Nonsense Books

by Edward Lear

And far away in the twilight sky We heard them singing a lessening cry,-- Farther and farther, till out of sight, And we stood alone in the silent night! Often since, in the nights of June, We sit on the sand and watch the moon,--

  She has gone to the great Gromboolian Plain, And we probably never shall meet again! Oft, in the long still nights of June, We sit on the rocks and watch the moon,-- She dwells by the streams of the Chankly Bore. And we probably never shall see her more. Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still!

  [NOTE.--The Air of this and the following Song by Edward Lear; theArrangement for the Piano by Professor Pome, of San Remo, Italy.]

  Sheet Music--The Yonghy Bonghy Bo]

  THE COURTSHIP OF THE YONGHY-BONGHY-BO.

  I.

  On the Coast of Coromandel Where the early pumpkins blow, In the middle of the woods Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Two old chairs, and half a candle, One old jug without a handle,-- These were all his worldly goods: In the middle of the woods, These were all the worldly goods Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bo.

  II.

  Once, among the Bong-trees walking Where the early pumpkins blow, To a little heap of stones Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There he heard a Lady talking, To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,-- "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! On that little heap of stones Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

  III.

  "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! Sitting where the pumpkins blow, Will you come and be my wife?" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "I am tired of living singly-- On this coast so wild and shingly,-- I'm a-weary of my life; If you'll come and be my wife, Quite serene would be my life!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

  IV.

  "On this Coast of Coromandel Shrimps and watercresses grow, Prawns are plentiful and cheap," Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "You shall have my chairs and candle, And my jug without a handle! Gaze upon the rolling deep (Fish is plentiful and cheap); As the sea, my love is deep!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

  V.

  Lady Jingly answered sadly, And her tears began to flow,-- "Your proposal comes too late, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! I would be your wife most gladly!" (Here she twirled her fingers madly,) "But in England I've a mate! Yes! you've asked me far too late, For in England I've a mate, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

  VI.

  "Mr. Jones (his name is Handel,-- Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.) Dorking fowls delights to send, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle, And your jug without a handle,-- I can merely be your friend! Should my Jones more Dorkings send, I will give you three, my friend! Mr. Yonghy-Bongy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!

  VII.

  "Though you've such a tiny body, And your head so large doth grow,-- Though your hat may blow away, Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy, Yet I wish that I could modi- fy the words I needs must say! Will you please to go away? That is all I have to say, Mr. Yongby-Bonghy-Bo! Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!"

  VIII.

  Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle, Where the early pumpkins blow, To the calm and silent sea Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle, Lay a large and lively Turtle. "You're the Cove," he said, "for me; On your back beyond the sea, Turtle, you shall carry me!" Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

 

  IX.

  Through the silent-roaring ocean Did the Turtle swiftly go; Holding fast upon his shell Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. With a sad primaeval motion Towards the sunset isles of Boshen Still the Turtle bore him well. Holding fast upon his shell, "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!" Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

  X.

  From the Coast of Coromandel Did that Lady never go; On that heap of stones she mourns For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. On that Coast of Coromandel, In his jug without a handle Still she weeps, and daily moans; On that little heap of stones To her Dorking Hens she moans, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.

  THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES.

  I.

  The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;" He replied, "Fish fiddle de-dee!" And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink Lavender water tinged with pink; For she said, "The World in general knows There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

  II.

  The Pobble who has no toes, Swam across the Bristol Channel; But before he set out he wrapped his nose In a piece of scarlet flannel. For his Aunt Jobiska said, "No harm Can come to his toes if his nose is warm; And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes Are safe--provided he minds his nose."

  III.

  The Pobble swam fast and well, And when boats or ships came near him, He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell So that all the world could hear him. And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, When they saw him nearing the further side,-- "He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska's Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

  IV.

  But before he touched the shore,-- The shore of the Bristol Channel, A sea-green Porpoise carried away His wrapper of scarlet flannel. And when he came to observe his feet, Formerly garnished with toes so neat, His face at once became forlorn On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

  V.

  And nobody ever knew, From that dark day to the present, Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes, In a manner so far from pleasant. Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, Or crafty Mermaids stole them away, Nobody knew; and nobody knows How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

  VI.

  The Pobble who has no toes Was placed in a friendly Bark, And they rowed him back, and carried him up To his Aunt Jobiska's Park. And she made him a feast, at his earnest wish, Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; And she said, "It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pobbles are happier without their toes."

  THE NEW VESTMENTS.

  There lived an old man in the Kingdom of Tess, Who invented a purely original dress; And when it was perfectly made and complete, He opened the door and walked into the street.

  By way of a hat he'd a loaf of Brown Bread, In the middle of which he inserted his head; His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice, The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice; His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins, so were his Shoes; His Stockings were skins, but it is not known whose; His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops; His Buttons were Jujubes and Chocolate Drops; His Coat was all Pancakes, with Jam for a border, And a girdle of Biscuits to keep it in order; And he wore over all, as a screen from bad weather, A Cloak of green Cabbage-leaves stitched all together.

  He had walked a short way, when he heard a great noise, Of all sorts of Beasticles, Birdlings, and Bo
ys; And from every long street and dark lane in the town Beasts, Birdies, and Boys in a tumult rushed down. Two Cows and a Calf ate his Cabbage-leaf Cloak; Four Apes seized his Girdle, which vanished like smoke; Three Kids ate up half of his Pancaky Coat, And the tails were devour'd by an ancient He Goat; An army of Dogs in a twinkling tore _up_ his Pork Waistcoat and Trowsers to give to their Puppies; And while they were growling, and mumbling the Chops, Ten Boys prigged the Jujubes and Chocolate Drops. He tried to run back to his house, but in vain, For scores of fat Pigs came again and again: They rushed out of stables and hovels and doors; They tore off his stockings, his shoes, and his drawers; And now from the housetops with screechings descend Striped, spotted, white, black, and gray Cats without end: They jumped on his shoulders and knocked off his hat, When Crows, Ducks, and Hens made a mincemeat of that; They speedily flew at his sleeves in a trice, And utterly tore up his Shirt of dead Mice; They swallowed the last of his Shirt with a squall,-- Whereon he ran home with no clothes on at all.

  And he said to himself, as he bolted the door, "I will not wear a similar dress any more, Any more, any more, any more, never more!"

  MR. AND MRS. DISCOBBOLOS.

  I.

  Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos Climbed to the top of a wall. And they sate to watch the sunset sky, And to hear the Nupiter Piffkin cry, And the Biscuit Buffalo call. They took up a roll and some Camomile tea, And both were as happy as happy could be, Till Mrs. Discobbolos said,-- "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head, Suppose we should happen to fall!!!!! Darling Mr. Discobbolos!

  II.

  "Suppose we should fall down flumpetty, Just like pieces of stone, On to the thorns, or into the moat, What would become of your new green coat? And might you not break a bone? It never occurred to me before, That perhaps we shall never go down any more!" And Mrs. Discobbolos said, "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! What put it into your head To climb up this wall, my own Darling Mr. Discobbolos?"

  III.

  Mr. Discobbolos answered, "At first it gave me pain, And I felt my ears turn perfectly pink When your exclamation made me think We might never get down again! But now I believe it is wiser far To remain for ever just where we are." And Mr. Discobbolos said, "Oh! W! X! Y! Z! It has just come into my head We shall never go down again, Dearest Mrs. Discobbolos!"

  IV.

  So Mr. and Mrs. Discobbolos Stood up and began to sing,-- "Far away from hurry and strife Here we will pass the rest of life, Ding a dong, ding dong, ding! We want no knives nor forks nor chairs, No tables nor carpets nor household cares; From worry of life we've fled; Oh! W! X! Y! Z! There is no more trouble ahead, Sorrow or any such thing, For Mr. and Mrs. 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 of 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 ever you 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?