An agreeable cynicism ran through both the talk and the lyrics, from one of which—a duet between King Schœneus and his High Chamberlain, Lysimachus—I extract the following satire on turf morale:—
Lys. There's a time to win and a time to lose.
Sch.Of course, of course, of course.
Lys. You can make 'em safe whenever you choose—
Sch. By force, by force, by force.
Lys. Then doesn't it seem a sin and a shame
To stop such a pleasant and easy game?
If a horse doesn't win, why, who is to blame?
Sch. The horse, the horse, the horse.
Lys. If it's cleverly managed, I always think—
Sch.Proceed, proceed, proceed—
Lys. At a neat little swindle it's proper to wink.
Sch.Indeed, indeed, indeed!
I don't understand what it's all about;
But a man must be punished, I have no doubt,
If he's such a fool as to get found out.
Lys.Agreed, agreed, agreed.
Lys. It's all because jockeys have played such tricks—
Sch.They go too far, too far.
Lys. That the stewards are down like a thousand of bricks—
Sch. They are, they are, they are.
For a season or two, you'll observe with pain,
They'll hunt out abuses with might and main;
Then the good old times will come back again.
Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!
Elsewhere, there is a diverting bit of parody suggested by the extreme cautiousness and bad grammar of some newspaper racing prophecies. Hippomenes and Atalanta are the sole competitors in the race, and the local "tipster" thus discusses their prospects:—
I have from time to time gone through the chances of the several competitors, so that to repeat what I have written is to go over very well-worn ground. Although the race is reduced to a match, it has lost none of its interest in the eyes of the public. It is a difficult race to meddle with, but the plunge must be made; I shall, therefore, give my vote to Atalanta, which, if beaten, it may be by Hippomenes.
Of "Joan of Arc," the "operatic burlesque" written by Messrs. J. L. Shine and "Adrian Ross" to music by Mr. Osmond Carr (Opéra Comique, 1891), the distinguishing feature—apart from the fact that the music is all original and all the work of one composer—is the neatness of the lyric writing, with which special pains appear to have been taken. Of Joan herself her father is made to sing as follows:—
Oh, there's nobody adepter
Than our Joan, Joan, Joan!
She is born to hold a sceptre
On a throne, throne, throne;
She's the head of all her classes,
And in fervour she surpasses
All the Hallelujah lasses,
As they own, own, own!
Don't call her preaching dull, for
It is not, not, not!
She can do Salvation sulphur
Hot and hot, hot, hot!
She can play the drum and cymbal,
With her fingers she is nimble,
And the pea beneath the thimble
She can spot, spot, spot.
She can tell you by your faces
What you'll do, do, do;
She can give you tips for races
Good and new, new, new!
She can cut a martial swagger,
She's a dab at sword and dagger,
And will fight without a stagger
Till all's blue, blue, blue!
Of all the songs in the piece, however, perhaps the most vivacious is that in which De Richemont (Mr. Arthur Roberts) describes how he "went to find Emin":—