The Three Kings of Chickeraboo
THERE were three niggers of Chickeraboo—PACIFICO, BANG-BANG, POPCHOP—whoExclaimed, one terribly sultry day,“Oh, let’s be kings in a humble way.”
The first was a highly-accomplished “bones,”The next elicited banjo tones,The third was a quiet, retiring chap,Who danced an excellent break-down “flap.”
“We niggers,” said they, “have formed a planBy which, whenever we like, we canExtemporise kingdoms near the beach,And then we’ll collar a kingdom each.
“Three casks, from somebody else’s stores,Shall represent our island shores,Their sides the ocean wide shall lave,Their heads just topping the briny wave.
“Great Britain’s navy scours the sea,And everywhere her ships they be;She’ll recognise our rank, perhaps,When she discovers we’re Royal Chaps.
“If to her skirts you want to cling,It’s quite sufficient that you’re a king;She does not push inquiry farTo learn what sort of king you are.”
A ship of several thousand tons,And mounting seventy-something guns,Ploughed, every year, the ocean blue,Discovering kings and countries new.
The brave REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIP,Commanding that magnificent ship,Perceived one day, his glasses through,The kings that came from Chickeraboo.
“Dear eyes!” said ADMIRAL PIP, “I seeThree flourishing islands on our lee.And, bless me! most remarkable thing!On every island stands a king!
“Come, lower the Admiral’s gig,” he cried,“And over the dancing waves I’ll glide;That low obeisance I may doTo those three kings of Chickeraboo!”
The Admiral pulled to the islands three;The kings saluted him graciouslee.The Admiral, pleased at his welcome warm,Unrolled a printed Alliance form.
“Your Majesty, sign me this, I pray—I come in a friendly kind of way—I come, if you please, with the best intents,And QUEEN VICTORIA’S compliments.”
The kings were pleased as they well could be;The most retiring of the three,In a “cellar-flap” to his joy gave ventWith a banjo-bones accompaniment.
The great REAR-ADMIRAL BAILEY PIPEmbarked on board his jolly big ship,Blue Peter flew from his lofty fore,And off he sailed to his native shore.
ADMIRAL PIP directly wentTo the Lord at the head of the Government,Who made him, by a stroke of a quill,BARON DE PIPPE, OF PIPPETONNEVILLE.
The College of Heralds permission yieldThat he should quarter upon his shieldThree islands, vert, on a field of blue,With the pregnant motto “Chickeraboo.”
Ambassadors, yes, and attachés, too,Are going to sail for Chickeraboo.And, see, on the good ship’s crowded deck,A bishop, who’s going out there on spec.
And let us all hope that blissful thingsMay come of alliance with darky kings,And, may we never, whatever we do,Declare a war with Chickeraboo!
JOE GOLIGHTLY OR, THE FIRST LORD’S DAUGHTER
A tar, but poorly prized,Long, shambling, and unsightly,Thrashed, bullied, and despised,Was wretched JOE GOLIGHTLY.
He bore a workhouse brand;No Pa or Ma had claimed him,The Beadle found him, andThe Board of Guardians named him.
P’r’aps some Princess’s son—A beggar p’r’aps his mother.He rather thought the one,I rather think the other.
He liked his ship at sea,He loved the salt sea-water,He worshipped junk, and heAdored the First Lord’s daughter.
The First Lord’s daughter, proud,Snubbed Earls and Viscounts nightly;She sneered at Barts. aloud,And spurned poor Joe Golightly.
Whene’er he sailed afarUpon a Channel cruise, heUnpacked his light guitarAnd sang this ballad (Boosey):
Ballad
The moon is on the sea,Willow!The wind blows towards the lee,Willow!But though I sigh and sob and cry,No Lady Jane for me,Willow!
She says, “’Twere folly quite,Willow!For me to wed a wight,Willow!Whose lot is cast before the mast”;And possibly she’s right,Willow!
His skipper (CAPTAIN JOYCE),He gave him many a rating,And almost lost his voiceFrom thus expostulating:
“Lay aft, you lubber, do!What’s come to that young man, JOE?Belay!—’vast heaving! you!Do kindly stop that banjo!
“I wish, I do—O lor’!—You’d shipped aboard a trader:Are you a sailor orA negro serenader?”
But still the stricken lad,Aloft or on his pillow,Howled forth in accents sadHis aggravating “Willow!”
Stern love of duty hadBeen JOYCE’S chiefest beauty;Says he, “I love that lad,But duty, damme! duty!
“Twelve months’ black-hole, I say,Where daylight never flashes;And always twice a dayA good six dozen lashes!”
But JOSEPH had a mate,A sailor stout and lusty,A man of low estate,But singularly trusty.
Says he, “Cheer hup, young JOE!I’ll tell you what I’m arter—To that Fust Lord I’ll goAnd ax him for his darter.
“To that Fust Lord I’ll goAnd say you love her dearly.”And JOE said (weeping low),“I wish you would, sincerely!”
That sailor to that LordWent, soon as he had landed,And of his own accordAn interview demanded.
Says he, with seaman’s roll,“My Captain (wot’s a Tartar)Guv JOE twelve months’ black-hole,For lovering your darter.
“He loves MISS LADY JANE(I own she is his betters),But if you’ll jine them twain,They’ll free him from his fetters.
“And if so be as howYou’ll let her come aboard ship,I’ll take her with me now.”“Get out!” remarked his Lordship.
That honest tar repairedTo JOE upon the billow,And told him how he’d fared.JOE only whispered, “Willow!”
And for that dreadful crime(Young sailors, learn to shun it)He’s working out his time;In six months he’ll have done it.