Mr. W. S. GILBERT.
Although Mr. W. S. Gilbert has long been before the public as a dramatist and humorous author, his chief title to fame rests upon the long series of successful comic operas produced either at the Opera Comique, or the Savoy Theatre. In all of these the quaint fancies and humorous dialogues of Mr. Gilbert, were supplemented by the brilliant and tuneful music of Sir Arthur Sullivan. Their creations, placed upon the stage with attention to every detail, and interpreted by a powerful company, have, for the last ten years, been the chief theatrical attraction, of a lighter sort, in the metropolis. The following is a list of these operas, with parodies of some of the favourite songs contained in them:—
Thespis; or, The Gods grown old.
Trial by Jury. A novel and original dramatic Cantata. Opera Comique Theatre. 1876.
The Sorcerer. A modern Comic opera 1877. It was in this opera that the inimitable actor, Mr. George Grossmith, made his first appearance on the stage in the part of “John Wellington Wells, a dealer in magic and spells.”
H.M.S. Pinafore; or, The Lass that loved a Sailor. An entirely original Nautical Comic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. May 25, 1878.
The Pirates of Penzance; or, The Slave of Duty. An original Melo-Dramatic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. 1880.
Patience; or, Bunthorne’s Bride. An Æsthetic opera. Opera Comique Theatre. April 23, 1881.
Iolanthe; or, The Peer and the Peri. An entirely original Fairy opera. Savoy Theatre, November 25, 1882.
Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant. Savoy Theatre January 5, 1884.
The Mikado; or, The Town of Titipu. An entirely original Japanese opera. Savoy Theatre. March 14, 1885.
Ruddygore; or, The Witch’s Curse. An entirely original Supernatural opera. (The leading word in the title was afterwards altered to Ruddigore.) Savoy Theatre. January 22, 1887.
TRIAL BY JURY.
The Judge’s Song.
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 I bought of a booby—
A couple of shirts and a collar or two,
And a ring that looked like a ruby!
Chorus.—A couple of shirts, &c.
In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,
Like a semi-despondent fury;
For I thought I never should 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.
Chorus.—So he fell in love, &c.
The rich attorney he jumped with joy,
And replied to my fond professions:
“You shall reap the reward of your pluck, my boy
“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!”
Chorus.—She may very well, &c.
The rich attorney was 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.
Chorus.—And many a burglar, &c.
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!
Chorus.—And now, if you please, &c.
W. S. Gilbert.
Breach of Promise of Marriage.
Mr. Herschel’s motion for the abolition of actions for breach of promise of marriage, excepting where actual pecuniary loss had been incurred, was carried in the House of Commons by a substantial majority. He thus addresses an aspiring youth of the Temple:—
When you, my friend, are called to the Bar,
Your wit may be fresh and hearty;
You may be, as many young barristers are,
A somewhat jocular party.
But you won’t, in the course of your legal journeys,
Be required to cross the water
To plead, as advised by ’cute attorneys,
For somebody’s jilted daughter.
A cute attorney jumps with joy
When he hears a maid’s confession,
And chuckles to think how he’ll bully the boy,
In revenge for his retrogression.
“You’ll get big damages, sure,” he’ll say,
And cautiously remind her
That her mother should bring her to court on the day,
And her brother stand close behind her.
No, no. You won’t grow rich as the Gurneys
Through accustomed legal slaughter;
To the courts no more shall ’cute attorneys
Bring somebody’s jilted daughter.
That species of extortion I
Most heartily disparage,
And mean that henceforward no judge shall try
A Breach of Promise of Marriage.”
Funny Folks. May 17, 1879.
——:o:——
H.M.S. PINAFORE.
The Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
(The Mahdi and Chorus of Radicals.)
The Mahdi—
I am the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
Chorus—
And a very queer Mahdi too.
The Mahdi—
You are very, very rude;
And I’d have it understood
I command a motley crew.
Though a Tory I was born,
My creed I have forsworn,
And am a Rad of a deepish dye,
I never turn my coat
With a view to catch a vote,
And I never tell a big, big——official statement.
Chorus—
What, never?
The Mahdi—
No, never.
Chorus—
What, never?
The Mahdi—
Well, hardly ever.
Chorus—
Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man,
The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian;
Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man,
For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
The Mahdi—
I’ve trimmed my sails to satisfy you all.
Chorus—
And we never knew what you meant.
The Mahdi—
Why, that’s my little game
But I tell you all the same
You are most impertinent.
An insincere excuse
I never, never use,
Whatever the emergency.
And I never, never ape,
In any form or shape,
The conduct of the late Lord B.
Chorus—
What, never?
The Mahdi—
No, never.
Chorus—
What, never?
The Mahdi—
Well, hardly ever.
Chorus—
Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man,
The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian:
Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man,
For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian.
Manchester Courier. 1885.
H.M. Home Rule Corps.
Captain Gladstone—
I am the captain of this Home Rule Corps!
All—
And a right good captain too!
Captain—
You’re a very mix’d lot,
Some are cold, some are hot,
But you’re safe “pretty far” to go.
All—
We’re a very mix’d lot,
Some are cold, some are hot,
But we’re safe “pretty far” to go.
Captain—
I care for no Whig mutineer,
For “three courses” I can steer,
Bold pilot in extremity,
I’ve never miss’d my mark,
With Tory, Turk, or Bismarck.
Nor lost the Lib’ral ship at sea!
All—
What, never?
Captain—
No, never!
All—
What, Never?
Captain—
Hardly ever!
All—
Hardly ever lost ship at sea!
Then give three cheers and one cheer more,
For the hardy captain of this Home Rule Corps.
Captain—
I’ll do my best to satisfy you all—
All—
But will you satisfy Parnell?
Captain—
That is neither here nor there,
I play upon the square,
And will “box the compass” well!
All—
We’re neither here nor there,
He plays upon the square,
And he’ll “box the compass” well
Captain—
Veil’d words I never use,
Nor Lib’ral trust abuse,
Whatever the emergency;
Lose my temper I may,
But friend nor foe can say
I ever do it with a big, big D——
All—
What, never?
Captain—
No, never!
All—
What, Never?
Captain—
Hardly ever!
All—
Hardly ever does it with a big, big D——
Then give three cheers and one cheer more
For the well-bred captain of the Home Rule Corps.
All—
For he is the captain of this Home Rule Corps;
And a right good captain too!
Captain—
I’ve had many a sore fall,
Ere made captain of you all,
But you’re a promising crew!
All—
He’s had many a sore fall,
Ere made captain of us all,
And we’re a promising crew.
Captain—
I’ll hit upon a plan,
To please the Parnell clan,
Yet keep united Nations Three;
They’ll play Parli’ment for diversion,
Ne’er bother ’bout coercion
Nor brick-bat Constabul’ry!
All—
What, never?
Captain—
No, never!
All—
What, never?
Captain—
Hardly ever!
All—
Hardly ever brick-bat Constabul’ry!
Then give three cheers and one cheer more,
For the daring captain of this Home Rule Corps.
The North British Daily Mail. February 8, 1886.
Giant Landlord.
I’m the curse of my country, the terror of all,
Especially those who are feeble and small;
I’m a grabber of land, and the people know me
As a big-acred Landlord and J. of the P.
Yes, I am a J. of the big, big P.,
And a very funny J. I’m too;
For I never, never saw any practice in the law,
And I never know what to do.
But the clerk to whom I look, finds the law out in a book,
And he whispers what it ought to be;
And the pris’ners at the bar,
Who or what-so-e’er they are,
They never mercy get from me!
Jack— What, never?
Giant L.—No, never!
Jack— What, never?
Giant L.—No, never!
No, never mercy get from me!
Jack and the Villagers—
Then give three groans, and three times three,
For the cruel J. of the big, big P.
Aye, give three groans, and three times three,
For the J, of the big, big P.
Truth. Christmas Number. 1884.
Lord Beaconsfield’s Song.
When I was a lad I served a term
As clerk to a decent attorney’s firm;
But the trammels of the office were so vile a bore,
That I longed to be stepping from the big front-door!
I slipped through that portal so readilee,
That now I am a noble and, to boot, K.G.!
As novel-writer I made such a mark,
That a Seat was discovered for the lawyer’s clerk;
Then I sneered and flouted with a smile so bland,
Till at last I had the Tories in my own right hand!
I chaffed my opponents in a style so free,
That now I am a noble, and a big K.G.!
By “slanging” Liberals I made such a name,
That a full-blown Premier I soon became;
With a “brute majority” to dance to my flute,
I made an Indian Empress, and an Earl to boot!
And that smart, Imperial juggle did so well for me,
That now I am a noble and, you know, K.G.!
I grew so trusted that I was sent
To the Congress, Britain for to represent.
I cut up Turkey and insulted Greece;
But you know I collared Cyprus, and I “brought back peace.”
For a “peace with honour” they rewarded me
By making of a nobleman a brave K.G.!
Now, statesmen all, whoever you may be,
If you’re wishful to emulate this “big, big D.,”
If your souls are not fettered to the Lower House,
Be careful to be guided by the rule of nous:
Stick close to the Crown, and never chop down trees,
And you all may be noblemen, and all K.G.’s.
Funny Folks. September 7, 1878.
President Garfield.
When he was a lad he served a term
On a big canal with a boatman’s firm:
With a heart so free, and a will so strong,
On the towpath drove two mules along;
And he drove those mules so carefullee
He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
As a driver boy he made such a mark
He came to the deck of the inland barque
And all of the perils to boat and crew
He stood at the helm and guided thro’.
He stood at the helm so manfullee
He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
He did so well with the helm and the mules,
They made him a teacher of district schools;
And when from college in a bran new suit,
A Greek professor at the Institute,
Where Greek and Latin he taught so free
He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.
The song traces General Garfield’s history through ten stanzas, and closes in this moral and improving strain:—
Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes,
Though now you may be but drivers of teams,
Look well to the work you may chance to do,
And do it with a hand that is kind and true.
Whatever you do, do it faithfullee,
And you may aspire to the Presidencee.
From a United States pamphlet, entitled Republican Campaign Songs, 1880.
A political parody of the same original, but of purely local interest, was published in Melbourne Punch, August 26, 1880, describing the career of Mr. Berry, an Australian politician.
Little Primrose’s Song.
(After Little Buttercup.)
Lord B.—
A many years ago,
When I became a Tory,
My brain was all aglow
With dreams of fame and glory.
Ministers—
Now hear his artless story!
When he became a Tory
He dreamt of fame and glory
A many years ago.
Lord B.—
One tender thought I “nussed”—
To gain a high position,
And mix with upper crust
Was ever my ambition.
Ministers—
Now, hear his frank admission!
To be a sham patrician
Was always his ambition
A many years ago.
Lord B.—
Oh, bitter was my lot!
Oh, vast was my vexation!
They never once forgot
My former humble station.
Ministers—
Oh, what humiliation!
They seized on each occasion
To mock his humble station
A many years ago.
Lord B.—
But soon I made a hit,
And nobody could doubt it:
They cheered my ready wit,
They couldn’t do without it!
Ministers—
Now this is all about it—
He’d wit and none could doubt it,
Nor could they do without it
A many years ago.
Lord B.—
My Party wanted power,
And I so aptly taught it,
That in a lucky hour
To Office back I brought it.
Ministers—
So artfully he taught it,
That back to Place he brought it;
Now who’d have ever thought it
A many years ago?
Funny Folks. March 6, 1880.
Duet.
(By two Persons of Quality.)
First Person of Quality.
Your Grace, we have important information—
Sing hey, the silly Liberal that you are!—
About a certain intimate relation
Between the artful Afghan and the Czar.
Sing hey, the artful Afghan,
The crafty, treacherous Afghan,
The sneaking, dangerous Afghan, and the Czar!
Second Person of Quality.
My Lord, in your romantic vein you’re speaking—
Sing hey, the wily Hebrew that you are!—
We don’t believe there’s any kind of sneaking
Between the virtuous Afghan and the Czar.
Sing hey, the virtuous Afghan,
The well-intentioned Afghan,
The harmless, truthful Afghan, and the Czar!
First Person of Quality.
Your Grace has not a spark of patriot feeling—
Sing hey, the factious Radical you are!—
Or you’d know we cannot letters be revealing,
That touch a friendly Potentate, the Czar.
(Con expressione.)
Sing hey, the friendly Monarch,
The much-respected Monarch,
Our best of foreign relatives, the Czar.
Second Person of Quality (Con furia).
My Lord, we give you fair and timely warning—
Sing hey, the Tory criminal you are!—
We’ll talk to the Electors, one fine morning,
About the ill-used Afghan, and the Czar.
(Lagrimando.)
’Bout the poor ill-usèd Afghan,
The much malignèd Afghan,
The loyal faithful Afghan, and the Czar!
Punch. March 13, 1880.
The Tichborne Claimant wrote:—“It is a fine thing to be an Englishman. Fool that I used to be to think so! I should feel prouder now if I could say I was an American Indian. For if ever a man felt ashamed to own a country as his native land, I do this.”
“For he himself has said it,
That it’s much to his discredit
That he’s an Englishman.
He would rather be a Rooshan,
A Turk, or Greek, or Prooshan,
Or else Red In-di-an;
And his future aspirations
Will be turned to other nations,
Not to be an Englishman.”
Funny Folks.
THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE.
Song for a Policeman.
Hem! I represent the law,
’Sent the law.
Of the Beak upon the Bench, well, I’m the claw,
I’m the claw.
I’m a terror and a snare
To all not upon the square;
And some envy me my uniform of blue,
Yes, they due,
Many envy me my uniform of blue.
Duty calls me on some roads,
On some roads,
Where, I own, I meet with pleasant episodes,
Episodes;
Where the housemaids have good looks,
And obliging are the cooks,
With no beastly barracks near to make ’em rue,
Make ’em rue;
Yes, it’s valued then, this uniform of blue.
For the credit of the Force,
Of the Force,
A proper pride I cultivate, of course,
’Vate, of course;
But, though sad, it must be told,
All that glitters is not gold,
And the statement Mr. Gilbert made is true,
Made is true,—
No! it’s not all joy to wear this dress of blue.
Judy. July 11, 1883.
Song.—By the Prince of Wales.
When a Prince is not engaged in his employment—
His employment,
Such as laying by the score foundation stones—
’Dation stones,
His capacity for innocent enjoyment—
’Cent enjoyment,
For the cares of Princely etiquette atones—
’Quette atones—
When he’s finished holding Levée’s for his mother—
For his mother,
And has done official duties for the day—
For the day,
He contrives his Princely weariness to smother—
’Ness to smother,
By indulging in a visit to the play—
To the play!
So he’s often at one playhouse or another—
Or another,
When there is no public dinner to be done—
To be done;
And take one consideration with another—
With another,
A Prince’s lot might be a sadder one—
Sadder one!
When there’s no official business to be done,
A Prince’s life might be a sadder one!
Truth Christmas Number. 1884.
An Election Effusion.
When the Free and Independent goes a voting—goes voting,
He is very apt to make his presence felt;
And election-news is nowadays denoting—a denoting,
That a nasty knock to Gladstone he has dealt—
Amid the Separation dust, and smother—dusty smother,
The Unionists their task have bravely done,
Taking one consideration with another—with another,
They all wisely took the tip of Mr. Fun—wondrous Fun!
When preserving of the Empire’s to be done—to be done,
It’s always safe to follow Mr. Fun.
* * * * *
Fun. July 21, 1886.
The Wheelists’ Chorus.
When the city man has finished his employment,
—His employment;
When anxiety and all its cares are o’er,
—Cares are o’er;
He devotes his mind to wheeling as enjoyment,
—As enjoyment
And voteth all his business is a bore,
—Is a bore.
His feelings he’ll with difficulty smother;
—Culty smother;
When after all his daily toil is done,
Toil is done;
Taking one consideration with another,
With another;
The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one,
Happy one.
When the enterprising Wheelist’s not a wheeling,
Not a wheeling,
When the Wheelist isn’t occupied on wheels,
—Pied on wheels,
He loves to saunter in the evening early,
Evening early,
And listen to the distant village peals,
Village peals.
When the tourist’s not engaged in his vocation,
His vocation.
He loves to go a touring in the sun,
In the sun;
Taking all things into due consideration,
—Sideration,
The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one,
Happy one.
Alfred Gibbons.
Wheeling Annual 1885.
Another very long song, on the same model, was printed in Wheeling, January 14, 1885, signed G. F. Benson.
Song and Chorus.
(Picked up near the Opera Comique.)
When Lord Beaky’s not engaged in lamentation—
Lamentation,
He’s tearing all his pretty curly hair—
Curly hair;
When Northcote can control his agitation—
Agitation,
He is asking “How the rabid nation dare?”
Nation dare?
When the enterprising Cross is not a-sobbing—
Not a-sobbing,
When Manners is not making dismal rhymes—
Dismal rhymes,
The former big big D’s his water-jobbing—
Water-jobbing,
The last inveighs ’gainst Telegraph and Times—
-graph and Times.
When Smith has finished dancing in ill-humour—
In ill-humour,
He grinds his little tootsicums like fun—
-cums like fun;
Oh! despite the Disappointed Party’s rumour—
Party’s rumour,
The Tories’ lot is not a happy one—
Happy one!
Funny Folks. April 24, 1880.
The Secretary’s Song.
I.
When a fellow finds in Tennis his enjoyment,
Or maturing his pot-hunting little plans,
If the Secretarial duty’s his employment,
He had rather it were any other man’s.
He wishes he’d a cousin or a brother,
Who would do the little job and think it fun,
Oh, take one consideration with another,
His official lot is not a happy one;
Ah!
When a Secretary’s duty’s to be done,
His official lot is not a happy one.
II.
When the cunning young mug-lumb’rer’s not mug-lumb’ring,
When the shirker doesn’t fail to come to time,
Still the Secretary mustn’t be caught slumb’ring,
Nor waiting for the distant village chime.
When the players fall a-wrangling with each other,
Or the Referee’s dry sherry short has run,
Oh, take one consideration with another,
His official lot is not a happy one,
Ah!
When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done,
His official lot is not a happy one.
III.
When the grass is very hard, or wet and sloppy,
Or your spikes are ploughing furrows in the ground,
Every ball will be “found dead,” or much too hoppy,
And, of course, will “hardly ever” fairly bound,
Then you’ll surely find the cause of all the bother
In the Secretary’s duty badly done;
Oh, take one consideration with another,
His official lot is not a happy one.
Ah!
When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done,
His official lot is not a happy one.
IV.
When the weather is propitious, bright, and sunny,
Our tournament successfully we hold;
Then how gleefully we gather up the money,
And the Secretary gladly counts the gold.
But, when clouds and wind and rains the heavens smother,
Then the Secretary’s blamed for lack of sun;
Oh, take one consideration with another,
His official lot is not a happy one.
Ah!
When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done,
His official lot is not a happy one.
From Tennis Cuts and Quips. London, Field and Tuer.
The Wheelist King.
(Parody on “The Pirate King.”—Pirates of Penzance.)
Oh, better far to ride a bike
Through the air on a frosty night,
And catch the breezes as they blow
Till cheeks all ruddy and a glow,
You feel as though you’re a man of might,
And fly through the air as a thing of light,
Than stay at home and mope away
The length’ning night of a winter’s day.
For I am the wheeling king.
I am the wheeling king,
And it is, it is a glorious thing
To be the wheeling king.
Oh, better far the path to ride
Of cinders, merrily side by side,
And rank as a racing man of might,
Than dwindle away a summer’s night.
For honour is due to racer brave,
And scoff the reward of the moping slave;
So still I’ll ride, and the song I’ll sing
Will be that I’m the wheeling king.
For I am the wheeling king,
I am the wheeling king,
And it is, it is a glorious thing
To be the wheeling king.
A. Gibbons.
Wheeling Annual. 1885.
PATIENCE;
or, Bunthorne’s Bride!
This delightful opera was produced on Saturday, 23rd April, 1881, at a time when the Æsthetic movement was the talk of London, and Mr. Burnand’s vamped-up old play, with the new and meaningless title, The Colonel, was drawing crowded houses. The plot of The Colonel was taken from Mr. Morris Barnett’s The Serious Family, produced in 1849, whereas Mr. Gilbert’s plot was entirely original, and although it was not performed until April, 1881, the libretto of Patience was completed in November, 1880.
In both pieces the main idea was to ridicule Æstheticism and the Æsthetes; in The Colonel this was effected by representing the movement as a sham, and its votaries as humbugs and swindlers; in Patience the style, manners, and conversation of the extreme Æsthetes were so gently and gracefully exaggerated, that even the most Utter and Intense amongst them could scarcely take offence at its lively sarcasms.
The excitement about Æstheticism has now subsided, but the beneficial results of this artistic movement are to be seen on every side. In house building, furniture, and decoration; in china, pottery, and glass, even in ladies costumes, far more taste and skill are now displayed than prior to this much ridiculed Renaissance of Art and Culture, which was inaugurated by the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, consisting of Dante Gabriel Rossetti; W. M. Rossetti; William Morris; John Ruskin; Holman Hunt; and Thomas Woolner.
Further details on this subject would be out of place in this collection, but a full account will be found in The Æsthetic Movement in England, published by Messrs. Reeves and Turner, London, 1882.
The Colonel’s Song. (Patience.)
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!
Chorus of Dragoons—
By a simple coincidence, few
Could ever have reckoned upon,
The same thing occurred to me too,
When I first put this uniform on!
* * * * *
The Impecunious Officer.
But I’m bound to confess that it comes rather hard
Upon those who’ve not much but their pay,
To have all the Horse Guards commands to regard
As to how we’ve ourselves to array.
It is now—let me see—close on twenty-one years
Since I had my regimentals to don;
And, oh, how they’ve changed them,
And re-re-arranged them,
Since I first put this uniform on.
The Duke, our commander, an excellent man,
Has seemingly spent all his days
In trying original methods to plan
For putting on lace in new ways;
For cutting out tunics and altering caps,
To similar lengths he has gone;
Scores of times he has changed them,
And re-re-arranged them,
Since I first put this uniform on!
Truth, Christmas Number. 1882.
Song by Prince Henry of Battenberg.
“When I first had the garments to don,
Which are worn by the Highlander bold,
The kilt I’d to wear
Left my kneecaps so bare,
That I shiver’d and shook with the cold!
But for dear mamma-in-law’s sake,
I continued to shiver and shake;
Yes, though the keen breeze
Seem’d my marrow to freeze,
Her favour I knew was at stake
And ’twas this that I reckoned upon,
When I still kept that uniform on.
“But though I continued to wear
Those very remarkable clothes,
I am sorry to say
There was scarcely a day
That I did not use strong (German) oaths
For the mists were so damp and so chill,
And the wind grew so cuttingly shrill,
That at length I was fain
To in sorrow complain
That the kilt would me certainly kill—
A fact p’rhaps not counted upon
When they put me that Highland dress on.
“Yet though I the tartan foreswore,
And the kilt and the philibeg too,
And was able to shirk
Both the sporran and dirk,
And the bonnet of Roderick Dhu,
Yet still I in public, ’twas clear,
In some uniform must appear;
So my mother-in-law
Colonel Atherley saw,
And I soon was a bold Volunteer!
The Colonel, by fiction polite,
Of the valorous Fifth Isle of Wight.
“But when I its uniform donned,
Of a dull and invisible green,
With green, too, for facings,
And few tags or lacings,
I own that I thought it looked mean,
Compared with the liveries splendid
Of those on the Queen who attended.
Aye, I felt it was hard
That the Yeoman on guard
Had a costume that mine far transcended;
Whilst the flunkeys, I had to confess,
Beat me too in the matter of dress.
* * * * *
“And so it at length was agreed,
When we many projects had weigh’d,
For me to petition
A Captain’s Commission
In Her Majesty’s Household Brigade;
And as it was felt the jack-boot
Would my legs most undoubtedly suit;
And that I to assume
The cuirass and the plume
Was fine enough, past all dispute,
’Twas further decided that I
The Life Guards to join should apply.
“Meanwhile, though, I’m sorry to say,
There has been some strange opposition;
And I haven’t as yet
Been enabled to get
This much-desired Captain’s commission;
And so I at present don’t dare,
The uniform, handsome, to wear,
But still must be seen,
In my Volunteer Green,
Whene’er in State functions I share;
A fact I think well to disclose,
To those who my purpose oppose.
“And I, amongst these, I am told,
Not only M.P.’s must include,
But the officers, too,
Who essay to taboo
What they call my attempt to obtrude.
But, surely, they will not maintain
Their attitude now I’ve made plain
Why it is that I fear
To in public appear
As a Volunteer Colonel again.
No; when they my plight think upon
They’ll let me their uniform don!
Truth. March 4, 1886.
When I first put Joe’s uniform on.
(Dissident Liberal.)
When I first put Joe’s uniform on,
I said as I looked in the glass,
“A conscience that’s hearty
Should rise above Party,
And trust for support to the Mass.
Independence of spirit is rare,
But I’ll prove that of that I’ve to spare,
While a patriot’s pleadings,
Though backed by secedings.
Are eloquent everywhere!”
A fact that I counted upon,
When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Chorus of other Dissident Liberals—
By a simple coincidence, few
Could ever have reckoned upon,
The same thing occurred to me, too!
When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
I said, when I first put it on,
“It is plain to the veriest dunce,
That every voter
With duty for motor,
Must plump for the Empire at once!
They will see that a statesman debased
By our Chamberlain squad has been placed
In an odd situation
To pass Separation.
Which will surely be quite to their taste.
Yes, that’s what I counted upon,
When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Chorus of other Dissident Liberals—
By a simple coincidence, &c.
But alas! now it’s come to the pinch,
I discover, unfortunate man!
That the Lib’ral elector
Is not an objector
To Gladstone’s deplorable plan.
He ranks me with Tories—oh, dear!
Nor do arguments specious appear
To gammon the Caucus
That’s striving to baulk us,
And my chance in especial to “queer”!
Which I never counted upon
When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Chorus of other Dissident Liberals—
By a simple coincidence, few
Could ever have reckoned upon,
I damaged my prospects—like you—
When I first put Joe’s uniform on!
Funny Folks. June 26, 1886.
Another parody of this song appeared in The Wheel World for June, 1882.
The Colonel’s Song.
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.
Take of these elements all that is fusible,
Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible,
Set them to simmer and take off the scum,
And a heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
Chorus—Yes! yes! yes! yes!
A Heavy Dragoon is the residuum!
* * * * *
Advise to a Shorthand Jenius.
I.
If you want a resiet for a novel stenografy,
a paragon sistem, fonetik and true,
and which in a trise shal extinguish Phonography,
list, and I’l tel you just what you shud do.
Note what inventions old authorz hav hit upon,
boldly appropriate all that you kan;
take the quintessens ov all that you’v lit upon,
arranje it anew on a different plan;
shuffel the strokes til you’v got a new alfabet;
skatter the dots here and there for the vowelz:
the serkelz and kurvz you must mix up yourself a bit;
abbreviate words by ejekting their bowelz;
lengthen your outlinez to make an addition;
shorten them now to show an omission;
kompile a whole pajeful ov neat intersektionz;
ov rulez and exseptionz make bulky kollektionz;
ov frazez and grammalogz next ad a few;
turn on some digrafs and poligrafs too.
Take ov theze elements all that’s most horribel;
stir them together in fashion deplorribel;
set them to simmer, and take of the skum;
and a new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um.
Yes, yes, yes, yes!
A new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um!
II.
If you want a resiet for th’ advertisement part ov it,
don’t let dul modesty stand in the way.
Write a tall prefase, extolling the art ov it;
’gainst every rival most loudly inveigh:
announs that none other dezervz popularity;
state that ther’z everything exsellent in it,
that its writerz’ attain an astounding selerity—
nine hundred and ninety-nine wordz in a minit!
Next kritisize Pitman in languaje sensorious;
deklare that hiz sistem’z playd out and effete,
that your own method’z quickly bekuming viktorious,
and wil soon make Phonography take a back seat.
What tho your outlinez be shocking monstrositiz,
useles, exsept az sublime kuriositiz;
what tho your sistem abound with absurditiz
so that when a sign’z written you kan’t tel what word it iz:
pen pamflets, and posterz, and frendly reviewz;
hand-billz and serkularz widely diffuze.
If singly theze elements don’t seem respektabel,
mix them together in fashion delektabel,
set them to simmer, and take of the scum,
and a short span ov fame iz the resid-u-um.
Yes, yes, yes, yes!
A short span ov fame is the re-sid-u-um.
From The Phonetic Journal, 1886.
Bunthorne’s Song.
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 everyone 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!”
* * * * *
The Cultured Assistant.
If you want to cut a shine in Professor Attfield’s line
Of high-class pharmacy,
You must get up all the germs and the new-notation terms
Of everything you see.
You must learn about the daisies, and cram botanic phrases
On every flower you find.
If you’ve only got a smattering, be everlasting chattering
To expose your “cultured mind.”
And every one shall say, as you walk your mystic way,
“If this young man converses in terms that are far too deep for me,
Why, what a pharmaceutically-deep young man, then, this young man must be.”
Be sure you never praise those very ancient days
When trade was sure to pay,
But make them plainly see that eighteen eighty-three
Is “culture’s” palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh pooh whate’er they used to do,
And pronounce it crude and mean,
And declare “that oil and smalts, or pennyworths of salts,
Are things you’ve never seen.”
And everyone will say, as you walk your mystic way,
“If that’s not good enough for him, that is good enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be.”
You must study sight and sound, for these, it has been found,
Are required in making pills;
And in keeping up your stock, the philosophy of Locke
A wond’rous power instills.
And mind you never drop a word about the “shop”
For it’s plain as plain can be,
You bid farewell to trade, when acquaintance has been made
With high-class pharmacy;
Though employers oft may say, as you walk your “cultured” way,
“If he’s content with scientific lore, he’ll certainly not suit me,
For a money-making, practical, and business man my kind of man must be.”
Phil. Bosecic.
From a Chemical Journal.
——:o:——
Duet.
Patience and Grosvenor.
Grosvenor—
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!
Patience—
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!
* * * * *
* * * * *
When The Times had some pretensions to the title of the leading English newspaper, it was known as “The Thunderer of Printing House Square,” but it has recently been re-christened The Blunderer; or, the Political Weathercock, a name which recalls the subsidiary titles Mr. Gilbert gives to all his operas. The silly misprints, and other errors, which are to be found daily in The Times show the careless manner in which it is edited, whilst several disgraceful hoaxes practised upon it by the compositors on its staff, prove how unpopular the management must have been, and that a chronic state of mutiny existed in Printing House Square. One of these practical jokes was perpetrated on The Times by an audacious compositor, who altered an advertisement which appeared on Tuesday, February 21, 1882, so that it read:—On the 20th instant, at — Park Lane, W., the wife of Albert Edward, of a son.” Whilst a still worse hoax appeared in The Times of Monday, June 12, 1882, in an advertisement of a book entitled Every-Day Life in our Public Schools, which title was amplified in a manner never contemplated by the editor.
But the grossest case of all was that contained in the report of a speech delivered at Burton-on-Trent by Sir William Vernon Harcourt, then Home Secretary. This speech was reported at length in The Times of Monday, January 23, 1882, and thousands of copies were sold before the infallible authorities found out that the pompous Sir W. V. Harcourt’s speech had been adorned, by their compositors, with flowers of speech of a very unclassical nature. Every effort was then made to call in the unsold copies, but the mischief was done, and for weeks The Times was the laughing stock of London, and fabulous prices were given for copies containing the objectionable paragraph.
Duet.
Mr. Gladstone, and Sir W. Vernon Harcourt.
Mr. Gladstone—
Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, prithee tell me true
(Hey, but it’s shocking, willow, willow waly!)
Did you speak the words attributed to you?
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
I should like to know, sir,
How far did you go, sir?
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Sir W. Vernon Harcourt—
Gentle chief, my words may frolicsome have been
(Hey, but it’s surprising, willow, willow, waly!)
Yet to such a length I did not go, I ween.
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
There was nought indecent,
In my speech so recent,
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Mr. Gladstone—
Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, will you sell to me
(Hey, but I’m anxious, willow, willow, waly!),
The paper, where reported, I your speech shall see?
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Anything, I’ll pay you;
What’s your price? Come, say you;
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Sir W. Vernon Harcourt—
Gentle chief, although to purchase you design
(Hey, but it’s tempting, willow, willow, waly!)
My paper’s not for sale, so I fear I must decline;
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
Money will not buy it,
It’s no good to try it;
Hey, willow, waly oh!
(Together.)
Sir W. V. Harcourt—
Though to use such words would very wicked be.
Mr. Gladstone—
(Hey, but it’s shameful, willow, willow, waly!)
Printed in The Times, they’d most amusing be!
Sir W. V. Harcourt—
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
I shall get a chaffing,
All the world is laughing;
Hey, willow, waly, oh!
The Sporting Times. January 28, 1882.
A Duet of the Day.
(In consequence of the numerous applications which have been made at the Home Office for an appointment to the place of public executioner, the Secretary of State has published a statement that it is neither his right, nor his duty, to make such appointment, as the selection in reality rests with the Sheriffs.)
Candidate—
Prithee, Secretary, what’s the latest news?
(Hey, but I’m eager, willow, willow waly!)
Has another Marwood stepped into his shoes?
Hey, willow waly, O!
Never mind the pang, man—
Have they got a hangman?
Hey, willow waly, O!
Secretary of State—
Gentle sir, the post unoccupied you see—
(Hey, but he’s eager, willow, willow waly!)
But you’ll p’raps explain now why you’re teasing me—
Hey, willow waly, O!
Kindly, please, inform one
Why you come and storm one,
Hey, willow waly, O!
Candidate—
Prithee, Secretary, give the place to me—
(Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow willow waly!)
I may say, at once, I shall scrag ’em properlee—
Hey, willow waly, O!
Only deign to try me,
Come, you can’t deny me,
Hey, willow waly, O!
Secretary of State—
Gentle sir, although I honour your design—
(Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
I’ve not the appointment, and so I must decline,
Hey, willow waly, O!
To sheriffs straightway go you—
Observe the door I show you.
Hey, willow waly, O!
Funny Folks. September 22, 1883.
A New Duet from “Patience.”
Salisbury—
Prithee, gentle working-man, once my bugaboo,
(Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?)
Are there any Radicals dangling after you,
Hey, willow waly, O!
I would fain climb over your shoulder into clover,
Hey, willow waly, O!
Working-Man—
Noble lord, my vote is quite unpledged and free,
(Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?)
The Rads don’t seem to care for to take the stump for me,
Hey, willow waly, O!
And what you are there for—oh, well I know the wherefore,
Hey, willow waly, O!
Salisbury—
Prithee, gentle working-man, won’t you vote for me?
(Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow waly),
And leave the Grand Old Man at home to chop his tree,
Hey, willow waly, O?
Truth. November 15, 1883.
Trio in “Patience.”
(Duke, Colonel, and Major.)
It’s clear that Mediæval art alone retains its zest,
To charm and please its devotees we’ve done our little best.
We’re not quite sure if all we do has the Early English ring;
But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing;
You hold yourself like this,
You hold yourself like that,
By hook and crook you try to look both angular and flat.
We venture to expect
That what we recollect,
Though but a part of true High Art will have its due effect.
If this is not exactly right, we hope you won’t upbraid;
You can’t get high Æsthetic tastes, like trousers, ready made.
True views on Mediævalism, Time alone will bring,
But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing:
You hold yourself like this
&c., &c.
The Troublesome Trio.
Appearing nightly during the Performance of “Impatience,” at St. Stephen’s.
We’ve long opined the House should prove a sort of hornet’s nest;
At least to turn it into one we’ve done our little best;
And though our pranks upon ourselves no credit seem to bring,
Still, when the Grand Old Man’s our game—we’re up to anything!
We gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that;
We yawn or laugh: sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat;
And, if he make a slip,
We roar and yell and skip,
And trust our brass may muster pass
Somehow for Statesmanship!
If you should think our posturings our Party but degrade,
Reflect, “Our Party’s” but ourselves, and we’re all ready made:
Tact, reason, judgment to their work, wise politicians bring,
But when the Grand Old Man’s the butt—why, fools can have their fling.
So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that;
We yawn and laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat;
And, if he make a slip,
We have him by the hip!
By Jove, our brass, though not high-class,
Is all our Statesmanship.
It isn’t that we really mean to irritate the Chair,
Or worry old Sir Stafford till he’s fit to tear his hair,
Nor o’er our friends do we desire our party mud to fling,
But when the Grand Old Man gets up—we’re up to anything!
So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that,
We yawn, we laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat;
And, if he make a slip,
Like Cannibals we skip,
And show the House what depths of nous,
Has Jingo Statesmanship!
Punch. November 11, 1882.
The cartoon at the head of this parody, drawn by Sambourne, represented Lord Randolph Churchill, with a note of interrogation; Mr. Ashmead Bartlett, with a peacock’s feather; and Sir Drummond Wolff, with a sunflower; clad in Patience costumes, and adopting the attitudes assumed by the Duke, the Colonel, and the Major, when singing the original trio.
Song.—The Social Belle.
It’s clear, if I’m to hold my own, I must, with ardent zest,
To supplement my natural charms attempt my artful best.
What Nature’s done is very well, but Art can do yet more
To round, to smooth, to renovate, to polish, and restore.
So I lace myself like this (does so),
I pad myself like that (does so),
Make what is angular look round, and what bony is look fat.
I hair-pin on this hair (does so),
Frisettes I stick in there (does so),
And to be in the fashion quite this bird-cage thus I wear.
I take my blushes from a box, complexion from a jar,
My dimples are to order made (a guinea each they are),
My curls were purchased through the Stores (a very cheap job lot),
The alabaster of my neck is four-and-six per pot.
And I line my eyes like this (does so).
I mark my veins like that (does so),
Fill up this wrinkle so, lay this excrescence flat (does so)
I fix and I cement (does so),
I powder, puff, and scent (does so),
Until, at last, my form is fit in public to present!
Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.
——:o:——
“The St. James’s Gazette” on Mr. Joseph Chamberlain in 1885.
When first I went to Parliament I gazed with mock humility,
On Gladstone and on Hartington, on Derby and on Bright;
I followed their directions with unquestioning docility,
And said that what they bid me do must certainly be right.
I flattered all and each of them,
And daily did beseech of them
Some counsel or advice, which I accepted with civility.
I hastened to defer to them;
When talking, I said “Sir” to them;
And all my early conduct was remarkably polite,
I bowed to them,
Kowtowed to them,
Each day from morn till night:
I laughed with them,
And chaffed with them,
And played the parasite.
But as the proverb predicates, complete familiarity
Affects a mam’s ideals with a kind of moral blight:
And G. and H. and D. and B. (observe the singularity!)
Revealed defects of character that shocked their proselyte.
I could no longer follow them, or go to them as reference;
Their methods, I discovered, differed totally from mine:
And therefore I reluctantly, and quite against my preference,
Informed them, “Either you or I, good people must resign.”
They simply would not hear of it:
They had the greatest fear of it:
They treated what I said to them with unaccustomed deference:
They never would demur to me:
They even whispered “Sir” to me;
And one and all they flattered me, and asked me home to dine.
They bowed to me,
Kowtowed to me:
And how could I decline?
I sneered at them
And jeered at them,
But went, and drank their wine.
Don’t talk to me of impudence, deception, or audacity.
I worried them, I flurried them, I worked upon their fears:
And now they duly recognise my value and capacity,
And meekly let me lead them by their noses and their ears.
——:o:——
“Who are They?”
A very long-nosed young man,
An evil-disposed young man,
An oily-tongued, empty pate,
Down with the Church and State—
Brother to Dilke young man.
A very astute young man,
A remarkably ’cute young man,
A very good act is his
Gainst corrupt practices—
Try it at Taunton young man.
A “Rabbit and Hares” young man,
Confront-me-who-dares young man,
A modern Trebonius,
Mighty Pomponius—
Take-care-of-himself young man.
A slap-at-the-Crown young man,
A levelling down young man;
A robbery, jobbery,
Quakery, snobbery,
Chamberlain-Bright young man.
A dignified grand young man,
A lord of the land young man;
A stand-no-rebukery,
Heir to a dukery,
Devonshire House young man.
A genial and kind young man,
Who does all the good that he can;
But the job quite bewilders
Poor darling old Childers,
Our army reform young man.
A stolid and square young man,
A troubled-with-care young man;
A buckshotty, bullety,
Utter futility,
Message-of-peace young man.
A plausible, bland old man;
A shifty-as-sand old man;
To aid Revolution
Laws, Land, Constitution,
He’d fling to the winds, old man.
The Morning Post. January, 1882.
The Flippity-Flop Young Man.
I once was a matter of fact young man,
And thrived on port and sherry;
But now I’m a kind of a cracked young man,
The reverse of or-din-ary.
I flip and I flop (echo)
All over the shop (echo)
And take it for granted you can;
I’m a very Sunflowery, Aprily showery,
Eastcheapy, Towery man.
Chorus—
I’m a very æsthetic young man,
A non energetic young man,
Slippity sloppity over the shoppity,
Flippity flop young man.
I once was a hymny and tract young man,
And sternly opposed to stooping;
A kind of a stick up the back young man,
But now I incline to drooping,
Consummately if (echo)
On no account stiff (echo)
I scarcely know how I began;
I’m a bitter and mildy, naturey childy,
Oscary Wylde-y man.
Chorus—
I’m a Fuller’s earth colour young man,
A greeny and “yuller” young man:
Pretty externally “Patience” and “Colonelly,”
Utterly, utter young man.
I once was a cobby and hack young man.
And a little bit calico bally,
A picture card out of the pack young man,
And frequently Music Hally.
I’d sing and I’d shout (echo)
“Poor ’Liza” about (echo)
And after the ladies I ran,
Said Jenny to Amily, Oh, he’s a jammily,
“Morally, family man.”
Chorus—
But I’m now a good goody young man,
A head rather “Woody” young man:
Body quite rickety, pose plas-tickety,
Never go wrong young man.
I once was a three-and-six dinner young man,
And at table knew which was the best end;
But now you would not find a thinner young man
Tho’ you walk from the East to the West End.
Two steps and a stop (echo)
A skip and a hop (echo)
I require but a puff and a fan;
I’m a Regent Street cuttery, skip o’er the guttery,
New bread and buttery man.
Chorus—
I’m a worship the lily young man,
Crutch and tooth pick-a-dilly young man,
Cracked in the filberty, Burnand and Gilberty,
Strike you with paper young man.
"Harry Adams.
This song was set to music by E. Jonghmans, and published by Francis, Bros. & Day, London. There were also some additional verses, but they were inferior to the above.
Sir Wilfrid Lawson.
A down-with-the-Tories M.P.,
A never-drink-spirits M.P.,
A won’t-touch-a-drop-ery
Ginger-y, pop-ery,
Friend-to-the-pump M.P.
Judy. October 5, 1881.
F. C. Burnand.
A threepenny Punch Young Man,
A Happy-Thought Young Man;
A try-to-make Punch,
The best of the bunch,
But bad is the best Young Man.
Henry Irving and Miss Terry.
A very-much sought Young Pair,
An angular, well-matched Pair;
A worship-the-Bard,
Whilst he proves a safe card,
Then fall back on Wills Young Pair!
General and Mrs. Booth.
A very acute Old Pair,
A ranting and roaring Pair;
A bawling, fanatical.
Send-round-the-hat-i-cal,
Pick-up-the-pence Old Pair!
The Daily Telegraph.
A caught in the act D. T.,
A swiftly-condemned D. T.;
A basely sensational,
False informational,
Properly hanged D. T.!
Mr. Gladstone.
A regular Grand Old Man,
An easily-drawn Old Man;
A noli-me-tangere,
Quickly-made-anger-y,
Not to be chaffed Old Man.
Marquis of Salisbury.
A reckless and fierce Old Man,
A not-mind-a-fib Old Man;
A Schouvaloff-Treatery,
Up-to-deceitery,
Berlin fiasco Old Man!
Sir Stafford H. Northcote.
A worthy but weak Old Dame,
A limp and defied Old Dame;
An often-defeated,
Ungratefully-treated,
Can’t-manage-her-brats Old Dame.
Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.
An American Ideal.
A common-place young girl;
A decidedly rare young girl;
Stay home at night,
Do what is right.
Help-her-old-mother young girl.
A hard-to-find young girl;
A reader-of-fact young girl;
An extra poetical,
Anti-æsthetical,
Care-nothing-for-novels young girl.
A minus her bangs young girl;
A show-on-her-brains young girl;
With an unpowdered face;
One that don’t lace,
A dress-for-her-health young girl.
An up-in-the-morning young girl;
A help-in-the-wash young girl;
One that can rub,
Not afraid of the tub,
A roll-up-her-sleeves young girl.
A quiet-and-modest young girl;
A sweet-and-pure young girl;
An upright, ambitious,
Lovely, delicious,
A pride-of-the-home young girl.
A remarkably scarce young girl;
A very much wanted young girl;
A truly-American,
Too-utter paragon,
The kind-that-I-like young girl.
New York Independent.
——:o:——
IOLANTHE;
Or, the Peer and the Peri.
——:o:——
Players at Playing.
Chorus of Fashionable Amateurs.
When upon the stage we play,
Tantantara!
Our acting that of pro’s surpasses,
Yaas!
So pro’s and public, please, make way,
And view us through your opera-glasses,
Tantantara! Make room!
Bow, bow, ye playhouse-loving masses,
We’re taught by “coaches” and in classes,
Such the power of brass is, that, although we’re asses
To act we all presume.
Though we boast high rank and station,
Acting is our recreation,
Tantantara! Make room!
Solo.
Spurn not the wealthy swell
(Whose mind’s affected),
Nor with disdain repel
Pro’s self-elected.
Once we would sink with shame
If actors near us came,
Now by rich swell and dame
That art’s respected.
We swells! We swells!
Fair actresses would once select
And them “protect,”
But now we act ourselves—we swells!
Chorus.
In tragedy and comedy to shine is our intention.
Swells.
Yaas, yaas—for acting is in vogue;
And we hope the pwo’s appweciate our gwacious condescension.
Pro’s.
To Colney Hatch you ought to be removed, we say,
You noodles pay to act, and of engagements you defraud us,
And often through your little game adversity has gnawed us.
Swells.
But look how it amuses us, and how our fwiends applaud us—
Besides, it is “the thing,” you know, at acting now to play.
When we seek the “coach” or the S.D.A.,
And wish some famous part to play,
The “coach” wesponds to us, “Just so;
At a matinée you must show.
“To a matinée you must go,
Sir (or ma’am) of highest quality,
You’ll appear at the Fwivolity,
At a matinée you shall show!”
Then each of us fwom gay Belgwaviah
Thinks himself the Stage’s saviah;
And all our fwiends their plaudits thunder,
Voting each of us a wonder.
Pro’s and Public.
When Billy Shakespeare ruled the stage
In good Queen Bess’s reign,
The swells did not to act attempt;
But they wern’t then, as now, exempt
From anything like brain.
And yet Thalia won her bays
In quaint Queen Bess’s glorious days.
When David Garrick drew the town,
With Woffington la belle,
No Upper-Ten folks paid to play,
And yet the Drama, strange to say,
Succeeded very well,
It did without the swellish craze
In David Garrick’s glorious days.
And then again, in later times,
(Say, up at Sadler’s Wells),
The Drama, somehow, kept alive,
And still it managed to survive
Without the aid of swells.
And actors won renown and praise
In dear old Samuel Phelps’s days.
Carados.
To escape there is a way:
Don’t go!
Whene’r these idiots play,
Don’t go!
They’ve L.S.D.,
These would-be pro’s
Each fancies he
Great genius shows.
But no:
Take warning from this lay:
Don’t go!
Carados.
The Referee. April, 1883.
——:o:——
The Lay of the Lord Chief Justice.[24]
A Lord Chief Justice, by common consent,
Is Law’s most lovely embodiment;
For the Chancellor, though a thing of dread,
Is a sort of a perfunctory figurehead.
And that is why the American Bar
Have selected Me to travel afar.
A very agreeable jaunt, and one
That will lead, I trust, to some excellent fun,
And furnish a capital holiday
For a most mellifluous Lord Chief J.
All—And furnish, &c.
But though the compliment implied
Inflates me with legitimate pride,
It nevertheless can’t be denied
That it has a—ahem!—dangerous side.
For I’m not so old or melancholic
As to be quite proof ’gainst the love of frolic,
And there’d be the deu—— well, a certain risk,
If the Lord Chief Justice began to frisk.
A possibility, I should say,
For a peripatetic Lord Chief J.
All—A possibility, &c.
I must keep on myself strict watch and ward,
Lest in more than one sense I should be abroad;
For the Themis young of America
Is a very agreeable girl, they say;
She has affable manners—and customs free—
And—she laughs at wigs! Oh! deary me.
I must be as careful as careful can be,
Lest I should forget Law’s dignitee.
’Tis a sore temptation to throw in the way
Of such a susceptible Lord Chief J.!
All—’Tis a sore temptation, &c.
Punch. September 1, 1883.
A Susceptible Chancellor.
“That is a specimen of the complaints which are poured into the letter-box of a susceptible Chancellor of the Exchequer.”—Mr. Goschen at the Mansion House.
The cry is still “They come,” and I
Could almost wriggle with agony,
For while one man would a tax impose,
Another, remission would fain propose;
One worthy our tea would from duty free.
And another would tax up our mild Bohea;
While many would gladly change the law,
And put the screw upon whisky raw.
Which is exasperating, for
I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.
Then, in the interest of the rats,
I’m asked to discourage the spread of cats;
While a widow lady whose dog is blind
Protests the afflicted should not be fined;
The naughty, some say, a tax should pay
Whenever they go to see the play;
And broadly speaking, the wickeder you,
The worse the penance you ought to do.
Which is to me distressing, for
I’m such a susceptible Chancellor.
The Liverpool Weekly Post. April 2, 1887.
——:o:——
The Songs of the Professions.
The Church.
When I went to the Church, as a very young man,
(Said I to myself, said I)
I’ll work on the good old pluralist plan
(Said I to myself, said I).
I’ll marry the daughter of Bishop or Dean;
To the best paying side in church politics lean,
And whatever the work, remain idly serene
(Said I to myself, said I).
And I’ve managed, I fancy, to do what I say,
For you see what I am by my apron to-day;
And if you but look at the papers you’ll know
To what bigoted lengths I am willing to go.
It is true I’m too weak to my diocese work,
But no one can say my chief duty I shirk.
No, I quarterly draw my prelatical pay,
In the fine, old, full-flavoured Episcopal way!
The Army.
When I took my commission as a silly young man
(Said I to myself, said I),
I will certainly work on a Barnumesque plan—[25]
(Said I to myself, said I).
I will flatter my General, get in a clique,
My own self-advancement at all times bespeak,
And to puff my own bravery always will seek
(Said I to myself, said I).
So I did it, and thus, as you see me to-day,
Have worked very high in the Army my way,
And now am quite busy in doing my best
The course of my rivals to forthwith arrest,
By striving that they, although equally wise,
May no army discover in which they can rise.
Yes, thanks to the fads in which I persist,
Our army, I take it, will not long exist.
The Law.
When I went to the bar as a priggish young man
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll work on the regular, old legal plan,
(Said I to myself, said I).
I’ll take more briefs than I can read through,
Nor care though my clients my carelessness rue.
I will stick to my fees whatever I do
(Said I to myself, said I)
Well. I think I have managed to score a success,
And have ruined more clients than ever you’d guess;
And besides, when a chance was presented to me,
I my politics changed and became an M.P.;
And my coat having turned (’twas a very slight wrench),
I soon shall be called as a judge to the bench,
From there to pass sentence, for many an act
In no wise so bad as my deeds were in fact.
Medicine.
When I hospitals walked as a merry young man
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll proceed to success on a Specialist plan,
(Said I to myself, said I).
I’ll stick to one part of our wonderful frame,
And, spite of my fellow-practitioners’ blame,
I think it will bring me both lucre and fame
(Said I to myself, said I).
The result, I am glad to report, has been good,
For I’ve earned the large fortune I said that I would,
And as to my fame, it is easy to tell
From the way that I’m hated I’ve won that as well.
So jealous, in fact, are my rivals, I think
They hardly from my vivisection would shrink,
In order to find, by their treatment of me,
Where this Nerve most successful they grudge me can be!
Truth Christmas Number. 1883.
Some New Year’s Eve Resolves.
Said a Barrister, low to himself, said he,
“Next year I will keep no unearned fee,
I will hold no briefs that I cannot read,
Nor sully my ‘silk’ with dishonest greed.
Next year I will not be paid for work
Which I know full well that I mean to shirk.
Nay, more, I will make my clerk return
Those cheques which now in my pocket burn.
Aye, straight is the course that I mean to steer
Through the Legal Terms of the Glad New Year!”
* * * * *
Said a British General, “I will try
To learn that the Alphabet’s not all ‘I.’
With the year now dawning I mean to seek
To become less bumptious and grow more meek;
And learn to remember in former days
There were Generals, too, who deserved some praise;
And that British soldiers could fight and storm,
Though nought had been heard of my reform.
Yes, all that the Army esteem most dear
I will cease to vex in the Glad New Year!”
Said a West-end Tradesman, “I hereby vow
That reckless credit I’ll not allow,
Nor will I make up for it e’er again
By the shameful profits that I maintain;
Nor will I longer essay to trade
By adulteration’s scurvy aid;
No! I henceforth what is pure will sell,
And the demon of commerce forthwith expel,
Resolved to my vows to close adhere
Through the coming months of the Glad New Year!
Said a Jerry Builder, “Next year shall see
No Jerry dwellings put up by me!
I will purchase no fever-reeking site;
Nor, having bribed to the left and right,
Will I there run up those frail abodes
Which the life of each hapless tenant loads
With cramps and chills and with torture grim,
’Till Death itself seems a boon to him;
No, I as a fiend will not appear
In the happy days of the Glad New Year!”
Said a City Alderman, “I will try
My enemies’ sneers to falsify;
I’ll curb, as much as ever I’m able,
My gluttonous taste at the Civic table;
I’ll do my best, too, myself to force
To become less bigoted, dull, and coarse;
I will also strive to promote no job,
And to cease the poor any more to rob.
’Though, I’m bound to add, I already fear
I’ve promised too much for the Glad New Year!”
Said a Man of Fashion, “Hereby I swear
To think much less of the clothes I wear;
To gamble less when I cannot pay,
Less spirits to drink, less slang essay;
The spiteful talk of the Club to ban,
To take my sport as becomes a man,
To shoot no pigeons, to sell no race,
Nor a gentleman’s name to in aught disgrace:
All this I swear, so I think ’tis clear
I have much to change in the Glad New Year!”
Truth. January 3, 1884.
Said I to Myself, Said I.
(As sung by Mr. Henry Irving).
When I took to the stage as a gifted young man,
Said I, &c.,
I’ll act on a new, if peculiar plan,
Said I, &c.
I’ll never consider the rôle that I play,
My method need change to a different way,
From the path that I’ve chosen I never will stray,
Said I &c.
The public are ready for anything new
Said I, &c.,
The æsthetes are raving o’er all that I do,
Said I, &c.
My plan is successful, my manner attracts,
No matter the play, if ’tis Irving that acts,
And places are booked two months off. These are facts
Said I, &c.
I’ll swagger and stagger, I’ll roar and I’ll rant,
Said I, &c.,
I’ll suddenly cease, roll my eyes, gasp and pant,
Said I, &c.
In mounting most costly I’ll not be outdone,
Though in comedy vague my idea of fun,
Yet soon on the boards I shall be number one,
Said I, &c.
I always will keep my peculiar stride,
Said I, &c.,
In Hamlet, Charles, Richelieu, and Romeo beside,
Said I, &c.
With pre-Raffaelite Ellen my woes to assuage,
In London be burlesqued, in Scotland the rage,
We triumph on every American stage.
Said I, &c.
Onny Bridge
Truth. November 15, 1883.
The Masher Clerk.
(A city firm have just advertised in the Daily News for a clerk, adding that they want “no mashers.”)
When I went to the City a knowing young man
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll follow the fashion as much as I can
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll live upon credit when minus of cash,
In the eyes of the world I will cut such a dash,
That envious chappies shall cry, “Can’t he ‘mash’!”
(Said I to myself, said I).
I’ll never drink anything else but best “cham.”
(Said I to myself, said I),
Or “cotton” to fairies who’re not “real jam”
(Said I to myself, said I);
But of dear little pets I will have the first pick,
And dress in a style most decidedly “chick.”
I’ll get from my tailor unlimited tick
(Said I to myself, said I).
When the “shop” is shut up, and the evening begun
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll then sally forth for some frolic and fun
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll ogle the girls at the Gaiety bar,
Or, soothed by the smoke of a pipe or cigar,
I’ll list to the song of the music-hall star
(Said I to myself, said I).
If I must be a clerk to be perched on a stool
(Said I to myself, said I),
I’ll not give up “mashing,” I’m not such a fool
(Said I to myself, said I).
So now where’s that berth advertised in the News?
I’m sure with my figure they cannot refuse——
Hallo! what is this—“No mashers!” the deuce!
(Said I to myself, said I).
Funny Folks. May, 1884.
A political imitation of this song appeared in England for July 4, 1885, but it had little interest, and is now out of date.
The Fairy Queen’s Song.
“Oh, Nation Gay.”
(Mr. Shaw claimed ten thousand pounds as compensation for his unjust imprisonment by the French.)
England sings to France.
Oh, nation gay.
Think you, because
Your brave array
Poor China awes,
I’d disobey
Stern Justice’ laws?
Because you’re sly,
And not above
A tendency
The weak to shove,
Resemble I
The timid dove?
Oh, timid dove!
Bird of Ovidius Naso!
This heart of mine
Is not as thine,
And no man dares to say so!
On ire that glows
With heat intense
Turn, France, the hose
Of pounds and pence,
And out it goes
At some expense!
I must maintain
Stern Justice’ law—
That fact is plain;
So kindly draw
A cheque, and gain
The heart of Shaw!
Oh, Mister Shaw!
Long by the Gaul kept under,
Would thy crusade
Without my aid
Attain its end, I wonder?
Funny Folks. September, 1883.
Song of the Lawn Tennis Championship.
I.
Oh, foolish swain,
Think you, because
On grassy plain
I mind each clause
Of sovereign
Lawn-tennis laws,—
In brightest gleam
That fancy owns,
Think you, I dream
My cranial bones
With rules can teem
Like those of Jones?
Oh, Mr. Jones,
Type of Lawn-tennis Draco,
This head of mine
Is not as thine,
Although it sometimes ache, Oh!
II.
When heaven glows
With heat intense,
And grass ne’er grows
In any sense,
We ply the hose
At great expense!
When eager calls
And fervent prayers
For brand-new balls
Are heard from players,
The onus falls
On F. H. Ayres.
Oh, Mr. Ayres,
Vendor of balls sewn-under,
How are they made,
Or sold, or paid
For, at such price, I wonder?
III.
Fame’s made or marr’d
At Wimbledon,
And matches hard
Are deftly won,
And scored on card,
Ere set of sun:
But no young gent
Scores with such art
A tournament
In every part
As heaven-sent
Young Mr. Schacht.
Oh, Mr. Schacht,
Type of Lawn-tennis umpire,
Perched up on high,
In summer sky,
No grasshopper could jump higher!
IV.
The lists are set,
The ties are drawn,
And anxious yet,
Ere morning dawn,
We pray, no wet
May spoil our lawn.
The play begins,
Without a flaw,
The fastest spins
We ever saw;
The fav’rite wins,—
’Tis still Renshaw!
Oh, Will Renshaw,
Type of Lawn-tennis champions,
None e’er so quick
The world to lick
From Land’s End to the Grampians!
From Tennis Cuts and Quips.
(London: Field & Tuer, 1884.)
——:o:——
PRINCESS IDA.
The Disagreeable Man.
As Sung by Mr. Henry George,
the “Land Nationalization” Comique.
If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:
I’m a genuine philanthropist—all other sorts are sham.
Each stupid freak of Fortune and each soc-i-al defect
By my lectures and my volumes I endeavour to correct;
To all their little grievances I ope the people’s eyes,
And pretty plans to crucify the landlords I devise.
I love my fellow creatures—I do all the good I can—
Yet Property declares that I’m a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
To Smith and to Ricardo I’ve a withering reply;
Malthusians I always do my best to mortify;
Political economy I skilfully dissect,
And crevices within its mail I’m ready to detect.
I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns,
And I prove that honest labour doesn’t win its due returns;
But to benefit humanity, however much I plan,
Yet Property will have it I’m a disagreeable man!
And I can’t think why!
I’m sure I am no Marat, I’m as gentle as can be;
The guillotine in Leicester Square I should regret to see.
I merely want the populace to grab all “real estate,”
Without regard to owners’ cry of “Please to compensate.”
To those same owners’ prejudice, I know a thing or two;
I can show them to be curses of the nation—and I do.
But though I try to make myself as pleasant as I can,
Yet Property asserts that I’m a disagreeable man—
And I can’t think why!
Funny Folks.
Those Clever Conservatives.
“Mr. J. W. Harris won Poole for the Conservatives by declaring to the working classes that the Liberals had brought the bad trade, and the Tories would revive the industry of the place, and make everybody rich.”
If green Cheddar you desire
From the moon—from the moon—
They’ll supply what you require
Very soon—very soon.
Then they hope to fill lean purses,
Lacking pence—lacking pence—
With the coin Weg-born reverses
Steal from thence—steal from thence.
And as harvests shirk a nation
’Neath Sol’s ban—’neath Sol’s ban,
To aid farmers by taxation
They’ve a plan—they’ve a plan.
They’ve a firmly-rooted notion
They can bridge Depression’s ocean,
And they’ll set all trades in motion,
If they can—if they can!
These are the phenomena
That Poole expects to come in a
Crack or a jiffee
Now that Harris is M.P.
As for failure, they forswear it,
So they say—so they say,
And prosperity they’ll “square” it,
Some fine day—some fine day.
When the voter they would “sell” him—
Not too “fly”—not too “fly”—
“The Millennium’s,” they tell him
“By-and-bye—by-and-bye!”
So each newly-joined aspirant
To their clan—to their clan—
Must pooh-pooh Hard Times, a tyrant
Known to man—known to man.
They mock at him and flout him,
And they chaff the Rads about him,
For they’re “going to do without him”
If they can—if they can!
These are the phenomena, &c.
From Funny Folks. May 3, 1884.
Another parody, of the same original, appeared in Pastime, February 13, 1884, relating to the London Athletic Club.
A Wasted “Infancy.”
(The Lay of a Man of Forty.)
I was not so very old,
Twenty years ago!
Quite an “infant,” I am told,
Twenty years ago!
How I might have gone the pace
At the cost of tradesmen base,
If I’d only had the face
Twenty years ago!
But I was a trifle shy,
Twenty years ago!
Let the golden time slip by,
Twenty years ago!
Didn’t buy on tick, alas,
“Necessary” things en masse—
All which branded me an ass,
Twenty years ago!
Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.
The Scuttle.
Of all the plans there are on earth
For Statesmen still to cherish O
Commend me to the Premier’s own
Whose glory ne’er will perish O!
O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle.
Chosen fad of Lib and Rad,
Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
Forth, forth, from Egypt let us slope
As fast as we can manage O!
And let the Mahdi work his will
The B.P.’ll pay the damage O!
O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle,
Chosen fad of Lib and Rad,
Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
Forth from Afghanistan as well
In spite of all our bunkum O!
The only way to beat the Russ
Is evermore to funk ’em O!
O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle,
Chosen fad of Lib and Rad,
Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
So wheresoever threats a foe,
Or dangers England worry O!
We will surmount them all by flight
And out of trouble hurry O!
O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle,
Chosen fad of Lib and Rad,
Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O!
Moonshine. May, 1885.
The Argosy Braces
Ye who are cumbersome and slow,
Awkward and ungainly,
We would have you know
The cause is Braces! mainly
Those of the old fashioned type,
Impeding every movement.
Really the time was ripe
For marvellous improvement.
Then if you’re tired of the vice-like gripping
Grasping, clutching, and irritating slipping,
And your principal complaint
Is physical restraint,
You needn’t have a taint
Of it now.
But when you’re next engaged in shopping,
Into a hosier’s go you popping,
Give the “ARGOSY” a trial;
Then with a placid smile,
Cast off the old ones vile,
As we do.
Knox et Præterea Nihil!
(After King Gama’s song in the “Princess Ida.”)
Scene.—Dromore. Leaders of the
Local Orange Lodges discovered in Council.
First Orange Leader.
Common sense we bar,
That is not our bent;
On the whole we are
Not intelligent.
Chorus of Leaders.
No, no!
Not intelligent!
Second Orange Leader.
But with spiteful heart,
Play we here anew
Our abusive part—
Insult is our cue!
Chorus of Leaders.
Yes, yes!
Insult is our cue!
Bigots fierce and strong, ha! ha!
For the strife we burn;
Who is in the wrong, ha! ha!
We have no concern.
So we wreak our spite, ha! ha!
Little care we, then,
Who is in the right, ha! ha!
For we’re Orangemen!
Chorus of their followers
who have gathered round.—
They are men of might, ha! ha!
Bigots, moved by spite, ha! ha!
Ready for the fight, ha! ha!
Ready for the fight!
Solo.—The Hon. Colonel Knox.
“If you give me your attention I will tell you what I am;
I’m a genuine Orange patriot! all other kinds are sham.
I adore my dear old country, and most viciously I try
To thwart the plan of statesmen who would peace to her supply;
I am full of true devotion to my Queen, and so I use
The most offensive epithets her Viceroy to abuse,
See how I love the Irish! Why, their massacre I plan,
Yet Liberal papers say I’m such an extremely dangerous man!
And I can’t think why!
“I’m so loyally patriotic that I strive with all my might
My Monarch’s chief advisers to humiliate and spite;
I so yearn to see my Ireland free, and Protestant, and great,
That I’d blast its hopes with bloodshed and its people decimate.
No greater stickler for the Law was ever known than I,
So long as it allows me its provisions to defy,
Or assists me in developing some ultra-Orange plan;
Yet moderate critics say I’m such a very odious man!
And I can’t think why!
“I am always for upholding Ulster’s right to freely meet,
To walk with yellow banners, and the noisy drum to beat;
Aye, sweet Freedom is the birthright of us Orangemen so true:
But it is not meant for rebels like Parnell and his black crew.
So with pistol and shillelagh I would quickly smite them down,
If they dare to hold a meeting or perambulate a town;
Thus you see I try to make myself considerate as I can,
Yet everybody says I’m such a disingenuous man!
And I can’t think why!
“I’m blind to every party sin, and personal defect,
But ready any Land League fault most sternly to correct;
’Gainst Orangemen’s besotted crimes I closely shut my eyes,
But mark the slips of Nationalists with most severe surprise.
And when their foul abuse of us I hear them trying at,
Why, I feel they ought to know we claim monopoly of that!
But although I’ve acted in this way since manhood I began,
Yet people will insist I’m such an undesirable man!
And I can’t think why!
“So come, my worthy farmers and poor peasants, look at me,
And try if you as spiteful and intolerant can be;
Denounce the things in others you do without demur,
And make repeated efforts their passions fierce to stir.
Be prejudiced as I am, my spite and malice share,
And as becomes true patriots, for civil war prepare.
In short, I’d have you act upon my patriotic plan,
Though everybody says I’m such a bad, contentious man,
And I can’t think why!”
Final chorus of Orange Leaders.
Yes, with spiteful heart
Here we’ve played anew
Our abusive part—
Insult is our cue!
Yes! yes!
Insult is our cue!
Truth. January 10, 1884.
——:o:——
THE MIKADO.
“Jamwillow.”
[According to the Times correspondent at Suakin, the frequent “jamming” of the Martini-Henry rifles was due to the defective cartridge in use. The cartridge is regarded, as “a theoretical one;” and a theoretical cartridge might as well be a blank one at once.]
On a battlefield gory a soldier was seen,
Who sang “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow;”
And I said to him “Warrior, what do you mean
By your ‘Willow, jamwillow, jam willow’?
Act at once, since the foe is approaching,” I cried,
“You had better take aim, or they’ll humble our pride.”
With a shake of his helmet, the fighter replied,
“Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
He pulled at the trigger again and again,
Singing, “Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
But, alas! all his struggles were clearly in vain,
Oh, “willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
He threw down the arm, and a “Drat it!” he gave;
Then he turned and he ran, though undoubtedly brave,
And he shouted, while striving his bacon to save,
“Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
Now, I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name
Isn’t Willow, jamwillow, jamwillow;
That a cartridge defective had made him exclaim,
“Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
And if something’s not done by the War Office—why,
We shall suffer defeat in the sweet by-and-bye,
And our soldiers will wail as they perish or fly,
“Oh, willow, jamwillow, jamwillow!”
Funny Folks. May 9, 1885.
The “Waterbury” Maids.
Three little maids from school are we,
Proper and good, as we ought to be;
The reason why, you will shortly see,
Three little maids from school.
We were once “real wild,” we “took the bun”
For mischievous pranks and daring fun,
So they put a watch on us, every one,
Three little maids from school.
Three little maids so quick and wary.
The best of all watches was necessary,
That’s why they picked out the “Waterbury,”
Three little maids at school.
But now we are all “real nice,” you know,
And always act as our watches go,
Not the least bit “fast,” but by no means “slow,”
Three little maids from school.
From three little maids take these away,
And three little maids would be all astray—
For we’d never be up to the time of day,
Three little maids from school.
Three little maids, delightful very,
Laughing always, so bright and merry,
Everyone with a “Waterbury,”
Three little maids from school.
Sewing.
On a seat in the garden
A sweet pretty maid
Was sewing, so sewing, so sewing
And I said to her, “Dearest one!
Why thus so staid?
So sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
Is it stitching for somebody over the sea,
Or a slipper you’re making for impudent me?”
But without looking up she continued to be
Sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
And she sighed a deep sigh as
She sat on that seat
So sewing, so sewing, so sewing;
And her forehead was flushed with
A feverish heat,
So sewing, so sewing, so sewing,
But she still maintained silence
And answered me naught,
Though a smile or a whisper was all that I sought.
She was certainly angry at having been caught
So sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
But when Dick had come back from
His voyage at sea,
She was sewing, so sewing, so sewing;
And the slippers were finished,
As such work should be,
By sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
Now a wedding took place,
But alas! ’twas not mine;
And when Dick is away, if the weather be fine,
She will sit on that seat and her fingers incline
To sewing, so sewing, so sewing.
Saml. Peel.
From Gems.
Words for Music.
The flowers that bloom in the pot, tra-la,
Have the bulge on the flowers of Spring,
For whether its cold or its hot, tra-la,
They’re placed in temperate spot, tra-la,
And in this have a very soft thing;
So they don’t care a jot
If it freezes or not,
For they feel pretty certain that they have the pot,
Tra-la-la la-la, tra-la-la-la-la.
Oh, theirs is a fortunate lot.
Rare Bits. February 5, 1887.
The Spring Cleaning.
The flowers that bloom in the spring, tra-la,
You buy for the girl you adore,
For a beautiful smile they bring, tra-la,
And cause her your praises to sing, tra-la,
Till you wish that you’d only bought more,
And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing
Is as welcome as flowers that bloom in the Spring.
The blushes that bloom on her cheek, tra la,
Are painted the men to deceive;
If you doubt, just notice this week, tra la,
When her curls on your arm a rest seek, tra la,
How the blushes will soil your coat-sleeve.
And that’s what we mean when we angrily speak:
A brush for the blushes that bloom on her cheek.
The flour that blooms in the spring, tra la,
We find in confectioner’s cakes
The children unto ’em will cling, tra la,
Though they’re spongy and tough as a string, tra la,
And simply are leathery fakes!
And that’s why we’re sad when they pass us a thing,
Made out of the flour that blooms in the spring.
The houses we clean in the spring, tra la,
Give a blow to all social sunshine,
And we profanely say as we sing, tra la,
That we’d like to be hanged on a string, tra la,
But we find that it’s useless to whine.
And this is the refrain that we dolefully sing,
Oh, bother the houses we clean in the spring.
The Tuneful Liar.
Quips (Liverpool.) March 4, 1887.
Verses Accidentally omitted at the Savoy Theatre.
At this General Election some have met with their rejection,
Who never will be missed, who never will be missed!
At last they’ve been found out, although they’ve long escaped detection,
And we’ve scratched them off the list, we’ve scratched them off the list,
There’s the foul-mouthed Joseph Leicester sent to “studdy” at his ease,
With Rogers, whose crude Billingsgate has somehow failed to please;
And Joseph Arch the humbug, who against the labourers votes,
Has leisure now to understand what’s meant by “hinds” and “goats;”
And Gibb, and Firth, and plenty more, we’ve scratched them off the list,
But they’ll none of them be missed, they’ll none of them be missed!
But some there are who’ve scrambled through we well could do without;
Though they’re still upon the list, they’re still upon the list!
The traitors who have managed to escape the general rout,
Though they never would be missed, they never would be missed!
First, there’s the Grand Old Madman and his silly little son,
And that “genial ruffian,” Labby, with his weak attempts at fun;
There’s Bombastes Falstaff Harcourt, and J. Morley, prince of prigs,
Flabby Childers, blatant Russell, half a dozen recreant Whigs,
And all those empty Gladstone bags who’ve got upon the list;
Oh, they’d none of them be missed, they’d none of them be missed!
W.
St. Stephen’s Review. July, 1886.
Messrs. Lever Brothers, of Warrington, have published a small pamphlet describing the manufacture of their “Sunlight Soap.” It contains “A respectful Per-version of the Mikado,” from which the following extracts are given, by permission of Messrs. Lever Brothers:—
Song—by a Lady of Quality.
As some day a washing soap that is harmless may be found,
I’ve got a little list! I’ve got a little list
Of gowns and things all stowed away, as safe as underground.
Which have constantly been missed! How much they’ve all been missed!
There’s my charming Dolly Varden, which, alas! is rather soiled,
My parasol of once white lace, though dirty, it’s not spoiled.
My chintzes and chinchillas, China crape, and cream brocade,
My bombazines and silks of every style, and sort, and shade;
That fetching little bonnet too, in which I first was kissed,
They’ve all of them been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed.
Chorus—She’s got ’em on her list! She’s got ’em on her list;
And they’ve all of ’em been missed! They’ve all been sadly missed.
One day a friend said Sunlight Soap I really ought to try,
And as she did insist, I hunted up my list;
For, hearing her experience, I remembered with a sigh,
How much they’d all been missed! How much they’d all been missed.
So I sent at once for Sunlight Soap, and soon unpicked the lace,
From that old discarded sunshade and I tacked it in its place;
Round a muslin-covered bottle, as their little books direct,
And used the Sunlight Soap with most astonishing effect,
The lace washed quite as good as new—encouraged to persist,
I wondered if it would restore the other things I’d missed.
Chorus—She hunted up her list! She got her little list,
And wondered if it would restore the other things she’d missed.
So one by one I brought to light the things I’d laid aside
For I’d got them on my list! They were all upon my list;
The same success attended each experiment I tried,
And they’ll never more be missed They’ll never more be missed!
The finest fabrics were unharmed, the tints remained intact,
You may think I’m romancing, I assure you it’s a fact;
You try the Sunlight Soap, you’ll find your labour much reduced,
I only wish that years ago it had been introduced!
Henceforth no more soiled garments will appear upon my list,
For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of them be missed.
Chorus—She’s crossed ’em off her list! She’s crossed ’em off her list,
For, thanks to harmless Sunlight Soap, they’ll none of ’em be missed!
Trio of Sunlight Soap Tablets.
Three little aids to health are we,
Powerful aids in tablets three,
Harbingers all of purity,
Three little aids to health!
Everyone will our virtues own,
Everywhere is our value known,
Everything that is foul hath flown,
From three little aids to health!
Three little tablets, all expelling
Germs of disease from dress and dwelling,
Purity’s advent e’er foretelling—
Three little aids to health!
Three little foes to dire decay,
Driving disease and dirt away,
Pleased to disperse their dread array—
Three little aids to health!
All that is foul we render fair,
No earthly boon can with us compare,
Life is a burden few could bear
But for three little aids to health!
Three little tablets, all expelling
Germs of disease from dress and dwelling,
Purity’s advent e’er foretelling—
Three little aids to health!
The Reason Why.
The flowers that bloom in the spring,
Tra la,
Breathe promise of merry Sunlight—
As we merrily dance and we sing,
Tra la,
We welcome the hope that they bring,
Tra la,
Of a summer of roses so bright;
And that’s what we mean when we say that a thing
Is welcome as flowers that bloom in the spring.
Tra la la la la la, &c.
Lever’s Sunlight Soap’s a thing,
Tra la,
That brings sunshine wherever it goes
If you ask us to which we should cling,
Tra la,
It won’t be the flowers of spring,
Tra la,
For they’re useless for washing of clothes;
And that’s what we mean when we say, or we sing,
“It’s better than flowers that bloom in the spring!”
Tra la la la la la, &c.
A Pathetic Ballad.
In a cot by a river a lady forlorn
Sang “willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And I said to her, “pretty one, why do you mourn,
Singing ‘willow, titwillow, titwillow?’
Your love will return ere the sun will have set,
Your honeymoon scarce is completed, and yet
With a shake of your head you reply in a pet,
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
But alas! she had wedded for love, not for pelf,
Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!
So she had to get through all the washing herself,
Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!
She sobbed and she sighed, and a gurgle she gave,
Then she threw herself 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,
’Twas inferior soap that thus made her exclaim,
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
If Lever’s Sunlight Soap she’d happened to buy,
Her work had been done without trouble, and I
Should never have heard that most desolate cry—
“Oh willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
——:o:——
RUDDIGORE;
or, The Witch’s Curse.
This opera, produced at the Savoy Theatre on Saturday, January 22, 1887, did not at first receive that approval which the Press and the public have hitherto accorded to Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan’s pieces. Objection was taken to the title, and in deference to public opinion the first word was altered from Ruddygore to Ruddigore, whilst several passages which occur in the published version of the libretto are either altered, or omitted, in representation, and generally the piece runs more smoothly than it did when first produced.
That Mr. Gilbert himself had some mistrust of his own passion for logical paradoxes may be inferred from the fact that the following passage has, from the first, been omitted in the performance:
Rod. It’s not too late, is it?
Han. Oh Roddy! (bashfully).
Rod. I’m quite respectable now, you know.
Han. But you’re a ghost, ain’t you?
Rod. Well yes—a kind of ghost.
Han. But what would be my legal status as a ghost’s wife?
Rod. It would be a very respectable position.
Han. But I should be the wife of a dead husband, Roddy!
Rod. No doubt.
Han. But the wife of a dead husband is a widow, Roddy
Rod. I suppose she is.
Han. And a widow is at liberty to marry again, Roddy!
Rod. Dear me, yes—that’s awkward. I never thought of that.
Han. No, Roddy—I thought you hadn’t.
Rod. When you’ve been a ghost for a considerable time it’s astonishing how foggy you become!
The acting copy now also dispenses with the equally ingenious quibbles which appeared to give offence to the audience on the first night, as follows:—
Robin. Stop a bit—both of you.
Rod. This intrusion is unmannerly.
Han. I’m surprised at you.
Robin. I can’t stop to apologise—an idea has just occurred to me. A Baronet of Ruddygore can only die through refusing to commit his daily crime.
Rod. No doubt.
Robin. Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide!
Rod. It would seem so.
Robin. But suicide is, itself, a crime—and so, by your own showing, you ought none of you to have ever died at all!
Red. I see—I understand! We are all practically alive!
Robin. Every man jack of you!
Rod. My brother ancestors! Down from your frames! (The Ancestors descend.) You believe yourselves to be dead—you may take it from me that you’re not, and an application to the Supreme Court is all that is necessary to prove that you never ought to have died at all!
(The Ancestors embrace the Bridesmaids.)
From the omission of this conversation it now follows that the “ancestors,” having once returned to their picture frames, remain there.
——:o:——
An Appeal, after E. A. Poe.
Once upon a midnight dreary, Gilbert pondered weak and weary,
Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for,
When a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing,
As of some one madly clinging to the bell at his front door;
“It is D’Oyly Carte,” he muttered, “ringing at my big front door,
Merely this, and nothing more.”
Poking then the glowing ember, for ’twas cold as bleak December,
Gilbert said, “Ah, I remember in the olden time of yore,
Yea, and shall forget it never, though I were to live for ever,
How I vainly did endeavour once to see my ‘Pinafore;’
Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at ‘Pinafore,’
Just that once, but nevermore.”
“For the feeling sad uncertain, at the rising of the curtain.
Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore,
And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated,
I would ne’er again be seated in the stalls as once before,
There to try and see the piece through, as I tried to do before,
Now to do so nevermore.”
Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal,
Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before;
Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he,
And in voice of thunder said he, “Mr. Carte,”—then slammed the door,
And in tones stentorian said he, “Mr. Carte,”—then slammed the door,
Only this, and nothing more.
Mr.Carte then said quite coolly, “Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly,
Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for?
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn,
Have you really, really made ’un? Tell, O tell me, I implore!
Tell me what its funny name is—tell, O tell me, I implore!”
Answered Gilbert—“Ruddygore!”
Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title much confounded,
For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore;
And he said, “This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some
Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o’er;
Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur’s score;
Therefore change it, I implore.”
Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, “D’Oyly Carte, you must be joking;
I have never found a title that I liked so much before,
For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming
With deeds of blood all streaming, which the people gloat so o’er;
Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o’er;
Therefore be it Ruddygore,”
And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting
In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor;
And although they can’t help glancing at D. Lely when he’s dancing,
Think Miss Brandram’s song entrancing, and give Grossmith an encore,
Still all cry, “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title, ‘Ruddygore.’
Not in spelling—we want more.”
E. B. V.
Pall Mall Gazette. February 12, 1887.
——:o:——
The Playwright’s Lament.
With Chorus of Professional Supers from “Ready Goer.”
(Note.—The long lines are by the Playwright;
the short lines are by the Chorus of Supers.)
Oh, why am I gloomy and sad?
Can’t guess.
And why am I wicked and bad?
Confess.
Because I am thoroughly mad!
Oh, yes.
You may tell by the rage in my face.
Do you know that I’ve written a play?
Don’t say!
And it was produced yesterday?
Hurrah!
Do the papers a single word say?
Not they!
Now I think that’s a very hard case.
’F I were Gilbert or Sully-vi-an—
Oh, ho!
Bronson Howard, the Ah-merry-khan—
Ah, no!
H. A. Jones, or his partner Hermann—
Just so!
George R. Sims or Henry Pet-tett.
If I were the author of “Jan”—
Who’s he!
Or a thoroughly noted young man—
Dear me!
Or Verdi at distant Mil-an—
I see!
I’d get half a column, you bet!
But being at present unknown—
Oh, dear!
No preference for me is shown—
No fear!
So I have to play it alone—
Hear! Hear!!
But I’ll even up with them yet.
Luke Sharp.
The Detroit Free Press. March 19, 1887.
——:o:——
Coercion Coming.
Duet—Lord Londonderry (Despard) and Sir M. Hicks-Beach
(Mad Margaret).
Lond.
I once was a very abandoned person—
Beach.
Spoiling the hard-up landlords’ chances;
Lond.
Such people couldn’t conceive a worse ’un—
Beach.
Or one more subject to sickly fancies.
Lond.
I blush for my mild extravagances;
But be so kind
To bear in mind
Beach.
We were the victims of circumstances! [Dance
This is one of our contrite dances.
Beach.
I was as soft as a sweet young lady—
Lond.
Troubled by Nationalistic vapours.
Beach.
The squires declared that my ways were shady—
Lond.
They hinted at penitential tapers.
Beach.
The Plan of “Pressure” amused the gapers.
My ways were strange
Beyond all range—
Lond.
And grumbles got into Tory papers! [Dance.
Here goes to cut coercionist capers.
Lond.
I’m sorry now for each weak proceeding—”
Beach.
My taste for a merciful method’s waning.
Lond.
It’s gag and shackle that Erin’s needing—
Beach.
We can’t have the Unionists complaining.
Lond.
Our party’s praises we’d be obtaining.
We’ll try a rule
Of the Iron School.
Beach.
It won’t be nice, but we’ll stop Campaigning! [Dance.
Our steps will mend when we’ve had some training.
Funny Folks. March 5, 1887.
——:o:——
Good for Goschen.
(Owed by a De-lighted Pipe.)
Come hither, ye slaves of the weed,
And read;
All ye of fumiferous breed
Take heed;
Through minimised taxing,
The prices they’re axing
For fragrant tobaccos—recede
With speed!
You say that the Budget’s not strong?—
You’re wrong.
You say it contents not the throng?—
Go ’long!
Good smokes it arranges,
And rings in the changes,
And rings out the old with a song—
Ding-dong!
What, say you it’s all for a puff?
That’s rough:
Here Goschen deserves no rebuff—
Enough!
Indulgers will glory
In Whig or in Tory
Who’ll give them in ’baccy or snuff
Good stuff!
High duty on weeds they revoke—
Smart stroke—
It’s certain to finish in smoke
(Good joke!)
We welcome, in brief, sir,
Less liquid, more leaf, sir!
When ’baccy in water they soak—
We choke!
When Goschen Pride’s high pyramid
Bestrid,
We openly own that we chid
The kid.
But he gained by this action
The thanks of each faction
That loveth the succulent quid—
He did!
Funny Folks. April 30, 1887.
——:o:——
Although Ruddigore is, in itself, a burlesque, it occurred to Mr. Toole that some fun might be got out of a caricature of it, and accordingly Messrs. Taylor and Percy Reeve composed a “musical parody” entitled Ruddy George, which was produced at Toole’s Theatre. Much talent for mimicry was displayed by the principal performers, and especially by Mr. E. D. Ward, as Robin Redbreast (after George Grossmith) and Mr. Skelton, as Sir Gaspard, in a droll imitation of Rutland Barrington’s portentious manner. The burlesque was, however, most successful in so far as it caricatured the idiosyncracies and eccentricities of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music. In imitation of the scene in Act II. of the original, where the portraits of Sir Ruthven’s forefathers descend from their frames, kitcat panel likenesses of Mr. Gilbert, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and Mr. D’Oyly Carte suddenly become endowed with life, and utter some mild, and rather pointless jests.
——:o:——
Ko-Ko on “The Cow and Three Acres.”
(The Mikado.)
The Rads all the yokels to gain, tra la!
Gave promise of land and a cow.
They argued, “They’re all half-insane, tra la!
“Majority we shall obtain, tra la!
By the help of the sons of the plough.”
And that’s what they meant, as you’ll quite understand,
When they promised a cow and three acres of land,
And told-’em-a-lie-or-two, told-’em-a-lie-or-two—
Promised a cow and some land.
They’ve voted for them, and so now, tra la!
My advice to the “clods” is “Away!
And tell ’em you’re sick of the plough,” tra la!
That you’ve come for your acres and cow, tra la!
And they’ll turn round to you and they’ll say,
“My friends, we would give you the acres and cow,
But, alas! we’ve not got them—at least, not just now.
But we’ve told-you-a-lie-or-two, told-you-a-lie-or-two—
Live by the sweat of your brow!”
The Sporting Times. 1886.
——:o:——
Ode to a London Fog.
Roll on, thick haze, roll on!
Through each familiar way
Roll on!
What though I must go out to-day?
What though my lungs are rather queer?
What though asthmatic ills I fear?
What though my wheeziness is clear?
Never you mind!
Roll on!
Roll on, thick haze, roll on!
Through street and square and lane
Roll on!
It’s true I cough and cough again;
It’s true I gasp and puff and blow;
It’s true my trip may lay me low—
But that’s not your affair, you know.
Never you mind!
Roll on!
Funny Folks Annual. 1885.
——:o:——
A small volume has recently been published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus (London), entitled Mr. Gilbert’s Original Comic Operas, it contains The Sorcerer, H. M. S. Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, Iolanthe, Patience, Princess Ida, The Mikado, and Trial by Jury. It gives the dates when these pieces were first produced, but unfortunately omits the names of the performers, which all playgoers and collectors of theatrical curiosities will regret.
Numerous imitations and parodies exist of Mr. Gilbert’s writings, other than those connected with Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music, thus his mythological play Pygmalion and Galatea was burlesqued by Miss Alice Maud Meadows in “Chiselling Pygmalion,” which was performed in London in December, 1883, by the members of the Grantham Lawn Tennis Club.
A jocular guide to the Edinburgh Exhibition of 1886 was compiled by Mr. George Stronach, and published by Robert Mitchell, of Edinburgh. It was entitled “Our Own-eries; or, The Show in the Meadows; a dog-gerel cat-alogue,” and was profusely and humourously illustrated. It contained several amusing parodies on The Mikado, and one on Tennyson’s Brook, but as they related only to the Exhibition they were of purely local interest, and are now out of date.
In The Bab Ballads, which originally appeared in Fun (London), may be found the germs of several of Mr. Gilbert’s plays and operas, sketches of plots afterwards amplified, and snatches of song which were, later on, to be linked to Arthur Sullivan’s music, and so made famous.
The following, which appeared in Fun twenty years ago, contains part of the plot of H. M. S. Pinafore:—
JOE GOLIGHTLY;
Or, The First Lord’s Daughter.
A tar but poorly prized
Long, shambling, and unsightly,
Thrashed, bullied, and despised,
Was wretched Joe Golightly.
He bore a workhouse brand,
No pa or ma had claimed him,
The Beadle found him, and
The Board of Guardians named him
P’raps some princess’s son—
A beggar p’raps his mother!
He rather thought the one,
I rather think the other.
He liked his ship at sea,
He loved the salt sea-water;
He worshipped junk, and he
Adored the First Lord’s daughter.
The First Lord’s daughter proud,
Snubbed earls and viscounts nightly—
She sneered at barts aloud,
And spurned poor Joe Golightly.
Whene’er he sailed afar
Upon a Channel cruise, he
Unpacked his light guitar
And sang this ballad (Boosey).
Ballad.
The moon is on the sea,
Willow!
The wind blows towards the lee,
Willow!
But though I sigh and sob and cry,
No Lady Jane for me,
Willow!
She says, “Twere folly quite,
Willow!
For me to wed a wight,
Willow!
Whose lot is cast before the mast;”
And possibly she’s light,
Willow![26]
His skipper (Captain Joyce)
He gave him many a rating,
And almost lost his voice
From thus expostulating:
“Lay out, you lubber, do!
What’s come to that young man, Joe?
Belay!—’vast heaving! you!
Do kindly stop that banjo!”
“I wish, I do—oh, lor!
You’d shipped aboard a trader:
Are you a sailor, or
A negro serenader?”
But still the stricken cad,
Aloft or on his pillow,
Howled forth in accents sad
His aggravating “Willow!”
Stern love of duty had
Been Joyce’s chiefest beauty—
Says he, “I love that lad,
But duty, damme! duty!”
“Twelve years blackhole, I say,
Where daylight never flashes;
And always twice a day
Five hundred thousand lashes!”
But Joseph had a mate.
A sailor stout and lusty,
A man of low estate,
But singularly trusty.
Says he, “Cheer hup, young Joe!
I’ll tell you what I’m arter,
To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And ax him for his darter.
“To that Fust Lord I’ll go
And say you love her dearly.”
And Joe said (weeping low),
“I wish you would, sincerely!”
That sailor to that Lord
Went, soon as he had landed,
And of his own accord
An interview demanded.
Says he, with seaman’s roll,
“My captain (wot’s a Tartar),
Guv Joe twelve years’ black hole,
For lovering your darter.
“He loves Miss Lady Jane
(I own she is his betters),
But if you’ll jine them twain,
They’ll free him from his fetters.
“And if so be as how
You’ll let her come a-boardship,
I’ll take her with me now”—
“Get out!” remarked his Lordship.
That honest tar repaired
To Joe upon the billow,
And told him how he’d fared:
Joe only whispered, “Willow!”
And for that dreadful crime
(Young sailors learn to shun it)
He’s working out his time:
In ten years he’ll have done it.
Fun. October 12, 1867.
The Bab Ballads have been often imitated (it is scarcely possible to parody them successfully), but the imitations are for the most part very inferior to the originals, besides which they are generally very long, so that only a few examples can be quoted. The three following appeared in a prize competition in The World, the subject selected by the editor being:—
KING THEEBAW OF BURMAH.
First Prize.
(Model: “Sir Guy the Crusader.”)
Theebaw was a potentate mighty,
“The Magnificent One,
Grandchild of the Sun,”
To put foreign armies to flight he
Shook his magical spear—it was done.
John Bull was his special objection,
A contemptible cad,
An upstart who had
Not a single celestial connection,
And whose form altogether was bad.
Yet this snob, with the coolest assurance,
Sent a party named Shaw
To the court of Theebaw
To remonstrate—O cheek past endurance!—
When he strangled his brothers-in-law.
Says Theebaw, “Shall this prig of a Briton
Be allowed to object—
Such a want of respect!—
When I’ve got a man-torturing fit on?
It’s hard lines if my fun be thus checked!”
So he tried of that prying external
His kingdom to rid,
Which he finally did,
Having scared him to death; but a colonel
Named Browne to replace him was bid.
Now Theebaw, it is right here to mention,
Had very strong views
On the subject of shoes;
At an afternoon call their retention
Was a slip that he could not excuse.
The colonel thought this very cruel,
Took cold in his head,
And before going to bed
Put his feet in hot water, supped gruel,
Packed up the next morning and fled.
Said Bull to Theebaw, “I’m disgusted;
If my delegates are
Thus exposed to catarrh,
With a colonel you shall not be trusted.”
Whereto Theebaw answered with “Yah-r!”
So St. Barbe was left there to be worried,
Till he’d reason to dread,
Being relieved of his head
In a manner less pleasant than hurried;
Then he, too, packed baggage and fled.
So Theebaw was alone in his glory.
He drowned everybody
In the deep Irrawaddy,
And then, as an end to the story,
He finished himself with rum-toddy.
Odd Fish.
Second Prize.
The Tale of King Theebaw.
Theebaw was the King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay,
And he laughingly said, as he got out of bed,
In a casual sort of way:
“I’m tired of my dozens of uncles and cousins;
My connections are far too extensive;
My hundreds of mothers and legions of brothers,
Though dear, yet are very expensive.
I’ll polish off all the sons of my pa,
And then, with due justice, I can’t
But smother my nieces, and cut into pieces
My grandmother’s aged aunt.”
“No, really you mustn’t, august Theebaw,”
Said the spirited British Envoy.
“Pray think of it twice, for it wouldn’t be nice,
You exceedingly naughty boy!”
“’Tis plainly my duty to warn you that we—
Though we’d rather not say, ‘You shan’t!’—
Shouldn’t like it at all, if you cut up quite small
Your grandmother’s aged aunt.”
Then up rose the King of the golden toe,
And he tore off his Chancellor’s wig.
“You idiot,” said he, “have you no repartee
To answer this son of a pig?
Now listen, you ugly preposterous man,
You wretchedly lily-white cus
I’ll make you regret that you got in a pet,
And made such a deuce of a fuss!
I’ll cut every one of my brothers in half;
Their mothers I’ll tenderly boil;
And I’ll frizzle each niece in buffalo-grease,
And fry all my uncles in oil.
O yes, you may threaten; I don’t care a d—
For you and your silly ‘You shan’t!’
And I’ll certainly smother my aged grandmother,
As well as her elderly aunt.
For am I not King of the golden toe,
And the monarch of Mandalay?
And I laugh in my sleeve, for I’m led to believe
That England is far away.
And your army I read in my Daily News—
Three men and one little wee boy—
Has sufficient to do with King Cetewayo:
Good morning, my dear Envoy!
And please have the goodness to leave me alone,
For my temper’s uncommonly quick.
Don’t think me uncivil—but—go to the devil!
And—send me some rum, there’s a brick!”
Scoad.
A very Dry Tale.
(To the air of the ‘Precocious Baby.’)
A monarch of Burmah, I cannot tell why,
With his sips and ‘nips’
For his parched-up lips,
Was plagued with a throat so excessively dry,
’Twas useless to try
To ‘wet t’other eye,’
Because he was perfectly, perfectly dry.
’Twas shocking in one of exalted degree,
With his ‘Pour a drop more,
Encore and encore,’
’Twas painfully sad for the monarch of B.,
As thirsty was he
As a fish from the sea,
As thirsty, as thirsty, as thirsty could be.
His ministers tried to relieve him at first
With coffee and tea
And soda-and-b.,
But couldn’t relieve his insatiable thirst;
They all did their worst
For the King, who was curst
From youth with a singular, singular thirst.
Of each kind of tipple they brought a supply
(With whisky and brandy,
And other drinks handy),
And wept that their monarch should still remain dry;
But laugh when he’d try
With his jester to vie,
For even his jokes were exceedingly dry.
They gathered in Hungary, Portugal, Spain,
On the banks of the Rhine,
Many hogsheads of wine,
Which were drunk (so was he), but he still cried ‘A drain!’
’Twas perfectly plain
All their labours were vain;
He kept on repeating, ‘Go fetch me a drain!’
Then a royal commission his Majesty sent,
With his ‘Pass me a glass
Of the bitter of Bass!’
To buy all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.
But after they went
He wasn’t content,
Though he drank all the liquor of Burton-on-Trent.
It remained for a Hebrew a cure to propose—
He knew that his highness
Was famed for his dryness,
And melted him down to make waterproof clo’s!
And history shows the fame of him rose—
His dryness made excellent waterproof clo’s!
Pembroke.
The World. October 29, 1879.
A parody on the same topic will also be found on page 413 of Mr. F. B. Doveton’s Sketches in Prose and Verse, published by Sampson Low & Co., London, in 1886. But a much more amusing imitation of a Bab ballad is that on page 456 of the same volume, which, by Mr. Doveton’s kind permission, is here given:—
The Bishop and the Ballet.
Postures antic
Drove him frantic
Seized he pen and paper—
“Young men, stop it,
Pray you, drop it,
Watching damsels caper—
’Gainst this awful
Vain, unlawful
Folly set your faces;
Though they charm ye,
Girls will harm ye
More than wine or races!”
They replying,
Answered, sighing—
Hawing, hemming, humming—
“Not for Joe, sir
For you know, sir,
Short skirts are becoming!
Ballet dancing,
Is entrancing,
We enjoy it—rather!”
But stern “London”
Thought them undone—
Spoke out like a father.
“Dare ye dally
With the ballet?”
Said the bishop, coldly.
“You may see, sir,
More than we, sir,”
Young men answered boldly.
“Go along, boys,
You are wrong, boys,
I have years in plenty;
Whilst these lasses,
Through my glasses,
All seem under twenty!”
Dancer clever
Hardly ever
Finds a man who’ll scold her.
Leant one fairy
Light and airy,
On his lordship’s shoulder;
Bishop kissed her
Like a sister,
When he should have smacked her
To delight her,
Doffed his mitre,
And became an Actor!
F. B. Doveton.
