SONGS OUT OF SEASON.—MY CARETAKER.
A mysterious thing
For our commonplace day,
Is the lady I sing
In the following lay.
While I'm shooting the grouse,
Or enjoying the sea,
She takes care of my house
For a nominal fee.
For ten shillings a-week
Does this wonderful woman
Undertake, so to speak,
An existence inhuman.
Like their dwellings the rabbits
Deep in darkling retreats,
This weird widow inhabits
Subterranean seats.
What with humour "contrary,"
Or ironic despair,
She denominates "airey"—
From its absence of air!
It would give me the blues
Household gods to uphold
With a Lloyd's Weekly News
Of some fifty days old.
In a Stygian gloom,
Far from sun and ozone,
She sits locked in her room,
Uncompanioned, alone.
At a knock, at a call
How she shivers and starts!
She's "that nervous"—and "Hall
Of 'er fambly 'as 'earts."
Not till gloaming obscure
Cools hot London at last,
Hies she forth to procure
Her ideal repast.
"A red 'erring, an inion,
Just of dripping a bite"
—This is not my opinion,
Hers verbatim I cite.
But I fancy, though loth to
Thus detract from her merits,
(And I've her solemn oath too!)
That she's "partial to sperrits."
For once suddenly coming
(She supposed me away)
I was struck by her humming
"Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!"
And not humming it only;
Also dancing the same,—
This bereaved, honest, lonely
Deferential dame!
"Ta-ra-ra Boom de Ay!"
In my desolate hall;
I, though prone to be gay,
Didn't like it at all.
"Which," she said, "it was Fits—
The Sint Biteus"—her fling!—
Yes! The Caretaker, it's
A mysterious thing.