Related quotes: KING BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO Was...

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-DEY,
Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH,
And good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH -
Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH.

One day there was grief in the crew,
For they hadn't a morsel of meat,
And BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO
Was dying for something to eat -
'Come, provide me with something to eat!

'ALACK-A-DEY, famished I feel;
Oh, good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,
Where on earth shall I look for a meal?
For I haven't no dinner to-day! -
Not a morsel of dinner to-day!

'Dear TOOTLE-TUM, what shall we do?
Come, get us a meal, or, in truth,
If you don't, we shall have to eat you,
Oh, adorable friend of our youth!
Thou beloved little friend of our youth!'

And he answered, 'Oh, BUNGALEE BOO,
For a moment I hope you will wait, -
TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO
Is the Queen of a neighbouring state -
A remarkably neighbouring state.

'TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO,
She would pickle deliciously cold -
And her four pretty Amazons, too,
Are enticing, and not very old -
Twenty-seven is not very old.

'There is neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH,
There is rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH,
There is jocular WAGGETY-WEH,
There is musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH -
There's the nightingale DOH-REH-MI-FAH!'

So the forces of BUNGALEE BOO
Marched forth in a terrible row,
And the ladies who fought for QUEEN LOO
Prepared to encounter the foe -
This dreadful, insatiate foe!

But they sharpened no weapons at all,
And they poisoned no arrows - not they!
They made ready to conquer or fall
In a totally different way -
An entirely different way.

With a crimson and pearly-white dye
They endeavoured to make themselves fair,
With black they encircled each eye,
And with yellow they painted their hair
(It was wool, but they thought it was hair).

And the forces they met in the field:-
And the men of KING BORRIA said,
'Amazonians, immediately yield!'
And their arrows they drew to the head -
Yes, drew them right up to the head.

But jocular WAGGETY-WEH
Ogled DOODLE-DUM-DEY (which was wrong),
And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH
Said, 'TOOTLE-TUM, you go along!
You naughty old dear, go along!'

And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH
Tapped ALACK-A-DEY-AH with her fan;
And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH
Said, 'PISH, go away, you bad man!
Go away, you delightful young man!'

And the Amazons simpered and sighed,
And they ogled, and giggled, and flushed,
And they opened their pretty eyes wide,
And they chuckled, and flirted, and blushed
(At least, if they could, they'd have blushed).

But haughty PISH-TUSH-POOH-BAH
Said, 'ALACK-A-DEY, what does this mean?'
And despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH
Said, 'They think us uncommonly green!
Ha! ha! most uncommonly green!'

Even blundering DOODLE-DUM-DEY
Was insensible quite to their leers,
And said good little TOOTLE-TUM-TEH,
'It's your blood we desire, pretty dears -
We have come for our dinners, my dears!'

And the Queen of the Amazons fell
To BORRIA BUNGALEE BOO, -
In a mouthful he gulped, with a yell,
TIPPY-WIPPITY TOL-THE-ROL-LOO -
The pretty QUEEN TOL-THE-ROL-LOO.

And neat little TITTY-FOL-LEH
Was eaten by PISH-POOH-BAH,
And light-hearted WAGGETY-WEH
By dismal ALACK-A-DEY-AH -
Despairing ALACK-A-DEY-AH.

And rollicking TRAL-THE-RAL-LAH
Was eaten by DOODLE-DUM-DEY,
And musical DOH-REH-MI-FAH
By good little TOOTLE-DUM-TEH -
Exemplary TOOTLE-TUM-TEH!

poem by William Schwenck Gilbert
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

The Wooing

A YOUTH went faring up and down,
Alack and well-a-day.
He fared him to the market town,
Alack and well-a-day.
And there he met a maiden fair,
With hazel eyes and auburn hair;
His heart went from him then and there,
Alack and well-a-day.
She posies sold right merrily,
Alack and well-a-day;
But not a flower was fair as she,
Alack and well-a-day.
He bought a rose and sighed a sigh,
'Ah, dearest maiden, would that I
Might dare the seller too to buy!'
Alack and well-a-day.
She tossed her head, the coy coquette,
Alack and well-a-day.
'I'm not, sir, in the market yet,'
Alack and well-a-day.
'Your love must cool upon a shelf;
Tho' much I sell for gold and pelf,
I'm yet too young to sell myself,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The youth was filled with sorrow sore,
Alack and well-a-day;
And looked he at the maid once more,
Alack and well-a-day.
Then loud he cried, 'Fair maiden, if
Too young to sell, now as I live,
You're not too young yourself to give,'
Alack and well-a-day.
The little maid cast down her eyes,
Alack and well-a-day,
And many a flush began to rise,
Alack and well-a-day.
'Why, since you are so bold,' she said,
'I doubt not you are highly bred,
So take me!' and the twain were wed,
Alack and well-a-day.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song's Eternity

What is song's eternity?
Come and see.
Can it noise and bustle be?
Come and see.
Praises sung or praises said
Can it be?
Wait awhile and these are dead -
Sigh, sigh;
Be they high or lowly bred
They die.

What is song's eternity?
Come and see.
Melodies of earth and sky,
Here they be.
Song once sung to Adam's ears
Can it be?
Ballads of six thousand years
Thrive, thrive;
Songs awaken with the spheres
Alive.

Mighty songs that miss decay,
What are they?
Crowds and cities pass away
Like a day.
Books are out and books are read;
What are they?
Years will lay them with the dead -
Sigh, sigh;
Trifles unto nothing wed,
They die.

Dreamers, mark the honey bee;
Mark the tree
Where the blue cap "tootle tee"
Sings a glee
Sung to Adam and to Eve -
Here they be.
When floods covered every bough,
Noah's ark
Heard that ballad singing now;
Hark, hark,

"Tootle tootle tootle tee" -
Can it be
Pride and fame must shadows be?
Come and see -
Every season owns her own;
Bird and bee
Sing creation's music on;
Nature's glee
Is in every mood and tone
Eternity.

poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poor Old Pilgrim Misery ( Song )

Act I, scene 1, lines 141-60

Poor old pilgrim Misery,
Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech owl's cry,
And the cold wind's goblin prate;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With withered willow twined,
His scant grey hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrined;
And his cry it was ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me.

Anon a wanton imp astray
His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears:
With his plunder fled that urchin elf,
And hid it in your eyes,
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize;
Or your cry shall be ever, alack!
Alack, and woe is me.

poem by Thomas Lovell Beddoes
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Another Yankee Doodle

Yankee Doodle had a mind
To whip the Southern traitors,
Because they didn't choose to live
On codfish and potatoes,
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
And to keep his courage up
He took a drink of brandy.

Yankee Doodle said he found
By all the census figures,
That he could starve the rebels out,
If he could steal their niggers.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
And then he took another drink
Of gunpowder and brandy.

Yankee Doodle made a speech;
'Twas very full of feeling;
'I fear,' he says, 'I cannot fight,
But I am good at stealing.'
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Hurrah for Lincoln, he's the boy
To take a drop of brandy.

Yankee Doodle drew his sword,
And practiced all the passes;
Come, boys, we'll take another drink
When we get to Manassas.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
They never reached Manassas plain,
And never got the brandy.

Yankee Doodle soon found out
That Bull Run was no trifle;
For if the North knew how to steal,
The South knew how to rifle.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
'Tis very clear I took too much
Of that infernal brandy.

Yankee Doodle wheeled about,
And scampered off at full run,
And such a race was never seen
As that he made at Bull Run.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
I haven't time to stop right now
To take a drop of brandy.

Yankee Doodle, oh! for shame,
You're always intermeddling;
Let guns alone, they're dangerous things;
You'd better stick to peddling.
Yankee Doodle, doodle-doo,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
When next I go to Bully Run
I'll throw away the brandy.

poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Verses To John Tupper

DEAR Jack
Alack!
A few days back
I bound myself by oath to smack
My lips o'er sloshy tea, and attack
White, brown, or black
Bread, and vile jokes to crack,
This night with brutes whose knack
Would squeeze a pun in Syriac.
And for to—morrow, alack!
I have a model on my track,
So that I may not pack.
Of course I writhe upon the rack:
Though as to NATURE, Jack,
(Poor dear old hack!)
Touching sky, sun, stone, stick, and stack,
I guess I'm half a quack;
For whom ten lines of Browning whack
The whole of the Zodiac.
Nevertheless, alack!
Seeing this time I must send back
To Prince and Baron, Stephens and Jack
(Spec—cadav Rex, hic hæc hoc hac),
And to the Maniac,
The sack.
This much from D.G.R. (in black,
I.e., with coal—ash cloth—of—sack.)

poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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All The Love

The first time I died
Was in the arms of good friends of mine.
They kiss me with tears.
They hadnt been near me for years.
Say, why do it now
When I wont be around, Im going out?
We needed you
To love us too.
We wait for your move.
Only tragedy allows the release
Of love and grief never normally seen.
I didnt want to let them see me weep,
I didnt want to let them see me weak,
But I know I have shown
That I stand at the gates alone.
I needed you
To love me too.
I wait for your move.
All the love, all the love,
All the love we should have given.
All the love, all the love,
All the love you could have given.
All the love, all the love,
All the love...
(run for the hills...)*
The next time I dedicate
My lifes work to the friends I make,
I give them what they want to hear.
They think Im up to something weird
And up rears the head of fear in me.
So now when they ring
I get my machine to let them in.
I needed you
To love me too.
I wait for your move.
All the love, all the love,
All the love you should have given.
All the love, all the love,
All the love we could have given.
All the love, all the love,
All the love...
Take care, tootle-ooh.
Bye-bye.
Bye, so long now. [uncertain]
Bye!
Later.
Bye-ee!
Cheerio.
Bye!
Bye-bye.
Bye.
Stay healthy. [uncertain]
Bye-ee!
Bye.
Cheers.
See ya, luv.
Bye!
Good bye.
Ill see ya, luv.
Good night.
We needed you
To love us too.
We wait for your move.

song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Story

They met each other in the glade –
She lifted up her eyes;
Alack the day! Alack the maid!
She blushed in swift surprise.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from lifting up the eyes.

The pail was full, the path was steep –
He reached to her his hand;
She felt her warm young pulses leap,
But did not understand.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from clasping hand with hand.

She sat beside him in the wood –
He wooed with words and sighs;
Ah! love in spring seems sweet and good,
And maidens are not wise.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from listing lovers’ sighs.

The summer sun shone fairly down,
The wind blew from the south;
As his blue eyes gazed in eyes of brown,
His kiss fell on her mouth.
Alas! Alas! the woe that comes from kisses on the mouth.

And now the autumn time is near,
The lover roves away,
With breaking heart and falling tear,
She sits the livelong day.
Alas! Alas! for breaking hearts when lovers rove away.

poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Mad Maid's Song

Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee,
Which bore my Love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave;
I'll seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him;
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home;--but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him.

poem by Robert Herrick
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Indian Queen

Whooo-oo-whoooo
This is my life I dont feel whole every night
I hear love, crying down on love so bright
Tell me to hear
(I feel so good)
How can you tell
(I do believe)
Its just so real
(I really know)
I want to know
(I gotta say)
The indian queen, pretty as a dream
The indian queen, my love is so free
In the love, I hear all those melodies
In my love, lying down on separate ears
Oh, how can you tell
(I feel so good)
Its just so real
(I really know)
How do you know
(its got to be)
Its got to go
(its still inside)
The indian queen, pretty as a dream
The indian queen, proud of eyes so clear
Whoo-oo-oo-whoooooooo
Its my world, Id save all my life for you
Ah-ah-ah
You can smile down on lovers avenue
Well, how can you tell
(I want to know)
Its just so good
(oh, yes I do)
I feel so right
(I really do)
Its so tight
(come on now)
The indian queen, pretty as a dream
The indian queen, my love is so real
Whoooo-ooowhoooo
Its so real, you know like its got to be
You say no and I wake up wanting you
Well, how can you stop
(I feel this good)
Youve got to be
(oh, this is good)
Its just so real
(I wanna be)
Knowing you
(its all so real)
The indian queen, pretty as a dream
The indian queen, my love is so real
Whooo-oo-whoooo-oo
Can I tell you bout an indian queen
(fading...) shes gonna get her dream....

song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Us Two

Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
Whatever I do, he wants to do,
"Where are you going today?" says Pooh:
"Well, that's very odd 'cos I was too.
Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.
"Let's go together," says Pooh.

"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.
("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.)
"I think it ought to be twenty-two."
"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.
"It wasn't an easy sum to do,
But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what it is," said Pooh.

"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.
"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.
We crossed the river and found a few-
"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.
"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.
That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.
"That's what they are," said Pooh.

"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.
"That's right," said Pooh to Me.
"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,
And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!
Silly old dragons!"- and off they flew.

"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,
"I'm never afraid with you."

So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,
There's always Pooh and Me.
"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,
"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said: "True,
It isn't much fun for One, but Two,
Can stick together, says Pooh, says he. "That's how it is," says Pooh.

poem by Alan Alexander Milne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Up at a Villa--Down in the City

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare,
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square;
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there!

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least!
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast;
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast.

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull
Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull,
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull!
--I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool.

But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why?
They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye!
Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry;
You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by;
Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high;
And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly.

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,
'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights:
You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees.

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once;
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns.
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!
In the shade it sings and springs: in the shine such foambows flash
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash
Round the lady atop in her conch--fifty gazers do not abash,
Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash.

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger,
Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle,
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill.
Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:
No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in:
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth;
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot!
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's!
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and so,
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero,
"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached,
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached."
Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife.
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,
And the penitents dressed in white shirts a-holding the yellow candles;
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles.
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals:
Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife;
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

poem by Robert Browning
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Knight in Green

WHAT fragrant-footed comer
Is stepping o’er my head?
Behold, my queen! the Summer!
Who deems her warriors dead.
Now rise, ye knights of many fights,
From out your sleep profound!
Make sharp your spears, my gallant peers,
And prick the frozen ground.

Before the White Host harm her,
We ’ll hurry to her aid;
We ’ll don our elfin armor,
And every tiny blade
Shall bear atop a dewy drop,
The life-blood of the frost,
Till from their king the order ring:
“Fall back! the day is lost.”

Now shame to knighthood, brothers!
Must Summer plead in vain?
And shall I wait till others
My crown of sunshine gain?
Alone this day I ’ll dare the fray,
Alone the victory win;
In me my queen shall find, I ween,
A sturdy paladin.

To battle! Ho! King Winter
Hath rushed on me apace,—
My fragile blade doth splinter
Beneath his icy mace.
I stagger back. I yield—alack!
I fall. My senses pass.
Woe worth the chance for doughtiest lance
Of all the House of Grass!

Last hope my heart gives over.
But hark! a shout of cheer!
Don Daisy and Count Clover,
Sir Buttercup, are here!
Behold! behold! with shield of gold
Prince Dandelion comes.
Lord Bumble-Bee beats valiantly
His rolling battle-drums.

My brothers leave their slumbers
And lead the van of war;
Before our swelling numbers
The foes are driven far.
The day’s our own; but, overthrown,
A little Knight in green,
I kiss her feet and deem it sweet
To perish for my queen.

poem by Katharine Lee Bates
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Belloc IV

Take no councils from the east:
old Eden was the place,
remember, where in arrogance
our parents fell from grace.

The east is where the sun crops up-
the young and callow sun
that friend and foe alike alack
so goldenly smiles on.

Yeh, so he rises in the east
and yes, his beams are pretty
but those that truck in such sweet yeast
shall bank but scorn and pity.

And, though he rises in the east
remember, mum, the west
is where, day done, his work complete,
he comes at last to rest.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ratcatcher's Daughter

Not long ago, in Vestminstier,
There liv'd a ratcatcher's daughter, -
But she didn't quite live in Vestminstier,
'Cause she liv'd t'other side of the vater; -
Her father caught rats, and she sold sprats,
All round and about that quarter;
And the gentlefolks all took off their hats,
To the putty little ratcatcher's daughter.
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

She vore no 'at upon her 'ead,
No cap nor dandy bonnet,
The 'air of 'er 'ead all 'ung down her back,
Like a bunch of carrots upon it;
Ven she cried 'Sprats!' in Vestminstier,
She 'ad such a sweet loud woice, sir,
You could hear her all down Parliament Street,
As far as Charing Cross, sir.
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

Now, rich and poor, both far and near,
In matrimony sought her;
But at friends and foes she turn'd up her nose,
Did the putty little ratcatcher's daughter.
For there was a man, sold lily-vite sand,
In Cupid's net had caught her;
And right over head and ears in love
Vent the putty little ratcatcher's daughter!
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

Now lily-vite sand so ran in'er 'ead,
As she vent along the Strand, oh!
She forgot as she'd got sprats on her 'ead,
And cried, 'D'ye vant any lily-vite sand, oh,'
The folks, amaz'd, all thought her craz'd,
As she vent along the Strand, oh!
To see a gal vith sprats on 'er 'ead
Cry, 'D'ye vant any lily-vite sand, oh!'
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

Now ratcatcher's daughter so ran in his 'ead,
He couldn't tell vat he was arter,
So, instead of crying 'D'ye vant any sand?'
He cried, 'D'ye vant any ratcatcher's darter?'
His donkey cock'd his ears and laughed,
And couldn't think vat 'e was arter,
Ven he heard his lily-vite sandman cry,
'D'ye vant any ratcatcher's darter?'
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

They both agreed to married be
Upon next Easter Sunday,
But Ratcatcher's daughter she had a dream
That she wouldn't be alive on Monday;
She vent vunce more to buy some sprats,
And she tumbled into the vater,
And down to the bottom, all kiver'd up with mud,
Vent the putty little ratcatcher's daughter!
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

Ven Lily-vite Sand 'e 'eard the news,
His eyes ran down with vater,
Said 'e, 'In love I'll constiant prove;
And - blow me if I'll live long arter.'
So he cut 'is throat vith a pane of glass,
And stabb'd 'is donkey arter!
So 'ere is an end of Lily-vite Sand,
Donkey, and the ratcatcher's daughter.
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

The neighbours all, both great and small,
They flocked unto 'er berrein',
And vept that a gal who'd cried out sprats,
Sould be dead as any herrein'.
The Corioner's Inquest on her sot,
At the sign of the Jack i' the Vater,
To find vat made life's sand run out
Of the putty little ratcatcher's daughter!
Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

The verdict vas that too much vet
This poor young voman died on;
For she made an ole in the Riviere Thames,
Vot the penny steamers ride on!
'Twas a haccident they all agreed,
And nuffink like self-slaughter;
So not guiltee o' fell in the sea,
They brought in the ratcatcher's daughter!
*Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

*Well, ladies and gentlemen, - arter the two bodies was resusticated - they buried them both in one seminary - and the epigram which they writ upon the tombstone went as follows - Doodle dee! doodle dum! di dum doodle da!

poem by E. Bradley
Submitted by anonym
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