“Ah, me!” Pinero said, “too late—
We might have saved ‘The Profligate.’
No Tosca and no Bernard-Beere,
Had we but had a Samson here!”
They filled the houses and the halls,
They crammed the boxes and the stalls;
Where’er a strong man did a show,
They had to add “an extra row.”
The men of strength were Britain’s pride—
Adored, exalted, deified—
Till suddenly John Bull awoke,
And rubbed his eyes and saw the joke.
“Good lord!” he cried, and danced with rage,
“Have I gone daft in my old age?
These chaps I’ve seen, I do declare,
At every common country fair.
“A hundred pounds a week for this!
Pooh! bosh! here, hang it, let me hiss!
The chap at fairs who did all that
Collected coppers in his hat!”
* * * *
The strong men, finding all is o’er,
Have wisely sought another shore;
But, though they search from sea to sea,
They’ll never find such fools as we.
A Ballad of Soap.
After Andrew Lang.
HE hours are passing slow,
To see my watch I dread,
’Tis ten o’clock, I know,
And yet I lie in bed,
With dull and aching head.
That pint of fizz with Joe,
That big cigar with Fred,
Have wrought dyspeptic woe.
No more with friends I’ll tope.
It’s twelve! Ho, Phyllis, ho!
Hot water and some soap!
I see the feet of crow
Around my lids of lead;
My pallid face also
With yellow hues o’erspread.
My eyes are very red!
What good is growling so?
I’ll wash myself instead.
* * * *
What means this healthy glow?
What means this new-born hope?
Why rosy do I grow?
I’m using Samson’s soap!
My thoughts resume their flow,
My garb of sloth is fled;
I’m waltzing to and fro,
And feel no longer dead.
My gloomy hour has sped—
A dashing, mashing beau;
My yellow hue has fled—
I’m game to ride or row.
I envy not the Pope,
I’m full of life and go,
Thanks be to Samson’s Soap!