(N.B.—This American song and dance can only be performed
on the production of a certificate of lunacy signed by three
members of the London County Council.)
H, come, my love, where the fog lies thick,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
We shall catch Na Nonna if we’re only quick,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
For our bower is built on London clay,
Where the gray mist hangs from the dawn of day,
And the gay young germs of neuralgia play
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
Oh, come, my love, where the sun ne’er smirks,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
To the wild wet waste where consumption lurks—
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
Where the cough makes music, and the bronchial wheeze
Replies to the echo of the sniff and sneeze,
And asthma flirts with the cut-throat breeze,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
Oh, come, my love, and abide with me,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
Where the weathercock always points N.E.,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow;
Where the damp drips dank down the dismal wall,
And the fungi flourish in the mildewed hall,
And the undertaker is the lord of all,
Down in the shadow where the microbes grow.
The Eiffel Bonnet.
EHIND an Eiffel bonnet
I sat one matinée,
And, oh, the feathers on it
Completely hid the play,
Because that Eiffel bonnet
Kept bobbing in my way.
That awful Eiffel bonnet,
It blotted out the scene
And all the people on it
Just like a giant screen:
It was the sort of bonnet
You couldn’t see between.
The wearer of that bonnet
Between two friends she sat,
And swayed (and hence this sonnet)
Now this way and now that,
And bent her head and bonnet
With either side to chat.