The World’s Wit and Humor: An Encyclopedia in 15 Volumes. 1906.
William Makepeace Thackeray (18111863)The Ballad of Eliza Davis
G
List a tail vich late befel,
Vich I heard it, bein on duty,
At the pleace hoffice, Clerkenwell.
Vere the little children sings:
(Lor! I likes to hear on Sundies
Them there pooty little things!)
If you particklarly ask me where—
Vy, it vas at four-and-tventy
Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square.
And she went to fetch the beer;
In the street she met a party
As was quite surprised to see her.
For to judge him by his look:
Tarry jacket, canvas trousies,
Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.
Of this hinnocent young gal:
“Pray,” saysee, “excuse my freedom,
You’re so like my sister Sal!
Both in valk and face and size,
Miss, that—dang my old lee scuppers—
It brings tears into my heyes!
I’m a sailor bold and true;
Shiver up my poor old timbers,
Let me be a mate for you!
And she faintly hansers, “Lor,
Sir, my name’s Eliza Davis,
And I live at tventy-four.”
This deluded gal to meet;
And at tventy-four was welcome,
Tventy-four in Guilford Street.
(Kinder they than misuses are),
How in marridge he had ast her,
Like a galliant British tar.
(Vich was all his hartful plan),
And she told how Charley Thompson
Reely vas a good young man:
Many years of union sweet
Vith a gent she met promiskous,
Valkin in the public street.
And she thought that soon their bands
Vould be published at the fondlin,
Hand the clergyman jine their ands.
(Vich her master let some rooms),
Likevise vere they kep their things, and
Vere her master kep his spoons.
Came on Sundy veek to see her;
And he sent Eliza Davis
Hout to fetch a pint of beer.
Fetch the beer, dewoid of sin,
This etrocious Charley Thompson
Let his wile accomplish hin.
This abandingd female goes;
Prigs their shirts and umberellas;
Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes—
Lest his wictim should escape,
Hocust her vith rum and vater,
Like a fiend in huming shape.
Vich these raskles little sore;
Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord
Of the house at tventy-four.
Just afore he vent to sup;
And on looking up he sor the
Lodgers’ vinders lighted up.
Something’s going wrong, he said;
And he caught the vicked voman
Underneath the lodger’s bed.
Vich was passing on his beat,
Like a true and galliant feller,
Hup and down in Guilford Street.
Took this voman to the cell;
To the cell vere she was quodded,
In the Close of Clerkenwell.
Boulted like a miscrant base,
Presently another pleaceman
Took him to the self-same place.
Tuesday last came up for doom;
By the beak they was committed,
Vich his name was Mr. Combe.
Simple gal of tventy-four,
She, I ope, vill never listen
In the streets to sailors moar.
(Vich most every gal expex),
Let her take a jolly pleaceman;
Vich his name peraps is—X.