But let him run loose. Over there, sir,

You see a man sit on the bench;

Not that one with the pot-he's a terrible sot;
Nor that one that is kissing the wench;

But that grey-haired old chap, whose right sleeve, sir,
Is empty, and pinned to his breast;

And I'll bet you he says that he's seen better days.
I can see it. That fine manly chest

I'll warrant has heaved 'neath the scarlet,
Those grey eyes, so earnest and grave,

That look full of scorn, ne'er in plebeian born;
He's a soldier-or has been-and brave.

I wonder if, speaking politely,

I'm able to somewhat unmask him,

To learn 'bout his arm. He seems passive and calm, There's nothing like cheek-no-I'll ask him.

You know-stand at ease-right leg forward

The right arm-or sleeve-on the breast-ee's,

The left hanging dead by the side. And the head
Thrown well back to give play to the chest-ee's.)

"How did I lose my arm, sir?

Ah, that s too long a story. I fear,

Though I don't wish to brag, it was lost for the flag Of the Queen-and for England so dear.

It was lost, sir, upholding the honour

That means to an Englishman life.

In the thick of the battle, midst guns' deathly rattle, One last thought of home and of wife

66

Then he strikes. Hark, now Up guards, and at 'em,
Bang! Victory! On Stanley, on!

Send a volley in there-on the point of the square,
So another like that, and we've won."

See your foemen and comrades all lying

On the blood-stained heath, gory and red,
Hear the groans and the prayers of the dying
And the agonised shrieks of the dead.

Poor Jack What, a drink from my flask, son,
And leave you to die? Save myself?

You and I, who've been cronies together,
Have a pull at the brandy. A Guelph
Isn't dearer to me at this moment-

My charger's been shot in both flanks,
But we can both straddle somehow in the saddle,
And I'll get you back to the ranks.

What's this dark hull that looms up against us?
This great rush of steam, and this dash?
For the ones that we love all things earthly above -
Great heavens ! she's on us! A crash-

Yes, we're struck by the Bywell Castle.
She has cut us in two with her prow,

And our boat, The Princess, in five minutes, or less,
WILL SUCK THREE HUNDRED CREATURES BELOW!

"Let the women get into the boats there, Stand back-let the critters get in!"

But some great hulking tramps crowd the boat, and she

swamps,

And loud o'er the engines dim,

From the waves of the murky Thames, sir,

Come the wails of the souls in the stream.

"Keep afloat for God's sake-sure some effort she'll make, No-one last shriek -one horrible scream;

As our vessel she takes a plunge, sir,

Ah! it sickens my heart with fears;

The life-belts are thrown, as the vessel goes down,
AND THE OLD MAN SITS IN TEARS!

He looks at the glowing embers,

He watches the straggling flame;
But never a word from his lips is heard
As he thinks of his daughter's shame.

How her sunny face, in the village,
As a ray of sunshine was shown;
Beloved by them all, both great and small,
Till-till the gay young squire came down.

Ah, me, 'twas the same old story,

Of the trusting girl and the scamp,
The careless miner-the unlit pipe-
AND THE UNCLOSED DAVY LAMP!

A flash and a terrible rumbling,
Ac loud of smoke from the shaft,
Of wailing dread at the grim pit's head,
But along the wires was waft

A word from the junction signals,
"THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN'S THROUGH!
Clear the line; she's late." And the 12.48

Is ten minutes overdue!

I've hardly a second for thought, sir,
The 12.48's in sight.

"Put steam on, men, run her through, and then
We may still pull ye through all right."

They hear my shout on the engine,
And they run her through at a rate
That the company never had dreamed about,
But alas! for it's all too late.

But one more second and they'd have gained
The siding. But down she swept,

AND FEW IN THAT FATED HOUSE AFIRE
That knew-for most sound they slept.

The firemen hammered the door down.

Is there life to be saved, and where? They plunge in the haze of the house ablaze; Their helmets lit up with the glare.

A window opens above us,

That's on the second floor.

And a maiden we sight-in the raiment of nightAnd she calls midst the flaming roar

"WILL NOBODY SAVE MY FATHER?"

We are turned near to stone at the shock.

We are glued to the street. I can hear my heart beat Like a five-bob American clock.

A ladder is put to the window,

A young fellow pulls off his hat,

He springs up that ladder as lithe as an adder, And climbs with the skill of a cat.

WE SWEEP LIKE A WAVE PAST THE RED POST!
It's now that the battle begins.
Ev'ry eye's on the blue. In a second or two
They'll be shouting out "Kissing Cup wins!"

We've got 'em all settled, I think, sir,

No! Here comes the Captain's colt, He's us at five seven!

He'll beat us-Oh, heaven!

But no-he has shot his bolt.

I can see the face of a girl, sir,

A standing there in the ring,

She's a maiden to meet-(out of Winchester Street), And she's backed us like everyding."

I must win this race FOR HER, sir,

For hereon there rests a name.

Her virgin caresses-her "Empire" dresses,

And Victoria Station's shame.

THE AERONAUT CLINGS TO THE CORD, SIR,
And owns with too well shown fright
That he's surely come to a chosen tomb
In the Channel's billows so bright.

When we sailed from the Crystal Palace,
There was scarce a breath of air,

And the glitt'ring sun on our huge balloon
Made a picture divinely fair.

She looked like a golden ball, sir,

As she mounted into the skies.

Sailed from the crowds and sought the clouds

The cynosure of all eyes.

But two short hours have passed us,
And here we hang o'er the sea,

In a terrible plight-not a sail in sight,
And descending rapid-lee,

A few feet below us-THE OCEAN!

We are fully ten miles from the land.

Good God! see-she dies-not an inch can we rise

FOR WE'VE THROWN OUT THE LAST BAG OF SAND!

To recourse-ah, I had but an instant.

I leapt with a cry-to the ground.

And, Heaven be praised for its mercy!

I stood with the girl safe and sound.

And that's how I lost my arm, sir.

If the thing don't strike you as clear, Put it down to a few o' the trials I've gone through, Or perhaps it's along o' this beer."

The Sporting Times. October 20, 1888.

:0:

THE LIGHTS OF LONDON TOWN.
THE way was long and weary,

But gallantly they strode,
A country lad and lassie,
Along the heavy road.

The night was dark and stormy
But blithe of heart were they,
For shining in the distance
The Lights of London lay.

O gleaming lamps of London that gem the City's crown,
What fortunes lie within you, O Lights of London Town.

#

GEORGE R. SIMS.

See Ballads of Babylon. London. John P. Fuller. 1880.

THOSE WIGHTS OF LONDON TOWN.
The Correct Version.

THE way was long and dreary,
But jauntily they strode,

Bill Sikes and Jim the Leary

Along the frosty road.

The night was nice and dusky,
The sky was dark and grey;
And Bill, in accents husky,
Opine: they'd fix the lay!

"O gleaming lamps of London! I'd like douse your glim, What "crackings" lie within you when you are faint and dim!"

The hours passed on and found them
A-burgling of a "shop"

And scattered all around them,

They'd got a golden crop.

And from the office window,

That lonely moonless night

The "swag" they dropped, and grinn'd O!

It was a lovely sight!

"O sleepy slops of London, who crawl about the town,

I think you must be jolly green, for we have done you

brown."

Yes, I treated her shockin'! life must ha' been pretty bad,
She'd prom'sed her dyin' mother al'ays to look after dad.
I used to laugh at her notions, she was but a gal o' seven,
And 'ad got it fixed in her 'ead to bring me along to heaven.

"Dad!" she'd say to me sometimes, "it's beau'ful bright in there;

Everyone's al'ays 'appy, and got golden crowns to wear." How I laughed at the child then, to think o' a crown on my head;

I told her to shut up cantin', I didn't want to be dead.

Still some'ow I wasn't 'appy, for 'appen I'd got a fright, And wondered whatever ud'appen if I should die that night, So to keep down her pleadin's I off on a pretty good spree, Down at the pub at the corner, along o' my mates and me.

We was pretty gone on the wrong side, stagg'rin' 'ome that night,

And there was Flo sittin' and watchin', with the room clean and bright.

With a curse at her for waitin' I flung myself on the bed, Catchin' the lamp with my arm, and pullin' it down on my 'ead.

She'd given her life for her father, for such a wretch as me, And mainly because she knew, sir, that I warn't fit to die. When I got better they told me the last words 'o little Flo

"They wouldn't have 'im in 'eaven, if he was drunk, you know."

On my word, sir, that fetched me, I never drank since that night;

And I prays as I'll follow Flo up to her 'ome 'o light.
For as that child forgave me, I believes by and by

As He'll forgive me too, sir, who came for sinners to die.

So little Flo's life warn't lost, she showed me the way to live;

She showed me what goodness meant, the way that a girl can forgive.

When I am tempted to drink, I thinks o' the last words o' Flo,

"He couldn't be let into 'eaven if he was drunk, you know."

MAGNUM BONUM.

Jumpin' out Jack broke is leg bad, and our kiddy's life he'd saved;

'E 'ad took 'er out in safety, an' 'ere on me 'earts engraved, The deed o' that there dawg, who come back through fire to us,

An' can ye wonder now, sir, that last night I made a fuss?

'E braved a burnin' staircase, an' 'ed stayed till we had dropped,

An', when my Poll, soon after, straight away to glory popped,

She said, "Jim, keep our Jack safe," an' I've allus' kep' me vow,

An' you'll let me off, sir, won't you, so that I don't break it now;

The kid 'as gone to her mother, wi' the angels up above, An' if I should lose old Jack, why, I'd nothin' ave ter love, Ah! don't be 'ard, sir, this time-don't break a poor cove's 'eart;

What, sir? I'm free! God bless yer! me dawg an' me won't part!

AGLAUS.

THE COSTER'S PLEA.

WHAT 'ave I got to say, Mr. Beak, about the row last night,

When I knocked the peeler down twice? Well, it was just a fight

For liberty for me, sir-me an' me old dawg Jack;

The bobby tried to cop 'im, and I put 'im on 'is back.

I tried to fight 'im fair, sir, but 'e pulled 'is trunchin out To brain my dear old dawg with, an' the people round

about

Cried "Shame!" but it ony made him madder like, yer

see,

And then 'twas a matter 'o fists for to set my old dawg free.

Why did I fight for a dawg so an' try to injer the perlice? Well, cos if they 'ad took 'im I'd 'ave never 'ad no peace. Just cos that faithful dawg years ago did that for me What I could'nt, sir, forget if a 'underd I should be.

Twelve years ago old Jack, 'e, when not much mor'n a pup,
One night lay in 'is corner-'e'd 'ad neither bit nor sup;
For times 'ad bin rare bad-'e lay down an' shet 'is eyes,
'E was 'ungry, an' wet, an' tired, an' 'ad 'ardly strength
to rise.

The missus an' me went off up ter bed ter try 'an sleep,
But when your stummick's empty, its apt yer awake to
keep;
But at last we went sound off, an' dead beat as we 'ad bin,
A sleep as 'eavy as death, by-an'-bye, we both was in.

I suppose we'd been asleep nigh upon a couple o' hour, When Jack 'e woke me barkin, an' I see 'is tew eyes glower,

Then I looked an' missed our kiddy from 'er bed on the floor,

But I spied 'er little bed things layin' close again the door.

I turned ter Poll to wake 'er, when I see a awful glare Comin' in the bedroom winder, an' the 'eat was 'ard to bear,

The 'ouse was all ablaze, an' we'd dropped out ter the ground

'Bout ten minits, when it fell in scatt'rin fire all around.

SALLY.

WHAT's the matter down the alley
Don't yer know? I thought as 'ow
Every one 'ad 'eard of Sally-
Killed last week in a drunkin row.
Come aside, then, out of the mob, sir.
A drink? I don't mind if I do.

I don't like talkin' of this job, sir ;
But any 'ow I'll tell it you.

Well, I think 'twas last December-
'Bout as near as I can tell-
Joe Hale, then a stiddy member,
Lost 'is wife an' kid as well.
That upset 'im altogether,

Drove 'im nearly off 'is head;
Whether it was that, or whether
It was not, it's what was said.
Fightin' every night an' boozin',
Doin' weeks an' months in quod,
Sellin' all 'is sticks, an' losin'

All he 'ad, when on the cod;
An' he'd leave pore little Sally

(Sally was 'is daughter, sir)
For days a starvin' in the alley,
Givin' not a thought to 'er.
This night Joe was fightin' madly
In a gang of drunkin' brutes,
Who, if things was goin' badly,

'Ud down a man an' use their boots;
An' little Sally, screamin' "Murder!
With a face just like a sheet,
Rushed among the fightin' herd, sir,
An' fell down beneath their feet.
Trampled on, an' crush'd, an' moanin',
They carried Sal out of the fight
She lay a little while a groanin',

An' then she died the selfsame night. An' now they're goin' to bury SallyAn' Joe? Ah, Joe, too, ended bad, For when he seed 'er dead in the alley, He went stark, starin' ravin' mad.

PHIL. LASCElles.

The pathetic ballads of Mr. Sims are frequently chosen for recitation, and good parodies of them are much sought after, as a relief to the overwrought feelings of the auditors.

There is a recitation written by Mr. Richard H. Douglass, which is often given by him with success, entitled "Christmas Day in the Beer-house."

In its opening lines it somewhat resembles Mr. Sims's "Christmas Day in the Workhouse," but it does not follow that poem sufficiently to be styled a parody, and is, moreover, rather coarse in its style.

Every one remembers "The Manual for Young Reciters," which appeared in Punch in 1887, and has since been issued in a small volume, entitled "Burglar Bill," by J. Anstey, (London, Bradbury, Agnew & Co.) Two of the papers contained in this are imitations of Mr. Sims; Burglar Bill is one, but a far more amusing specimen is A Coster's Conversion. A poor harmless costermonger

relates how he

"Give a copper a doin',

As 'ad said my barrer was blockin' the way,
And they took me afore a beak,

And he see what I wanted was change o' hair,
So he sent me to quod fur a week."

Whilst he is away in durance vile some well meaning, but mistaken, philanthropist converts his wife to Æstheticism, and on his return to his humble roof, he is much amazed, and by no means pleased, with the alterations made in his home:

"I'll not 'ave none of it, Betsy," I sez-and I chucked the lot of it out,

And I did'nt recover my self-respeck till I see it go up the spout!

For we all on us has our feelings, Sir, and my pride it was cruel 'urt,

To think as a swell could ha' gone so fur as to rob a poor man of his dirt!

But I never 'anker for Culcher now, nor henvy no harristocrats,

For I'm cured fur life of the longing I 'ad fur a roomful of brick-a-bats.

Of spadgers and pea-green paint you'll find in the attic 'ardly a trace,

And, when me and my old woman 'as words-there's allus plenty o' space!

This appeared originally in Punch, May 14, 1887.

Mr Sims has recently published (London, Chatto and Windus) The Dagonet Reciter, which contains most of the poems which have been referred to in this Collection, "Ostler Joe," "The Life-boat," "Keeping Christmas" etc., as well as a selection of his humorous prose writings.

Before leaving this author, there remains a parody of his to be quoted, it should have appeared in Volume IV., which contained other parodies of "The Lost Chord.”

THE LOST Cord.

SEATED one day in a carriage,

I was frightened and ill at ease, For a fellow, behaving wildly, Was up to his drunken sprees.