(From a Philistinish Point of View.)
Air—"The Norrible Tale."
'Tis a norrible tale I'm going to tell
Of the frightful fortunes which befel
A family who late resided
In the same suburban street that I did.
O it is a norrible tale!
'Twould make a Maëterlinck turn pale,
With its frightful blend of the grim and glum,
Of fiddle-de-dee, and fi-fo-fum!
O they were a decent Philistine lot
Till they caught the contagion of "Tommy-Rot,"
That kind of mental, malarial fever,
Which floors the foolish and foils the clever.
O it is a norrible tale, &c.
This Influenza of the Soul
Haunted their house like some gruesome "troll."
(The family—which their name was Gibson—
Knew all about such from the works of Ibsen.)
The father first felt the spell unholy,
And the man's demeanour grew truly "trolly."
He was—in Peckham—a Master Builder,
And he "carried on" with a drudge named 'Tilder.
The slavey said it was truly thrilling,
But struck for another—weekly—shilling.
"She was ready to thrill till all was blue,
But it must be reckenised in her 'screw!'"
His wife declared he was most inhuman,
And, for her part, she should turn New Woman!
So she grew—to him—an emotional icicle,
And mounted knickers, and rode a bicycle.
The eldest son, an athletic young fellow,
Who had gained his "Blue," took at once to Yellow.
"Muscle," he said, in a tone despotic,
"Is beastly vulgaw; good form's Neurotic!"
The youngest daughter, a blue-eyed fairy—
(Her pies were prime, and her name was Mary—)
Now took to cricket, and cigarette-smoking,
And manly manners in togs—and joking.
The eldest one, of a statelier carriage,
Conceived quaint notions about "Group-marriage:"
"Since man's a satyr, and brings satiety,
The only virtue is—in variety!"
Another girl took to writing novels
On dirt in "dosses," and vice in hovels;
Varying the same with Kiplingy verses,
With ingenious rhymes to street-slang and curses.
The youngest boy, who was "only a nipper,"
Contributed "Art" to the "Sixpenny Snipper,"
Which his sisters said was "supremely delicious,
As a blend of the infantile and vicious."
The father died of his drudge and drink,
The wife broke her back at a skating rink;
And as to the slavey, whose name was 'TILDER,
She "thrilled"—on street-preaching and rum—till they killed her.
The eldest son read Nordau and Lombroso,
Till his brain went shaky—'twas always so-so—
He imagines himself a pot of mustard,
Of which egomaniacs are making a custard.
The youngest daughter's an "Amazon Queen"
At the East-end Halls, and she's loud and lean;
The eldest—whose freedom all bonds would sully—
Is tied to—and thrashed by—a pugilist bully.
The writer of sensuous snippety novels,
In Grub Street gutters forlornly grovels;
The "Boy Genius of Gehenna," of the babbling boasters,
Turns a very poor penny by Stygian Posters!
O it is a norrible tale!
And what do New Women and New Art avail?
Egomania-Tommyrotica is all a hum,
Half fiddle-de-dee, and half fi-fo-fum!
Bands and Bombs.—How many Hungarian Bands are there about? There's a "Real Blue Hungarian" (does this mean a "True Blue," good old Tory, Band?)—there's an "Anglo-Hungarian," and a "White Hungarian." In fact, Hungarian Band "with variations." The Real Hung'ry-an'-Thirsty Bands are to be seen every night in the Feeding Places of the Indian Exhibition, Earl's Court, where, specially within the bowers of the al fresco Welcome Club, can be served a very good dinner which may be bettered; and, if you are a Lucullus, you comme gourmet will have to Look-ullus-where for it. [N.B.—To get this jest well received give the dinner yourself, and towards the middle of the feast try the jape. They'll all laugh en—mais après?]
"AYE! BUT HOW?"