Dancing by the Light of the Moon Read online

  Dodgson had many girl-friends: children and young women who were special friends, with whom he corresponded at length, took tea, and occasionally even took with him on holiday. In 1893 his sister, Mary, wrote to him about the gossip that was attached to these relationships. He replied to her: ‘You need not be shocked at my being spoken against. Anybody who is spoken about at all, is sure to be spoken against by somebody: and any action, however innocent in itself, is liable, and not at all unlikely, to be blamed by somebody. If you limit your actions in life to things that nobody can possibly find fault with, you will not do much!’

  Lewis Carroll did a great deal, including creating some of the most remarkable characters in all fiction. He invented his own pen-name, ‘Lewis Carroll’ (based on a Latin inversion of his first two names), and much besides. He pioneered ‘portmanteau words’ that combine two existing words to create a third new one – like ‘brunch’ (1895), ‘Brexit’ (2016), and ‘chortle’, a Carroll original. ‘Chortle’ is a combination of ‘chuckle’ and ‘snort’ and Carroll conjured it up for Through the Looking-Glass (1871), his second book about the adventures of Alice.

  You don’t need to make sense of any of this chapter. Some critics claim the Louis MacNeice bagpipe ballad is a coded critique of the literary scene of his day, but I think it’s just a bit of fun. Whether it’s MacNeice or Milligan, Lear or Carroll, just let it roll around in your head and enjoy.

  Two Dead Boys

  by Anon.

  One fine day in the middle of the night,

  Two dead boys got up to fight,

  Back to back they faced each other,

  Drew their swords and shot each other.

  One was blind and the other couldn’t see

  So they chose a dummy for a referee.

  A blind man went to see fair play,

  A dumb man went to shout ‘hooray!’

  A paralysed donkey passing by,

  Kicked the blind man in the eye,

  Knocked him through a nine inch wall,

  Into a dry ditch and drowned them all.

  A deaf policeman heard the noise,

  And came to arrest the two dead boys,

  If you don’t believe this story’s true,

  Ask the blind man he saw it too!

  The Pobble who has no toes

  by Edward Lear

  (1812–88)

  I

  The Pobble who has no toes

  Had once as many as we;

  When they said, ‘Some day you may lose them all;’ –

  He replied, – ‘Fish fiddle de-dee!’

  And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink,

  Lavender water tinged with pink,

  For she said, ‘The World in general knows

  ‘There’s nothing so good for a Pobble’s toes!’

  II

  The Pobble who has no toes,

  Swam across the Bristol Channel;

  But before he set out he wrapped his nose,

  In a piece of scarlet flannel.

  For his Aunt Jobiska said, ‘No harm

  ‘Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;

  ‘And it’s perfectly known that a Pobble’s toes

  ‘Are safe, – provided he minds his nose.’

  III

  The Pobble swam fast and well

  And when boats or ships came near him

  He tinkedly-binkledy-winkled a bell

  So that all the world could hear him.

  And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,

  When they saw him nearing the further side, –

  ‘He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s

  ‘Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!’

  IV

  But before he touched the shore,

  The shore of the Bristol Channel,

  A sea-green Porpoise carried away

  His wrapper of scarlet flannel.

  And when he came to observe his feet

  Formerly garnished with toes so neat

  His face at once became forlorn

  On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

  V

  And nobody ever knew

  From that dark day to the present,

  Whoso had taken the Pobble’s toes,

  In a manner so far from pleasant.

  Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray,

  Or crafty Mermaids stole them away –

  Nobody knew; and nobody knows

  How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

  VI

  The Pobble who has no toes

  Was placed in a friendly Bark,

  And they rowed him back, and carried him up,

  To his Aunt Jobiska’s Park.

  And she made him a feast at his earnest wish

  Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; –

  And she said, – ‘It’s a fact the whole world knows,

  ‘That Pobbles are happier without their toes.’

  Jabberwocky

  by Lewis Carroll

  (1832–98)

  ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

  All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

  Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

  The frumious Bandersnatch!’

  He took his vorpal sword in hand:

  Long time the manxome foe he sought –

  So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

  And stood awhile in thought.

  And, as in uffish thought he stood,

  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

  Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

  And burbled as it came!

  One, two! One, two! And through and through

  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

  He left it dead, and with its head

  He went galumphing back.

  ‘And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

  O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!’

  He chortled in his joy.

  ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

  All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  A dozen of Lewis Carroll’s ingenious linguistic creations make their first appearance in the poem ‘Jabberwocky’ in Chapter 1 of Through the Looking-Glass. These definitions (sometimes contradictory) are the ones supplied by Carroll, Humpty Dumpty and Alice:

  Jabberwock is the name of the fabulous monster in the poem and is formed on the verb ‘to jabber’.

  Brillig, according to Humpty Dumpty in Chapter 6, means ‘four o’clock in the afternoon – the time you begin broiling things for dinner’.

  Slithy, Humpty Dumpty says, ‘means “lithe and slimy.” “Lithe” is the same as “active.” You see it’s like a portmanteau – there are two meanings packed up into one word.’

  Toves are ‘something like badgers – they are something like lizards – and they are something like corkscrews’.

  Gyre, according to Humpty Dumpty, means ‘to go round and round like a gyroscope’. According to Carroll it means, ‘to scratch like a dog’. Since Carroll invented Humpty Dumpty, which of them was right?

  Gimble is to make holes like a gimlet.

  Wabe, as Alice rightly guesses, is the grass plot around a sundial frequented by toves.

  Mimsy is another portmanteau: ‘flimsy and miserable’.

  Borogrove is ‘a thin shabby-looking bird with its feathers sticking out all round – something like a live mop’.

  Mome, lost, missing home or solemn.

  Raths, a sort of green pig; a species of turtle.

  Outgrabe, according to Carroll, ‘the past tense of the verb “outgribe”, meaning to shriek or creak.’

  Wynken, Blynken, and Nod

  by Eugene Field

&nb
sp; (1850–95)fn2

  Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

  Sailed off in a wooden shoe, –

  Sailed on a river of misty light

  Into a sea of dew.

  ‘Where are you going, and what do you wish?’

  The old moon asked the three.

  ‘We have come to fish for the herring-fish

  That live in this beautiful sea;

  Nets of silver and gold have we,’

  Said Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  The old moon laughed and sung a song,

  As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

  And the wind that sped them all night long

  Ruffled the waves of dew;

  The little stars were the herring-fish

  That lived in that beautiful sea.

  ‘Now cast your nets wherever you wish,

  But never afeard are we!’

  So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

  Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  All night long their nets they threw

  For the fish in the twinkling foam,

  Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,

  Bringing the fishermen home;

  ’T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed

  As if it could not be;

  And some folks thought ’t was a dream they’d dreamed

  Of sailing that beautiful sea;

  But I shall name you the fishermen three:

  Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

  And Nod is a little head,

  And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

  Is a wee one’s trundle-bed;

  So shut your eyes while Mother sings

  Of wonderful sights that be,

  And you shall see the beautiful things

  As you rock in the misty sea,

  Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three, –

  Wynken,

  Blynken,

  And Nod.

  Bagpipe Music

  by Louis MacNeice

  (1907–63)

  It’s no go the merrygoround, it’s no go the rickshaw,

  All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.

  Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,

  Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

  John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,

  Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,

  Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whisky,

  Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

  It’s no go the Yogi-Man, it’s no go Blavatsky,

  All we want is a bank balance and a bit of skirt in a taxi.

  Annie MacDougall went to milk, caught her foot in the heather,

  Woke to hear a dance record playing of Old Vienna.

  It’s no go your maidenheads, it’s no go your culture,

  All we want is a Dunlop tyre and the devil mend the puncture.

  The Laird o’Phelps spent Hogmanay declaring he was sober,

  Counted his feet to prove the fact and found he had one foot over.

  Mrs Carmichael had her fifth, looked at the job with repulsion,

  Said to the midwife ‘Take it away; I’m through with over-production’.

  It’s no go the gossip column, it’s no go the Ceilidh,

  All we want is a mother’s help and a sugar-stick for the baby.

  Willie Murray cut his thumb, couldn’t count the damage,

  Took the hide of an Ayrshire cow and used it for a bandage.

  His brother caught three hundred cran when the seas were lavish,

  Threw the bleeders back in the sea and went upon the parish.

  It’s no go the Herring Board, it’s no go the Bible,

  All we want is a packet of fags when our hands are idle.

  It’s no go the picture palace, it’s no go the stadium,

  It’s no go the country cot with a pot of pink geraniums,

  It’s no go the Government grants, it’s no go the elections,

  Sit on your arse for fifty years and hang your hat on a pension.

  It’s no go my honey love, it’s no go my poppet;

  Work your hands from day to day, the winds will blow the profit.

  The glass is falling hour by hour, the glass will fall for ever,

  But if you break the bloody glass you won’t hold up the weather.

  The Cow Who Jumped over the Moon

  by Celia Johnson

  (1908–82)fn3

  The cow who jumped over the moon remarked,

  Gazing up at the sky,

  I think I shall try those Olympics,

  There’s no one as clever as I.

  If I went in for the high jump

  I’d be sure of a medal you see –

  Or is it grammatically better to say,

  There’s no one as clever as me?

  The head of the herd, called Daisy,

  Methodically chewing the cud,

  Said: ‘You haven’t jumped over the moon my dear,

  Since eons before the flood –

  And though it was simply delightful

  I must proffer a slight demur,

  What I am trying to say is –

  You are not so young as you were.’

  ‘As far as I can remember

  That dog was rather a flop,

  I am all for some laughter and jollity

  But he never knew when to stop –

  And the spoon with that dish were disgraceful

  They caused the most fearful to do.

  There hasn’t been quite such a rumpus

  Since the woman who lived in that shoe.’

  The cow who jumped over the moon replied

  Giving a tentative hop:

  ‘There may be something in what you say

  It’s a long way over the top.

  I think I shall have to forgo the fame

  And the dais with me in the middle

  And the honour and glory, the flags and the cheers

  And the band playing “Hey diddle-diddle”.’

  The head of the herd (called Daisy)

  Said with a satisfied glance:

  ‘Your nobleness does you credit

  One must give the heifers a chance,

  And thanks to your shining example

  Some of them aren’t too dud,’

  And after this selfless decision

  They returned to chewing the cud.

  Of pygmies, palms and pirates

  by Mervyn Peake

  (1911–68)

  Of pygmies, palms and pirates,

  Of islands and lagoons,

  Of blood-bespattered frigates,

  Of crags and Octoroons,

  Of whales and broken bottles,

  Of quicksands cold and grey,

  Of ullages and dottles,

  I have no more to say.

  Of barley, corn and furrows,

  Of farms and turf that heaves

  Above such ghostly burrows

  As twitch on summer eves

  Of fallow-land and pasture,

  Of skies both pink and grey,

  I made my statement last year

  And have no more to say.

  Hot and Cold

  by Roald Dahl

  (1916–90)

  A woman who my mother knows

  Came in and took off all her clothes.

  Said I, not being very old,

  ‘By golly gosh, you must be cold!’

  ‘No, no!’ she cried. ‘Indeed I’m not!

  I’m feeling devilishly hot!’

  In the Land of the Bumbley Boo

  by Spike Milligan

  (1918–2002)

  In the Land of the Bumbley Boo

  The People are red white and blue,
/>   They never blow noses,

  Or ever wear closes,

  What a sensible thing to do!

  In the Land of the Bumbley Boo

  You can buy Lemon pie at the zoo;

  They give away foxes

  In little Pink Boxes

  And Bottles of Dandylion Stew.

  In the Land of the Bumbley Boo

  You never see a Gnu,

  But thousands of cats

  Wearing trousers and hats

  Made of Pumpkins and Pelican Glue!

  Chorus

  Oh, the Bumbley Boo! the Bumbley Boo!

  That’s the place for me and you!

  So hurry! Let’s run!

  The train leaves at one!

  For the Land of the Bumbley Boo!

  The wonderful Bumbley Boo-Boo-Boo!

  The Wonderful Bumbley BOO!!!

  The Midnight Skaters

  by Roger McGough

  (born 1937)

  It is midnight in the ice-rink

  And all is cool and still.

  Darkness seems to hold its breath

  Nothing moves, until

  Out of the kitchen, one by one,

  The cutlery comes creeping,

  Quiet as mice to the brink of the ice

  While all the world is sleeping.

  Then suddenly, a serving-spoon

  Switches on the light,

  And the silver swoops upon the ice

  Screaming with delight.

  The knives are high-speed skaters

  Round and round they race,

  Blades hissing, sissing,

  Whizzing at a dizzy pace.

  Forks twirl like dancers

  Pirouetting on the spot.

  Teaspoons (who take no chances)

  Hold hands and giggle a lot.

  All night long the fun goes on

  Until the sun, their friend,

  Gives the warning signal

  That all good things must end.

  So they slink back to the darkness

  Of the kitchen cutlery-drawer

  And steel themselves to wait

  Until it’s time to skate once more.

  At eight the canteen ladies