Fit the Sixth.

Fit the Eighth.

THE VANISHING.

They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.

They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.

“There is Thingumbob shouting!” the Bellman said.
“He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark!”

They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
“He was always a desperate wag!”
They beheld him—their Baker—their hero unnamed—
On the top of a neighbouring crag,

Erect and sublime, for one moment of time.
In the next, that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.

“It’s a Snark!” was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words “It’s a Boo—”

Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A weary and wandering sigh
That sounded like “—jum!” but the others declare
It was only a breeze that went by.

 

“THEN, SILENCE”

 

They hunted till darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the Baker had met with the Snark.

In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away—
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.

 

 

SIZE AND TEARS.

 

 

When on the sandy shore I sit,
Beside the salt sea-wave,
And fall into a weeping fit
Because I dare not shave—
A little whisper at my ear
Enquires the reason of my fear.

I answer “If that ruffian Jones
Should recognise me here,
He’d bellow out my name in tones
Offensive to the ear:
He chaffs me so on being stout
(A thing that always puts me out).”

Ah me! I see him on the cliff!
Farewell, farewell to hope,
If he should look this way, and if
He’s got his telescope!
To whatsoever place I flee,
My odious rival follows me!

For every night, and everywhere,
I meet him out at dinner;
And when I’ve found some charming fair,
And vowed to die or win her,
The wretch (he’s thin and I am stout)
Is sure to come and cut me out!

 

“HE’S THIN AND I AM STOUT”

 

The girls (just like them!) all agree
To praise J. Jones, Esquire:
I ask them what on earth they see
About him to admire?
They cry “He is so sleek and slim,
It’s quite a treat to look at him!”

They vanish in tobacco smoke,
Those visionary maids—
I feel a sharp and sudden poke
Between the shoulder-blades—
“Why, Brown, my boy! You’re growing stout!”
(I told you he would find me out!)

“My growth is not your business, Sir!”
“No more it is, my boy!
But if it’s yours, as I infer,
Why, Brown, I give you joy!
A man, whose business prospers so,
Is just the sort of man to know!

“It’s hardly safe, though, talking here—
I’d best get out of reach:
For such a weight as yours, I fear,
Must shortly sink the beach!”—

Insult me thus because I’m stout!
I vow I’ll go and call him out!

 

 

 

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN.

Ay, ’twas here, on this spot,
In that summer of yore,
Atalanta did not
Vote my presence a bore,
Nor reply to my tenderest talk “She had heard all that nonsense before.”

She’d the brooch I had bought
And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,
Was alive to my passion;
And she’d done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion.

 

 

I had been to the play
With my pearl of a Peri—
But, for all I could say,
She declared she was weary,
That “the place was so crowded and hot, and she couldn’t abide that Dundreary.”

Then I thought “’Tis for me
That she whines and she whimpers!”
And it soothed me to see
Those sensational simpers,
And I said “This is scrumptious!”—a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.

And I vowed “’Twill be said
I’m a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,
When the topers are mellow,
When the foam of the bride-cake is white, and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!”

O that languishing yawn!
O those eloquent eyes!
I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise—
I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs.

And I whispered “’Tis time!
Is not Love at its deepest?
Shall we squander Life’s prime,
While thou waitest and weepest?
Let us settle it, License or Banns?—though undoubtedly Banns are the cheapest.”

“Ah, my Hero,” said I,
“Let me be thy Leander!”
But I lost her reply—
Something ending with “gander”—
For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal could quite understand her.

 

 

THE LANG COORTIN’.
35 of 49
2 pages left
CONTENTS
Chapters
Highlights