack had ever trotted faster. I also offered him, of course, a rare and curious old master. I offered to procure him weeds, wines fit for one in his position. But though an ass in all his deeds, he had learnt the meaning of commission. He called me thief the other day, and daily from his door he thrusts me. Much more of this, and soon I may begin to think that Brown mistrusts me. So deaf to all sound reasons rule this poor uneducated clown is, you cannot fancy what a fool, poor, rich, uneducated Brown is. End of Ballard No. 16 The Folly of Brown by a General Agent from the Bab Ballads This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 17 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert ReadfullyBrivox.org by Graham Redman Sir Macklin All the youths I ever saw, none were so wicked, vain or silly, so lost to shame and Sabbath law, as worldly Tom and Bob and Millie. For every Sabbath day they walked, such was their gay and thoughtless nature, in parks or gardens, where they talked from three to six, or even later. Sir Macklin was a priest severe in conduct and in conversation. It did a sinner good to hear him deal in ratio-sination. He could in every action show some sin, and nobody could doubt him. He argued high, he argued low, he also argued round about him. He wept to think each thoughtless youth contained of wickedness a skinful, and burnt to teach the awful truth that walking out on Sundays sinful. O youths, said he, I grieve to find the course of life you've been and hit on. Sit down, said he, and never mind the pennies for the chairs you sit on. My opening-head is Kensington, how walking there the sinner heartens, which when I have enlarged upon I go to, secondly, its gardens. My thirdly comprehendeth hide, of secrecy, the gifts and shameses. My fourthly park, its verge or wide. My fifthly comprehends St. James's. That matter settled I shall reach the sixthly in my solemn tether, and show that what is true of each is also true of all together. Then I shall demonstrate to you, according to the rules of Wakeley, that what is true of all is true of each considered separately. In lavish stream his accents flow, Tom, Bob, and Billy dare not flout him. He argued high, he argued low, he also argued round about him. Ha-ha! he said, you loath your ways, you writhe at these my words of warning. In agony your hands you raise. And so they did, for they were yawning. To twenty-firstly on they go, the lads do not attempt to scout him. He argued high, he argued low, he also argued round about him. Ho-ho! he cries, you bow your crests, my eloquence has set you weeping, in shame you bend upon your breasts. And so they did, for they were sleeping. He proved them this, he proved them that, this good, but weary, so mesetic. He jumped, and thumped upon his hat, he was so very energetic. His bishop at this moment chanced to pass, and found the road encumbered. He noticed how the churchman danced, and how his congregation slumbered. The hundred-and-eleventh head, the priest completed of his stricture. Oh, bosh! the worthy bishop said, and walked him off as in the picture. End of ballad number seventeen, Sir Macklin, from the Bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number eighteen of the Bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Redfellibrivox.org by Graham Redman. The yarn of the Nancy Bell. It was on the shores that round our coast from deal to Ramsgate span, that I found alone on a piece of stone an elderly naval man. His hair was weedy, his beard was long, and weedy and long was he, and I heard this white on the shore recite in a singular minor key. Oh, I am a cook and a captain-bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brig, and a bosom tight and a midship might, and the crew of the captain's gig. And he shook his fists, and he tore his hair till I really felt afraid, for I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, and so I simply said, oh, elderly man, it's little I know of the duties of men of the sea, and I'll eat my hand if I understand, however you can be, at once, a cook and a captain-bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brig, and a bosom tight and a midship might, and the crew of the captain's gig. Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which is a trick all seamen lawn, and having got rid of a thumping quid, he spun this painful yarn. It was in the good ship Nancy Bell that we sailed to the Indian Sea, and there on a reef we come to grief, which has often occurred to me. And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned, there was seventy-seven of soul, and only ten of the Nancy's men said here to the muster-roll. There was me and the cook and the captain-bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brig, and the bosom tight and a midship might, and the crew of the captain's gig. For a month we had neither whittles nor drink till a hungry we did feel, so we drawed a lot, and according shot the captain for our meal. The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, and a delicate dish he made, then our appetite with the midship might we seven survivors stayed, and then we murdered the bosom tight, and he much resembled pig, then we whittled free did the cook and me on the crew of the captain's gig. Then only the cook and me was left, and the delicate question which of us two goes to the kettle arose, and we argued it out as sitch. For I love that cook as a brother, I did, and the cook he worshipped me, but we both beblowed if we'd either bestowed in the other chap's hold, you see. I'll be eat if you dines off me, says Tom. Yes, that says I, you'll be. I'm boiled if I die, my friend, quote I. And exactly so, quote he. Says he, dear James, to murder me were a foolish thing to do, for don't you see that you can't cook me, while I can and will cook you. So he boils the water, and takes the salt and the pepper in portions true which he never forgot, and some chop shallot, and some sage and parsley too. Come here, says he, with a proper pride, which his smiling features tell, twill soothing be if I let you see how extremely nice you'll smell. And he stirred it round and round and round, and he's stiffed at the foaming froth, when I ups with his heels and smothers his squeals in the scum of the boiling broth. And I eat that cook in a week or less, and as I eating be the last of his chops, why, I almost drops for a whistle in sight I see. And I never laugh, and I never smile, and I never lark nor play, but sit and croak, and a single joke I have, which is to say, Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold, and the mate of the Nancy Brigg, and a bosom tight, and a midship knight, and the crew of the captain's gig. End of ballad number 18, The Yarn of the Nancy Bell, from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number 19 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Bishop of Rumtifu. From east and south the holy clan of bishops gathered to a man, to synod, called Pan Anglican, in flocking crowds they came. Among them was a bishop who had lately been appointed to the barmy isle of Rumtifu, and Peter was his name. His people, twenty-three in some, they played the eloquent tom-tom, and lived on scouts served up in Rum, the only source they knew. When first good Bishop Peter came, for Peter was that bishop's name, to humour them he did the same as they of Rumtifu. His flock, I've often heard him tell, his name was Peter, loved him well, and, summoned by the sound of bell, in crowds together came. Oh, Massa, why you go away? Oh, Massa, Peter, please to stay? They called him Peter, people say, because it was his name. He told them all good boys to be, and sailed away across the sea. At London Bridge that bishop he arrived one Tuesday night, and as that night he homeward strode to his pan Anglican abode, he passed along the borough road, and saw a gruesome sight. He saw a crowd assembled round a person dancing on the ground, who straight began to leap and bound with all his might and main. To see that dancing man he stopped, who twirled and wriggled, skipped and hopped, then down incontinently dropped, and then sprang up again. The bishop chuckled at the sight. This style of dancing would delight a simple Rumtifu's alight. I'll learn it if I can, to please the tribe when I get back. He begged the man to teach his neck. Right reverence, sir, in half a crack, replied that dancing man. The dancing man he worked away and taught the bishop every day. The dancer skipped, like any fey, good Peter did the same. The bishop buckled to his task with Batamon and Pada Bask. I'll tell you, if you care to ask, that Peter was his name. Come, walk like this, the dancer said. Stick out your toes, stick in your head, walk on with quick galvanic tread, your fingers thus extend. The attitudes considered quaint. The weary bishop feeling faint replied, I do not say it ain't, but time, my Christian friend. We now proceed to something new, dance as the pains and glories do, like this, one-two, one-two, one-two. The bishop never proud, but in an overwhelming heat. His name was Peter, I repeat, performed the pain and lorry feet, and puffed his thanks aloud. Another game, the dancer planned. Just take your ankle in your hand and try, my lord, if you can stand, your body stiff and stark. If, when revisiting your sea, you learnt to hop on shore, like me, the novelty would striking be and must attract remark. No, said the worthy bishop. No, that is a length of which I true colonial bishops cannot go. You may express surprise at finding bishops deal in pride, but if that trick I ever tried I should appear undignified in Rumtifu's eyes. The islanders of Rumtifu are well-conducted persons who approve a joke as much as you, and laugh at it as such. But if they saw their bishop land his leg supported in his hand, the joke they wouldn't understand, to it pain them very much. End of Ballard No. 19, the Bishop of Rumtifu from the Bab Ballads, this recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 20 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The precocious baby, a very true tale, to be sung to the air of the whistling oyster. An elderly person, a prophet by trade with his quips and tips on withered old lips, he married a young and a beautiful maid, the cunning old-blade, though rather decayed, he married a beautiful, beautiful maid. She was only eighteen and as fair as could be with her tempting smiles and maidenly wiles, and he was a trifle past seventy-three, now what she could see is a puzzle to me in a prophet of seventy-seventy-three. Of all their acquaintances, bidden or bad, with their loud high jinks and under-bred winks, none thought they'd a family have, but they had, a little lad who drove him half mad, for he turned out a horribly fast little cad. For when he was born he astonished all by, with the, Lord, dear me, did ever you see, he had a pipe in his mouth and a glass in his eye, a hat all awry, an octagon tie and a miniature, miniature glass in his eye. He grumbled at wearing a frock and a cap with his, oh, dear, oh, and his hangy-to-know, and he turned up his nose at his excellent pap, my friends, it's a tap that is not worth a wrap. Now this was remarkably excellent pap. He chucked his nurse under the chin and he'd say with his fal-lal-lal, ooh, deust fine gal! This shocking precocity drove him away. A month from to-day is as long as I'll stay, then I'd wish a few peas, but a total away. His father, a simple old gentleman, he, with nursery rhyme and once on a time, would tell him the story of Little Bo Pea. So pretty was she, so pretty, and we, as pretty, as pretty, as pretty could be. But the babe, with a dig that would startle an ox with his, oh, my, go along with Zufie, would exclaim, I'm afraid you a shocking old fox. Now the father it shocks and it whitens his locks when his little babe calls him a shocking old fox. The name of his father he'd couple and pair with his ill-bred laugh and insolent chaff with those of the nursery heroine's rare, Virginia the fair or good golden hair, till the nuisance was more than a prophet could bear. There's Jill and White Cat, said the bold little brat with his loud ha-ha. Oh, sly Ikelpah, with you beauty, Bo Peep, and ooh, Mrs. Jack Spratt. I've noticed you pat my pretty White Cat. I think dear Mama ought to know about that. He early determined to marry and wife for better or worse with his elderly nurse. Which the poor little boy didn't live to contrive, his health didn't thrive. No longer alive he died an enfeebled old dotard at five. Moral. Now elderly men of the bachelor crew with wrinkled hoes and spectacled nose don't marry at all. You may take it as true if ever you do the step you will rue. For your babes will be elderly, elderly too. End of Ballard No. 20 The Precocious Baby A Very True Tale from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 21 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Readful LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. To Phoebe. Gentle modest little flower, sweet epitome of May. Love me, but for half an hour love me, love me, little fae. Sentences so fiercely flaming in your tiny shell like ear I should always be exclaiming if I loved you, Phoebe, dear. Smiles that thrill from any distance shed upon me while I sing. Please ecstaticize existence. Love me, o thou fairy thing. Words like these outpouring sadly you'd perpetually hear if I loved you fondly, madly. But I do not, Phoebe, dear. End of Ballard No. 21 to Phoebe from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 22 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Readful LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. Bains-Carrou, gentlemen. Of all the good attorneys who have placed their names upon the roll but few could equal Bains-Carrou for tender heartedness and soul. When ere he heard a tale of woe from Client A or Client B his grief would overcome him so his scarce have strength to take his fee. It laid him up for many days when duty led him to destrain and serving rits, although it pays gave him excruciating pain. He made out costs, restrained for rent, foreclosed and sued with moistened eye. No bill of costs could represent the value of such sympathy. No charges can approximate the worth of sympathy with woe. Although I think I ought to state he did his best to make them so. Of all the many clients who had mustered round his legal flag no single client of the crew was half so dear as Captain Bag. Now Captain Bag had bowed him to a heavy matrimonial yoke. His wife he had of faults a few she never could resist a joke. Her chaff at first he meekly bore till unendurable it grew. To stop this persecution soar I will consult my friend Carew. And when Carew's advice I've got divorce our men, sir, I shall try. A legal separation, not a vinculo conjugie. Oh, Bane's Carew, my woe I've kept a secret hitherto, you know. And Bane's Carew, Esquire, he wept to hear that Bag had any woe. My case indeed is passing sad. My wife whom I considered true with brutal conduct drives me mad. I am appalled," said Bane's Carew. What sound the matrimonial knell of worthy people such as these? Why was I an attorney? Well, go on to the civishia, please. Domestic bliss has proved my Bane a harder case you never heard. My wife, in other matters saying, pretends that I'm a dickie-bird. She makes me sing to wit to we and stand upon a rounded stick and always introduces me to everyone as pretty dick. Oh, dear," said weeping Bane's Carew, this is the direst case I know. I'm grieved, said Bag, at painting you, to Cobb and Potheth wait I'll go. To Cobb's cold calculating ear my gruesome sorrows I'll impart. No, stop," said Bane's, I'll dry my tear and steal my sympathetic heart. She makes me perch upon a tree rewarding me with sweetie-nice and threatens to exhibit me with four or five performing mice. Restrain my tears, I wish I could, said Bane's. I don't know what to do," said Captain Bag. You're very good. Oh, not at all," said Bane's Carew. She makes me fire a gun, said Bag, and, at a preconcerted word, climb up a ladder with a flag like any street-performing bird. She places sugar in my way, in public places calls me sweet. She gives me ground-cell every day and hard canary seed to eat. Oh, whoa, oh, sad, oh, dire to tell," said Bane's, be good enough to stop. And senseless on the floor he fell with unprimeditated flop. Said Captain Bag, well, really, I am grieved to think it pains you so. I thank you for your sympathy, but hang it, come, I say, you know. But Bane's lay flat upon the floor convulsed with sympathetic sob. Captain toddled off next door and gave the case to Mr. Cobb. End of ballad number twenty-two, Bane's Carew, gentlemen, from the Babb ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number twenty-three of the Babb ballads by W. S. Gilbert. ReadfullyBrivox.org by Graham Redman. Thomas Winterbottom Hans. In all the towns and cities fair Mary England's broad expanse no swordsman ever could compare with Thomas Winterbottom Hans. The dauntless lad could fairly hew a silken handkerchief in twain, divide a leg of mutton, too, and this without unwholesome strain. On whole half sheep with cunning trick his sabre sometimes he'd employ, no bar of lead, however thick, had terrors for the stalwart boy. At Dover daily he'd prepare to hew and slash behind before, which aggravated Mr. Pierre, who watched him from the callage, or it caused good Pierre to swear and dance, the sight annoyed and vexed him so. He was the bravest man in France. He said so, and he ought to know. Regardez donc ce cochon gros, ce policon au sacre bleu, sensible, sans plom et ses gigots, comme cela mon nuit enfin mon Dieu. Il sait que les foulards de soi give no retaliating whack, les gigomores n'ont pas de croix, le plom don't ever hit you back. But every day the headstrong lad cut lead and mutton more and more, and every day poor Pierre, half mad, shrieked loud defiance from his shore. Hans had a mother poor and old, a simple, harmless village dame who crowed and clapped, as people told of Winterbottom's rising fame. She said, I'll be upon the spot to see my Tommy's sabre play, and so she left her leafy cot and walked to Dover in a day. Pierre had a doting mother who had heard of his defiant rage. His mar was nearly ninety-two and rather dressy for her age. At Hans's doings every morn with sheer delight his mother cried, and Monsieur Pierre's contemptuous scorn filled his mamar with proper pride. But Hans's powers began to fail, his constitution was not strong, and Pierre, who once was stout and pale, grew thin from shouting all day long. Their mothers saw them pale and when maternal anguish tore each breast, and so they met to find a plan to set their offspring's minds at rest. Said Mrs. Hans, of course I shrinks from bloodshed mam, as you're aware, but still there better meet, I thinks. Assurement, said Madame Pierre. A sunny spot in sunny France was hit upon for this affair. The ground was picked by Mrs. Hans. The stakes were pitched by Madame Pierre. Said Mrs. H., your work you see, go in, my noble boy, and win. Engarde mon fils, said Madame P., allons, go on, engarde, begin. The mothers were of decent size, though not particularly tall, but in the sketch that meets your eyes I've been obliged to draw them small. Loud sneered the doughty man of France, ho, ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha, ha. The French for Pesh, said Thomas Hans. Said Pierre, long gle, Monsieur P., bah! Said Mrs. H., come, one, two, three, we're sitting here to see all fair. C'est magnifique, said Madame P., mais pas bleu, ce n'est pas la guerre. Je scorn un faux, si lâche que vous, said Pierre, the doughty son of France. I fight not coward foe like you, said our undaunted Tommy Hans. The French for Poo, our Tommy cried, long gle pour va, the Frenchman crowed. And so, with undiminished pride, each went on his respective road. End of Ballard No. 23, Thomas Winterbottom Hans, from the Bab Ballards. This recording is in the public domain. Ballard No. 24 of the Bab Ballards by W. S. Gilbert, read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Reverend Micah Soules. He shouts and yells and howls. He screams, he mouths, he bumps. He foams, he rants, he thumps. His armour he has buckled on to wage the regulation war against the stage and warns his congregation all to shun the presence chamber of the evil one. The subject's sad enough to make him rant. Unfortunately too, his bishops in a pew. So Reverend Micah claps on extra steam. His eyes are flashing with superior gleam. He is as energetic as can be. For there are fatter livings in that sea. The bishop, when it's o'er, goes through the vestredor, where Micah very red is mopping of his head. Pardon, my lord, your soul's excessive zeal. It is a theme on which I strongly feel. The sermon somebody had sent him down from London at a charge of half a crown. The bishop bowed his head, and acquiescing said, I've heard your well-meant rage against the modern stage. A modern theatre, as I heard you say, so seeds of evil broadcast. Well, it may. But let me ask you, my respected son, pray have you ever ventured into one? My lord said, Micah, no. I never, never go. What go and see you play, my goodness gracious, nay! The worthy bishop said, my friend, no doubt, the stage may be the place you make it out. But if my reverence owls you never go, I don't quite understand how you're to know. Well, really, Micah said, I've often heard and read, but never go. Do you? The bishop said, I do. That proves me wrong, said Micah, in a trice. I thought it all frivolity and vice. The bishop handed him a printed card. Go to a theatre where they play our bard. The bishop took his leave, rejoicing in his sleeve. The next ensuing day sales went and heard a play. He saw a dreary person on the stage who mouthed and mugged in simulated rage, who growled and spluttered in a mode absurd, and spoke an English soul's had never heard. For gaunt was spoken gaunt, and haunt transformed to haunt, and wroth pronounced his wrath, and death was changed to death. For hours and hours that dismal actor walked, and talked, and talked, and talked, and talked. Till lethargy upon the parson crept, and sleepy Micah's souls serenely slept. He slept away until the farce that closed the bill had warned him not to stay. And then he went away. I thought my gate ridiculous, said he, my elocution faulty as could be. I thought I mumbled on a matchless plan. I had not seen our great Tragedian. Forgive me if you can, oh great Tragedian. I own it with a sigh. You're drearyer than I. End of Ballad No. 24 The Reverend Micah's Souls from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 25 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert ReadfullyBrivox.org by Graham Redman A discontented sugarbroker. A gentleman of city fame now claims your kind attention. East India Broking was his game. His name I shall not mention. No one of finely pointed sense would violate a confidence. And shall I go and do it? No, his name I shall not mention. He had a trusty wife and true, and very cosy quarters. A manager, a boy or two, six clerks, and seven porters. A broker must be doing well, as any lunatic can tell, who can employ an active boy, six clerks, and seven porters. His knocker advertised no done. No losses made him sulky. He had one sorrow, only one. He was extremely bulky. A man must be, I beg to state, exceptionally fortunate, who owns his chief, and only grief is being very bulky. This load, he'd say, I cannot bear. I'm nineteen stone or twenty. Henceforward I'll go in for air, and exercise in plenty. Most people think that should it come, they can reduce a bulging tum to measure's fare by taking air, and exercise in plenty. In every weather, every day, dry, muddy, wet, or gritty, he took to dancing all the way from Brompton to the city. You do not often get the chance of seeing sugarbrokers dance from their abode in Fulham Road through Brompton to the city. He braved the gay and guileless laugh of children with their noses, the loud uneducated chaff of clerks on omnibuses. Against all minor things that rack a nicely balanced mind I'll back the noisy chaff and ill-bred laugh of clerks on omnibuses. His friends, who heard his money chink and saw the house he rented and knew his wife, could never think what made him discontented. It never entered their pure minds that fads are of eccentric kinds, nor would they own that fat alone could make one discontented. Your riches know no kind of pause. Your trade is fast advancing. You dance, but not for joy, because you weep as you are dancing. To dance implies that man is glad. To weep implies that man is sad. But here are you who do the two. You weep as you are dancing. His mania soon got noisy about and into all the papers. His size increased beyond a doubt for all his reckless capers. It may seem singular to you, but all his friends admit it true the more he found his figure round, the more he cut his capers. His bulk increased no matter that. He tried the more to toss it. He never spoke of it as fat, but adipose deposit. Upon my word it seems to me unpardonable vanity, and worse than that, to call your fat an adipose deposit. At length his brawny knees gave way and on the carpet sinking upon his shapeless back he lay and kicked away like winking. Instead of seeing in his state the figure of unswerving fate, he laboured still to work his will and kicked away like winking. His friends, disgusted with him now, away in silence wended. I hardly like to tell you how this dreadful story ended. The shocking sequel to impart I must employ the limner's art. If you would know, this sketch will show how his exertions ended. Moral. I hate to preach, I hate to preach. I'm no fanatic croaker. But learn contentment from the fate of this East India broker. Hear everything a man of taste could ever want except a waste and discontent his size and ent and bootless perseverance blind completely wrecked the peace of mind of this East India broker. End of Ballad No. 25 A Discontented Sugar Broker from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 26 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Readful LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The pantomime super to his mask. Vast empty shell, impertinent preposterous abortion with vacant stare and ragged hair and every feature out of all proportion. Embodiment of echoing inanity, excellent type of simpering insanity, unwieldy clumsy nightmare of humanity. I ring thy knell. Tonight thou dyest beast that destroys my heaven-born identity. Nine weeks of nights before the lights swamped in thine own preposterous non-entity. I've been ill-treated, cursed and thrashed dianally, credited for the smile you wear externally. I feel disposed to smash thy face infernally as there thou liest. I've been thy brain. I've been the brain that lit thy dull concavity. The human race invest my face with thine expression of unchecked depravity, invested with a ghastly reciprocity. I've been responsible for thy monstrosity. I for thy wanton blundering ferocity. But not again. Tis time to toll thy knell and that of folly's pantomimical. A nine weeks run and thou hast done all thou canst do to make thyself inimical. A due embodiment of all inanity. Excellent type of simpering insanity. Unwieldy clumsy nightmare of humanity. Freed is thy soul. The mask respondeth. O master mine, look thou within thee ere again ill-using me. Art thou aware of nothing there which might abuse thee as thou art abusing me. A brain that mourns thine unredeemed rascality. A soul that weeps at thy threadbare morality. Both grieving that their individuality is merged in thine. End of ballad number twenty-six. The pantomime super to his mask from the bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number twenty-seven of the bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The force of argument. Lord B. was a nobleman bold who came of illustrious stocks. He was thirty or forty years old and several feet in his socks. To Turnip Topville by the sea this elegant nobleman went, for that was a borrow that he was anxious to repa-resent. At local assemblies he danced until he felt thoroughly ill. He waltzed and he galloped and glanced and threaded the mazy quadril. The maidens of Turnip Topville were simple, ingenuous, pure, and they all worked away with a will the nobleman's heart to secure. Two maidens, all others beyond, endeavored his cares to dispel. The one was the lively Anne Pond, the other sad Mary Morrell. Anne Pond had determined to try and carry the earl with a rush. Her principal feature was I, her greatest accomplishment, Gush. And Mary chose this for her play. Whenever he looked in her eye she had blush and turn quickly away and flitter and flutter and sigh. It was noticed he constantly sighed as she worked out the scheme she had planned, a fact he endeavored to hide with his aristocratical hand. Old Pond was a farmer, they say, and so was Old Tommy Morrell in a humble and pottering way they were doing exceedingly well. They both of them carried by vote the earl was a dangerous man. So nervously clearing his throat one morning Old Tommy began, my dart is no pretty young doll. I'm a plain spoken Zomerzet man. Now what do we mean by my pole and what do we mean by his Anne? Said me, I will give you my bond. I mean them uncommonly well. Believe me, my excellent pond and credit me worthy Morrell. It's quite indisputable, for I'll prove it with singular ease. You shall have it in Barbara or Célarent, whichever you please. You see, when an anchorite bows to the yoke of intentional sin, if the state of the country allows, homogene always steps in. It's a highly aesthetical bond as any mere plow-boy can tell. Of course, replied puzzled Old Pond. I see, said Old Tommy Morrell. Very good then, continued the Lord, when it's fooled to the top of its bent with a sweep of a damoclesaw the web of intention is rent. That's patent to all of us here as any mere school-boy can tell. Pond answered, Of course, it's quite clear. And so did that humbug Morrell. It's terms esoteric and false. I trust that I make myself clear. Morrell only answered, Of course, while Pond slowly muttered, Here, here. Volition, celestial prize, Pollucid as porphyry cell is based on a principle wise. Quite so, exclaimed Pond and Morrell. From what I have said you will see that I couldn't wed either. In fine by nature's unchanging decree your daughters could never be mine. Go home to your pigs and your ricks. My hands of the matter I've rinsed. So they take up their hats and their sticks and exeunt Ambo convinced. End of Ballad No. 27 The Force of Argument from the Bab Ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 28 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Ghost, the Galant, the Gale, and the Goblin. Or unreclaimed suburban clays, some years ago were hoblin, an elderly ghost of easy ways, and an influential goblin. The ghost was a somber spectral shape, a fine old five-act foggy. The goblin impolite young ape, a fine low comedy bogey. And as they exercised their joints, promoting quick digestion, they talked on several curious points and raised this delicate question. Which of us two is number one, the ghosty or the goblin? And at the point they raised in front they fairly fell a squabbley. They'd barely speak, and each, in fine, grew more and more reflective. Each thought his own particular line by chalks the more effective. At length they settled some one should by each of them be haunted and so arranged that either could exert his prowess vaunted. The quaint against the statuesque by competition lawful, the goblin backed the quaint grotesque, the ghost the grandly awful. Now, said the goblin, here's my plan. In attitude commanding I see a stalwart Englishman by Yonder Taylor standing, the very fittest man on earth my influence to try on, of gentle, perhaps of noble birth, and dauntless as a lion. Now wrap yourself within your shroud, remain in easy hearing, observe, you'll hear him scream aloud when I begin appearing. The imp with yell unearthly, wild threw off his dark enclosure. His dauntless victim looked and smiled with singular composure. For hours he tried to daunt the youth, for days indeed, but vainly, the stripling smiled, to tell the truth the stripling smiled inanely. For weeks the goblin weird and wild that noble stripling haunted, for weeks the stripling stood and smiled unmoved and all undaunted. The somber ghost exclaimed, your plan has failed you, goblin, plainly. Now watch on, hardy, heal and man, so stalwart and ungainly. These are the men who chase the row, whose footsteps never falter, who bring with them wherever they go a smack of old sub-walter. Of such as he the men sublime who lead their troops victorious, whose deeds go down to after-time enshrined in annals glorious. Of such as he the bard has said, thoughtful, raulty, raulky, with fecta-crune-clapper-head and fair-swee-unco-porky, he'll faint away when I appear upon his native heather, or perhaps he'll only scream with fear, or perhaps the two together. The spectre showed himself alone to do his ghostly battling, with curdling groan and dismal moan and lots of chains a-rattling. But no, the chill, stout, gaelic stuff withstood all ghostly harrying, his fingers closed upon the snuff which upwards he was carrying. For days that ghost declined to stir, a foggy shapeless giant, for weeks that splendid officer stared back again defiant. Just as the Englishman returned the goblin's vulgar staring, just so the scotch-man boldly spurned the ghost's unmannered scaring. For several years the ghostly twain these Britain's bold have haunted, but all their efforts are in vain, their victims stand undaunted. This very day the imp and ghost whose powers the imp derided stand each at his allotted post. The bet is undecided. End of ballad number twenty-eight, the ghost, the galant, the gael and the goblin from the bab ballads. This recording is in the public domain. Ballad number twenty-nine of the bab ballads by W. S. Gilbert. Redfellibrivox.org by Graham Redman. The phantom curate, a fable. A bishop once, I will not name his sea, annoyed his clergy in the mode conventional, from pulpit shackles never set them free and found a sin where sin was unintentional. All pleasures ended in abuse auricular, the bishop was so terribly particular. Though on the whole a wise and upright man he sought to make a human pleasure's clearances and form his priests on that much lauded plan which pays undue attention to appearances. He couldn't do good deeds without a sarminum, although in truth he bore away the parminum. Enraged to find a deacon at a dance or catch a curate at some mild frivolity he sought by open censure to enhance their dread of joining harmless social jollity. Yet he enjoyed, a fact of notoriety, the ordinary pleasures of society. One evening, sitting at a pantomime, forbidden treat to those who stood in fear of him, roaring at jokes sans meter, sense or rhyme, he turned and saw immediately in rear of him his peace of mind upsetting and annoying it, a curate also heartily enjoying it. Again was Christmas Eve and to enhance his children's pleasure in their harmless rollicking, he, like a good old fellow, stood to dance. When something checked the current of his rollicking, that curate, with a maid he treated lovably, stood up and figured with him in the coverly. Once yielding to an universal choice the company's demand was an emphatic one for the old bishop had a glorious voice. In a quartet he joined, an operatic one. Harmless enough, though nared a word of grace in it, when lo! that curate came and took the base in it. One day, when passing through a quiet street, he stopped a while and joined a puncher's gathering and chuckled more than solemn folk think meat to see that gentleman his duty lathering. And heard, as punch was being treated peenily, that phantom curate laughing all hyenily. Now at a picnic, midfair golden curls, bright eyes, straw hats, botteens that fit amazingly, a croquet bout is planned by all the girls and he consenting speaks of croquet praisingly. But suddenly declines to play at all in it, the curate fiend has come to take a ball in it. Next, when at quiet seaside village, freed from cares episcopal and thysmanarchical, he grows his beard and smokes his fragrant weed in manner anything but hierarchical. He sees and fixes an unearthly stare on it that curate's face with half a yard of hair on it. At length he gave a charge and spake this word, because your curate's to enjoyment urge Yime to check their harmless pleasurings absurd what laymen do without reproach my clergy, may. He spake and lo at this concluding word of him the curate vanished. No one since has heard of him. End of Ballad No. 29 The Phantom Curate of Fable from the Bab Ballads This recording is in the public domain. Ballad No. 30 of the Bab Ballads by W. S. Gilbert Read for LibriVox.org by Graham Redman. The Sensation Captain No nobler captain ever trod than Captain Parkelbury Todd, so good, so wise, so brave he. But still, as all his friends would own, he had one folly, one alone, this captain in the navy. I do not think I ever knew a man so wholly given to creating a sensation. Or perhaps I should in justice say to what in an Adelphi play is known as Situation. He passed his time designing traps to flurry unsuspicious chaps. The taste was his innately. He couldn't walk into a room without ejaculating. Boom! Which startled ladies greatly. He'd wear a mask and muffling cloak, not, you will understand in joke, as some assume disguises. He did it actuated by a simple love of mystery and fondness for surprises. I need not say he loved a maid. His eloquence threw into shade all others who adored her. The maid, though pleased at first, I know, found after several years or so her startling lover bored her. So when his orders came to sail she did not faint or scream or wail or with her tears anoint him. She shook his hand and said, Goodbye, with laughter dancing in her eye which seemed to disappoint him. But ere he went aboard his boat he placed around her little throat a ribbon blue and yellow on which he hung a double tooth, a simple token this in soothe. It was all he had, poor fellow. I often wonder, he would say, when very, very far away, if Angelina wears it. A plan has entered in my head. I will pretend that I am dead and see how Angie bears it. The news he made a messmate tell. His Angelina bore it well. No sign gave she of crazing. But steady as the inch-cape rock his Angelina stood the shock with fortitude amazing. She said, Some one I must elect poor Angelina to protect from all who wish to harm her. Since worthy Captain Todd is dead I rather feel inclined to wed a comfortable farmer. A comfortable farmer came. Bassanio Tyler was his name who had no end of treasure. He said, My noble gal be mine. The noble gal did not decline but simply said, with pleasure. When this was told to Captain Todd at first he thought it rather odd and felt some perturbation. But very long he did not grieve he thought he could away perceive to such a situation. I'll not reveal myself, said he, till they are both in the ecclesiastical arena. Then suddenly I will appear and paralyzing them with fear demand, my Angelina. At length arrived the wedding-day. Acuted in the usual way appeared the bridal body. The worthy clergyman began when in the gallant Captain ran and cried, Behold your Toddy! The bridegroom perhaps was terrified and also possibly the bride. The bridesmaids were affrighted. But Angelina noble soul contrived her feelings to control and rarely seemed delighted. My bride, said gallant Captain Todd, she's mine, uninteresting Claude, my own, my darling charmer. O dear, said she, you're just too late. I married too. I beg to state this comfortable farmer. Indeed, the farmer said, she's mine. You've been and cut it far too fine. I see, said Todd, I'm beaten. And so he went to see once more sensation he for a for swore and married on her native shore a lady whom he'd met before, a lovely otter heaton.