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Title: Songs of a Savoyard
Author: Gilbert, W. S. (William Schwenck)
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Songs of a Savoyard" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

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

                   [Picture: Public domain book cover]

                           Songs of a Savoyard


THE DARNED MOUNSEER                        6
THE ENGLISHMAN                            13
THE DISAGREEABLE MAN                      16
THE COMING BY-AND-BY                      22
THE FAIRY QUEEN’S SONG                    32
IS LIFE A BOON                            38
THE MODERN MAJOR-GENERAL                  42
THE HEAVY DRAGOON                         49
PROPER PRIDE                              56
THE POLICEMAN’S LOT                       63
THE BAFFLED GRUMBLER                      69
THE HOUSE OF PEERS                        74
A MERRY MADRIGAL                          81
THE DUKE AND THE DUCHESS                  84
EHEU FUGACES—!                            92
THEY’LL NONE OF ’EM BE MISSED             99
GIRL GRADUATES                           106
BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR                     113
THE WORKING MONARCH                      119
THE APE AND THE LADY                     123
ONLY ROSES                               130
THE ROVER’S APOLOGY                      136
AN APPEAL                                143
THE REWARD OF MERIT                      146
THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN                 153
THE FAMILY FOOL                          161
SANS SOUCI                               169
A RECIPE                                 175
THE MERRYMAN AND HIS MAID                182
THE BRITISH TAR                          204
THE SORCERER’S SONG                      211
THE FICKLE BREEZE                        219
THE FIRST LORD’S SONG                    227
WOULD YOU KNOW?                          240
SPECULATION                              254
AH ME!                                   255
THE DUKE OF PLAZA-TORO                   262
THE ÆSTHETE                              271
SAID I TO MYSELF, SAID I                 278
SORRY HER LOT                            286
THE CONTEMPLATIVE SENTRY                 292
THE PHILOSOPHIC PILL                     299
BLUE BLOOD                               307
THE JUDGE’S SONG                         315
SOLATIUM                                 329
A NIGHTMARE                              335
DON’T FORGET!                            345
THE SUICIDE’S GRAVE                      354
HE AND SHE                               361
THE MIGHTY MUST                          367
A MIRAGE                                 374
THE GHOSTS’ HIGH NOON                    381
THE HUMANE MIKADO                        388
WILLOW WALY!                             397
LIFE IS LOVELY ALL THE YEAR              403
THE USHER’S CHARGE                       411
THE GREAT OAK TREE                       418
KING GOODHEART                           424
SLEEP ON!                                431
THE LOVE-SICK BOY                        439
POETRY EVERYWHERE                        445
HE LOVES!                                453
TRUE DIFFIDENCE                          458
THE TANGLED SKEIN                        466
MY LADY                                  471
ONE AGAINST THE WORLD                    473
PUT A PENNY IN THE SLOT                  480
GOOD LITTLE GIRLS                        482
LIFE                                     487
LIMITED LIABILITY                        490
ANGLICISED UTOPIA                        497
AN ENGLISH GIRL                          499
A MANAGER’S PERPLEXITIES                 504
OUT OF SORTS                             506
HOW IT’S DONE                            512
A CLASSICAL REVIVAL                      515
THE PRACTICAL JOKER                      523
THE NATIONAL ANTHEM                      526
HER TERMS                                534
THE INDEPENDENT BEE                      536
THE DISCONCERTED TENOR                   547
THE PLAYED-OUT HUMORIST                  553


   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!
   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-Gener_al_ 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—
                        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—
                     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 imper_fect_ly—
         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,
         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
   And weasels at their slumbers
         They’ll trepan;
   To get sunbeams from cu_cum_bers
         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
   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
         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!


   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!
      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
   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,
               The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
   In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
   You always found that knight, ha, ha!
               That celebrated,
         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,
               Well connected
               The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
   In every doughty deed, ha, ha!
   He always took the lead, ha, ha!
               That unaffected,
               Well connected
         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,
               The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
   To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!
   He always showed the way, ha, ha!
               That very knowing,
         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 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
                  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
   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


   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
   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
   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 particu_lars_ 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 vege_ta_bles—
   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
   And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder
   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
   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
   And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too
   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
   With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “good
   Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest
   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,
               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,
               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,
               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
   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 sw_a_llow,
         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,
   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

      (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
   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
      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 mani_ac_ 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:
               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.

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