Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation
Which are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day,
And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify,
Or Mrs. Grundy, p’r’aps, may have a word or two to say:
For they hadn’t macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes—
And a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce,
And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing,
For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn’t know the use.
They wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or no-thing—
And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent in design—
Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the “altogether.”
And it’s there, I rather fancy, I shall have to draw the line!
(And again I wish to mention
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady “cram.”
Yet my classic love aggressive,
If you’ll pardon the possessive,
Is exceedingly impressive
When you’re passing an exam.)
THE PRACTICAL JOKER
Oh what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes!
What keen enjoyment springs
From cheap and simple things!
What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,
That pain and trouble brew
For every one but you!
Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,
Its unexpected flash
Burns eyebrows and moustache;
When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,
But common sense suggests
You keep it for your guests—
Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,
And much amusement bides
In common butter-slides.
And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.
Coal scuttles, recollect,
Produce the same effect.
A man possessed
Of common sense
Need not invest
At great expense—
It does not call
For pocket deep,
These jokes are all
Extremely cheap.
If you commence with eighteenpence (it’s all you’ll have to pay),
You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.
A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets,
And turnip-heads on posts
Make very decent ghosts:
Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waist-coat pockets—
Burnt cork and walnut juice
Are not without their use.
No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles—
Live shrimps their patience tax
When put down people’s backs—
Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles—
And treacle on a chair
Will make a Quaker swear!
Then sharp tin tacks
And pocket squirts—
And cobblers’ wax
For ladies’ skirts—
And slimy slugs
On bedroom floors—
And water jugs
On open doors—
Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,
Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!
THE NATIONAL ANTHEM
A monarch is pestered with cares,
Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them;
But one comes in a shape he can never escape—
The implacable National Anthem!
Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,
It pursues him at every turn—
No chance of forsaking
Its rococo numbers;
They haunt him when waking—
They poison his slumbers—
Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,
He’s cursed with its music wherever he goes!
Though its words but imperfectly rhyme,
And the devil himself couldn’t scan them;
With composure polite he endures day and night
That illiterate National Anthem!
It serves a good purpose, I own:
Its strains are devout and impressive—
Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats
As we burn with devotion excessive:
But the King, who’s been bored by that song
From his cradle—each day—all day long—
Who’s heard it loud-shouted
By throats operatic,
And loyally spouted
By courtiers emphatic—
By soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife—
Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life!
While his subjects sing loudly and long,
Their King—who would willingly ban them—
Sits, worry disguising, anathematising
That Bogie, the National Anthem!
HER TERMS
My wedded life
Must every pleasure bring
On scale extensive!
If I’m your wife
I must have everything
That’s most expensive—
A lady’s-maid—
(My hair alone to do
I am not able)—
And I’m afraid
I’ve been accustomed to
A first-rate table.
These things one must consider when one marries—
And everything I wear must come from Paris!
Oh, think of that!
Oh, think of that!
I can’t wear anything that’s not from Paris!
From top to toes
Quite Frenchified I am,
If you examine.
And then—who knows?—
Perhaps some day a fam—
Perhaps a famine!
My argument’s correct, if you examine,
What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!