Lenore was a Saracen maiden,
        Brunette, statuesque,
        The reverse of grotesque;
  Her pa was a bagman at 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—­
        Ecstaticized 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,
        Set him mad with delight;
  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 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, “Shall a warrior laden
        With a big spiky knob. 
        Stand idly and sob. 
  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
        (Seven hats and a flute),
  And was nabbed for his Sydenham armor,
    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 and quitted the stage.

[Illustration]

KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO.

King Borria Bungalee Boo Was a man-eating African swell; His sigh was a hullaballoo, His whisper a horrible yell—­ A horrible, horrible yell!

  Four subjects, and all of them male,
    To Borria doubled the knee,
  They were once on a far larger scale,
    But he’d eaten the balance, you see
    ("Scale” and “balance” is punning, you see.)

  There was haughty Pish-Tush-Pooh-Bah,
    There was lumbering Doodle-Dum-Deh,
  Despairing Alack-a-Dey-Ah,
    And good little Tootle-Tum-Teh—­
    Exemplary Tootle-Tum-Teh.