Discobbolos?

 

III

‘They have never been at a ball,
‘Nor have even seen a bazaar!
‘Nor have heard folks say in a tone all hearty,
“What loves of girls (at a garden party)
Those Misses Discobbolos are!”
‘Morning and night it drives me wild
‘To think of the fate of each darling child!’

But Mr. Discobbolos said,
‘O, W! X! Y! Z!
‘What has come to your fiddledum head!

‘What a runcible goose you are!

‘Octopod Mrs. Discobbolos!’

 

IV

Suddenly Mr. Discobbolos
Slid from the top of the wall;
And beneath it he dug a dreadful trench,
And filled it with dynamite, gunpowder gench,
And aloud he began to call—
‘Let the wild bee sing,
‘And the blue bird hum!
‘For the end of your lives has certainly come!’

And Mrs. Discobbolos said,
‘O, W! X! Y! Z!
‘We shall presently all be dead,

‘On this ancient runcible wall,

‘Terrible Mr. Discobbolos!’

 

v

Pensively, Mr. Discobbolos
Sat with his back to the wall;
He lighted a match, and fired the train,
And the mortified mountain echoed again
To the sound of an awful fall!
And all the Discobbolos family flew
In thousands of bits to the sky so blue,

And no one was left to have said,
‘O, W! X! Y! Z!
‘Has it come into anyone’s head

‘That the end has happened to all

‘Of the whole of the Clan Discobbolos?’

THE QUANGLE WANGLE’S HAT

I

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree
The Quangle Wangle sat,
But his face you could not see,
On account of his Beaver Hat.
For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide,
With ribbons and bibbons on every side
And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace,
So that nobody ever could see the face

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

 

II

The Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,—
‘Jam; and jelly; and bread;
‘Are the best food for me!
‘But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree
‘The plainer than ever it seems to me
‘That very few people come this way
‘And that life on the whole is far from gay!’

Said the Quangle Wangle Quee.

 

III

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree,
Mr. and Mrs. Canary;
And they said,—‘Did you ever see
‘Any spot so charmingly airy?
‘May we build a nest on your lovely Hat?
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!
‘O please let us come and build a nest
‘Of whatever material suits you best,

‘Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!’

 

IV

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree
Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl;
The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee,
The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl;
(The Fimble Fowl, with a Corkscrew leg;)
And all of them said,—We humbly beg,
‘We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,—
‘Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that!

‘Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!’

 

V

And the Golden Grouse came there,
And the Pobble who has no toes,—
And the small Olympian bear,—
And the Dong with a luminous nose.
And the Blue Baboon, who played the flute,—
And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute,—
And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat,—
All came and built on the lovely Hat

Of the Quangle Wangle Quee.

 

VI

And the Quangle Wangle said
To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,—
‘When all these creatures move
‘What a wonderful noise there’ll be!’
And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon
They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon,
On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,
And all were as happy as happy could be,

With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

THE CUMMERBUND

AN INDIAN POEM

I

She sate upon her Dobie,
To watch the Evening Star,
And all the Punkahs as they passed,
Cried, ‘My! how fair you are!’
Around her bower, with quivering leaves,
The tall Kamsamahs grew,
And Kitmutgars in wild festoons
Hung down from Tchokis blue.

 

II

 

Below her home the river rolled
With soft meloobious sound,
Where golden-finned Chuprassies swam,
In myriads circling round.
Above, on tallest trees remote
Green Ayahs perched alone,
And all night long the Mussak moan’d
Its melancholy tone.

 

III

And where the purple Nullahs threw
Their branches far and wide,—
And silvery Goreewallahs flew
In silence, side by side,—
The little Bheesties’ twittering cry
Rose on the flagrant air,
And oft the angry Jampan howled
Deep in his hateful lair.

 

IV

She sate upon her Dobie,—
She heard the Nimmak hum,—
When all at once a cry arose,—
‘The Cummerbund is come!’
In vain she fled:—with open jaws
The angry monster followed,
And so, (before assistance came,)
That Lady Fair was swollowed.

 

V

They sought in vain for even a bone
Respectfully to bury,—
They said,—‘Hers was a dreadful fate!’
(And Echo answered ‘Very.’)
They nailed her Dobie to the wall,
Where last her form was seen,
And underneath they wrote these words,
In yellow, blue, and green:—

 

Beware, ye Fair! Ye Fair, beware!
Nor sit out late at night,—
Lest horrid Cummerbunds should come,
And swollow you outright.

NOTE.—First published in Times of India, Bombay, July, 1874.

THE AKOND OF SWAT

Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of SWAT?
Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair,

or SQUAT, The Akond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,

OR HOT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop

or walk, or TROT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez, or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed, or a mat,

or a COT, The Akond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his T’s and finish his I’s

with a DOT, The Akond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear
Without a speck or a smudge or smear

or BLOT, The Akond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,

or PLOT, At the Akond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,

or shot, The Akond of Swat?

Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,

GAROTTE? O the Akond of Swat!

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn’t he care for public opinion

a JOT, The Akond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one’s last new poem,

or WHAT, For the Akond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,

or a LOT, For the Akond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea, or tripe?
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe,

or a DOT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,

SHALLOT, The Akond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,

or a SCOT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,

or a GROTT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?

or a POT. The Akond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she let the gooseberries grow too ripe,

or ROT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,

or a KNOT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,

or NOT, The Akond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake,

in a YACHT, The Akond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody, knows I wot
Who or which or why or what

Is the Akond of Swat!

For the existence of this potentate see Indian newspapers, passim. The proper way to read the verses is to make an immense emphasis on the monosyllabic rhymes, which indeed ought to be shouted out by a chorus.

NONSENSE BOTANY

Armchairia Comfortabilis

Bassia Palealensis

Bubblia Blowpipia

Crabbia Horrida

Knutmigrata Simplice

Tureenia Ladlecum

Puffia Leatherbéllowsa

Queeriflora Babyöides

NONSENSE ALPHABET

A

A was an Area Arch,
Where washerwomen sat;
They made a lot of lovely starch
To starch Papa’s cravat.

 

B

B was a Bottle blue,
Which was not very small;
Papa he filled it full of beer,
And then he drank it all.

 

C

C was Papa’s gray Cat,
Who caught a squeaky Mouse;
She pulled him by his twirly tail
All about the house.

 

D

D was Papa’s white Duck,
Who had a curly tail;
One day it ate a great fat frog,
Besides a leetle snail.

 

E

E was a little Egg,
Upon the breakfast table;
Papa came in and ate it up,
As fast as he was able.

 

F

F was a little Fish.
Cook in the river took it,
Papa said, ‘Cook! Cook! bring a dish!
And, Cook! be quick and cook it!’

 

G

G was Papa’s new Gun;
He put it in a box;
And then he went and bought a bun,
And walked about the Docks.

 

H

H was Papa’s new Hat;
He wore it on his head;
Outside it was completely black,
But inside it was red.

 

I

I was an Inkstand new,
Papa he likes to use it;
He keeps it in his pocket now,
For fear that he should lose it.

 

J

I was some Apple Jam,
Of which Papa ate part,
But all the rest he took away,
And stuffed into a tart.

 

K

K was a great new Kite;
Papa he saw it fly
Above a thousand chimney pots,
And all about the sky.

 

L

L was a fine new Lamp;
But when the wick was lit,
Papa he said, ‘This light ain’t good!
I cannot read a bit!’

 

M

M was a dish of Mince;
It looked so good to eat!
Papa, he quickly ate it up,
And said, ‘This is a treat!’

 

N

N was a Nut that grew
High up upon a tree;
Papa, who could not reach it, said,
‘That’s much too high for me!’

 

O

O was an Owl who flew
All in the dark away,
Papa said, ‘What an owl you are!
‘Why don’t you fly by day!’

 

P

P was a little Pig,
Went out to take a walk;
Papa he said, ‘If Piggy dead,
He’d all turn into Pork!’

 

Q

Q was a Quince that hung
Upon a garden tree;
Papa he brought it with him home,
And ate it with his tea.

 

R

R was a Railway Rug,
Extremely large and warm;
Papa he wrapped it round his head,
In a most dreadful storm.

 

S

S was Papa’s new Stick,
Papa’s new thumping Stick,
To thump extremely wicked boys,
Because it was so thick.

 

T

T was a Tumbler full
Of Punch all hot and good;
Papa he drank it up, when in
The middle of a wood.

 

U

U was a silver Urn,
Full of hot scalding water;
Papa said, ‘If that Urn were mine,
I’d give it to my daughter!’

 

V

V was a Villain; once
He stole a piece of beef.
Papa he said, ‘O! dreadful man!
That Villain is a Thief!’

 

W

W was a Watch of Gold:
It told the time of day,
So that Papa knew when to come,
And when to go away.

 

X

X was King Xerxes, whom
Papa much wished to know;
But this he could not do, because
Xerxes died long ago.

 

Y

Y was a Youth, who kicked
And screamed and cried like mad;
Papa he said, ‘Your conduct is
Abominably bad!’

 

Z

Z was a Zebra striped
And streaked with lines of black;
Papa said once, he thought he’d like
A ride upon his back.

A	tumbled down, and hurt his Arm, against a bit of wood.
B	said,	‘My Boy, O! do not cry; it cannot do you good!’
C	said,	‘A Cup of Coffee hot can’t do you any harm.’
D	said,	‘A Doctor should be fetched, and he would cure the arm.’
E	said,	‘An Egg beat up with milk would quickly make him well.’
F	said,	‘A Fish, if broiled, might cure, if only by the smell.’
G	said,	‘Green Gooseberry fool, the best of cures I hold.’
H	said,	‘His Hat should be kept on, to keep him from the cold.’
I	said,	‘Some Ice upon his head will make him better soon.’
J	said,	‘Some Jam, if spread on bread, or given in a spoon!’
K	said,	‘A Kangaroo is here,—this picture let him see.’
L	said,	‘A Lamp pray keep alight, to make some barley tea.’
M	said,	‘A Mulberry or two might give him satisfaction.’
N	said,	‘Some Nuts, if rolled about, might be a slight attraction.’
O	said,	‘An Owl might make him laugh, if only it would wink.’
P	said,	‘Some Poetry might be read aloud, to make him think.’
Q	said,	‘A Quince I recommend,—a Quince, or else a Quail.’
R	said,	‘Some Rats might make him move, if fastened by their tail.’
s	said,	‘A Song should now be sung, in hopes to make him laugh!’
T	said,	‘A Turnip might avail, if sliced or cut in half!’
U	said,	‘An Urn, with water hot, place underneath his chin!’
V	said,	‘I’ll stand upon a chair, and play a Violin!’
W	said,	‘Some Whisky-Whizzgigs fetch, some marbles and a ball!’
X	said,	‘Some double XX ale would be the best of all!’
Y	said,	‘Some Yeast mixed up with salt would make a perfect plaster!’
Z	said,	‘Here is a box of Zinc! Get in, my little master!
		‘We’ll shut you up! We’ll nail you down! We will, my little master!
		‘We think we’ve all heard quite enough of this your sad disaster!’

V

NONSENSE SONGS AND STORIES (1895)

With the exception of the verses and drawings which follow, this posthumous volume was a selection from the earlier

Nonsense Books.

INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF MY UNCLE ARLY

I

O My agèd Uncle Arly!
Sitting on a heap of Barley
Thro’ the silent hours of night,—
Close beside a leafy thicket:—
On his nose there was a Cricket,—
In his hat a Railway-Ticket;—
(But his shoes were far too tight.)

 

II

Long ago, in youth, he squander’d
All his goods away, and wander’d
To the Tiniskoop-hills afar.
There on golden sunsets blazing,
Every evening found him gazing,—
Singing,—‘Orb! you’re quite amazing!
‘How I wonder what you are!’

 

III

Like the ancient Medes and Persians,
Always by his own exertions
He subsisted on those hills;—
Whiles,—by teaching children spelling,—
Or at times by merely yelling,—
Or at intervals by selling
Propter’s Nicodemus Pills.’

 

IV.

Later, in his morning rambles
He perceived the moving brambles—
Something square and white disclose;—
‘Twas a First-class Railway-Ticket;
But, on stooping down to pick it
Off the ground,—a pea-green Cricket
Settled on my uncle’s Nose.

 

V

Never—nevermore,—oh! never,
Did that Cricket leave him ever,—
Dawn or evening, day or night;—
Clinging as a constant treasure,—
Chirping with a cheerious measure,—
Wholly to my uncle’s pleasure,—
(Though his shoes were far too tight.)

 

VI

So for three-and-forty winters,
Till his shoes were worn to splinters,
All those hills he wander’d o’er,—
Sometimes silent;-sometimes yelling;—
Till he came to Borley-Melling,
Near his old ancestral dwelling;—
(But his shoes were far too tight.)

 

VII

On a little heap of Barley
Died my agèd uncle Arly,
And they buried him one night;—
Close beside the leafy thicket;—
There,—his hat and Railway-Ticket;—
There,—his ever-faithful Cricket;—
(But his shoes were far too tight.)

ECLOGUE

COMPOSED AT CANNES, DECEMBER 9TH, 1867

[Interlocutors—MR. LEAR AND MR. AND MRS. SYMONDS]

 

Edwardus.—

What makes you look so black, so glum, so cross? Is it neuralgia, headache, or remorse?

Johannes.—

What makes you look as cross, or even more so? Less like a man than is a broken Torso?

E.—

What if my life is odious, should I grin? If you are savage, need I care a pin?

J.—

And if I suffer, am I then an owl? May I not frown and grind my teeth and growl?

E.—

Of course you may; but may not I growl too? May I not frown and grind my teeth like you?

J.—

See Catherine comes! To her, to her, Let each his several miseries refer;
She shall decide whose woes are least or worst,
And which, as growler, shall rank last or first.

Catherine.—

Proceed to growl, in silence I’ll attend, And hear your foolish growlings to the end;
And when they’re done, I shall correctly judge
Which of your griefs are real or only fudge.
Begin, let each his mournful voice prepare,
(And, pray, however angry, do not swear!)

J.—

We came abroad for warmth, and find sharp cold Cannes is an imposition, and we’re sold.

E.—

Why did I leave my native land, to find Sharp hailstones, snow, and most disgusting wind?

J.—

What boots it that we orange trees or lemons see, If we must suffer from such vile inclemency?

E.—

Why did I take the lodgings I have got, Where all I don’t want is:—all I want not?

J.—

Last week I called aloud, O! O! O! O! The ground is wholly overspread with snow!
Is that at any rate a theme for mirth
Which makes a sugar-cake of all the earth?

E.—

Why must I sneeze and snuffle, groan and cough, If my hat’s on my head, or if it’s off?
Why must I sink all poetry in this prose,
The everlasting blowing of my nose?

J.—

When I walk out the mud my footsteps clogs, Besides, I suffer from attacks of dogs.

E.—

Me a vast awful bulldog, black and brown, Completely terrified when near the town;
As calves, perceiving butchers, trembling reel,
So did my calves the approaching monster feel.

J.—

Already from two rooms we’re driven away, Because the beastly chimneys smoke all day:
Is this a trifle, say? Is this a joke?
That we, like hams, should be becooked in smoke?

E.—

Say! what avails it that my servant speaks Italian, English, Arabic, and Greek, Besides Albanian: if he don’t speak French, How can he ask for salt, or shrimps, or tench?

J.—

When on the foolish hearth fresh wood I place, It whistles, sings, and squeaks, before my face:
And if it does unless the fire burns bright,
And if it does, yet squeaks, how can I write?

E.—

Alas! I needs must go and call on swells, That they may say, ‘Pray draw me the Estrelles.’
On one I went last week to leave a card,
The swell was out—the servant eyed me hard:
‘This chap’s a thief disguised,’ his face expressed:
If I go there again, may I be blest!

J.—

Why must I suffer in this wind and gloom? Roomattics in a vile cold attic room?

E.—

Swells drive about the road with haste and fury, As Jehu drove about all over Jewry.
Just now, while walking slowly, I was all but
Run over by the Lady Emma Talbot,
Whom not long since a lovely babe I knew,
With eyes and cap-ribbons of perfect blue.

J.—

Downstairs and upstairs, every blessed minute, There’s each room with pianofortes in it.
How can I write with noises such as those?
And, being always discomposed, compose?

E.—

Seven Germans through my garden lately strayed, And all on instruments of torture played; They blew, they screamed, they yelled: how can I paint Unless my room is quiet, which it ain’t?

—How can I study if a hundred flies Each moment blunder into both my eyes?

 

E.—

How can I draw with green or blue or red, If flies and beetles vex my old bald head?

J.—

How can I translate German Metaphys- Ics, if mosquitoes round my forehead whizz?

E.—

I’ve bought some bacon, (though it’s much too fat,) But round the house there prowls a hideous cat:
Once should I see my bacon in her mouth,
What care I if my rooms look north or south?

J.—

Pain from a pane in one cracked window comes, Which sings and whistles, buzzes, shrieks and hums;
In vain amain with pain the pane with this chord
I fain would strain to stop the beastly discord!

E.—

If rain and wind and snow and such like ills Continue here, how shall I pay my bills?
For who through cold and slush and rain will come
To see my drawings and to purchase some?
And if they don’t, what destiny is mine?
How can I ever get to Palestine?

J.—

The blinding sun strikes through the olive trees, When I walk out, and always makes me sneeze.

E.—

Next door, if all night long the moon is shining, There sits a dog, who wakes me up with whining.

Cath.—

Forbear! You both are bores, you’ve growled enough: No longer will I listen to such stuff!
All men have nuisances and bores to afflict ’um:
Hark then, and bow to my official dictum!

 

For you, Johannes, there is most excuse,
(Some interruptions are the very deuce,)
You’re younger than the other cove, who surely
Might have some sense—besides, you’re somewhat
poorly.
This therefore is my sentence, that you nurse
The Baby for seven hours, and nothing worse.

 

For you, Edwardus, I shall say no more
Than that your griefs are fudge, yourself a bore:
Return at once to cold, stewed, minced, hashed mutton—
To wristbands ever guiltless of a button—
To raging winds and sea, (where don’t you wish
Your luck may ever let you catch one fish?)—
To make large drawings nobody will buy—
To paint oil pictures which will never dry—
To write new books which nobody will read—
To drink weak tea, on tough old pigs to feed—
Till spring-time brings the birds and leaves and flowers,
And time restores a world of happier hours.

THE HERALDIC BLAZON OF FOSS THE CAT

[Edward Lear’s cat is well known to readers of his letters. Foss was a great pet and lived to the advanced age of seventeen years. He received honourable burial with a suitable inscribed headstone in the garden of Lear’s villa at San Remo. Ed.]

THE DUCK AND THE KANGAROO

in the autograph of Edward Lear

1

A selection of these illustrations was published in 1889, the year after his death, with a Memoir by his old friend Franklin Lushington.

2

Views in Rome. (1841); Excursions in Italy (1846); Excursions in Italy, Second Series (1846); Journal of a Landscape Painter in Albania and Illyria (1841); Journal of a Landscape Painter in Southern Calabria (1852); Views in the Seven Ionian Islands (1863); Journal of a Landscape Painter in Corsica (1870).

.