It makes a Briton shirty,
And sets his hair on end,
To think to tricks so dirty
The law should condescend,—
That in the land of freedom
And honourable views,
The slops, e’en though they need ’em,
Should walk in silent shoes.
Fair play they say’s a jewel;
There’s honour among thieves;
But this new dodge is cruel—
For look how it deceives!
Our Mayor should call a meeting—
His lordship can’t refuse—
Denouncing law competing
With crime in silent shoes.
It’s hard enough at present
For us to earn our bread,
And always most unpleasant
To hear the peeler’s tread;
But we between starvation
And honesty must choose,
If once the British nation
Allows these blarsted shoes.
The Clarinet.
HEN all the sunshine lies behind,
And all the dusk before,
When friends have turned to foes unkind,
And love is love no more;
When life is but a cruel ache,
And living but a fret,
’Tis then, poor heart, the time to take
Your good old clarinet.
When wife and child have passed away,
And health has broken down;
When you are growing old and gray,
And Fortune wears a frown,—
When to your heart’s despairing cry
No answer you can get,
’Tis then, if you are wise, you’ll try
Your good old clarinet.
Go, victim of life’s battle, go,
And, heedless of your scars,
Find solace here for all your woe
In half a dozen bars.
’Twill reconcile us to our stay
Here, where our task is set,
To hear life’s million victims play
The good old clarinet.
No Evening Dress.
