MARGARINA.
A Back-Street Ballad.
Air—"Margarita."
I passed along a dim back-street, Margarina!
In search of something good to eat, Margarina!
O pallid tripe! O "faggots" queer!
Was ever such strange human cheer?
And O my heart, I loathed thee so,
There on show, there on show, Margarina!
I saw thee in a sallow dab, Margarina!
Upon the grubby marble slab, Margarina!
O sickening stodge! O greasy shine!
O "Dairy Produce" miscalled "Fine"!
O haunt of all blue-flies that blow,
There on show, there on show, Margarina!
I fled along that gloomy street, Margarina!
Disgusted, sickened, sad, dead-beat, Margarina!
Yet still I see that dingy slab,
That oleaginous pale, pale dab.
And thou art still on sale I know,
Where soot-flakes all, and blue-flies blow, Margarina!
But every night at my snug tea, Margarina!
Over my toast I muse on thee, Margarina!
I sniff that smell, I see that dab,
That greasy, grimy, marble slab.
And thou art still the same I know,
The slum's strange love, the slum's strange love.
The poor man's "Butter," there on show! Margarina!
Mrs. Ram, who had been listening to a conversation among golf-players, and now flatters herself on knowing something about the game, observed—"I suppose, in the Season, instead of Five-o'clock Teas, the fashion at Hurlingham and those places will be to have Golf Teas." She didn't know that it was spelt 'Tees.'