Lost Bab ballads :: :: University of Virginia Library

There never was a face
So suited, in its way,
A clergyman to grace
As Mr. Parks', M.A.
There never was a face
(Excepting Mr. Parks')
More suited to its place,
Than Mr. Parks's clerk's.

There never was a face
So medically fine,
So free from metal base
As that of Dr. Brine.
In fact, if actors could
Contrive to “look a part”
As perfectly, they would
Have mastered half their art.

These worthy people three
They were the special pride
Of Twipton-on-the-Sea
And all that country-side.
And strangers who might be
In Twipton, too, would say,

“We never noticed three
So comme il-faut as they.”

But, ah, and well-a-day!
I fear it wasn't meant,
That with our feature's play
We should be quite content!
The clergyman would say,
“My face is far too mild,
Suggestive in its way
Of quite a little child.”

The doctor wished for eyes
That, eagle-like, would pierce;
The little clerk, likewise,
He wished to look more fierce.
(We must not be severe:
We have our failings, all;
For none are perfect here
On this terrestrial ball.)

One night when nearly dark
(The wind was blowing hard),
It so befel, the clerk
Passed through the cold church-yard.
And, lo! while treading there,
The causeway of the dead
He saw in middle-air
A Solitary Head.

“Now this,” he mused, “is strange,
And though I may be dense,
It's quite beyond the range
Of my experience.

I've noticed heads before,
Young, pretty, old, and plain;
But all, I'm nearly sure
Had bodies in their train.”

“Clerk,” said that Phantom Head,
“Do you admire my smile?”
The clerk politely said,
“It is my favourite style.
Your eyes, with lightning pronged
Quite pierce me through and through;
For many years I've longed
To have a head like you!”

“To-morrow evening, halt,”
The awful Spectre said,
“At yonder handsome vault
And you shall have my head.
For I, and brothers two
(You would not know our names),
Were all beheaded, through
The wicked Second James.

“We're weary of our beds,
That merciless old hunks,
Preserved our little heads
But burnt our little trunks.
(‘Trunks,’ you'll observe, stand for
Our bodies—now no more—
Not our portmanteaux, nor
The breeches that we wore.)

“So, sure as eggs are eggs,
We never shall stir out
Until we get some legs
On which to move about.
Go, tell your worthy friends
That if they'll lend us theirs,
'Twill serve their private ends
And help us from our lairs.”

The doctor and the priest
Rejoiced to hear that day
That they, good men, at least
Might have their wilful way.
Now mark the sorry plight
Their envy brought them to:
They sought the vault that night—
The Head had told them true!

But though the faces there
Looked handsome in the light,
In point of fact they were
Unsuited to them, quite,
One handsome head, each friend
Assumed—and bore it thence;
But, ah, the fearful end!
But, ah, the consequence!

For none would take a pew
In Mr. Parks's church,
The Doctor's patients, too,
Have left him in the lurch!
The humble little clerk
Has no companions, when

He rises grim and stark
To give his loud Amen!

Moral

You'll learn this moral fit, That beauty, to the state
Of him who pays for it Should be appropriate.