First Love
A clergyman in Berkshire dwelt,
The REVEREND BERNARD POWLES,
And in his church there weekly knelt
At least a hundred souls.
There little ELLEN you might see,
The modest rustic belle;
In maidenly simplicity,
She loved her BERNARD well.
Though ELLEN wore a plain silk gown
Untrimmed with lace or fur,
Yet not a husband in the town
But wished his wife like her.
Though sterner memories might fade,
You never could forget
The child-form of that baby-maid,
The Village Violet!
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Cunning Woman
On all Arcadia's sunny plain,
On all Arcadia's hill,
None were so blithe as BILL and JANE,
So blithe as JANE and BILL.
No social earthquake e'er occurred
To rack their common mind:
To them a Panic was a word -
A Crisis, empty wind.
No Stock Exchange disturbed the lad
With overwhelming shocks -
BILL ploughed with all the shares he had,
JANE planted all her stocks.
And learn in what a simple way
Their pleasures they enhanced -
JANE danced like any lamb all day,
BILL piped as well as danced.
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Perils of Invisibility
Old PETER led a wretched life -
Old PETER had a furious wife;
Old PETER too was truly stout,
He measured several yards about.
The little fairy PICKLEKIN
One summer afternoon looked in,
And said, "Old PETER, how de do?
Can I do anything for you?
"I have three gifts - the first will give
Unbounded riches while you live;
The second health where'er you be;
The third, invisibility."
"O little fairy PICKLEKIN,"
Old PETER answered with a grin,
"To hesitate would be absurd, -
Undoubtedly I choose the third."
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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A Nightmare
When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is
taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in
without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire - the bedclothes conspire of usual
slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet
slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles - you feel like mixed pickles, so
terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till
there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick
'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its
usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs
and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you'd very
much better be waking;
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Thomas Winterbottom Hance
IN all the towns and cities fair
On Merry England's broad expanse,
No swordsman ever could compare
With THOMAS WINTERBOTTOM HANCE.
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 MONSIEUR PIERRE,
Who watched him from the Calais shore.
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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A Discontented Sugar Broker
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.
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Bob Polter
BOB POLTER was a navvy, 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.
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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Pasha Bailey Ben
A proud Pasha was BAILEY BEN,
His wives were three, his tails were ten;
His form was dignified, but stout,
Men called him "Little Roundabout."
HIS IMPORTANCE
Pale Pilgrims came from o'er the sea
To wait on PASHA BAILEY B.,
All bearing presents in a crowd,
For B. was poor as well as proud.
HIS PRESENTS
They brought him onions strung on ropes,
And cold boiled beef, and telescopes,
And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns,
And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns.
MORE OF THEM
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Sensation Captain
No nobler captain ever trod
Than CAPTAIN PARKLEBURY 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 p'raps 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.
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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The Yarn of the Nancy Bell
'Twas 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 wight 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 bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
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:
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poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
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