The Book of Humorous Verse Part 131

And pretty little Alice grew more settled in her mind, She nevermore was guilty of a weakness of the kind, Until at length good Robber Brown bestowed her pretty hand On the promising young robber, the lieutenant of his band.

_W. S. Gilbert._

THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!

Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!

Let the piano's martial blast Rouse the Echoes of the Past, For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

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 gay Pantechnicon all night.

One 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 "Ouaits."

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 sn.o.bs 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 consequences 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, "_Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp._"

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent 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 pa.s.sed 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, says 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 saith: No 'Ouaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be; For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck--this is Beth!"

Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"

Beth gave a fearful shriek-- But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more, They fastened 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 fastened 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, Photographically lined On the tablet of my mind, When a yesterday has faded from its page.

_W. S. Gilbert._

SIR GUY THE CRUSADER

Sir Guy was a doughty crusader, Amuscular knight, Ever ready to fight, A very determined invader, And d.i.c.key de Lion's delight.

Lenore was a Saracen maiden, Brunette, statuesque, The reverse of grotesque; Her pa was a bagman from Aden, Her mother she played in burlesque.

A _coryphee_, 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 cits-- 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 whop her-- Her mother sit 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 turbaned 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 fond father employing A deuce of a knout For to bang her about, To a sensitive lover's annoying."

Said the bagman, "Crusader, get out."

Says Guy, "Shall a warrior laden With a big spiky k.n.o.b Sit in peace on his cob, While a beautiful Saracen maiden Is whipped by a Saracen sn.o.b?

"To London I'll go from my charmer."

Which he did, with his loot (Seven hats and a flute), And was nabbed for his Sydenham armour At Mr. Ben-Samuel's suit.

Sir Guy he was lodged in the Compter; Her pa, in a rage, Died (don't know his age); His daughter she married the prompter, Grew bulky and quitted the stage.

_W. S. Gilbert._

KITTY WANTS TO WRITE