Ballad: Damon v. Pythias

Two better friends you wouldn't pass Throughout a summer's day, Than DAMON and his PYTHIAS, - Two merchant princes they.

At school together they contrived All sorts of boyish larks; And, later on, together thrived As merry merchants' clerks.

And then, when many years had flown, They rose together till They bought a business of their own - And they conduct it still.

They loved each other all their lives, Dissent they never knew, And, stranger still, their very wives Were rather friendly too.

Perhaps you think, to serve my ends, These statements I refute, When I admit that these dear friends Were parties to a suit?

But 'twas a friendly action, for Good PYTHIAS, as you see, Fought merely as executor, And DAMON as trustee.

They laughed to think, as through the throng Of suitors sad they passed, That they, who'd lived and loved so long, Should go to law at last.

The junior briefs they kindly let Two sucking counsel hold; These learned persons never yet Had fingered suitors' gold.

But though the happy suitors two Were friendly as could be, Not so the junior counsel who Were earning maiden fee.

They too, till then, were friends. At school They'd done each other's sums, And under Oxford's gentle rule Had been the closest chums.

But now they met with scowl and grin In every public place, And often snapped their fingers in Each other's learned face.

It almost ended in a fight When they on path or stair Met face to face.

They made it quite A personal affair.

And when at length the case was called (It came on rather late), Spectators really were appalled To see their deadly hate.

One junior rose - with eyeballs tense, And swollen frontal veins: To all his powers of eloquence He gave the fullest reins.

His argument was novel - for A verdict he relied On blackening the junior Upon the other side.

"Oh," said the Judge, in robe and fur, "The matter in dispute To

arbitration pray refer - This is a friendly suit."

And PYTHIAS, in merry mood, Digged DAMON in the side; And DAMON, tickled with the feud, With other digs replied.

But oh! those deadly counsel twain, Who were such friends before, Were never reconciled again - They quarrelled more and more.

At length it happened that they met On Alpine heights one day, And thus they paid each one his debt, Their fury had its way -

They seized each other in a trice, With scorn and hatred filled, And, falling from a precipice, They, both of them, were killed.

Ballad: My Dream

The other night, from cares exempt, I slept - and what d'you think I dreamt? I dreamt that somehow I had come To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom

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Where vice is virtue - virtue, vice: Where nice is nasty - nasty, nice: Where right is wrong and wrong is right - Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise, Are born astonishingly wise; With every Science on their lips, And Art at all their finger-tips.

For, as their nurses dandle them They crow binomial theorem, With views (it seems absurd to us) On differential calculus.

But though a babe, as I have said, Is born with learning in his head, He must forget it, if he can, Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here, Is wisdom in that favoured sphere; The wisdom we so highly prize Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way, Must learn some nonsense every day; And cut, to carry out this view, His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils, Intent on giant-killers' toils; And sages close their aged eyes To other sages' lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound, Commit all robbers who are found; But there the Beaks (so people said) Commit all robberies instead.

Our Judges, pure and wise in tone, Know crime from theory alone, And glean the motives of a thief From books and popular belief.

But there, a Judge who wants to prime His mind with true ideas of crime, Derives them from the common sense Of practical experience.

Policemen march all folks away Who practise virtue every day - Of course, I mean to say, you know, What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do What we consider just and true, And only good men do, in fact, What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls, The girls are boys - the boys are girls! The men are women, too - but then, PER CONTRA, women all are men.

To one who to tradition clings This seems an awkward state of things, But if to think it out you try, It doesn't really signify.

With them, as surely as can be, A sailor should be sick at sea, And not a passenger may sail Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck) Is always shot for showing pluck (That is, if others can be found With pluck enough to fire a round).

"How strange!" I said to one I saw; "You quite upset our every law.

However can you get along So systematically wrong?"

"Dear me!" my mad informant said, "Have you no eyes within your head? You sneer when you your hat should doff: Why, we begin where you leave off!

"Your wisest men are very far Less learned than our babies are!" I mused awhile - and then, oh me! I framed this brilliant repartee:

"Although your babes are wiser far Than our most valued sages are, Your sages, with their toys and cots, Are duller than our idiots!"

But this remark, I grieve to state, Came just a little bit too late For as I framed it in my head, I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, 'stead of here, My lot were in that favoured sphere! - Where greatest fools bear off the bell I ought to do extremely well.