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DICKEY 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; costume jewellery 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 tiffany and co bracelet 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, <a href="http://www.the-tods.com/rayban-c-18.html"><strong>Lunettes Ray-Ban </strong></a> “Shall a warrior laden With a big spiky knob, Sit in peace on his cob 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 The Bab Ballads 12 (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 affordable jewelry and quitted the stage. The Bab Ballads 13 Ballad: Haunted Haunted? Ay, 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 school-room ink – With its dismal boys that snivel and tiffany and co bracelet 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 bosh 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 pass to critical seventeen; The ghost of that terrible wedding scene, When an elderly Colonel stole my Queen, And woke my dream of heaven. No schoolgirl decked in her nurse-room curls 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 “Your wushup!”) 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, The Bab Ballads 14 “Reader, this is the resting-place Of an unsuccessful duffer.” I”ve fought them all, these ghosts of mine, But the weapons I”ve used claddagh ring are sighs and brine, And now that I”m nearly forty-nine, Old age is my chiefest bogy; 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 fogy. The Bab Ballads tiffany jewelry uk 15 Ballad: The Bishop And The ”Busman <a href="http://www.the-tods.com/rayban-c-18.html"><strong>ray ban new wayfarer polarized </strong></a> It was a Bishop bold, And London was his see, He was short and stout and round about 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 JEDEDIAH too, And SOLOMON and ZABULON – This ”bus-directing Jew. The Bishop said, said he, “I”ll see what I can do To Christianise 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 JEDEDIAH 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 togs), 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 JEDEDIAH 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 byword on that road. At length he swore an oath, The reason he would cheap tiffany jewelry 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. “Benighted Jew,” he said (The good old Bishop did), “Be Christian, The Bab Ballads 16 you, instead of Jew – Become a Christian kid! “I”ll ne”er annoy you more.” “Indeed?” replied the Jew; “Shall I be freed?” “You will, indeed!” Then “Done!” 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, He”s grown quite fair – has auburn hair – His wife is far from plain. The Bab Ballads 17 Ballad: The Troubadour A TROUBADOUR he played Without a castle wall, Within, a hapless maid Responded to his call. “Oh, willow, woe is me! Alack and well-a-day! If I were only free I”d hie me far away!” Unknown her face and name, But this he knew right well, The maiden”s 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, antique tiffany jewelry Or eat or drink tiffany discount jewellery , 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 maiden 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 oped the gate. “Oh, what might be your will?” “I”ve come, Sir Knave, to see The master man jewelry of these halls: A maid unwillingly Lies prisoned in their walls.”” With barely stifled sigh That porter drooped his head, With teardrops 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 DE PECKHAM RYE. SIR HUGH he darkly frowned, “What would you, sir, with me?” The troubadour he downed Upon his bended knee. “I”ve come, DE PECKHAM RYE, To do a Christian task; You ask me what would I? It is not much tiffany co uk I ask. “Release these maidens, sir, Whom you dominion o”er – 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 The Bab Ballads 18 this gentleman The maid in Forty-eight.” By many a cell they past, And stopped at length before A portal, bolted fast: The man unlocked the door. He called inside the gate With coarse and brutal shout, “Come, <a href="http://www.the-tods.com"><strong>Puma pas cher </strong></a> step it, Forty-eight!” And Forty-eight stepped out. “They gets it pretty hot, The maidens what we cotch – Two years this lady”s got For collaring a wotch.” “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 stout to thank, But recollected straight He”d business at the Bank. The Bab Ballads 19 Ballad: Ferdinando And Elvira; Or, The Gentle Pieman PART I. 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 discounted tiffany jewelry , And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to. Then she whispered, “To the ball-room 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 sobbings 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 POPSY, 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 illimitable azure, On a scientific goose-chase, with my COXWELL or my GLAISHER! “Tell me whither I may hie me – tell me, dear one, that I may know – Is it up the highest Andes? down a horrible volcano?” The Bab Ballads 20 But she said, “It claddagh ring isn”t polar bears, or hot volcanic grottoes: Only find out who it is that writes those lovely cracker mottoes!” PART II.