There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down—
Or up—to Boucicault,
These amateurs weren't competent
To collar and assault.
And when the winter time came round—
"Season" 's a stagier phrase—
The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one
Of the Bard of Avon's plays.
'Twas As You Like It that they chose;
For the leading lady's heart
Was set on playing Rosalind
Or some other page's part,
And the President of the Am. Dram. Ass.,
A stalwart dry-goods clerk,
Was cast for Oriando, in which rôle
He felt he'd make his mark.
"I mind me," said the President,
(All thoughtful was his face,)
"When Oriando was taken by Thingummy
That Charles was played by Mace.
Charles hath not many lines to speak,
Nay, not a single length—
If find we can a Mussulman
(That is, a man of strength),
And bring him on the stage as Charles—
But, alas, it can't be did—"
"It can," replied the Treasurer;
"Let's get the Hunky Kid."
This Hunky Kid of whom he spoke
Belonged to the P.R.;
He always had his hair cut short,
And always had catarrh;
His voice was gruff, his language rough,
His forehead villainous low,
And 'neath his broken nose a vast
Expanse of jaw did show.
He was forty-eight about the chest,
And his fore-arm at the mid-
Dle measured twenty-one and a-half—
Such was the Hunky Kid!
The Am. Dram. Ass. they have engaged
This pet of the P.R.;
As Charles the Wrestler he's to be
A bright particular star.
And when they put the programme out,
Announce him thus they did:
Oriando…Mr. ROMEO JONES;
Charles…Mr. HUNKY KID.
The night has come; the house is packed,
From pit to gallery,
As those who through the curtain peep
Quake inwardly to see.
A squeak's heard in the orchestra,
As the leader draws across
Th' intestines of the agile cat
The tail of the noble hoss.
All is at sea behind the scenes,
Why do they fear and funk?
Alas, alas, the Hunky Kid
Is lamentably drunk!
He's in that most unlovely stage
Of half intoxication
When men resent the hint they're tight
As a personal imputation!
"Ring up! Ring up!" Orlando cried,
"Or we must cut the scene;
For Charles the Wrestler is imbued
With poisonous benzine;
And every moment gets more drunk
Than he before has been."
The wrestling scene has come and Charles
Is much disguised in drink;
The stage to him's an inclined plane,
The footlights make him blink.
Still strives he to act well his part
Where all the honour lies,
Though Shakespeare would not in his lines—
His language recognise.
Instead of "Come, where is this young——?"
This man of bone and brawn,
He squares himself and bellows: "Time!
Fetch your Orlandos on!"
"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man,"
Fair Rosalind said she,
As the two wrestlers in the ring
Grapple right furiously;
But Charles the Wrestler had no sense
Of dramatic propriety.