MASHED BY A MARCHIONESS.
The singer should come on correctly and tastefully attired in a suit of loud dittoes, a startling tie, and a white hat—the orthodox costume (on the Music-hall stage) of a middle-class swain suffering from love-sickness. The air should be of the conventional jog-trot and jingle order, chastened by a sentimental melancholy.
I've lately gone and lost my 'art—and where you'll never guess—
I'm regularly mashed upon a lovely Marchioness!
'Twas at a Fancy Fair we met, inside the Albert 'All;
So affable she smiled at me as I came near her stall!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia is stiff in behaviour!
She'd an Uncle an Earl, and a Dook for her Pa—
Still there was no starchiness in that fair Marchioness,
As she stood at her stall in the Fancy Bazaar!
At titles and distinctions once I'd ignorantly scoff,
As if no bond could be betwixt the tradesman and the toff!
I held with those who'd do away with difference in ranks—
But that was all before I met the Marchioness of Manx!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
A home was being started by some kind aristo-cràts,
For orphan kittens, born of poor, but well-connected cats;
And of the swells who planned a Fête this object to assist,
The Marchioness of Manx's name stood foremost on the list.
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
I never saw a smarter hand at serving in a shop,
For every likely customer she caught upon the 'op!
And from the form her ladyship displayed at that Bazaar,
(With enthusiasm)—You might have took your oath she'd been brought up behind a bar!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.