SONGS AT STAMBOUL.
(Sung by Sir H-nry Dr-mm-nd W-lff.)
I.—L'ADIEU À LA PORTE.
Air—"The Good-bye at the Door."
Of all the memories of the past
That long will haunt my dreams,
This scene upon my soul will cast
The brightest, gladdest beams.
I've really had the jolliest spree,
Though S-l-sb-ry cuts it short;
Memory will oft recall to me
The Good-bye to the Porte.
My stay out here may have estranged
The closest friends I knew;
R-nd-lph, I think, seems rather changed;
Will B-lf-r prove more true?
No happy hours again for me
In this sweet clime to sport!
I cannot contemplate with glee
This Good-bye to the Porte.
II.-GOOD-BYE, SWEET PORTE, GOOD-BYE!
Air—"Good-bye, Sweetheart, good-bye!"
My bright hopes fade, my heart is breaking
(I feel inclined to cuss our Chief),
And I from thee my leave am taking,
After a stay too brief, too brief.
How sinks my heart with strange alarms!
An angry tear obscures my eye.
Stamboul, they drive me from thy charms;
Good-bye, sweet Porte, good-bye!
My innings end,—without much scoring,—
Loud swells the Rad's derisive jeer.
If France I long have failed in flooring,
Still I was here, still I was here.
If I could keep my place (and pay),
Patient diplomacy to ply,
I would not leave thee though I say
Good-bye, sweet Porte, good-bye!
Grandolph's Teachings.—When you rush in to dress at five minutes to eight, and you are to dine two miles off at eight sharp, when your shoe-strings break, your studs roll on the floor, your links refuse to catch, and you suddenly discover an iron-mould in the centre of your shirt-front, then when a sweet patient voice from the other room says, "O my dear! don't use such awful language!" then bethink you of Grandolph, and explain that your fervent utterances were only "blessings in disguise."
Covent Garden Opera.—Mr. Punch's advice,—if Lohengrin is given again, with the same cast as it had last Saturday, go and hear it. A real treat.
