Songs of a Savoyard

by W. S. Gilbert

First you’re born—and I’ll be bound you
Find a dozen strangers round you.
“Hallo,” cries the new-born baby,
“Where’s my parents? which may they be?”
Awkward silence—no reply—
Puzzled baby wonders why!
Father rises, bows politely—
Mother smiles (but not too brightly)—
Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing—
Nurse is busy mixing something.—
Every symptom tends to show
You’re decidedly de trop—
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! he! ho! ho!
Time’s teetotum,
If you spin it,
Give its quotum
Once a minute:
I’ll go bail
You hit the nail,
And if you fail
The deuce is in it!

You grow up, and you discover
What it is to be a lover.
Some young lady is selected—
Poor, perhaps, but well-connected,
Whom you hail (for Love is blind)
As the Queen of Fairy-kind.
Though she’s plain—perhaps unsightly,
Makes her face up—laces tightly,
In her form your fancy traces
All the gifts of all the graces.
Rivals none the maiden woo,
So you take her and she takes you!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Joke beginning,
Never ceases,
Till your inning
Time releases;
On your way
You blindly stray,
And day by day
The joke increases!

Ten years later—Time progresses—
Sours your temper—thins your tresses;
Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;
Rates are facts and so are taxes.
Fairy Queen’s no longer young—
Fairy Queen has such a tongue!
Twins have probably intruded—
Quite unbidden—just as you did;
They’re a source of care and trouble—
Just as you were—only double.
Comes at last the final stroke—
Time has had his little joke!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Daily driven
(Wife as drover)
Ill you’ve thriven—
Ne’er in clover:
Lastly, when
Threescore and ten
(And not till then),
The joke is over!
Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!
Then—and then
The joke is over!

LIMITED LIABILITY

Some seven men form an Association
(If possible, all Peers and Baronets),
They start off with a public declaration
To what extent they mean to pay their debts.
That’s called their Capital: if they are wary
They will not quote it at a sum immense.
The figure’s immaterial—it may vary
From eighteen million down to eighteenpence.
I should put it rather low;
The good sense of doing so
Will be evident at once to any debtor.
When it’s left to you to say
What amount you mean to pay,
Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.

They then proceed to trade with all who’ll trust ’em,
Quite irrespective of their capital
(It’s shady, but it’s sanctified by custom);
Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal.
You can’t embark on trading too tremendous—
It’s strictly fair, and based on common sense—
If you succeed, your profits are stupendous—
And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence.
Make the money-spinner spin!
For you only stand to win,
And you’ll never with dishonesty be twitted.
For nobody can know,
To a million or so,
To what extent your capital’s committed!

If you come to grief, and creditors are craving
(For nothing that is planned by mortal head
Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow—saving
That one’s Liability is Limited),—
Do you suppose that signifies perdition?
If so you’re but a monetary dunce—
You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,
And start another Company at once!
Though a Rothschild you may be
In your own capacity,
As a Company you’ve come to utter sorrow—
But the Liquidators say,
“Never mind—you needn’t pay,”
So you start another Company to-morrow!

ANGLICISED UTOPIA

Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,
Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.
(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)
No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;
For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.
(That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.)
No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes
Who wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes;
Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England—with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!

Our city we have beautified—we’ve done it willy-nilly—
And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.
(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)
We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,
So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished—
(They are going to abolish it in England.)
The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,
Of “risky” situation and indelicate suggestion;
No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly—
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!
It really is surprising
What a thorough Anglicising
We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;
In her enterprising movements,
She is England—with improvements,
Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!