Fifty "Bab" Ballads: Much Sound and Little Sense by Gilbert, W. S. (William Schwenck), Sir, 1836-1911

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 prate - - I'm no fanatic croaker, But learn contentment from the fate Of this East India broker. He'd everything a man of taste Could ever want, except a waist; And discontent His size anent, And bootless perseverance blind, Completely wrecked the peace of mind Of this East India broker.

Ballad: 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!

To-night thou diest, Beast that destroy'st my heaven-born identity! Nine weeks of nights, Before the lights, Swamped in thine own preposterous nonentity, I've been ill-treated, cursed, and thrashed diurnally, 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!

'T is time to toll Thy knell, and that of follies pantomimical: A nine weeks' run, And thou hast done All thou canst do to make thyself inimical. Adieu, embodiment of all inanity! Excellent type of simpering insanity! Unwieldy, clumsy nightmare of humanity! Freed is thy soul!

(The Mask respondeth.)

Oh! 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?

Ballad: THE GHOST, THE GALLANT, THE GAEL, AND THE GOBLIN.

O'er unreclaimed suburban clays Some years ago were hobblin' An elderly ghost of easy ways, And an influential goblin. The ghost was a sombre spectral shape, A fine old five-act fogy, The goblin imp, a lithe young ape, A fine low-comedy bogy.

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 ghostie, or the goblin?" And o'er the point they raised in fun They fairly fell a-squabblin'.

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 arrange 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 tailor's standing.