Title: Songs of a Savoyard
Author: W. S. Gilbert
Release date: June 1, 1997 [eBook #934]
Most recently updated: August 11, 2019
Language: English
Credits: Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co edition of “The Bab Ballads”, also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition by David Price
Transcribed from the 1920 Macmillan and Co edition of “The Bab Ballads”, also from “Fifty Bab Ballads” 1884 George Routledge and Sons edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
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The Darned Mounseer |
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The Englishman |
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The Disagreeable Man |
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The Coming By-and-By |
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The Highly Respectable Gondolier |
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The Fairy Queen’s Song |
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Is Life a Boon |
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The Modern Major-General |
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The Heavy Dragoon |
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Proper Pride |
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The Policeman’s Lot |
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The Baffled Grumbler |
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The House of Peers |
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A Merry Madrigal |
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The Duke And The Duchess |
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Eheu Fugaces—! |
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They’ll None of ’em be Missed |
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Girl Graduates |
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Braid The Raven Hair |
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The Working Monarch |
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The Ape And The Lady |
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Only Roses |
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The Rover’s Apology |
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An Appeal |
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The Reward of Merit |
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The Magnet and the Churn |
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The Family Fool |
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Sans Souci |
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A Recipe |
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The Merryman and his Maid |
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The Susceptible Chancellor |
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When a Merry Maiden Marries |
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The British Tar |
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A Man who would Woo a Fair Maid |
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The Sorcerer’s Song |
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The Fickle Breeze |
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The First Lord’s Song |
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Would you Know? |
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Speculation |
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Ah Me! |
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The Duke of Plaza-Toro |
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The Æsthete |
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Said I to Myself, Said I |
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Sorry her Lot |
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The Contemplative Sentry |
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The Philosophic Pill |
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Blue Blood |
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The Judge’s Song |
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When I First put this Uniform on |
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Solatium |
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A Nightmare |
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Don’t Forget! |
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The Suicide’s Grave |
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He And She |
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The Mighty Must |
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A Mirage |
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The Ghosts’ High Noon |
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The Humane Mikado |
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Willow Waly! |
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Life is Lovely all the Year |
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The Usher’s Charge |
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The Great Oak Tree |
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King Goodheart |
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Sleep on! |
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The Love-sick Boy |
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Poetry Everywhere |
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He Loves! |
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True Diffidence |
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The Tangled Skein |
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My Lady |
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One against the World |
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Put a Penny in the Slot |
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Good Little Girls |
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Life |
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Limited Liability |
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Anglicised Utopia |
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An English Girl |
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A Manager’s Perplexities |
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Out of Sorts |
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How it’s Done |
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A Classical Revival |
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The Practical Joker |
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The National Anthem |
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Her Terms |
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The Independent Bee |
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The Disconcerted Tenor |
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The Played-out Humorist |
I shipped,
d’ye see, in a Revenue sloop,
And, off Cape Finisteere,
A merchantman we see,
A Frenchman, going free,
So we made for the bold
Mounseer,
D’ye see?
We made for the bold Mounseer!
But she proved to be a Frigate—and she up with her
ports,
And fires with a thirty-two!
It come uncommon near,
But we answered with a cheer,
Which paralysed the Parley-voo,
D’ye see?
Which paralysed the Parley-voo!
Then our Captain he up and he says, says he,
“That chap we need not
fear,—
We can take her, if we like,
She is sartin for to strike,
For she’s only a darned
Mounseer,
D’ye see?
She’s only a darned
Mounseer!
But to fight a French fal-lal—it’s like hittin’
of a gal—
It’s a lubberly thing for to
do;
For we, with all our faults,
Why, we’re sturdy British salts,
While she’s but a
Parley-voo,
D’ye see?
A miserable Parley-voo!”
So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the
breeze,
As we gives a compassionating
cheer;
Froggee answers with a shout
As he sees us go about,
Which was grateful of the poor
Mounseer,
D’ye see?
Which was grateful of the poor
Mounseer!
And I’ll wager in their joy they kissed each other’s
cheek
(Which is what them furriners
do),
And they blessed their lucky stars
We were hardy British tars
Who had pity on a poor
Parley-voo,
D’ye see?
Who had pity on a poor
Parley-voo!
He is an
Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it’s greatly to his credit,
That he is an Englishman!
For he might have been a Roosian,
A French, or Turk, or Proosian,
Or perhaps Itali-an!
But in spite of all temptations,
To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman!
Hurrah!
For the true-born Englishman!
If you give me your
attention, I will tell you what I am:
I’m a genuine philanthropist—all other kinds are
sham.
Each little fault of temper and each social defect
In my erring fellow-creatures, I endeavour to correct.
To all their little weaknesses I open people’s eyes,
And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise;
I love my fellow-creatures—I do all the good I
can—
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
To compliments inflated I’ve a withering
reply,
And vanity I always do my best to mortify;
A charitable action I can skilfully dissect;
And interested motives I’m delighted to detect.
I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns,
And I carefully compare it with the income-tax returns;
But to benefit humanity, however much I plan,
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
I’m sure I’m no ascetic; I’m
as pleasant as can be;
You’ll always find me ready with a crushing repartee;
I’ve an irritating chuckle, I’ve a celebrated
sneer,
I’ve an entertaining snigger, I’ve a fascinating
leer;
To everybody’s prejudice I know a thing or two;
I can tell a woman’s age in half a minute—and I
do—
But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can,
Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
Sad is that
woman’s lot who, year by year,
Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear;
As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs,
Impatiently begins to “dim her eyes”!—
Herself compelled, in life’s uncertain gloamings,
To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well-saved
“combings”—
Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey,
To “make up” for lost time, as best she may!
Silvered is the raven
hair,
Spreading is the parting
straight,
Mottled the complexion fair,
Halting is the youthful gait,
Hollow is the laughter free,
Spectacled the limpid eye,
Little will be left of me,
In the coming by-and-by!
Fading is the taper waist—
Shapeless grows the shapely limb,
And although securely laced,
Spreading is the figure trim!
Stouter than I used to be,
Still more corpulent grow I—
There will be too much of me
In the coming by-and-by!
I stole the Prince,
and I brought him here,
And left him, gaily prattling
With a highly respectable Gondolier,
Who promised the Royal babe to rear,
And teach him the trade of a timoneer
With his own beloved bratling.
Both
of the babes were strong and stout,
And, considering all things, clever.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.
Time sped, and when at the end of a year
I sought that infant cherished,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Was lying a corpse on his humble bier—
I dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear—
That Gondolier had perished!
A
taste for drink, combined with gout,
Had doubled him up for ever.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.
But owing, I’m much disposed to fear,
To his terrible taste for tippling,
That highly respectable Gondolier
Could never declare with a mind sincere
Which of the two was his offspring dear,
And which the Royal stripling!
Which
was which he could never make out,
Despite his best endeavour.
Of that there is no manner of doubt—
No probable, possible shadow of doubt—
No possible doubt whatever.
The children followed his old career—
(This statement can’t be parried)
Of a highly respectable Gondolier:
Well, one of the two (who will soon be here)—
But which of the two is not quite clear—
Is the Royal Prince you married!
Search
in and out and round about
And you’ll discover never
A tale so free from every doubt—
All probable, possible shadow of doubt—
All possible doubt whatever!
Oh, foolish fay,
Think you because
Man’s brave array
My bosom thaws
I’d disobey
Our fairy laws?
Because I fly
In realms above,
In tendency
To fall in love
Resemble I
The amorous dove?
Oh,
amorous dove!
Type of Ovidius Naso!
This heart of mine
Is soft as thine,
Although I dare not say so!
On fire that glows
With heat intense
I turn the hose
Of Common Sense,
And out it goes
At small expense!
We must maintain
Our fairy law;
That is the main
On which to draw—
In that we gain
A Captain Shaw.
Oh,
Captain Shaw!
Type of true love kept under!
Could thy Brigade
With cold cascade
Quench my great love, I wonder!
Is life a boon?
If so, it must befall
That Death, whene’er he
call,
Must call too soon.
Though fourscore years he give
Yet one would pray to live
Another moon!
What kind of plaint have I,
Who perish in July?
I might have had to die
Perchance in June!
Is life a thorn?
Then count it not a whit!
Man is well done with it;
Soon as he’s born
He should all means essay
To put the plague away;
And I, war-worn,
Poor captured fugitive,
My life most gladly give—
I might have had to live
Another morn!
I am the very
pattern of a modern Major-Gineral,
I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral;
I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights
historical,
From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;
I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters
mathematical,
I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical;
About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’
news,
With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse,
I’m very good at integral and differential calculus,
I know the scientific names of beings animalculous.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.
I know our mythic history—King Arthur’s and Sir Caradoc’s,
I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for
paradox;
I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,
In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous.
I tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the “Frogs” of Aristophanes;
Then I can hum a fugue, of which I’ve heard the
music’s din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense
“Pinafore.”
Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform,
And tell you every detail of Caractacus’s uniform.
In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral.
In fact, when I know what is meant by
“mamelon” and “ravelin,”
When I can tell at sight a Chassepôt rifle from a
javelin,
When such affairs as sorties and surprises I’m more
wary at,
And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat,
When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern
gunnery,
When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery,
In short, when I’ve a smattering of elementary strategy,
You’ll say a better Major-General has never
sat a gee—
For my military knowledge, though I’m plucky and
adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century.
But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral!
If you want a
receipt for that popular mystery,
Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,
Take all the remarkable people in history,
Rattle them off to a popular tune!
The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of
the Victory—
Genius of Bismarck
devising a plan;
The humour of Fielding (which sounds
contradictory)—
Coolness of Paget about
to trepan—
The grace of Mozart, that unparalleled
musico—
Wit of Macaulay, who
wrote of Queen Anne—
The pathos of Paddy, as rendered by
Boucicault—
Style of the Bishop of Sodor and
Man—
The dash of a D’Orsay, divested
of quackery—
Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray—
Victor Emmanuel—peak-haunting
Peveril—
Thomas Aquinas, and Doctor Sacheverell—
Tupper and Tennyson—Daniel
Defoe—
Anthony Trollope and
Mister Guizot!
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
If you want a receipt for this soldierlike
paragon,
Get at the wealth of the Czar (if you can)—
The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon—
Force of Mephisto
pronouncing a ban—
A smack of Lord Waterford, reckless
and rollicky—
Swagger of Roderick,
heading his clan—
The keen penetration of Paddington
Pollaky—
Grace of an Odalisque on a divan—
The genius strategic of Cæsar or
Hannibal—
Skill of Lord Wolseley in thrashing a
cannibal—
Flavour of Hamlet—the Stranger, a touch of him—
Little of Manfred (but not very much
of him)—
Beadle of Burlington—Richardson’s show—
Mr. Micawber and Madame Tussaud!
Take of these elements all that is fusible—
Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible—
Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum,
And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
The Sun, whose
rays
Are all ablaze
With ever-living glory,
Will not deny
His majesty—
He scorns to tell a story:
He won’t exclaim,
“I blush for shame,
So kindly be indulgent,”
But, fierce and bold,
In fiery gold,
He glories all effulgent!
I
mean to rule the earth,
As he the sky—
We really know
our worth,
The Sun and I!
Observe his flame,
That placid dame,
The Moon’s Celestial Highness;
There’s not a trace
Upon her face
Of diffidence or shyness:
She borrows light
That, through the night,
Mankind may all acclaim her!
And, truth to tell,
She lights up well,
So I, for one, don’t blame her!
Ah,
pray make no mistake,
We are not shy;
We’re very
wide awake,
The Moon and I!
When a felon’s
not engaged in his employment,
Or maturing his felonious little plans,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man’s.
Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When constabulary duty’s to be done:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
A policeman’s lot is not a happy one!
When the enterprising burglar isn’t
burgling,
When the cut-throat isn’t occupied in
crime,
He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling,
And listen to the merry village chime.
When the coster’s finished jumping on his mother,
He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:
Ah, take one consideration with another,
The policeman’s lot is not a happy one!
Whene’er I poke
Sarcastic joke
Replete with
malice spiteful,
The people vile
Politely smile
And vote me quite delightful!
Now, when a wight
Sits up all night
Ill-natured jokes devising,
And all his wiles
Are met with smiles,
It’s hard, there’s no disguising!
Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn’t your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!
When German
bands,
From music stands
Play Wagner
imperfectly—
I bid them go—
They don’t say no,
But off they trot directly!
The organ boys
They stop their noise
With readiness surprising,
And grinning herds
Of hurdy-gurds
Retire apologising!
Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn’t your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!
I’ve
offered gold,
In sums untold,
To all
who’d contradict me—
I’ve said I’d pay
A pound a day
To any one who kicked me—
I’ve bribed with toys
Great vulgar boys
To utter something spiteful,
But, bless you, no!
They will be so
Confoundedly politeful!
In short, these aggravating lads,
They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads,
They give me this and they give me that,
And I’ve nothing whatever to grumble at!
When Britain really
ruled the waves—
(In good Queen Bess’s time)
The House of Peers made no pretence
To intellectual eminence,
Or scholarship sublime;
Yet Britain won her proudest bays
In good Queen Bess’s glorious days!
When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte,
As every child can tell,
The House of Peers, throughout the war,
Did nothing in particular,
And did it very well;
Yet Britain set the world ablaze
In good King George’s glorious days!
And while the House of Peers withholds
Its legislative hand,
And noble statesmen do not itch
To interfere with matters which
They do not understand,
As bright will shine Great Britain’s rays,
As in King George’s glorious days!
Brightly dawns our
wedding day;
Joyous hour, we
give thee greeting!
Whither, whither
art thou fleeting?
Fickle moment, prithee stay!
What though
mortal joys be hollow?
Pleasures come,
if sorrows follow.
Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Yet until the
shadows fall
Over one and
over all,
Sing a merry
madrigal—
Fal la!
Let us dry the ready tear;
Though the hours
are surely creeping,
Little need for
woeful weeping
Till the sad sundown is near.
All must sip the
cup of sorrow,
I to-day and
thou to-morrow:
This the close of every song—
Ding dong! Ding dong!
What though
solemn shadows fall,
Sooner, later,
over all?
Sing a merry
madrigal—
Fal la!
The Duke.
Small titles and orders
For Mayors and Recorders
I get—and they’re
highly delighted.
M.P.s baronetted,
Sham Colonels gazetted,
And second-rate Aldermen
knighted.
Foundation-stone laying
I find very paying,
It adds a large sum to my
makings.
At charity dinners
The best of speech-spinners,
I get ten per cent on the
takings!
The Duchess.
I present any lady
Whose conduct is shady
Or smacking of doubtful
propriety;
When Virtue would quash her
I take and whitewash her
And launch her in first-rate
society.
I recommend acres
Of clumsy dressmakers—
Their fit and their finishing
touches;
A sum in addition
They pay for permission
To say that they make for the
Duchess!
The Duke.
Those pressing prevailers,
The ready-made tailors,
Quote me as their great
double-barrel;
I allow them to do so,
Though Robinson Crusoe
Would jib at their wearing
apparel!
I sit, by selection,
Upon the direction
Of several Companies bubble;
As soon as they’re floated
I’m freely bank-noted—
I’m pretty well paid for my
trouble!
The Duchess.
At middle-class party
I play at écarté—
And I’m by no means a
beginner;
To one of my station
The remuneration—
Five guineas a night and my
dinner.
I write letters blatant
On medicines patent—
And use any other you
mustn’t;
And vow my complexion
Derives its perfection
From somebody’s
soap—which it doesn’t.
The Duke.
We’re ready as witness
To any one’s fitness
To fill any place or
preferment;
We’re often in waiting
At junket fêting,
And sometimes attend an
interment.
In short, if you’d kindle
The spark of a swindle,
Lure simpletons into your
clutches,
Or hoodwink a debtor,
You cannot do better
Than trot out a Duke or a
Duchess!
The air is charged
with amatory numbers—
Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers’ lays.
Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers
The aching memory of the old, old days?
Time was when Love and I were well
acquainted;
Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;
A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,
None better loved than I in all the land!
Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,
Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration—
Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!
Had I a headache? sighed the maids
assembled;
Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear;
Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled;
And when I coughed all thought the end was near!
I had no care—no jealous doubts hung o’er
me—
For I was loved beyond all other men.
Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me—
Ah me, I was a pale young curate then!
As some day it may
happen that a victim must be found,
I’ve got a little list—I’ve got a
little list
Of social offenders who might well be underground,
And who never would be missed—who never would
be missed!
There’s the pestilential nuisances who write for
autographs—
All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs—
All children who are up in dates, and floor you with ’em
flat—
All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like
that—
And all third persons who on spoiling
tête-à-têtes insist—
They’d none of ’em be
missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!
There’s the nigger serenader, and the
others of his race,
And the piano organist—I’ve got him on
the list!
And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face,
They never would be missed—they never would be
missed!
Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone,
All centuries but this, and every country but his own;
And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy,
And who “doesn’t think she waltzes, but would rather
like to try”;
And that fin-de-siècle anomaly, the scorching
motorist—
I don’t think he’d be
missed—I’m sure he’d not be missed!
And that Nisi Prius nuisance, who just
now is rather rife,
The Judicial humorist—I’ve got
him on the list!
All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private
life—
They’d none of ’em be
missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!
And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind,
Such as—What-d’ye-call-him—Thing’em-Bob,
and likewise—Never-mind,
And ’St—’st—’st—and
What’s-his-name, and also—You-know-who—
(The task of filling up the blanks I’d rather leave to
you!)
But it really doesn’t matter whom you put upon the list,
For they’d none of ’em be
missed—they’d none of ’em be missed!
They intend to send
a wire
To the moon;
And they’ll set the Thames on fire
Very soon;
Then they learn to make silk purses
With their rigs
From the ears of Lady Circe’s
Piggy-wigs.
And weasels at their slumbers
They’ll trepan;
To get sunbeams from cucumbers
They’ve a plan.
They’ve a firmly rooted notion
They can cross the Polar Ocean,
And they’ll find Perpetual Motion
If they can!
These are
the phenomena
That every pretty domina
Hopes that we
shall see
At this
Universitee!
As for fashion, they forswear it,
So they say,
And the circle—they will square it
Some fine day;
Then the little pigs they’re teaching
For to fly;
And the niggers they’ll be bleaching
By-and-by!
Each newly joined aspirant
To the clan
Must repudiate the tyrant
Known as Man;
They mock at him and flout him,
For they do not care about him,
And they’re “going to do without him”
If they can!
These are
the phenomena
That every pretty domina
Hopes that we
shall see
At this
Universitee!
Braid the raven
hair,
Weave the supple tress,
Deck the maiden fair
In her loveliness;
Paint the pretty face,
Dye the coral lip,
Emphasise the grace
Of her ladyship!
Art and nature, thus allied,
Go to make a pretty bride!
Sit with downcast eye,
Let it brim with dew;
Try if you can cry,
We will do so, too.
When you’re summoned, start
Like a frightened roe;
Flutter, little heart,
Colour, come and go!
Modesty at marriage tide
Well becomes a pretty bride!
Rising early in the
morning,
We proceed to light the fire,
Then our Majesty adorning
In its work-a-day attire,
We embark without delay
On the duties of the day.
First, we polish off some batches
Of political despatches,
And foreign politicians
circumvent;
Then, if business isn’t heavy,
We may hold a Royal levée,
Or ratify some Acts of
Parliament:
Then we probably review the household troops—
With the usual “Shalloo humps” and “Shalloo
hoops!”
Or receive with ceremonial and state
An interesting Eastern Potentate.
After that we generally
Go and dress our private
valet—
(It’s a rather nervous duty—he a
touchy little man)—
Write some letters literary
For our private
secretary—
(He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.)
Then, in view of cravings
inner,
We go down and order dinner;
Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate—
Spend an hour in titivating
All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;
Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.
Oh, philosophers may sing
Of the troubles of a King,
Yet the duties are delightful, and
the privileges great;
But the privilege and pleasure
That we treasure beyond measure
Is to run on little errands for
the Ministers of State!
After luncheon (making merry
On a bun and glass of sherry),
If we’ve nothing in
particular to do,
We may make a Proclamation,
Or receive a Deputation—
Then we possibly create a Peer or
two.
Then we help a fellow-creature on his path
With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath:
Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State
To a festival, a function, or a fête.
Then we go and stand as sentry
At the Palace (private entry),
Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro,
While the warrior on duty
Goes in search of beer and
beauty
(And it generally happens that he hasn’t far to go).
He relieves us, if he’s
able,
Just in time to lay the table.
Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at
half-past twelve or one,
With a pleasure that’s
emphatic;
Then we seek our little attic
With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.
Oh, philosophers may sing
Of the troubles of a King,
But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are
none;
And the culminating pleasure
That we treasure beyond measure
Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!
A Lady fair, of
lineage high,
Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by—
The Maid was radiant as the sun,
The Ape was a most unsightly one—
So it would not do—
His scheme fell through;
For the Maid, when his love took formal shape,
Expressed such terror
At his monstrous error,
That he stammered an apology and made his ’scape,
The picture of a disconcerted Ape.
With a view to rise in the social scale,
He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail,
He grew moustachios, and he took his tub,
And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.
But it would not do,
The scheme fell through—
For the Maid was Beauty’s fairest Queen,
With golden tresses,
Like a real princess’s,
While the Ape, despite his razor keen,
Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen!
He bought white ties, and he bought dress
suits,
He crammed his feet into bright tight boots,
And to start his life on a brand-new plan,
He christened himself Darwinian Man!
But it would not do,
The scheme fell through—
For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved,
Was a radiant Being,
With a brain far-seeing—
While a Man, however well-behaved,
At best is only a monkey shaved!
To a garden full of
posies
Cometh one to gather flowers;
And he wanders through its bowers
Toying with the wanton roses,
Who, uprising from their beds,
Hold on high their shameless heads
With their pretty lips a-pouting,
Never doubting—never doubting
That for Cytherean posies
He would gather aught but roses.
In a nest of weeds and nettles,
Lay a violet, half hidden;
Hoping that his glance unbidden
Yet might fall upon her petals.
Though she lived alone, apart,
Hope lay nestling at her heart,
But, alas! the cruel awaking
Set her little heart a-breaking,
For he gathered for his posies
Only roses—only roses!
Oh, gentlemen,
listen, I pray;
Though I own that my heart has been ranging,
Of nature the laws I obey,
For nature is constantly changing.
The moon in her phases is found,
The time and the wind and the weather,
The months in succession come round,
And you don’t find two Mondays together.
Consider the
moral, I pray,
Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,
Who loves this
young lady to-day,
And loves that young lady to-morrow!
You cannot eat breakfast all day.
Nor is it the act of a sinner,
When breakfast is taken away,
To turn your attention to dinner;
And it’s not in the range of belief
That you could hold him as a glutton,
Who, when he is tired of beef,
Determines to tackle the mutton.
But this I am
ready to say,
If it will diminish their sorrow,
I’ll marry
this lady to-day,
And I’ll marry that lady to-morrow!
Oh! is there not one
maiden breast
Which does not feel the moral beauty
Of making worldly interest
Subordinate to sense of duty?
Who would not give up willingly
All matrimonial ambition
To rescue such a one as I
From his unfortunate position?
Oh, is there not one maiden here,
Whose homely face and bad complexion
Have caused all hopes to disappear
Of ever winning man’s affection?
To such a one, if such there be,
I swear by heaven’s arch above you,
If you will cast your eyes on me,—
However plain you be—I’ll love you!
Dr. Belville was
regarded as the Crichton of his
age:
His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;
His poems held a noble rank, although it’s very true
That, being very proper, they were read by very few.
He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the
“line,”
And even Mr. Ruskin came and
worshipped at his shrine;
But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high—
The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy;
And everybody said
“How can he be repaid—
This very great—this very good—this very gifted
man?”
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all
alone,
A plan for making everybody’s fortune but his own;
For, in business, an Inventor’s little better than a
fool,
And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule.
His poems—people read them in the Quarterly
Reviews—
His pictures—they engraved them in the Illustrated
News—
His inventions—they, perhaps, might have enriched him by
degrees,
But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;
And everybody said
“How can he be repaid—
This very great—this very good—this very gifted
man?”
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
At last the point was given up in absolute
despair,
When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire,
With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,
And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House!
Then it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of
rewards
Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords!
And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,
As this very great—this very good—this very gifted
man?
(Though I’m more than half afraid
That it sometimes may be said
That we never should have revelled in that source of proper
pride,
However great his merits—if his cousin hadn’t
died!)
A Magnet hung in a
hardware shop,
And all around was a loving crop
Of scissors and needles, nails and knives,
Offering love for all their lives;
But for iron the Magnet felt no whim,
Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,
From needles and nails and knives he’d turn,
For he’d set his love on a Silver Churn!
His most
æsthetic,
Very magnetic
Fancy took this turn—
“If I can
wheedle
A knife or
needle,
Why not a Silver Churn?”
And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,
The needles opened their well-drilled eyes,
The pen-knives felt “shut up,” no doubt,
The scissors declared themselves “cut out,”
The kettles they boiled with rage, ’tis said,
While every nail went off its head,
And hither and thither began to roam,
Till a hammer came up—and drove it home,
While this
magnetic
Peripatetic
Lover he lived to learn,
By no
endeavour,
Can Magnet
ever
Attract a Silver Churn!
Oh! a private
buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
If you listen to popular rumour;
From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright,
And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;
Yet though people forgive his transgression,
There are one or two rules that all Family Fools
Must observe, if they love their profession.
There are one or two rules,
Half-a-dozen, maybe,
That all family fools,
Of whatever degree,
Must observe if
they love their profession.
If you wish to succeed as a jester,
you’ll need
To consider each person’s auricular:
What is all right for B would quite scandalise C
(For C is so very particular);
And D may be dull, and E’s very thick skull
Is as empty of brains as a ladle;
While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,
That he’s known your best joke from his
cradle!
When your humour they flout,
You can’t let yourself go;
And it does put you out
When a person says, “Oh!
I have known
that old joke from my cradle!”
If your master is surly, from getting up
early
(And tempers are short in the morning),
An inopportune joke is enough to provoke
Him to give you, at once, a month’s
warning.
Then if you refrain, he is at you again,
For he likes to get value for money:
He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,
“If you know that you’re paid to be
funny?”
It adds to the tasks
Of a merryman’s place,
When your principal asks,
With a scowl on his face,
If you know that
you’re paid to be funny?
Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn
D.D.—
Oh, beware of his anger provoking!
Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his
chair;
He won’t understand practical joking.
If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,
You may get a bland smile from these sages;
But should it, by chance, be imported from France,
Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!
It’s a general rule,
Though your zeal it may quench,
If the Family Fool
Makes a joke that’s too French,
Half-a-crown is
stopped out of his wages!
Though your head it may rack with a bilious
attack,
And your senses with toothache you’re
losing,
And you’re mopy and flat—they don’t fine you
for that
If you’re properly quaint and amusing!
Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,
And took with her your trifle of money;
Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re
exceedingly kind—
They don’t blame you—as long as
you’re funny!
It’s a comfort to feel
If your partner should flit,
Though you suffer a deal,
They don’t mind it a bit—
They don’t
blame you—so long as you’re funny!
I cannot tell what
this love may be
That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they’d imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?
If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next your heart?
And if it be neither of these, say I,
Why do you sit and sob and sigh?
Take a pair of
sparkling eyes,
Hidden, ever and anon,
In a merciful eclipse—
Do not heed their mild surprise—
Having passed the Rubicon.
Take a pair of rosy lips;
Take a figure trimly planned—
Such as admiration whets
(Be particular in this);
Take a tender little hand,
Fringed with dainty
fingerettes,
Press it—in parenthesis;—
Take all these, you lucky man—
Take and keep them, if you can.
Take a pretty little cot—
Quite a miniature affair—
Hung about with trellised vine,
Furnish it upon the spot
With the treasures rich and
rare
I’ve endeavoured to define.
Live to love and love to live—
You will ripen at your ease,
Growing on the sunny side—
Fate has nothing more to give.
You’re a dainty man to
please
If you are not satisfied.
Take my counsel, happy man:
Act upon it, if you can!
He.
I have a song to sing, O!
She.
Sing me your song, O!
He.
It is sung to the moon
By a love-lorn loon,
Who fled from the mocking throng,
O!
It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a
ladye.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a
ladye!
She.
I have a song to sing, O!
He.
Sing me your song, O!
She.
It is sung with the ring
Of the song maids sing
Who love with a love life-long,
O!
It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a
ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a
ladye!
He.
I have a song to sing, O!
She.
Sing me your song, O!
He.
It is sung to the knell
Of a churchyard bell,
And a doleful dirge, ding dong,
O!
It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud
At the moan of the merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a
ladye!
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a
ladye!
She.
I have a song to sing, O!
He.
Sing me your song, O!
She.
It is sung with a sigh
And a tear in the eye,
For it tells of a righted wrong,
O!
It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,
Who turned on her heel and tripped away
From the peacock popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At the humble heart that he did not prize;
And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes,
For the love of a merryman, moping mum,
Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,
Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,
As he sighed for the love of a ladye!
Both.
Heighdy! heighdy!
Misery me—lackadaydee!
His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more.
For he lived in the love of a
ladye!
The law is the true
embodiment
Of everything that’s excellent.
It has no kind of fault or flaw,
And I, my lords, embody the Law.
The constitutional guardian I
Of pretty young Wards in Chancery,
All very agreeable girls—and none
Is over the age of twenty-one.
A pleasant occupation for
A rather susceptible Chancellor!
But though the compliment implied
Inflates me with legitimate pride,
It nevertheless can’t be denied
That it has its inconvenient side.
For I’m not so old, and not so plain,
And I’m quite prepared to marry again,
But there’d be the deuce to pay in the Lords
If I fell in love with one of my Wards:
Which rather tries my temper, for
I’m such a susceptible Chancellor!
And every one who’d marry a Ward
Must come to me for my accord:
So in my court I sit all day,
Giving agreeable girls away,
With one for him—and one for he—
And one for you—and one for ye—
And one for thou—and one for thee—
But never, oh never a one for me!
Which is exasperating, for
A highly susceptible Chancellor!
When a merry maiden
marries,
Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;
Every sound becomes a song,
All is right and nothing’s wrong!
From to-day and ever after
Let your tears be tears of laughter—
Every sigh that finds a vent
Be a sigh of sweet content!
When you marry merry maiden,
Then the air with love is laden;
Every flower is a rose,
Every goose becomes a swan,
Every kind of trouble goes
Where the last year’s snows
have gone;
Sunlight takes the place of shade
When you marry merry maid!
When a merry maiden marries
Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;
Every sound becomes a song,
All is right, and nothing’s wrong.
Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,
Get ye gone until to-morrow;
Jealousies in grim array,
Ye are things of yesterday!
When you marry merry maiden,
Then the air with joy is laden;
All the corners of the earth
Ring with music sweetly played,
Worry is melodious mirth,
Grief is joy in masquerade;
Sullen night is laughing day—
All the year is merry May!
A British tar is a
soaring soul,
As free as a mountain bird,
His energetic fist should be ready to resist
A dictatorial word.
His nose should pant and his lip should curl,
His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl,
His bosom should heave and his heart should glow,
And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.
His eyes should flash with an inborn fire,
His brow with scorn be rung;
He never should bow down to a domineering frown,
Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.
His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,
His hair should twirl and his face should scowl;
His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,
And this should be his customary attitude!
A man who would woo
a fair maid,
Should ’prentice himself to the trade;
And study all day,
In methodical way,
How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.
He should ’prentice himself at fourteen
And practise from morning to e’en;
And when he’s of age,
If he will, I’ll engage,
He may capture the heart of a queen!
It is purely a
matter of skill,
Which all may
attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to
make sure of his Jill!
If he’s made the best use of his time,
His twig he’ll so carefully lime
That every bird
Will come down at his word.
Whatever its plumage and clime.
He must learn that the thrill of a touch
May mean little, or nothing, or much;
It’s an instrument rare,
To be handled with care,
And ought to be treated as such.
It is purely a
matter of skill,
Which all may
attain if they will:
But every Jack,
He must study the knack
If he wants to
make sure of his Jill!
Then a glance may be timid or free;
It will vary in mighty degree,
From an impudent stare
To a look of despair
That no maid without pity can see.
And a glance of despair is no guide—
It may have its ridiculous side;
It may draw you a tear
Or a box on the ear;
You can never be sure till you’ve tried.
It is purely a
matter of skill,
Which all may
attain if they will:
But every Jack
He must study the knack
If he wants to
make sure of his Jill!
Oh! my name is John Wellington Wells—
I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever-filled purses,
In prophecies, witches, and knells!
If you want a proud foe to “make tracks”—
If you’d melt a rich uncle in wax—
You’ve but to look in
On our resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe.
We’ve a first-class assortment of
magic;
And for raising a posthumous shade
With effects that are comic or tragic,
There’s no cheaper house in the trade.
Love-philtre—we’ve quantities of it;
And for knowledge if any one burns,
We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet
Who brings us unbounded returns:
For he can
prophesy
With a wink
of his eye,
Peep with
security
Into
futurity,
Sum up your
history,
Clear up a
mystery,
Humour
proclivity
For a
nativity.
With mirrors so
magical,
Tetrapods
tragical,
Bogies
spectacular,
Answers
oracular,
Facts
astronomical,
Solemn or
comical,
And, if you want
it, he
Makes a reduction on taking a quantity!
Oh!
If any one anything lacks,
He’ll find it all ready in stacks,
If he’ll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
He can
raise you hosts,
Of ghosts,
And that without reflectors;
And creepy things
With wings,
And gaunt and grisly spectres!
He can fill you crowds
Of shrouds,
And horrify you vastly;
He can rack your brains
With chains,
And gibberings grim and ghastly.
Then, if you plan it, he
Changes organity
With an urbanity,
Full of Satanity,
Vexes humanity
With an inanity
Fatal to vanity—
Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.
Barring tautology,
In demonology,
’Lectro biology,
Mystic nosology,
Spirit philology,
High class astrology,
Such is his knowledge, he
Isn’t the man to require an apology
Oh!
My name is John Wellington Wells,
I’m a dealer in magic and spells,
In blessings and curses,
And ever-filled purses—
In prophecies, witches, and knells.
If any one anything lacks,
He’ll find it all ready in stacks,
If he’ll only look in
On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!
Sighing softly to
the river
Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
Laughs for very love,
While the poplars, in their pleasure,
Wave their arms above!
River, river,
little river,
May thy loving
prosper ever.
Heaven speed
thee, poplar tree,
May thy wooing
happy be!
Yet, the breeze is but a rover,
When he wings away,
Brook and poplar mourn a lover!
Sighing well-a-day!
Ah, the doing and undoing
That the rogue could tell!
When the breeze is out a-wooing,
Who can woo so well?
Pretty brook,
thy dream is over,
For thy love is
but a rover!
Sad the lot of
poplar trees,
Courted by the
fickle breeze!
When I was a lad I
served a term
As office boy to an Attorney’s firm;
I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,
And I polished up the handle of the big front door.
I polished up that handle so
successfullee,
That now I am the Ruler of the
Queen’s Navee!
As office boy I made such a mark
That they gave me the post of a junior clerk;
I served the writs with a smile so bland,
And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.
I copied all the letters in a hand
so free,
That now I am the Ruler of the
Queen’s Navee!
In serving writs I made such a name
That an articled clerk I soon became;
I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit
For the Pass Examination at the Institute:
And that Pass Examination did so
well for me,
That now I am the Ruler of the
Queen’s Navee!
Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip
That they took me into the partnership,
And that junior partnership I ween,
Was the only ship that I ever had seen:
But that kind of ship so suited
me,
That now I am the Ruler of the
Queen’s Navee!
I grew so rich that I was sent
By a pocket borough into Parliament;
I always voted at my Party’s call,
And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.
I thought so little, they rewarded
me,
By making me the Ruler of the
Queen’s Navee!
Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be,
If you want to rise to the top of the tree—
If your soul isn’t fettered to an office stool,
Be careful to be guided by this golden rule—
Stick close to your desks and
never go to sea,
And you all may be Rulers of the
Queen’s Navee!
Would you know the
kind of maid
Sets my heart a flame-a?
Eyes must be downcast and staid,
Cheeks must flush for shame-a!
She may neither
dance nor sing,
But, demure in
everything,
Hang her head in
modest way
With pouting
lips that seem to say,
“Kiss me,
kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die of
shame-a!”
Please you, that’s the kind of maid
Sets my heart a
flame-a!
When a maid is bold and gay
With a tongue goes clang-a,
Flaunting it in brave array,
Maiden may go hang-a!
Sunflower gay
and hollyhock
Never shall my
garden stock;
Mine the
blushing rose of May,
With pouting
lips that seem to say
“Oh, kiss
me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,
Though I die for
shame-a!”
Please you, that’s the kind of maid
Sets my heart a
flame-a!
Comes a train of
little ladies
From scholastic trammels free,
Each a little bit afraid is,
Wondering what the world can be!
Is it but a world of trouble—
Sadness set to song?
Is its beauty but a bubble
Bound to break ere long?
Are its palaces and pleasures
Fantasies that fade?
And the glory of its treasures
Shadow of a shade?
Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under,
From scholastic trammels free,
And we wonder—how we wonder!—
What on earth the world can be!
When maiden loves,
she sits and sighs,
She wanders to and fro;
Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,
And to all questions she replies,
With a sad heigho!
’Tis but a little
word—“heigho!”
So soft, ’tis scarcely
heard—“heigho!”
An idle breath—
Yet life and death
May hang upon a maid’s
“heigho!”
When maiden loves, she mopes apart,
As owl mopes on a tree;
Although she keenly feels the smart,
She cannot tell what ails her heart,
With its sad “Ah me!”
’Tis but a foolish
sigh—“Ah me!”
Born but to droop and
die—“Ah me!”
Yet all the sense
Of eloquence
Lies hidden in a maid’s
“Ah me!”
In enterprise of
martial kind,
When there was any fighting,
He led his regiment from behind
(He found it less exciting).
But when away his regiment ran,
His place was at the fore,
O—
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
You always found that knight, ha, ha!
That celebrated,
Cultivated,
Underrated
Nobleman,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
When, to evade Destruction’s hand,
To hide they all proceeded,
No soldier in that gallant band
Hid half as well as he did.
He lay concealed throughout the war,
And so preserved his gore, O!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In every doughty deed, ha, ha!
He always took the lead, ha, ha!
That unaffected,
Undetected,
Well connected
Warrior,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
When told that they would all be shot
Unless they left the service,
That hero hesitated not,
So marvellous his nerve is.
He sent his resignation in,
The first of all his corps, O!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!
He always showed the way, ha, ha!
That very knowing,
Overflowing,
Easy-going
Paladin,
The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
If you’re
anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of
culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and
plant them everywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of
your complicated state of mind
(The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter
of a transcendental kind).
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for
me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man
must be!”
Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days
which have long since passed away,
And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest
day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and
declare it’s crude and mean,
And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.
And every one will say,
As you walk your mystic way,
“If that’s not good enough for him which is good
enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must
be!”
Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable
fashion must excite your languid spleen,
An attachment à la Plato for a bashful young
potato, or a not-too-French French bean.
Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in
the high æsthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your
mediæval hand.
And every one will say,
As you walk your flowery way,
“If he’s content with a vegetable love which would
certainly not suit me,
Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man
must be!”
When I went to the
Bar as a very young man
(Said I to myself—said
I),
I’ll work on a new and original plan
(Said I to myself—said
I),
I’ll never assume that a rogue or a thief
Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief,
Because his attorney, has sent me a brief
(Said I to myself—said
I!)
I’ll never throw dust in a
juryman’s eyes
(Said I to myself—said
I),
Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise
(Said I to myself—said
I),
Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force
In Exchequer, Queen’s Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce,
Have perjured themselves as a matter of course
(Said I to myself—said
I!)
Ere I go into court I will read my brief
through
(Said I to myself—said
I),
And I’ll never take work I’m unable to do
(Said I to myself—said
I).
My learned profession I’ll never disgrace
By taking a fee with a grin on my face,
When I haven’t been there to attend to the case
(Said I to myself—said
I!)
In other professions in which men engage
(Said I to myself—said
I),
The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage,
(Said I to myself—said
I),
Professional licence, if carried too far,
Your chance of promotion will certainly mar—
And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar
(Said I to myself—said
I!)
Sorry her lot who
loves too well,
Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
Heavy the sorrow that bows the
head
When Love is alive and Hope is
dead!
Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—
Dark is the night to Earth’s poor
daughters,
When to the ark the wearied one
Flies from the empty waste of waters!
Heavy the sorrow that bows the
head
When Love is alive and Hope is
dead!
When all night long
a chap remains
On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
That is, assuming that he’s got any.
Though never nurtured in the lap
Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
And think of things that would astonish you.
I often think
it’s comical
How Nature always does contrive
That every boy
and every gal,
That’s born into the world alive,
Is either a
little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!
When in that house M.P.’s divide,
If they’ve a brain and cerebellum, too,
They’ve got to leave that brain outside,
And vote just as their leaders tell ’em to.
But then the prospect of a lot
Of statesmen, all in close proximity,
A-thinking for themselves, is what
No man can face with equanimity.
Then let’s
rejoice with loud Fal lal
That Nature wisely does contrive
That every boy
and every gal,
That’s born into the world alive,
Is either a
little Liberal,
Or else a little Conservative!
Fal lal la!
I’ve wisdom
from the East and from the West,
That’s subject to no academic rule;
You may find it in the jeering of a jest,
Or distil it from the folly of a fool.
I can teach you with a quip, if I’ve a mind;
I can trick you into learning with a laugh;
Oh, winnow all my folly, and you’ll find
A grain or two of truth among the chaff!
I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,
The upstart I can wither with a whim;
He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,
But his laughter has an echo that is grim.
When they’ve offered to the world in merry guise,
Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a
will—
For he who’d make his fellow-creatures wise
Should always gild the philosophic pill!
Spurn not the nobly
born
With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
The well connected.
High rank involves no shame—
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
To be respected!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
When virtuous love is sought,
Thy power is naught,
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
Spare us the bitter pain
Of stern denials,
Nor with low-born disdain
Augment our trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
Of Seven Dials!
Blue blood! Blue blood!
Of what avail art thou
To serve me now?
Though dating from the Flood,
Blue blood!
When I, good
friends, was called to the Bar,
I’d an appetite fresh and hearty,
But I was, as many young barristers are,
An impecunious party.
I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—
A brief which was brought by a booby—
A couple of shirts and a collar or two,
And a ring that looked like a ruby!
In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,
Like a semi-despondent fury;
For I thought I should never hit on a chance
Of addressing a British Jury—
But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,
And dinners of bread and water;
So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s
Elderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,
And replied to my fond professions:
“You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,
At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.
You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he,
“And a very nice girl you’ll find
her—
She may very well pass for forty-three
In the dusk, with a light behind her!”
The rich attorney was as good as his word:
The briefs came trooping gaily,
And every day my voice was heard
At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.
All thieves who could my fees afford
Relied on my orations,
And many a burglar I’ve restored
To his friends and his relations.
At length I became as rich as the Gurneys—
An incubus then I thought her,
So I threw over that rich attorney’s
Elderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney my character high
Tried vainly to disparage—
And now, if you please, I’m ready to try
This Breach of Promise of Marriage!
When I first put
this uniform on,
I said, as I looked in the glass,
“It’s one to a
million
That any civilian
My figure and form will surpass.
Gold lace has a charm for the fair,
And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare,
While a lover’s
professions,
When uttered in Hessians,
Are eloquent everywhere!”
A fact that I
counted upon,
When I first put
this uniform on!
I said, when I first put it on,
“It is plain to the veriest dunce
That every beauty
Will feel it her duty
To yield to its glamour at once.
They will see that I’m freely gold-laced
In a uniform handsome and chaste”—
But the peripatetics
Of long-haired æsthetics,
Are very much more to their taste—
Which I never
counted upon
When I first put
this uniform on!
Comes the broken
flower—
Comes the cheated maid—
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers
till they fade;
Happy be thy
life, O maid!
O’er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone—
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are
sun and shade:
Happy be thy
life, O maid!
When you’re
lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d
by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in
without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual
slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your
sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles, so
terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and
toss till there’s nothing ’twixt you and the
ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you
pick ’em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its
usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot
eyeballs and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that
you’d very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in
a steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very
small second-class carriage;
And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a
party of friends and relations—
They’re a ravenous horde—and they all came on board
at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started
that morning from Devon);
He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised
when he tells you he’s only eleven.
Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by
the bye the ship’s now a four-wheeler),
And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names
when you tell him that “ties pay the dealer”;
But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and
you find you’re as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks),
crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they’ve
somehow or other invested in—
And he’s telling the tars all the particulars of a
company he’s interested in—
It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods
from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they
were all vegetables—
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take
off his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and
they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree—
From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea,
cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,
While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple
puffs, and three-corners, and banberries—
The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by Rothschild and Baring,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder
despairing—
You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no
wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and
you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and
your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and
you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some
fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst
that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t
been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and
the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and
thank goodness they’re both of them over!
Now, Marco, dear,
My wishes hear:
While you’re away
It’s understood
You will be good,
And not too gay.
To every trace
Of maiden grace
You will be blind,
And will not glance
By any chance
On womankind!
If you are wise,
You’ll shut your eyes
Till we arrive,
And not address
A lady less
Than forty-five;
You’ll please to frown
On every gown
That you may see;
And O, my pet,
You won’t forget
You’ve married me!
O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don’t forget you’ve married me!
You’ll lay your head
Upon your bed
At set of sun.
You will not sing
Of anything
To any one:
You’ll sit and mope
All day, I hope,
And shed a tear
Upon the life
Your little wife
Is passing here!
And if so be
You think of me,
Please tell the moon;
I’ll read it all
In rays that fall
On the lagoon:
You’ll be so kind
As tell the wind
How you may be,
And send me words
By little birds
To comfort me!
And O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don’t forget you’ve married me!
On a tree by a river
a little tomtit
Sang
“Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit
Singing
‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?
Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried,
“Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”
With a shake of his poor little head he replied,
“Oh,
willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that
bough,
Singing
“Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,
Oh, willow,
titwillow, titwillow!
He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,
Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,
And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave—
“Oh,
willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that
my name
Isn’t
Willow, titwillow, titwillow,
That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,
“Oh,
willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And if you remain callous and obdurate, I
Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,
Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,
“Oh,
willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
He. I know a
youth who loves a little maid—
(Hey, but his
face is a sight for to see!)
Silent is he, for he’s
modest and afraid—
(Hey, but
he’s timid as a youth can be!)
She. I know a maid who loves a
gallant youth—
(Hey, but she
sickens as the days go by!)
She cannot tell him all the
sad, sad truth—
(Hey, but I
think that little maid will die!)
Both. Now tell me pray, and tell
me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
He. He cannot
eat and he cannot sleep—
(Hey, but his
face is a sight for to see!)
Daily he goes for to
wail—for to weep—
(Hey, but
he’s wretched as a youth can be!)
She. She’s very thin and
she’s very pale—
(Hey, but she
sickens as the days go by!)
Daily she goes for to
weep—for to wail—
(Hey, but I
think that little maid will die!)
Both. Now tell me pray, and tell
me true,
What in the world should the poor soul do?
She. If I were
the youth I should offer her my name—
(Hey, but her
face is a sight for to see!)
He. If I were the maid I should fan
his honest flame—
(Hey, but
he’s bashful as a youth can be!)
She. If I were the youth I
should speak to her to-day—
(Hey, but she
sickens as the days go by!)
He. If I were the maid I should meet
the lad half way—
(For I really do
believe that timid youth will die!)
Both. I thank you much for your
counsel true;
I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!
Come mighty Must!
Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
Time weaves my coronal!
Go mocking Is!
Go disappointing Was!
That I am this
Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble Second shall be First,
I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
Has Been!
Oh weak Might Be!
Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
For evil or for good!
In every sense
Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate’er your tense
Ye are Imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown
In ye!
Away! The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!
Were I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
Were not too wide
To hold my wealth of love—
Were I thy bride!
Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
As on her nest
The tender turtle-dove—
Were I thy bride!
This heart
of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
And in that shrine
Our happiness would dwell—
Were I thy bride!
And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
No grief, no wrong
Should make my heart rebel—
Were I thy bride!
The silvery
flute,
The melancholy lute,
Were night-owl’s hoot
To my low-whispered coo—
Were I thy bride!
The skylark’s trill
Were but discordance shrill
To the soft thrill
Of wooing as I’d woo—
Were I thy bride!
The
rose’s sigh
Were as a carrion’s cry
To lullaby
Such as I’d sing to thee—
Were I thy bride!
A feather’s press
Were leaden heaviness
To my caress.
But then, unhappily,
I’m not thy bride!
When the night wind
howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight
flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight
skies—
When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black
dogs bay the moon,
Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the
ghosts’ high noon!
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees,
and the mists lie low on the fen,
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women
and men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends
too soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the
night’s high noon!
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to
their churchyard beds take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim
“good night”;
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its
jolliest tune,
And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the
night’s high noon!
A more humane Mikado
never
Did in Japan exist;
To nobody second,
I’m certainly reckoned
A true philanthropist.
It is my very humane endeavour
To make, to some extent,
Each evil liver
A running river
Of harmless merriment.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
Of innocent
merriment!
All prosy dull society sinners,
Who chatter and bleat and bore,
Are sent to hear sermons
From mystical Germans
Who preach from ten to four:
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies
All desire to shirk,
Shall, during off-hours,
Exhibit his powers
To Madame Tussaud’s waxwork:
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
Or stains her grey hair puce,
Or pinches her figger,
Is blacked like a nigger
With permanent walnut juice:
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
Scribbles on window panes,
We only suffer
To ride on a buffer
In Parliamentary trains.
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment
fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
Of innocent merriment!
The advertising quack who wearies
With tales of countless cures,
His teeth, I’ve enacted,
Shall all be extracted
By terrified amateurs:
The music-hall singer attends a series
Of masses and fugues and “ops”
By Bach, interwoven
With Spohr and Beethoven,
At classical Monday Pops:
The billiard sharp whom any one catches
His doom’s extremely hard—
He’s made to dwell
In a dungeon cell
On a spot that’s always barred;
And there he plays extravagant matches
In fitless finger-stalls,
On a cloth untrue
With a twisted cue,
And elliptical billiard balls!
My object all sublime
I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
The punishment fit the crime;
And make each prisoner pent
Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
Of innocent merriment!
He. Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee, tell
me true
(Hey, but
I’m doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Have you e’er a lover
a-dangling after you?
Hey, willow waly O!
I would fain discover
If you have a lover?
Hey, willow waly O!
She. Gentle
sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—
(Hey, but
he’s doleful, willow, willow waly!)
Nobody I care for comes a-courting
me—
Hey, willow waly O!
Nobody I care for
Comes a-courting—therefore,
Hey, willow waly O!
He. Prithee,
pretty maiden, will you marry me?
(Hey, but
I’m hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
I may say, at once, I’m a
man of propertee—
Hey, willow waly O!
Money, I despise it,
But many people prize it,
Hey, willow waly O!
She. Gentle
sir, although to marry I design—
(Hey, but
he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
As yet I do not know you, and so I
must decline.
Hey, willow waly O!
To other maidens go you—
As yet I do not know you,
Hey, willow waly O!
When the buds are
blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day—
Life is love in merry May!
Spring is green—Fal lal
la!
Summer’s rose—Fal lal
la!
It is sad when Summer goes,
Fal la!
Autumn’s gold—Fal lal la!
Winter’s grey—Fal lal
la!
Winter still is far away—
Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
Fal la!
In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.
Spring is hope—Fal lal
la!
Summer’s joy—Fal lal
la!
Spring and Summer never cloy,
Fal la!
Autumn, toil—Fal lal la!
Winter, rest—Fal lal la!
Winter, after all, is best—
Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too—
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
Fal la!
Now, Jurymen, hear
my advice—
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
I pray you set aside:
With stern judicial frame of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
Oh, listen to the plaintiff’s case:
Observe the features of her face—
The broken-hearted bride!
Condole with her distress of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
And when amid the plaintiff’s shrieks,
The ruffianly defendant speaks—
Upon the other side;
What he may say you need not mind—
From bias free of every kind,
This trial must be tried!
There grew a little flower
’Neath a great oak tree:
When the tempest ’gan to lower
Little heeded she:
No need had she to cower,
For she dreaded not its power—
She was happy in the bower
Of her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
When she found that he was
fickle,
Was that great oak tree,
She was in a pretty pickle,
As she well might be—
But his gallantries were mickle,
For Death followed with his sickle,
And her tears began to trickle
For her great oak tree!
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Said she, “He loved me
never,
Did that great oak tree,
But I’m neither rich nor clever,
And so why should he?
But though fate our fortunes sever,
To be constant I’ll endeavour,
Ay, for ever and for ever,
To my great oak tree!”
Sing hey,
Lackaday!
Let the tears fall free
For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
There lived a King,
as I’ve been told
In the wonder-working days of old,
When hearts were twice as good as
gold,
And twenty times as mellow.
Good temper triumphed in his face,
And in his heart he found a
place
For all the erring human race
And every wretched fellow.
When he had Rhenish wine to
drink
It made him very sad to think
That some, at junket or at jink,
Must be content with toddy:
He wished all men as rich as he
(And he was rich as rich could be),
So to the top of every tree
Promoted everybody.
Ambassadors cropped up like hay,
Prime Ministers and such as they
Grew like asparagus in May,
And Dukes were three a penny:
Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,
And Bishops in their shovel
hats
Were plentiful as tabby cats—
If possible, too many.
On every side Field-Marshals
gleamed,
Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed,
With Admirals the ocean teemed,
All round his wide dominions;
And Party Leaders you might meet
In twos and threes in every street
Maintaining, with no little heat,
Their various opinions.
That King, although no one denies,
His heart was of abnormal size,
Yet he’d have acted
otherwise
If he had been acuter.
The end is easily foretold,
When every blessed thing you
hold
Is made of silver, or of gold,
You long for simple pewter.
When you have nothing else to
wear
But cloth of gold and satins rare,
For cloth of gold you cease to care—
Up goes the price of shoddy:
In short, whoever you may be,
To this conclusion you’ll agree,
When every one is somebody,
Then no one’s anybody!
Fear no unlicensed
entry,
Heed no bombastic talk,
While guards the British Sentry
Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.
Let European thunders
Occasion no alarms,
Though diplomatic blunders
May cause a cry “To arms!”
Sleep on, ye
pale civilians;
All thunder-clouds defy:
On
Europe’s countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!
Should foreign-born rapscallions
In London dare to show
Their overgrown battalions,
Be sure I’ll let you know.
Should Russians or Norwegians
Pollute our favoured clime
With rough barbaric legions,
I’ll mention it in time.
So sleep in
peace, civilians,
The Continent defy;
While on its
countless millions
The Sentry keeps his eye!
When first my old,
old love I knew,
My bosom welled with joy;
My riches at her feet I threw;
I was a love-sick boy!
No terms seemed too extravagant
Upon her to employ—
I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,
Just like a love-sick boy!
But joy incessant palls the sense;
And love unchanged will cloy,
And she became a bore intense
Unto her love-sick boy?
With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,
And I grew cold and coy,
At last, one morning, I became
Another’s love-sick boy!
What time the poet
hath hymned
The writhing maid, lithe-limbed,
Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,
How can he paint her woes,
Knowing, as well he knows,
That all can be set right with calomel?
When from the poet’s plinth
The amorous colocynth
Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous
thrills,
How can he hymn their throes
Knowing, as well he knows,
That they are only uncompounded pills?
Is it, and can it be,
Nature hath this decree,
Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?
Or that in all her works
Something poetic lurks,
Even in colocynth and calomel?
He loves! If
in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears—bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead—
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy—he dies!
He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress—
Her little dainty gloves—
Her withered flowers—her faded tress—
Plead for my boy—he loves!
My boy, you may take
it from me,
That of all the afflictions
accurst
With which a man’s saddled
And hampered and addled,
A diffident nature’s the
worst.
Though clever as clever can be—
A Crichton of early
romance—
You must stir it and stump it,
And blow your own trumpet,
Or, trust me, you haven’t a
chance.
Now take, for example, my case:
I’ve a bright intellectual
brain—
In all London city
There’s no one so witty—
I’ve thought so again and
again.
I’ve a highly intelligent face—
My features cannot be
denied—
But, whatever I try, sir,
I fail in—and why, sir?
I’m modesty personified!
As a poet, I’m tender and
quaint—
I’ve passion and fervour and
grace—
From Ovid and Horace
To Swinburne and Morris,
They all of them take a back
place.
Then I sing and I play and I paint;
Though none are accomplished as
I,
To say so were treason:
You ask me the reason?
I’m diffident, modest, and
shy!
Try we life-long, we
can never
Straighten out life’s tangled skein,
Why should we, in vain endeavour,
Guess and guess and guess again?
Life’s a pudding full of plums
Care’s a canker that benumbs.
Wherefore waste our elocution
On impossible solution?
Life’s a pleasant institution,
Let us take it as it comes!
Set aside the dull enigma,
We shall guess it all too soon;
Failure brings no kind of stigma—
Dance we to another tune!
String the lyre and fill the cup,
Lest on sorrow we should sup;
Hop and skip to Fancy’s fiddle,
Hands across and down the middle—
Life’s perhaps the only riddle
That we shrink from giving up!
Bedecked in fashion
trim,
With every curl a-quiver;
Or leaping, light of limb,
O’er rivulet and river;
Or skipping o’er the lea
On daffodil and daisy;
Or stretched beneath a tree,
All languishing and lazy;
Whatever be her mood—
Be she demurely prude
Or languishingly lazy—
My lady drives me crazy!
In vain her heart is wooed,
Whatever be her mood!
What profit should I gain
Suppose she loved me dearly?
Her coldness turns my brain
To verge of madness
merely.
Her kiss—though, Heaven knows,
To dream of it were
treason—
Would tend, as I suppose,
To utter loss of reason!
My state is not amiss;
I would not have a kiss
Which, in or out of season,
Might tend to loss of reason:
What profit in such bliss?
A fig for such a kiss!
It’s my
opinion—though I own
In thinking so I’m quite alone—
In some respects I’m but a
fright.
You like my features, I suppose?
I’m disappointed with my nose:
Some rave about it—perhaps
they’re right.
My figure just sets off a fit;
But when they say it’s exquisite
(And they do say so),
that’s too strong.
I hope I’m not what people call
Opinionated! After all,
I’m but a goose, and may be
wrong!
When charms enthral
There’s some excuse
For measures strong;
And after all
I’m but a goose,
And may be wrong!
My teeth are very neat, no doubt;
But after all they may fall out:
I think they
will—some think they won’t.
My hands are small, as you may see,
But not as small as they might be,
At least, I think
so—others don’t.
But there, a girl may preach and prate
From morning six to evening eight,
And never stop to dine,
When all the world, although misled,
Is quite agreed on any head—
And it is quite agreed on
mine!
All said and done,
It’s little I
Against a throng.
I’m only one,
And possibly
I may be wrong!
If my action’s
stiff and crude,
Do not laugh, because it’s rude.
If my gestures promise larks,
Do not make unkind remarks.
Clockwork figures may be found
Everywhere and all around.
Ten to one, if I but knew,
You are clockwork figures too.
And the motto of the lot,
“Put a penny in the slot!”
Usurer, for money lent,
Making out his cent per cent—
Widow plump or maiden rare,
Deaf and dumb to suitor’s prayer—
Tax collectors, whom in vain
You implore to “call again”—
Cautious voter, whom you find
Slow in making up his mind—
If you’d move them on the spot,
Put a penny in the slot!
Bland reporters in the courts,
Who suppress police reports—
Sheriff’s yeoman, pen in fist,
Making out a jury list—
Stern policemen, tall and spare,
Acting all “upon the square”—
(Which in words that plainer fall,
Means that you can square them all)—
If you want to move the lot,
Put a penny in the slot!
Although of native
maids the cream,
We’re brought up on the English scheme—
The best of all
For great and small
Who modesty adore.
For English girls are good as gold,
Extremely modest (so we’re told),
Demurely coy—divinely cold—
And we are that—and more.
To please papa, who argues thus—
All girls should mould themselves on us,
Because we are,
By furlongs far,
The best of all the bunch;
We show ourselves to loud applause
From ten to four without a pause—
Which is an awkward time because
It cuts into our lunch.
Oh, maids of high and low degree,
Whose social code is rather free,
Please look at us and you will see
What good young ladies ought to be!
And as we stand, like clockwork toys,
A lecturer papa employs
To puff and praise
Our modest ways
And guileless character—
Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes—
Our famous look of mild surprise
(Which competition still defies)—
Our celebrated “Sir!!!”
Then all the crowd take down our looks
In pocket memorandum books.
To diagnose,
Our modest pose
The kodaks do their best:
If evidence you would possess
Of what is maiden bashfulness,
You only need a button press—
And we do all the rest.
First you’re
born—and I’ll be bound you
Find a dozen strangers round you.
“Hallo,” cries the new-born baby,
“Where’s my parents? which may they be?”
Awkward silence—no
reply—
Puzzled baby wonders why!
Father rises, bows politely—
Mother smiles (but not too brightly)—
Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing—
Nurse is busy mixing something.—
Every symptom tends to show
You’re decidedly de
trop—
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! he! ho! ho!
Time’s teetotum,
If you spin it,
Give its quotum
Once a minute:
I’ll go bail
You hit the nail,
And if you fail
The deuce is in it!
You grow up, and you discover
What it is to be a lover.
Some young lady is selected—
Poor, perhaps, but well-connected,
Whom you hail (for Love is
blind)
As the Queen of Fairy-kind.
Though she’s plain—perhaps unsightly,
Makes her face up—laces tightly,
In her form your fancy traces
All the gifts of all the graces.
Rivals none the maiden woo,
So you take her and she takes
you!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Joke beginning,
Never ceases,
Till your inning
Time releases;
On your way
You blindly stray,
And day by day
The joke increases!
Ten years later—Time progresses—
Sours your temper—thins your tresses;
Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;
Rates are facts and so are taxes.
Fairy Queen’s no longer
young—
Fairy Queen has such a tongue!
Twins have probably intruded—
Quite unbidden—just as you did;
They’re a source of care and trouble—
Just as you were—only double.
Comes at last the final
stroke—
Time has had his little joke!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Daily driven
(Wife as drover)
Ill you’ve thriven—
Ne’er in clover:
Lastly, when
Threescore and ten
(And not till then),
The joke is over!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Then—and then
The joke is over!
Some seven men form
an Association
(If possible, all Peers and
Baronets),
They start off with a public declaration
To what extent they mean to pay
their debts.
That’s called their Capital: if they are wary
They will not quote it at a sum
immense.
The figure’s immaterial—it may vary
From eighteen million down to
eighteenpence.
I should put it rather low;
The good sense of doing so
Will be evident at once to any
debtor.
When it’s left to you to say
What amount you mean to pay,
Why, the lower you can put it at,
the better.
They then proceed to trade with all
who’ll trust ’em,
Quite irrespective of their
capital
(It’s shady, but it’s sanctified by custom);
Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama
Canal.
You can’t embark on trading too tremendous—
It’s strictly fair, and
based on common sense—
If you succeed, your profits are stupendous—
And if you fail, pop goes your
eighteenpence.
Make the money-spinner spin!
For you only stand to win,
And you’ll never with
dishonesty be twitted.
For nobody can know,
To a million or so,
To what extent your
capital’s committed!
If you come to grief, and creditors are
craving
(For nothing that is planned by
mortal head
Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow—saving
That one’s Liability is
Limited),—
Do you suppose that signifies perdition?
If so you’re but a monetary
dunce—
You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,
And start another Company at
once!
Though a Rothschild you may be
In your own capacity,
As a Company you’ve come to
utter sorrow—
But the Liquidators say,
“Never mind—you needn’t pay,”
So you start another Company
to-morrow!
Society has quite
forsaken all her wicked courses,
Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.
(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)
No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;
For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.
(That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.)
No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes
Who wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes;
Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is
surprising
What a thorough
Anglicising
We’ve brought
about—Utopia’s quite another land;
In her
enterprising movements,
She is
England—with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our
mother-land!
Our city we have beautified—we’ve
done it willy-nilly—
And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and
Piccadilly.
(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)
We have solved the labour question with discrimination
polished,
So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished—
(They are going to abolish it in England.)
The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a
question,
Of “risky” situation and indelicate suggestion;
No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed
indiscreetly—
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is
surprising
What a thorough
Anglicising
We’ve brought
about—Utopia’s quite another land;
In her
enterprising movements,
She is
England—with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our
mother-land!
Our Peerage we’ve remodelled on an
intellectual basis,
Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races—
(They are going to remodel it in England.)
The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek admission,
And Literary Merit meets with proper recognition—
(As Literary Merit does in England!)
Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens
Like them an Earl of Thackeray and p’raps a Duke of
Dickens—
Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll
welcome sweetly—
And then, this happy country will be Anglicised completely!
It really is
surprising
What a thorough
Anglicising
We’ve brought
about—Utopia’s quite another land;
In her
enterprising movements,
She is
England—with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our
mother-land!
A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
In her magnificent comeliness,
Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
She follows the hounds, and on she pounds—
The “field” tails off and the muffs
diminish—
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds—
Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
At cricket, her kin will lose or win—
She and her maids, on grass and clover,
Eleven maids out—eleven maids in—
(And perhaps an occasional “maiden over”).
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There’s no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
With a ten-mile spin she
stretches her limbs,
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims—
She plays, she sings, she dances, too,
From ten or eleven till all is blue!
At ball or drum, till small hours come
(Chaperon’s fan conceals her yawning),
She’ll waltz away like a teetotum,
And never go home till daylight’s dawning.
Lawn tennis may share her favours fair—
Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing—
Down comes her hair, but what does she care?
It’s all her own and it’s worth the showing!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There’s no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
Her soul is sweet as the
ocean air,
For prudery knows no haven there;
To find mock-modesty, please apply
To the conscious blush and the downcast eye.
Rich in the things contentment brings,
In every pure enjoyment wealthy,
Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings,
For body and mind are hale and healthy.
Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill—
Her heart is light as a floating feather—
As pure and bright as the mountain rill
That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There’s no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
Were I a king in very truth,
And had a son—a guileless
youth—
In probable succession;
To teach him patience, teach him
tact,
How promptly in a fix to act,
He should adopt, in point of
fact,
A manager’s profession.
To that condition he should
stoop
(Despite a too fond mother),
With eight or ten
“stars” in his troupe,
All jealous of each other!
Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,
Each member a genius (and some of them two),
And manage to humour them, little and great,
Can govern a tuppenny-ha’penny State!
Both A and
B rehearsal slight—
They say they’ll be
“all right at night”
(They’ve both to go to school yet);
C in each act must change
her dress,
D will attempt to
“square the press”;
E won’t play Romeo unless
His grandmother plays Juliet;
F claims all hoydens as her
rights
(She’s played them thirty seasons);
And G must show herself in
tights
For two convincing reasons—
Two very well-shaped reasons!
Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team,
With wheelers and leaders in order supreme,
Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin,
All Europe and Asia—with Ireland thrown in!
When you find
you’re a broken-down critter,
Who is all of a trimmle and twitter,
With your palate unpleasantly bitter,
As if you’d just bitten a
pill—
When your legs are as thin as dividers,
And you’re plagued with unruly insiders,
And your spine is all creepy with spiders,
And you’re highly gamboge in
the gill—
When you’ve got a beehive in your head,
And a sewing machine in each
ear,
And you feel that you’ve eaten your bed,
And you’ve got a bad
headache down here—
When such facts are about,
And these symptoms you find
In your body or crown—
Well, it’s time to look out,
You may make up your mind
You had better lie down!
When your lips are all smeary—like
tallow,
And your tongue is decidedly yallow,
With a pint of warm oil in your swallow,
And a pound of tin-tacks in your
chest—
When you’re down in the mouth with the vapours,
And all over your new Morris papers
Black-beetles are cutting their capers,
And crawly things never at
rest—
When you doubt if your head is your own,
And you jump when an open door
slams—
Then you’ve got to a state which is known
To the medical world as
“jim-jams.”
If such symptoms you find
In your body or head,
They’re not easy to quell—
You may make up your mind
You are better in bed,
For you’re not at all well!
Bold-faced
ranger
(Perfect stranger)
Meets two well-behaved young ladies
He’s attractive,
Young and active—
Each a little bit afraid is.
Youth advances,
At his glances
To their danger they awaken;
They repel him
As they tell him
He is very much mistaken.
Though they speak to him politely,
Please observe they’re sneering slightly,
Just to show he’s acting vainly.
This is Virtue saying plainly,
“Go away, young bachelor,
We are not what you take us
for!”
(When addressed impertinently,
English ladies answer gently,
“Go away, young bachelor,
We are not what you take us
for!”)
As he
gazes,
Hat he raises,
Enters into conversation.
Makes excuses—
This produces
Interesting agitation.
He, with daring,
Undespairing,
Gives his card—his rank discloses—
Little heeding
This proceeding,
They turn up their little noses.
Pray observe this lesson vital—
When a man of rank and title
His position first discloses,
Always cock your little noses.
When at home, let all the class
Try this in the looking-glass.
(English girls of well-bred notions
Shun all unrehearsed emotions,
English girls of highest class
Practise them before the
glass.)
His
intentions
Then he mentions,
Something definite to go on—
Makes recitals
Of his titles,
Hints at settlements, and so on.
Smiling sweetly,
They, discreetly,
Ask for further evidences:
Thus invited,
He, delighted,
Gives the usual references.
This is business. Each is fluttered
When the offer’s fairly uttered.
“Which of them has his affection?”
He declines to make selection.
Do they quarrel for his dross?
Not a bit of it—they
toss!
Please observe this cogent moral—
English ladies never quarrel.
When a doubt they come across,
English ladies always toss.
At the outset I may
mention it’s my sovereign intention
To revive the classic memories of Athens at its
best,
For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,
And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with
the rest.
We’ve a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)
Who respond to the choreutae of that
cultivated age,
And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster,
Would accept as the choregus of the early
Attic stage.
This return to classic ages is considered in their wages,
Which are always calculated by the day or by the
week—
And I’ll pay ’em (if they’ll back me) all in
oboloi and drachmae,
Which they’ll get (if they prefer it) at the
Kalends that are Greek!
(At this juncture I may
mention
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady
“cram.”:
Periphrastic methods spurning,
To my readers all discerning
I admit this show of learning
Is the fruit of steady
“cram.”!)
In the period Socratic every dining-room was
Attic
(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy
kind),
There they’d satisfy their twist on a
recherché cold
ἄριστον,
Which is what they called their lunch—and so
may you, if you’re inclined.
As they gradually got on, they’d
πρέπεσθαι
πρὸς τὸν
πότον
(Which is Attic for a steady and a conscientious
drink).
But they mixed their wine with water—which I’m sure
they didn’t oughter—
And we Anglo-Saxons know a trick worth two of that,
I think!
Then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances)
Which would shock that worthy gentleman, the
Licenser of Plays,
Corybantian maniac kick—Dionysiac or
Bacchic—
And the Dithyrambic revels of those indecorous
days.
(And perhaps I’d better
mention
Lest alarming you I am,
That it isn’t our intention
To perform a Dithyramb—
It displays a lot of stocking,
Which is always very shocking,
And of course I’m only mocking
At the prevalence of
“cram.”)
Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of
that nation
Which are not in strict accordance with the habits
of our day,
And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify,
Or Mrs. Grundy, p’r’aps, may have a word
or two to say:
For they hadn’t macintoshes or umbrellas or
goloshes—
And a shower with their dresses must have played the
very deuce,
And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of
sneezing,
For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they
didn’t know the use.
They wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or
no-thing—
And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent
in design—
Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the
“altogether.”
And it’s there, I rather fancy, I shall
have to draw the line!
(And again I wish to
mention
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady
“cram.”
Yet my classic love aggressive,
If you’ll pardon the possessive,
Is exceedingly impressive
When you’re passing an
exam.)
Oh what a fund of
joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes!
What keen
enjoyment springs
From cheap and
simple things!
What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,
That pain and
trouble brew
For every one
but you!
Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,
Its unexpected
flash
Burns eyebrows
and moustache;
When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,
But common sense
suggests
You keep it for
your guests—
Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot
coppers,
And much
amusement bides
In common
butter-slides.
And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected
croppers.
Coal scuttles,
recollect,
Produce the same
effect.
A man possessed
Of common sense
Need not invest
At great expense—
It does not call
For pocket deep,
These jokes are all
Extremely cheap.
If you commence with eighteenpence (it’s all you’ll
have to pay),
You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.
A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes
men jump like rockets,
And turnip-heads
on posts
Make very decent
ghosts:
Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waist-coat
pockets—
Burnt cork and
walnut juice
Are not without
their use.
No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with
needles—
Live shrimps their patience tax
When put down people’s backs—
Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black
beedles—
And treacle on a
chair
Will make a
Quaker swear!
Then sharp tin tacks
And pocket squirts—
And cobblers’ wax
For ladies’ skirts—
And slimy slugs
On bedroom floors—
And water jugs
On open doors—
Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,
Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!
A monarch is
pestered with cares,
Though, no doubt, he can often
trepan them;
But one comes in a shape he can never escape—
The implacable National Anthem!
Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,
It pursues him at every turn—
No chance of forsaking
Its rococo numbers;
They haunt him when waking—
They poison his slumbers—
Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,
He’s cursed with its music wherever he goes!
Though its words but imperfectly
rhyme,
And the devil himself couldn’t scan them;
With composure polite he endures
day and night
That illiterate National Anthem!
It serves a good purpose, I own:
Its strains are devout and
impressive—
Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats
As we burn with devotion
excessive:
But the King, who’s been bored by that song
From his cradle—each day—all day long—
Who’s heard it loud-shouted
By throats operatic,
And loyally spouted
By courtiers emphatic—
By soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife—
Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life!
While his subjects sing loudly and
long,
Their King—who would willingly ban them—
Sits, worry disguising,
anathematising
That Bogie, the National Anthem!
My wedded life
Must every pleasure bring
On scale extensive!
If I’m your wife
I must have everything
That’s most expensive—
A lady’s-maid—
(My hair alone to do
I am not able)—
And I’m afraid
I’ve been accustomed to
A first-rate table.
These things one must consider when one marries—
And everything I wear must come from Paris!
Oh, think of that!
Oh, think of that!
I can’t wear anything that’s not from Paris!
From top to toes
Quite Frenchified I am,
If you examine.
And then—who
knows?—
Perhaps some day a fam—
Perhaps a famine!
My argument’s correct, if you examine,
What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!
Though in
green pea
Yourself you needn’t stint
In July sunny,
In Januaree
It really costs a mint—
A mint of money!
No lamb for us—
House lamb at Christmas sells
At prices handsome:
Asparagus,
In winter, parallels
A Monarch’s ransom:
When purse to bread and butter barely reaches,
What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?
Ah! tell me that!
Ah! tell me that!
What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?
Your heart and hand
Though at my feet you lay,
All others scorning!
As matters stand,
There’s nothing now to say
Except—good morning!
Though virtue be a husband’s best adorning,
That won’t pay rates and taxes—so, good morning!
A hive of bees, as
I’ve heard say,
Said to their Queen one sultry day,
“Please your Majesty’s
high position,
The hive is full and the weather is warm,
We rather think, with a due
submission,
The time has come when we ought to swarm.”
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Up spake their Queen and thus spake she—
“This is a matter that rests with me,
Who dares opinions thus to form?
I’ll tell you when it is time to swarm!”
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Her Majesty wore an angry frown,
In fact, her Majesty’s foot was down—
Her Majesty sulked—declined to sup—
In short, her Majesty’s back was up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Her foot was down and her back was up!
That hive contained one obstinate bee
(His name was Peter), and thus spake he—
“Though every bee has shown
white feather,
To bow to tyranny I’m not prone—
Why should a hive swarm all
together?
Surely a bee can swarm alone?”
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Upside down and inside out,
Backwards, forwards, round about,
Twirling here and twisting there,
Topsy turvily everywhere—
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Pitiful sight it was to see
Respectable elderly high-class bee,
Who kicked the beam at sixteen stone,
Trying his best to swarm alone!
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Trying his best to swarm alone!
The hive were shocked to see their chum
(A strict teetotaller) teetotum—
The Queen exclaimed, “How
terrible, very!
It’s perfectly clear to all the throng
Peter’s been at the old
brown sherry.
Old brown sherry is much too strong—
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Of all who thus themselves degrade,
A stern example must be made,
To Coventry go, you tipsy bee!”
So off to Coventry town went he.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
There, classed with all who misbehave,
Both plausible rogue and noisome knave,
In dismal dumps he lived to own
The folly of trying to swarm alone!
Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
All came of trying to swarm alone.
A tenor, all singers
above
(This doesn’t admit of a
question),
Should keep himself quiet,
Attend to his diet,
And carefully nurse his
digestion.
But when he is madly in love,
It’s certain to tell on his
singing—
You can’t do chromatics
With proper emphatics
When anguish your bosom is
wringing!
When distracted with worries in plenty,
And his pulse is a hundred and twenty,
And his fluttering bosom the slave of mistrust is,
A tenor can’t do himself
justice.
Now observe—(sings a high note)—
You see, I can’t do myself
justice!
I could sing, if my fervour were mock,
It’s easy enough if
you’re acting,
But when one’s emotion
Is born of devotion,
You mustn’t be
over-exacting.
One ought to be firm as a rock
To venture a shake in
vibrato;
When fervour’s expected,
Keep cool and collected,
Or never attempt
agitato.
But, of course, when his tongue is of leather,
And his lips appear pasted together,
And his sensitive palate as dry as a crust is,
A tenor can’t do himself
justice.
Now observe—(sings a cadence)—
It’s no use—I
can’t do myself justice!
Quixotic is his
enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is,
Who seeks for jocularities that haven’t yet
been said.
The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,
And every joke that’s possible has long ago
been made.
I started as a humorist with lots of mental fizziness,
But humour is a drug which it’s the fashion to
abuse;
For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the
business
No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.
And if anybody choose
He may circulate the news
That no reasonable offer I’m likely to
refuse.
Oh happy was that humorist—the first that
made a pun at all—
Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and
mean,
Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at
all—
How popular at dinners must that humorist have
been!
Oh the days when some stepfather for the query
held a handle out,
The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very
far?
And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron blew the candle
out,
And no one had discovered that a door could be
a-jar!
But your modern hearers are
In their tastes particular,
And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be
a-jar!
In search of quip and quiddity, I’ve sat
all day, alone, apart—
And all that I could hit on as a problem
was—to find
Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part,
Which offers slight employment to the speculative
mind:
For you cannot call it very good, however great your
charity—
It’s not the sort of humour that is greeted
with a shout—
And I’ve come to the conclusion that my mine of
jocularity
In present Anno Domini, is worked completely out!
Though the notion you may scout,
I can prove beyond a doubt
That my mine of jocularity is utterly worked
out.