To sneak into a good man's house
With sham credentials penn'd—
to sneak into his heart and trust,
And seem his children's friend—
To learn his secrets, find out where
He keeps his keys—and then
To bone his spoons—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.
To gain your point in view—to wade
Through dirt, and slime, and blood—
To stoop to pick up what you want
Through any depth of mud.
But always in the fire to thrust
Some helpless cat's-paw, when
Your chestnuts burn—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.
To clutch and keep the lion's share—
To kill or drive away
The wolves, that you upon the lambs
May, unmolested, prey—
To keep a gang of jackals fierce
To guard and stock your den,
While you lie down—c'est une Idee
Napoleonienne.
To bribe the base, to crush the good,
And bring them to their knees—
To stick at nothing, or to stick
At what or whom you please—
To stoop, to lie, to brag, to swear,
Forswear, and swear again—
To rise—Ah! voia des Idees
Napoleoniennes.
THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND WILLIAM AYTOUN
Air—"The days we went a-gipsying."
I would all womankind were dead,
Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
For many a bygone year.
But 'tis the most infernal bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
To rave about his fair.
Oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
In vain you pour into his ear
Your own confiding grief;
In vain you claim his sympathy,
In vain you ask relief;
In vain you try to rouse him by
Joke, repartee, or quiz;
His sole reply's a burning sigh,
And "What a mind it is!"
O Lord! it is the greatest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.
I've heard her thoroughly described
A hundred times, I'm sure;
And all the while I've tried to smile,
And patiently endure;
He waxes, strong upon his pangs,
And potters o'er his grog;
And still I say, in a playful way—
"Why you're a lucky dog!"
But oh! it is the heaviest bore,
Of all the bores I know,
To have a friend who's lost his heart
A short time ago.