POPULAR SONGS RE-SUNG.
"Hi-tiddley-hi-ti; or, I'm All Right" is heard, "all over the place," as light sleepers and studious dwellers in quiet streets are too well aware. Why should it not be enlisted in the service of Apollo and Momus as well as of the Back Slum Bacchus? As thus:—
No. V.—I-TWADDLEY-HIGH-DRY-HIGH-TONED-I! OK, I'M ALL RIGHT!
Air—"Hi-Tiddley-Hi-Ti!"
I'm a young writer grimly gay,
My volumes sell, and sometimes pay.
First log-rollers raised a rumour of a rising Star of Humour,
Who had faced the Sphinx called Life,
With amusing misery rife,
So with sin, and woe, and strife, I thought I'd have a lark.
With pessimistic pick I pottered round
Pottered round,
A new "funny" trick I quickly found,
Smart and sound,
Life's cares in hedonistic chuckles drowned,
You be bound!
The cynic lay
I found would pay,
In a young Man of Mark!
Chorus.
All of you come along with me!
I'm for a rare new fine new spree!
Everybody is delighted when the Philistines are slighted,
All of you come my books to try!
I-twaddley-I-ti I-I-I,
Ego for ever! Buy! Buy! Buy!
And I'm all right!
Down with the West I go; my pen
Is bound to "fetch" the Upper Ten,
With the aid of some "log-rolling," my "distinction" much extolling.
Smart little scribes from near and far
Say, with a sniff, "O here's a Star!"
DICKENS on fine souls doth jar, THACKERAY is too dry,
But his pessimistic air, rich and rare,
Subtle, fair,
Makes Philistia to stare, in a scare,
And to blare;
Whilst true Critics débonnaire, who are rare,
With a flaire,
For true humour,
Swell of rumour
The gregarious cry.
Chorus.
All of you come along with me!
You'll have a rare new fair new spree!
Paradox with "sniff" united, Poor Humanity snubbed and slighted.
Humour's new cuvée, extra-dry.
I-twaddley—high-dry-high-toned I!
Come and worship the pessimist "I"
For that's all right!
After I've taken the toffish Town,
A second edition, at Half-a-crown,
Seeks the suffrages—(and money, for on Swelldom you'll go "stoney")—
Of the much derided Mob.
Yes, the Proletariat "Bob"
(With the Guinea of the Nob) must aid the Sons of Light.
Gath and Askelon, you see, can give Me,
L.S.D.
All true Egoists love those pregnant letters
Mystic Three!
Flout Philistia with great glee, fair and free,
But agree
To take its "tin,"
Though with a grin
Of pessimistic spite.
Chorus.
All of you come along with me!
'ARRY, who loves a fair old spree!
"Mugwump" with fine morgue delighted, Cynic at "yearnestness" sore frighted!
All of you come my "tap" to try!
I-twaddley-high-dry-high-toned I!
Come along, boys, Buy! Buy! Buy!
And I'm all right!
