Everybody stopped talking now, for the Griffin, after much further pressing, had made up his mind what he was going to sing. He decided to make a start in a key which was indescribable, and with a voice that resembled the twanging of a banjo that had not been tuned.
And thus the Griffin sang—
"Of a merry, merry king I will relate
Who owned much silver, gold and plate,
And wishing to be up-to-date
Within his city,
Placed a handsome Griffin outside the gate,
A creature pretty.
"Yet one thing, the merry, merry king forgot
That it would be his Griffin's lot
To be very, very cold, or very, very hot,
High up in Fleet Street.
So slowly the faithful creature got
Chilblains upon his feet.
"The Griffin grew prettier day by day
Directing the traffic along each way,
With always a pleasant word to say
All along Fleet Street.
One trouble alone caused him dismay,
His very tender feet.
Chorus—
"Oh! my poor tender feet!
Of what use are England's laws,
Unless they protect my claws
And keep me warm in the street?
Nothing so young and fair,
Ever sniffed Fleet Street air,
Ever sang like the Dove—
And—All that I ask is love."
At this point the Griffin was so overcome by his own performance that he burst into tears; and despite the excessive hilarity of every one present, to say nothing of Carry-on-Merry, who was rolling upon the floor in his mirth, the Griffin continued to sob, and from time to time wiped away the big tears that rolled down his cheeks with the fur upon the Lord Mayor's mantle that he wore.
"It always affects me," sobbed the Griffin.
"Yes," answered the Lion, "it has affected all of us strangely."