THE hours are passing slow,To see my watch I dread,’Tis ten o’clock, I know,And yet I lie in bed,With dull and aching head.That pint of fizz with Joe,That big cigar with Fred,Have wrought dyspeptic woe.No more with friends I’ll tope.It’s twelve! Ho, Phyllis, ho!Hot water and some soap!I see the feet of crowAround my lids of lead;My pallid face alsoWith yellow hues o’erspread.My eyes are very red!What good is growling so?I’ll wash myself instead.* * * *What means this healthy glow?What means this new-born hope?Why rosy do I grow?I’m using Samson’s soap!My thoughts resume their flow,My garb of sloth is fled;I’m waltzing to and fro,And feel no longer dead.My gloomy hour has sped—A dashing, mashing beau;My yellow hue has fled—I’m game to ride or row.I envy not the Pope,I’m full of life and go,Thanks be to Samson’s Soap!
THE hours are passing slow,To see my watch I dread,’Tis ten o’clock, I know,And yet I lie in bed,With dull and aching head.That pint of fizz with Joe,That big cigar with Fred,Have wrought dyspeptic woe.No more with friends I’ll tope.It’s twelve! Ho, Phyllis, ho!Hot water and some soap!I see the feet of crowAround my lids of lead;My pallid face alsoWith yellow hues o’erspread.My eyes are very red!What good is growling so?I’ll wash myself instead.* * * *What means this healthy glow?What means this new-born hope?Why rosy do I grow?I’m using Samson’s soap!My thoughts resume their flow,My garb of sloth is fled;I’m waltzing to and fro,And feel no longer dead.My gloomy hour has sped—A dashing, mashing beau;My yellow hue has fled—I’m game to ride or row.I envy not the Pope,I’m full of life and go,Thanks be to Samson’s Soap!
THE hours are passing slow,To see my watch I dread,’Tis ten o’clock, I know,And yet I lie in bed,With dull and aching head.That pint of fizz with Joe,That big cigar with Fred,Have wrought dyspeptic woe.No more with friends I’ll tope.It’s twelve! Ho, Phyllis, ho!Hot water and some soap!
I see the feet of crowAround my lids of lead;My pallid face alsoWith yellow hues o’erspread.My eyes are very red!What good is growling so?I’ll wash myself instead.* * * *What means this healthy glow?What means this new-born hope?Why rosy do I grow?I’m using Samson’s soap!
My thoughts resume their flow,My garb of sloth is fled;I’m waltzing to and fro,And feel no longer dead.My gloomy hour has sped—A dashing, mashing beau;My yellow hue has fled—I’m game to ride or row.I envy not the Pope,I’m full of life and go,Thanks be to Samson’s Soap!
Prince! whose pet name is “Ted,”When you are feeling low,And wake at dawn and mope,And tumble out of bed,And wash from top to toe,Use only Samson’s soap!
Prince! whose pet name is “Ted,”When you are feeling low,And wake at dawn and mope,And tumble out of bed,And wash from top to toe,Use only Samson’s soap!
Prince! whose pet name is “Ted,”When you are feeling low,And wake at dawn and mope,And tumble out of bed,And wash from top to toe,Use only Samson’s soap!
OVER the sobs of mourners,Over the cry of pain,Where men gather with bloodless facesTo search for the mangled slain,The sound of my mocking laughterIn the silence is loud and clear;What do I care for corpses,Since I am a Jokeleteer?While the heart of the nation pulsesIn sympathy with woe,While the living claim their dead onesWho lie in a ghastly row,Into the weeping facesWith a pitiless glance I peer,As I merrily crack my wheezes,For I am a Jokeleteer.While strong men reel and sicken,And their eyes grow dim and red,My poor little brains I cudgelFor a joke about the dead.I’ve a jest for a man’s last moments,A pun for his open bier,And a jape for the Day of Judgment,For I am a Jokeleteer.
OVER the sobs of mourners,Over the cry of pain,Where men gather with bloodless facesTo search for the mangled slain,The sound of my mocking laughterIn the silence is loud and clear;What do I care for corpses,Since I am a Jokeleteer?While the heart of the nation pulsesIn sympathy with woe,While the living claim their dead onesWho lie in a ghastly row,Into the weeping facesWith a pitiless glance I peer,As I merrily crack my wheezes,For I am a Jokeleteer.While strong men reel and sicken,And their eyes grow dim and red,My poor little brains I cudgelFor a joke about the dead.I’ve a jest for a man’s last moments,A pun for his open bier,And a jape for the Day of Judgment,For I am a Jokeleteer.
OVER the sobs of mourners,Over the cry of pain,Where men gather with bloodless facesTo search for the mangled slain,The sound of my mocking laughterIn the silence is loud and clear;What do I care for corpses,Since I am a Jokeleteer?
While the heart of the nation pulsesIn sympathy with woe,While the living claim their dead onesWho lie in a ghastly row,Into the weeping facesWith a pitiless glance I peer,As I merrily crack my wheezes,For I am a Jokeleteer.
While strong men reel and sicken,And their eyes grow dim and red,My poor little brains I cudgelFor a joke about the dead.I’ve a jest for a man’s last moments,A pun for his open bier,And a jape for the Day of Judgment,For I am a Jokeleteer.
OENGLAND, can you hear itWithout a blush of shame?Our lay, they mean to queer it,And stop our little game.It’s right down mean and sneaking—They’re going to give the blues,To stop their boots from creaking,New indiarubber shoes.It makes a Briton shirty,And sets his hair on end,To think to tricks so dirtyThe law should condescend,—That in the land of freedomAnd honourable views,The slops, e’en though they need ’em,Should walk in silent shoes.Fair play they say’s a jewel;There’s honour among thieves;But this new dodge is cruel—For look how it deceives!Our Mayor should call a meeting—His lordship can’t refuse—Denouncing law competingWith crime in silent shoes.It’s hard enough at presentFor us to earn our bread,And always most unpleasantTo hear the peeler’s tread;But we between starvationAnd honesty must choose,If once the British nationAllows these blarsted shoes.
OENGLAND, can you hear itWithout a blush of shame?Our lay, they mean to queer it,And stop our little game.It’s right down mean and sneaking—They’re going to give the blues,To stop their boots from creaking,New indiarubber shoes.It makes a Briton shirty,And sets his hair on end,To think to tricks so dirtyThe law should condescend,—That in the land of freedomAnd honourable views,The slops, e’en though they need ’em,Should walk in silent shoes.Fair play they say’s a jewel;There’s honour among thieves;But this new dodge is cruel—For look how it deceives!Our Mayor should call a meeting—His lordship can’t refuse—Denouncing law competingWith crime in silent shoes.It’s hard enough at presentFor us to earn our bread,And always most unpleasantTo hear the peeler’s tread;But we between starvationAnd honesty must choose,If once the British nationAllows these blarsted shoes.
OENGLAND, can you hear itWithout a blush of shame?Our lay, they mean to queer it,And stop our little game.It’s right down mean and sneaking—They’re going to give the blues,To stop their boots from creaking,New indiarubber shoes.
It makes a Briton shirty,And sets his hair on end,To think to tricks so dirtyThe law should condescend,—That in the land of freedomAnd honourable views,The slops, e’en though they need ’em,Should walk in silent shoes.
Fair play they say’s a jewel;There’s honour among thieves;But this new dodge is cruel—For look how it deceives!Our Mayor should call a meeting—His lordship can’t refuse—Denouncing law competingWith crime in silent shoes.
It’s hard enough at presentFor us to earn our bread,And always most unpleasantTo hear the peeler’s tread;But we between starvationAnd honesty must choose,If once the British nationAllows these blarsted shoes.
WHEN all the sunshine lies behind,And all the dusk before,When friends have turned to foes unkind,And love is love no more;When life is but a cruel ache,And living but a fret,’Tis then, poor heart, the time to takeYour good old clarinet.When wife and child have passed away,And health has broken down;When you are growing old and gray,And Fortune wears a frown,—When to your heart’s despairing cryNo answer you can get,’Tis then, if you are wise, you’ll tryYour good old clarinet.Go, victim of life’s battle, go,And, heedless of your scars,Find solace here for all your woeIn half a dozen bars.’Twill reconcile us to our stayHere, where our task is set,To hear life’s million victims playThe good old clarinet.
WHEN all the sunshine lies behind,And all the dusk before,When friends have turned to foes unkind,And love is love no more;When life is but a cruel ache,And living but a fret,’Tis then, poor heart, the time to takeYour good old clarinet.When wife and child have passed away,And health has broken down;When you are growing old and gray,And Fortune wears a frown,—When to your heart’s despairing cryNo answer you can get,’Tis then, if you are wise, you’ll tryYour good old clarinet.Go, victim of life’s battle, go,And, heedless of your scars,Find solace here for all your woeIn half a dozen bars.’Twill reconcile us to our stayHere, where our task is set,To hear life’s million victims playThe good old clarinet.
WHEN all the sunshine lies behind,And all the dusk before,When friends have turned to foes unkind,And love is love no more;When life is but a cruel ache,And living but a fret,’Tis then, poor heart, the time to takeYour good old clarinet.
When wife and child have passed away,And health has broken down;When you are growing old and gray,And Fortune wears a frown,—When to your heart’s despairing cryNo answer you can get,’Tis then, if you are wise, you’ll tryYour good old clarinet.
Go, victim of life’s battle, go,And, heedless of your scars,Find solace here for all your woeIn half a dozen bars.’Twill reconcile us to our stayHere, where our task is set,To hear life’s million victims playThe good old clarinet.
THE Church believes God will not blessA crowd that comes in evening dress.Of worldliness the antidote,Our “Arch.” proclaims the morning coat.What folly!—since God’s only careIs what weare, not what wewear.
THE Church believes God will not blessA crowd that comes in evening dress.Of worldliness the antidote,Our “Arch.” proclaims the morning coat.What folly!—since God’s only careIs what weare, not what wewear.
THE Church believes God will not blessA crowd that comes in evening dress.Of worldliness the antidote,Our “Arch.” proclaims the morning coat.What folly!—since God’s only careIs what weare, not what wewear.
THE dust blows through the empty street,The low skies gather grim and gray,The raindrops on the windows beatThis cold and cheerless August day.And all my friends are far awayAcross the moors or by the sea,But I must linger, woe is me!Since cruel fortune so doth chooseThen, friends who read theReferee,Forgive me if I get the blues.
THE dust blows through the empty street,The low skies gather grim and gray,The raindrops on the windows beatThis cold and cheerless August day.And all my friends are far awayAcross the moors or by the sea,But I must linger, woe is me!Since cruel fortune so doth chooseThen, friends who read theReferee,Forgive me if I get the blues.
THE dust blows through the empty street,The low skies gather grim and gray,The raindrops on the windows beatThis cold and cheerless August day.And all my friends are far awayAcross the moors or by the sea,But I must linger, woe is me!Since cruel fortune so doth chooseThen, friends who read theReferee,Forgive me if I get the blues.
IT was a gallant Volunteer,He woke one wintry night,The long-expected sound to hear,“The foe is now in sight.”He leapt from out his cosy bed,He kissed his frightened wife,Then put his helmet on his head,To fight for home and life.He gaily donned his uniform—Such portions as he had—And then went out into the storm;The night was very bad.The snowflakes fell as large as eggs,The blast his bosom smote;He had no trousers on his legs,He had no overcoat.His heart was full of brave intent,He started at a trot;But O, he shivered as he went—Il n’avait pas de bottes!Ten thousand strong in legs all bare,And only in their socks,Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare,Yet stood their ground like rocks.But when the Frenchmen saw the foe,Our noble Volunteers,They laughed “Ha, ha!” and yelled “Ho, ho!”And greeted them with sneers.“C’est drôle,” they cried; “c’est bien drôle,Cette armée sans culottes,”And Alphonse yelled to Anatole,“Ils n’ont donc pas de bottes.”The British blushed with bitter shame,Their feelings were acute,And, though they were extremely game,They felt too pained to shoot.Their wail was borne upon the breeze,“The foe our army mocks,”But still the cold benumbed their knees,The snow soaked through their socks.And so because they weren’t equippedAs Volunteers should be,The well-clad Frenchmen by them skipped,And it was all U P.O Britons, for your country’s sake,And all you hold most dear,A lesson from this story take,And clothe the Volunteer.For trousers, boots, and overcoatsTo Lord Mayor Whitehead handA cheque or Bank of England notes,And save your native land.
IT was a gallant Volunteer,He woke one wintry night,The long-expected sound to hear,“The foe is now in sight.”He leapt from out his cosy bed,He kissed his frightened wife,Then put his helmet on his head,To fight for home and life.He gaily donned his uniform—Such portions as he had—And then went out into the storm;The night was very bad.The snowflakes fell as large as eggs,The blast his bosom smote;He had no trousers on his legs,He had no overcoat.His heart was full of brave intent,He started at a trot;But O, he shivered as he went—Il n’avait pas de bottes!Ten thousand strong in legs all bare,And only in their socks,Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare,Yet stood their ground like rocks.But when the Frenchmen saw the foe,Our noble Volunteers,They laughed “Ha, ha!” and yelled “Ho, ho!”And greeted them with sneers.“C’est drôle,” they cried; “c’est bien drôle,Cette armée sans culottes,”And Alphonse yelled to Anatole,“Ils n’ont donc pas de bottes.”The British blushed with bitter shame,Their feelings were acute,And, though they were extremely game,They felt too pained to shoot.Their wail was borne upon the breeze,“The foe our army mocks,”But still the cold benumbed their knees,The snow soaked through their socks.And so because they weren’t equippedAs Volunteers should be,The well-clad Frenchmen by them skipped,And it was all U P.O Britons, for your country’s sake,And all you hold most dear,A lesson from this story take,And clothe the Volunteer.For trousers, boots, and overcoatsTo Lord Mayor Whitehead handA cheque or Bank of England notes,And save your native land.
IT was a gallant Volunteer,He woke one wintry night,The long-expected sound to hear,“The foe is now in sight.”
He leapt from out his cosy bed,He kissed his frightened wife,Then put his helmet on his head,To fight for home and life.
He gaily donned his uniform—Such portions as he had—And then went out into the storm;The night was very bad.
The snowflakes fell as large as eggs,The blast his bosom smote;He had no trousers on his legs,He had no overcoat.
His heart was full of brave intent,He started at a trot;But O, he shivered as he went—Il n’avait pas de bottes!
Ten thousand strong in legs all bare,And only in their socks,Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare,Yet stood their ground like rocks.
But when the Frenchmen saw the foe,Our noble Volunteers,They laughed “Ha, ha!” and yelled “Ho, ho!”And greeted them with sneers.
“C’est drôle,” they cried; “c’est bien drôle,Cette armée sans culottes,”And Alphonse yelled to Anatole,“Ils n’ont donc pas de bottes.”
The British blushed with bitter shame,Their feelings were acute,And, though they were extremely game,They felt too pained to shoot.
Their wail was borne upon the breeze,“The foe our army mocks,”But still the cold benumbed their knees,The snow soaked through their socks.
And so because they weren’t equippedAs Volunteers should be,The well-clad Frenchmen by them skipped,And it was all U P.
O Britons, for your country’s sake,And all you hold most dear,A lesson from this story take,And clothe the Volunteer.
For trousers, boots, and overcoatsTo Lord Mayor Whitehead handA cheque or Bank of England notes,And save your native land.
OUR Prince a little change would seek,To town a short adieu he bids;In Paris spends his Whitsun week,And takes “the missus and the kids.”At Dover on the deck he stands(See ad.—“The shortest of sea routes”),And hies him o’er to Calais sandsIn tourist tweed and untanned boots.The cares of State no longer vex,From Fashion’s whirl he steps aside,And takes a trip, our future Rex,And with him goes his silver bride.They take their boys and girls to seeThe show no sceptred hand salutes,And start, from princely trammels free,In tourist tweeds and untanned boots.Prince! standing in the blazing lightThat beats upon a modern throne,’Tis not in royal robes bedight,I ween, your happiest hours are known.The white stones on your road of lifeMark where you pluck sweet leisure’s fruits,And with your boys and girls and wifeGo trips in tweeds and untanned boots.
OUR Prince a little change would seek,To town a short adieu he bids;In Paris spends his Whitsun week,And takes “the missus and the kids.”At Dover on the deck he stands(See ad.—“The shortest of sea routes”),And hies him o’er to Calais sandsIn tourist tweed and untanned boots.The cares of State no longer vex,From Fashion’s whirl he steps aside,And takes a trip, our future Rex,And with him goes his silver bride.They take their boys and girls to seeThe show no sceptred hand salutes,And start, from princely trammels free,In tourist tweeds and untanned boots.Prince! standing in the blazing lightThat beats upon a modern throne,’Tis not in royal robes bedight,I ween, your happiest hours are known.The white stones on your road of lifeMark where you pluck sweet leisure’s fruits,And with your boys and girls and wifeGo trips in tweeds and untanned boots.
OUR Prince a little change would seek,To town a short adieu he bids;In Paris spends his Whitsun week,And takes “the missus and the kids.”At Dover on the deck he stands(See ad.—“The shortest of sea routes”),And hies him o’er to Calais sandsIn tourist tweed and untanned boots.
The cares of State no longer vex,From Fashion’s whirl he steps aside,And takes a trip, our future Rex,And with him goes his silver bride.They take their boys and girls to seeThe show no sceptred hand salutes,And start, from princely trammels free,In tourist tweeds and untanned boots.
Prince! standing in the blazing lightThat beats upon a modern throne,’Tis not in royal robes bedight,I ween, your happiest hours are known.The white stones on your road of lifeMark where you pluck sweet leisure’s fruits,And with your boys and girls and wifeGo trips in tweeds and untanned boots.
ISTOOD and I shivered last Sunday nightTill I bade them set the fire alight,Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar,And I told them to bring me the whisky jar.I filled me a glass, and I held it highAs I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky,And I sang to a sad funereal tuneThe doleful dirge of an English June.“O gruesome herald of Whitsun week,”I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak,“The blazing heat of our one hot dayHas fried us up and has passed away;And the weary summer of blights and chillsHas come to us big with its thousand ills,And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoonIn Regent’s Park in our English June.”A red nose pressed to the window-pane,The swirling dust and the threatening rain,A blue-black blight in the raw rough air,A cut-throat climate and dull despair;A tear for the days that will come no more,A dose of physic at twelve and four.And that is my Sunday afternoonIn the Arctic arms of an English June.
ISTOOD and I shivered last Sunday nightTill I bade them set the fire alight,Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar,And I told them to bring me the whisky jar.I filled me a glass, and I held it highAs I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky,And I sang to a sad funereal tuneThe doleful dirge of an English June.“O gruesome herald of Whitsun week,”I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak,“The blazing heat of our one hot dayHas fried us up and has passed away;And the weary summer of blights and chillsHas come to us big with its thousand ills,And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoonIn Regent’s Park in our English June.”A red nose pressed to the window-pane,The swirling dust and the threatening rain,A blue-black blight in the raw rough air,A cut-throat climate and dull despair;A tear for the days that will come no more,A dose of physic at twelve and four.And that is my Sunday afternoonIn the Arctic arms of an English June.
ISTOOD and I shivered last Sunday nightTill I bade them set the fire alight,Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar,And I told them to bring me the whisky jar.I filled me a glass, and I held it highAs I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky,And I sang to a sad funereal tuneThe doleful dirge of an English June.
“O gruesome herald of Whitsun week,”I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak,“The blazing heat of our one hot dayHas fried us up and has passed away;And the weary summer of blights and chillsHas come to us big with its thousand ills,And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoonIn Regent’s Park in our English June.”
A red nose pressed to the window-pane,The swirling dust and the threatening rain,A blue-black blight in the raw rough air,A cut-throat climate and dull despair;A tear for the days that will come no more,A dose of physic at twelve and four.And that is my Sunday afternoonIn the Arctic arms of an English June.
RIDING up the mountainIn an open car,Engine puffing bravely—O, how high we are!Higher we are climbing,To the clouds we sail;All the world’s beneath usOn the Rigi Rail.Past the slopes of verdure,Gay with gold and white,Past the crags and fissures,Up the giddy height.Torrents down below usDashing through the vale,Snowclad peaks above us,On the Rigi Rail.Up, still up to cloudland,While the world belowShrinks to dots and pigmiesHigher as we go.All around grows barren;Timid girls grow paleAs the snow surrounds usOn the Rigi Rail.Up at last—the summitPuffing Billy gains,And the sight that greets usPays for all our pains.Alp on alp far stretching,Lake and plain and valeSpread in glory round usOn the Rigi Rail.Nerves with joy are thrillingIn that wondrous air,Ne’er did eyes enchantedSee a sight so fair.Ne’er till memory faltersAnd my senses failShall I forget that journeyUpon the Rigi Rail.
RIDING up the mountainIn an open car,Engine puffing bravely—O, how high we are!Higher we are climbing,To the clouds we sail;All the world’s beneath usOn the Rigi Rail.Past the slopes of verdure,Gay with gold and white,Past the crags and fissures,Up the giddy height.Torrents down below usDashing through the vale,Snowclad peaks above us,On the Rigi Rail.Up, still up to cloudland,While the world belowShrinks to dots and pigmiesHigher as we go.All around grows barren;Timid girls grow paleAs the snow surrounds usOn the Rigi Rail.Up at last—the summitPuffing Billy gains,And the sight that greets usPays for all our pains.Alp on alp far stretching,Lake and plain and valeSpread in glory round usOn the Rigi Rail.Nerves with joy are thrillingIn that wondrous air,Ne’er did eyes enchantedSee a sight so fair.Ne’er till memory faltersAnd my senses failShall I forget that journeyUpon the Rigi Rail.
RIDING up the mountainIn an open car,Engine puffing bravely—O, how high we are!Higher we are climbing,To the clouds we sail;All the world’s beneath usOn the Rigi Rail.
Past the slopes of verdure,Gay with gold and white,Past the crags and fissures,Up the giddy height.Torrents down below usDashing through the vale,Snowclad peaks above us,On the Rigi Rail.
Up, still up to cloudland,While the world belowShrinks to dots and pigmiesHigher as we go.All around grows barren;Timid girls grow paleAs the snow surrounds usOn the Rigi Rail.
Up at last—the summitPuffing Billy gains,And the sight that greets usPays for all our pains.Alp on alp far stretching,Lake and plain and valeSpread in glory round usOn the Rigi Rail.
Nerves with joy are thrillingIn that wondrous air,Ne’er did eyes enchantedSee a sight so fair.Ne’er till memory faltersAnd my senses failShall I forget that journeyUpon the Rigi Rail.
O, do not flog the brutal roughWho jumps upon his wife,Or in a little drunken huffProds children with a knife.O, do not flog the brute who takesThe old man by the throatAnd chokes him while a search he makesOf trousers, vest, and coat.O, do not flog the coward curWho pulps a woman’s face;It cannot do much good to her,And think ofhisdisgrace.O, think of all the smart and painIf his poor hide be thin;The cat, you know, must leave a stainOn mind as well as skin.O, do not flog the prowling wretchWho bashes us for pelf,But some nice kind old parson fetch,Or talk to him yourself.Present him with a kindly tract,Or pray with him awhile;Explain that skulls should not be cracktIn such a shocking style.And when you’ve turned his wrath awayAnd shown him he was wrong,Then teach him, if you’ve time to stay,Some sweet Salvation song.Far better let ten thousand suchGo free to bash again,Than one should know the cat’s vile touchOr feel a moment’s pain.O, do not flog—in mercy spareThe burglar’s tender hide.Though murder’s rife, what need we care?The Scripture’s on our side.Come then, ye bashing burglar crew,Put up your sweet mouths—so,And let the cranks who plead for youReturn you kiss for blow.
O, do not flog the brutal roughWho jumps upon his wife,Or in a little drunken huffProds children with a knife.O, do not flog the brute who takesThe old man by the throatAnd chokes him while a search he makesOf trousers, vest, and coat.O, do not flog the coward curWho pulps a woman’s face;It cannot do much good to her,And think ofhisdisgrace.O, think of all the smart and painIf his poor hide be thin;The cat, you know, must leave a stainOn mind as well as skin.O, do not flog the prowling wretchWho bashes us for pelf,But some nice kind old parson fetch,Or talk to him yourself.Present him with a kindly tract,Or pray with him awhile;Explain that skulls should not be cracktIn such a shocking style.And when you’ve turned his wrath awayAnd shown him he was wrong,Then teach him, if you’ve time to stay,Some sweet Salvation song.Far better let ten thousand suchGo free to bash again,Than one should know the cat’s vile touchOr feel a moment’s pain.O, do not flog—in mercy spareThe burglar’s tender hide.Though murder’s rife, what need we care?The Scripture’s on our side.Come then, ye bashing burglar crew,Put up your sweet mouths—so,And let the cranks who plead for youReturn you kiss for blow.
O, do not flog the brutal roughWho jumps upon his wife,Or in a little drunken huffProds children with a knife.O, do not flog the brute who takesThe old man by the throatAnd chokes him while a search he makesOf trousers, vest, and coat.
O, do not flog the coward curWho pulps a woman’s face;It cannot do much good to her,And think ofhisdisgrace.O, think of all the smart and painIf his poor hide be thin;The cat, you know, must leave a stainOn mind as well as skin.
O, do not flog the prowling wretchWho bashes us for pelf,But some nice kind old parson fetch,Or talk to him yourself.Present him with a kindly tract,Or pray with him awhile;Explain that skulls should not be cracktIn such a shocking style.
And when you’ve turned his wrath awayAnd shown him he was wrong,Then teach him, if you’ve time to stay,Some sweet Salvation song.Far better let ten thousand suchGo free to bash again,Than one should know the cat’s vile touchOr feel a moment’s pain.
O, do not flog—in mercy spareThe burglar’s tender hide.Though murder’s rife, what need we care?The Scripture’s on our side.Come then, ye bashing burglar crew,Put up your sweet mouths—so,And let the cranks who plead for youReturn you kiss for blow.
IF you were here, if you were here,My butcher’s bill would be more clear,The Life Guards out for exerciseWould not so often raise their eyesTo where the housemaids smile and smirk,And play the hours away at work.If you were here my morning teaPerchance would slightly stronger be,My evenings, now so lone and long,Might know the solace of a song;I should not feel inclined to shriekWhen chairs and tables groan and creak.My midnight ghosts I should not fearIf you were here, if you were here.’Tis sad to be alone; but stillThere is some sugar round the pill.I’m master now, and have my way—There’s no one here to say me nay.Though all is silent as the tomb,I smoke my pipe in ev’ry room.When out no train I rush to catch—My key goes boldly in the latch.No more, lest I disturb your sleep,On tiptoe up the stairs I creep.Nor do I have to scratch my pateTo think what kept me out so late.And that I’d oft to do, my dear,When you were here, when you were here.
IF you were here, if you were here,My butcher’s bill would be more clear,The Life Guards out for exerciseWould not so often raise their eyesTo where the housemaids smile and smirk,And play the hours away at work.If you were here my morning teaPerchance would slightly stronger be,My evenings, now so lone and long,Might know the solace of a song;I should not feel inclined to shriekWhen chairs and tables groan and creak.My midnight ghosts I should not fearIf you were here, if you were here.’Tis sad to be alone; but stillThere is some sugar round the pill.I’m master now, and have my way—There’s no one here to say me nay.Though all is silent as the tomb,I smoke my pipe in ev’ry room.When out no train I rush to catch—My key goes boldly in the latch.No more, lest I disturb your sleep,On tiptoe up the stairs I creep.Nor do I have to scratch my pateTo think what kept me out so late.And that I’d oft to do, my dear,When you were here, when you were here.
IF you were here, if you were here,My butcher’s bill would be more clear,The Life Guards out for exerciseWould not so often raise their eyesTo where the housemaids smile and smirk,And play the hours away at work.If you were here my morning teaPerchance would slightly stronger be,My evenings, now so lone and long,Might know the solace of a song;I should not feel inclined to shriekWhen chairs and tables groan and creak.My midnight ghosts I should not fearIf you were here, if you were here.
’Tis sad to be alone; but stillThere is some sugar round the pill.I’m master now, and have my way—There’s no one here to say me nay.Though all is silent as the tomb,I smoke my pipe in ev’ry room.When out no train I rush to catch—My key goes boldly in the latch.No more, lest I disturb your sleep,On tiptoe up the stairs I creep.Nor do I have to scratch my pateTo think what kept me out so late.And that I’d oft to do, my dear,When you were here, when you were here.
IT costs some cash to catch the Gauls,And placard all the Paris walls,But his big balance never falls.Who finds the money?He travels like a little king,And “cuts a dash” and “does the thing,”And spares no cost to have his fling.Who finds the money?He’s no estate, he’s lost his pay,Yet thousands go from day to dayIn working France for Boulanger.Who finds the money?In London he has settled down;He means to have his fling in town—A little king without a crown.Who finds the money?When kings and princes meet at tea,When statesmen other statesmen see,They jerk their thumbs at General B——And whisper on the strict q.t.,Who finds the money?
IT costs some cash to catch the Gauls,And placard all the Paris walls,But his big balance never falls.Who finds the money?He travels like a little king,And “cuts a dash” and “does the thing,”And spares no cost to have his fling.Who finds the money?He’s no estate, he’s lost his pay,Yet thousands go from day to dayIn working France for Boulanger.Who finds the money?In London he has settled down;He means to have his fling in town—A little king without a crown.Who finds the money?When kings and princes meet at tea,When statesmen other statesmen see,They jerk their thumbs at General B——And whisper on the strict q.t.,Who finds the money?
IT costs some cash to catch the Gauls,And placard all the Paris walls,But his big balance never falls.Who finds the money?
He travels like a little king,And “cuts a dash” and “does the thing,”And spares no cost to have his fling.Who finds the money?
He’s no estate, he’s lost his pay,Yet thousands go from day to dayIn working France for Boulanger.Who finds the money?
In London he has settled down;He means to have his fling in town—A little king without a crown.Who finds the money?
When kings and princes meet at tea,When statesmen other statesmen see,They jerk their thumbs at General B——And whisper on the strict q.t.,Who finds the money?
WITHIN, without, abroad, at home,Though all appears a bilious chrome,With May shall flee dyspeptic throesAnd life assume a tint of rose—For France, the gay and debonair,Will ask us to her fancy fair,The Exhibition.Then East and West and South and NorthWill pour their choicest treasures forth,And all the world will hie awayUpon a pleasant holiday;While Frenchmen cry, and chink the cash,“We’re glad Boulanger did not smashThe Exhibition!”And you, ma mie, of years ago,Who with me wandered to and froThrough all the aisles of wonder setLike gems in some vast coronet—How sweet you were, ma’mselle, to me!—Will you be there this time to seeThe Exhibition?O’er both our heads the years have rolled,And I am stout and growing old;And you are married, I dare say,And know a mother’s cares to-day.Maybe our chairs—bath-chairs, I mean—May pass some day ere we’ve quite seenThe Exhibition.
WITHIN, without, abroad, at home,Though all appears a bilious chrome,With May shall flee dyspeptic throesAnd life assume a tint of rose—For France, the gay and debonair,Will ask us to her fancy fair,The Exhibition.Then East and West and South and NorthWill pour their choicest treasures forth,And all the world will hie awayUpon a pleasant holiday;While Frenchmen cry, and chink the cash,“We’re glad Boulanger did not smashThe Exhibition!”And you, ma mie, of years ago,Who with me wandered to and froThrough all the aisles of wonder setLike gems in some vast coronet—How sweet you were, ma’mselle, to me!—Will you be there this time to seeThe Exhibition?O’er both our heads the years have rolled,And I am stout and growing old;And you are married, I dare say,And know a mother’s cares to-day.Maybe our chairs—bath-chairs, I mean—May pass some day ere we’ve quite seenThe Exhibition.
WITHIN, without, abroad, at home,Though all appears a bilious chrome,With May shall flee dyspeptic throesAnd life assume a tint of rose—For France, the gay and debonair,Will ask us to her fancy fair,The Exhibition.
Then East and West and South and NorthWill pour their choicest treasures forth,And all the world will hie awayUpon a pleasant holiday;While Frenchmen cry, and chink the cash,“We’re glad Boulanger did not smashThe Exhibition!”
And you, ma mie, of years ago,Who with me wandered to and froThrough all the aisles of wonder setLike gems in some vast coronet—How sweet you were, ma’mselle, to me!—Will you be there this time to seeThe Exhibition?
O’er both our heads the years have rolled,And I am stout and growing old;And you are married, I dare say,And know a mother’s cares to-day.Maybe our chairs—bath-chairs, I mean—May pass some day ere we’ve quite seenThe Exhibition.
WHEN my liver’s out of order, and my nerves are all awry,And I want to sit in corners and to tear my hair and cry,When a demon stands behind me with a razor or a knife,And suggests the use of either as a short-cut out of life,When the gloom outside my window is the gloom inside my heart,And the ghostly sounds about make me shake and make me start,Then I walk about my dwelling, but my sorrows do not fleeWhen I find my goods and chattels all were “made in Germany.”The globes upon my gas-lamps bear that exquisite device,It is worked upon my carpets and the trap that catches mice;It is stamped upon my dusters, and imprinted on my hat,And I half expect to find it on the collar of my cat.“Made in Germany”‘s the motto on my knocker and my bell,And the scraper and the doormat have it written large as well;From the basement to the attic all around those words I see,And e’en my patent chimney-pots were “made in Germany.”Then I wander forth for shelter from this legend, but in vain,For it polks in flaming letters through my agitated brain;It is stamped on all the lamp-posts and the flagstones at my feet,And I see it on the helmets of the bobbies on the street.“Give me respite from this legend!” in my agony I cry,And my gentle Albert Edward says to comfort me he’ll try;But while weeping on his bosom there is no relief for me,For, like everything about me, he was “made in Germany.”
WHEN my liver’s out of order, and my nerves are all awry,And I want to sit in corners and to tear my hair and cry,When a demon stands behind me with a razor or a knife,And suggests the use of either as a short-cut out of life,When the gloom outside my window is the gloom inside my heart,And the ghostly sounds about make me shake and make me start,Then I walk about my dwelling, but my sorrows do not fleeWhen I find my goods and chattels all were “made in Germany.”The globes upon my gas-lamps bear that exquisite device,It is worked upon my carpets and the trap that catches mice;It is stamped upon my dusters, and imprinted on my hat,And I half expect to find it on the collar of my cat.“Made in Germany”‘s the motto on my knocker and my bell,And the scraper and the doormat have it written large as well;From the basement to the attic all around those words I see,And e’en my patent chimney-pots were “made in Germany.”Then I wander forth for shelter from this legend, but in vain,For it polks in flaming letters through my agitated brain;It is stamped on all the lamp-posts and the flagstones at my feet,And I see it on the helmets of the bobbies on the street.“Give me respite from this legend!” in my agony I cry,And my gentle Albert Edward says to comfort me he’ll try;But while weeping on his bosom there is no relief for me,For, like everything about me, he was “made in Germany.”
WHEN my liver’s out of order, and my nerves are all awry,And I want to sit in corners and to tear my hair and cry,When a demon stands behind me with a razor or a knife,And suggests the use of either as a short-cut out of life,When the gloom outside my window is the gloom inside my heart,And the ghostly sounds about make me shake and make me start,Then I walk about my dwelling, but my sorrows do not fleeWhen I find my goods and chattels all were “made in Germany.”
The globes upon my gas-lamps bear that exquisite device,It is worked upon my carpets and the trap that catches mice;It is stamped upon my dusters, and imprinted on my hat,And I half expect to find it on the collar of my cat.“Made in Germany”‘s the motto on my knocker and my bell,And the scraper and the doormat have it written large as well;From the basement to the attic all around those words I see,And e’en my patent chimney-pots were “made in Germany.”
Then I wander forth for shelter from this legend, but in vain,For it polks in flaming letters through my agitated brain;It is stamped on all the lamp-posts and the flagstones at my feet,And I see it on the helmets of the bobbies on the street.“Give me respite from this legend!” in my agony I cry,And my gentle Albert Edward says to comfort me he’ll try;But while weeping on his bosom there is no relief for me,For, like everything about me, he was “made in Germany.”
ABALMY breeze o’er London plays,The summer sun is shining,The weather’s clerk has (scandal says)Undoubtedly been dining.Old fogeys sit about the parks,And “Dear, can you remember,”Old Darby to old Joan remarks,“Such mildness in December?”When Master Sandford takes his walksAbroad with Master Merton,He says, “O, ain’t I hot, O lawks,With my thick flannel shirt on!”“My pupils will take notice, please,”Exclaims the Reverend Barlow,“It’s warmer here by seven degreesThan ’tis in Monte Carlo.”For garden-seats the public runTo Shoolbred’s and to Maple’s;It’s five degrees more in the sunIn London than in Naples!I shut my eyes and dream a dreamAbout our winter season,That does not seem to have a gleamOf common-sense or reason.I dream that from the southern landThe foreigners are flocking;They promenade along the Strand,The Thames Embankment blocking.The train de luxe from every partBrings foreigners to London;The Riviera breaks its heart,Algeria is undone.In search of sun from Southern SpainThe Andalusian wanders;The Roman lolls in Drury Lane,The Turk in Holborn ponders.The world this mild December flocksTo our delightful climate;Rich Russian ’gainst rich German knocks,And princeling jostles primate.The great hotels are packed and jammed,And all the trades are booming,The theatres and cafés crammed,And summer roses blooming.I dream a dream of London madeA winter spot delightful;I wake from sleep, and start dismayedTo find the weather frightful!No balmy breeze o’er London plays,No summer sun is shining;’Tis not the clerk (so scandal says)ButIwho have been dining.
ABALMY breeze o’er London plays,The summer sun is shining,The weather’s clerk has (scandal says)Undoubtedly been dining.Old fogeys sit about the parks,And “Dear, can you remember,”Old Darby to old Joan remarks,“Such mildness in December?”When Master Sandford takes his walksAbroad with Master Merton,He says, “O, ain’t I hot, O lawks,With my thick flannel shirt on!”“My pupils will take notice, please,”Exclaims the Reverend Barlow,“It’s warmer here by seven degreesThan ’tis in Monte Carlo.”For garden-seats the public runTo Shoolbred’s and to Maple’s;It’s five degrees more in the sunIn London than in Naples!I shut my eyes and dream a dreamAbout our winter season,That does not seem to have a gleamOf common-sense or reason.I dream that from the southern landThe foreigners are flocking;They promenade along the Strand,The Thames Embankment blocking.The train de luxe from every partBrings foreigners to London;The Riviera breaks its heart,Algeria is undone.In search of sun from Southern SpainThe Andalusian wanders;The Roman lolls in Drury Lane,The Turk in Holborn ponders.The world this mild December flocksTo our delightful climate;Rich Russian ’gainst rich German knocks,And princeling jostles primate.The great hotels are packed and jammed,And all the trades are booming,The theatres and cafés crammed,And summer roses blooming.I dream a dream of London madeA winter spot delightful;I wake from sleep, and start dismayedTo find the weather frightful!No balmy breeze o’er London plays,No summer sun is shining;’Tis not the clerk (so scandal says)ButIwho have been dining.
ABALMY breeze o’er London plays,The summer sun is shining,The weather’s clerk has (scandal says)Undoubtedly been dining.
Old fogeys sit about the parks,And “Dear, can you remember,”Old Darby to old Joan remarks,“Such mildness in December?”
When Master Sandford takes his walksAbroad with Master Merton,He says, “O, ain’t I hot, O lawks,With my thick flannel shirt on!”
“My pupils will take notice, please,”Exclaims the Reverend Barlow,“It’s warmer here by seven degreesThan ’tis in Monte Carlo.”
For garden-seats the public runTo Shoolbred’s and to Maple’s;It’s five degrees more in the sunIn London than in Naples!
I shut my eyes and dream a dreamAbout our winter season,That does not seem to have a gleamOf common-sense or reason.
I dream that from the southern landThe foreigners are flocking;They promenade along the Strand,The Thames Embankment blocking.
The train de luxe from every partBrings foreigners to London;The Riviera breaks its heart,Algeria is undone.
In search of sun from Southern SpainThe Andalusian wanders;The Roman lolls in Drury Lane,The Turk in Holborn ponders.
The world this mild December flocksTo our delightful climate;Rich Russian ’gainst rich German knocks,And princeling jostles primate.
The great hotels are packed and jammed,And all the trades are booming,The theatres and cafés crammed,And summer roses blooming.
I dream a dream of London madeA winter spot delightful;I wake from sleep, and start dismayedTo find the weather frightful!
No balmy breeze o’er London plays,No summer sun is shining;’Tis not the clerk (so scandal says)ButIwho have been dining.
THEY had taken the brightest, the nicest, the best;They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest;America’s daughters no quarter had shown,And but one Duke of Britain was blooming alone.Belgravian mothers in frenzied despairTore out by the roots their luxuriant hair,And the maidens of Albion shuddered and sighed,And but for their eyes would have certainly cried.Every prize of the season had gone to the States,The American girls had the best of the weights;The “piles” of the pa’s and their personal charmsHad proved in the battle all-conquering arms.And now but one Duke there remained to be had.He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad;But the belles of Great Britain to rescue him sworeFrom the sirens who hail from Columbia’s shore.Then the belles of Columbia picked up the glove,And encouraged his grace to make desperate love;They crowded Cunarders and weighted White Stars,And descended on London in drawing-room cars.But the maidens who flirt ’neath the Union JackAt the Yankee invasion weren’t taken aback,Though it must be confessed there were exquisite typesOf feminine flirts ’neath the Stars and the Stripes.The Duke stood aghast ’twixt the double array,But endeavoured to all some attention to pay.First he smiled at a Briton, then ogled a Yank,Then bolted, and hailed the first cab on the rank.He drove to the station, and, catching the train,He sailed o’er the stormy and murderous main.He landed at Calais and fell at the feetOf the first pretty French girl he met in the street.He asked for her hand, and the maiden replied,“Avec plaisir, m’sieu. Here’s a church; step inside.”They were married at once, and next day they set sailBy the London and Chatham’s first outgoing mail.Sir Algernon Borthwick, who edits thePost,Had received the first news from the opposite coast;And the maids of our isles and the maids of the StatesIn special editions were told of their fates.“Peace with honour” at once was proclaimed ’twixt the fair(As neither had won what did either set care?);And the Duke was much praised on both sides by the Press,And the little French Duchess is quite a success.
THEY had taken the brightest, the nicest, the best;They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest;America’s daughters no quarter had shown,And but one Duke of Britain was blooming alone.Belgravian mothers in frenzied despairTore out by the roots their luxuriant hair,And the maidens of Albion shuddered and sighed,And but for their eyes would have certainly cried.Every prize of the season had gone to the States,The American girls had the best of the weights;The “piles” of the pa’s and their personal charmsHad proved in the battle all-conquering arms.And now but one Duke there remained to be had.He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad;But the belles of Great Britain to rescue him sworeFrom the sirens who hail from Columbia’s shore.Then the belles of Columbia picked up the glove,And encouraged his grace to make desperate love;They crowded Cunarders and weighted White Stars,And descended on London in drawing-room cars.But the maidens who flirt ’neath the Union JackAt the Yankee invasion weren’t taken aback,Though it must be confessed there were exquisite typesOf feminine flirts ’neath the Stars and the Stripes.The Duke stood aghast ’twixt the double array,But endeavoured to all some attention to pay.First he smiled at a Briton, then ogled a Yank,Then bolted, and hailed the first cab on the rank.He drove to the station, and, catching the train,He sailed o’er the stormy and murderous main.He landed at Calais and fell at the feetOf the first pretty French girl he met in the street.He asked for her hand, and the maiden replied,“Avec plaisir, m’sieu. Here’s a church; step inside.”They were married at once, and next day they set sailBy the London and Chatham’s first outgoing mail.Sir Algernon Borthwick, who edits thePost,Had received the first news from the opposite coast;And the maids of our isles and the maids of the StatesIn special editions were told of their fates.“Peace with honour” at once was proclaimed ’twixt the fair(As neither had won what did either set care?);And the Duke was much praised on both sides by the Press,And the little French Duchess is quite a success.
THEY had taken the brightest, the nicest, the best;They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest;America’s daughters no quarter had shown,And but one Duke of Britain was blooming alone.
Belgravian mothers in frenzied despairTore out by the roots their luxuriant hair,And the maidens of Albion shuddered and sighed,And but for their eyes would have certainly cried.
Every prize of the season had gone to the States,The American girls had the best of the weights;The “piles” of the pa’s and their personal charmsHad proved in the battle all-conquering arms.
And now but one Duke there remained to be had.He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad;But the belles of Great Britain to rescue him sworeFrom the sirens who hail from Columbia’s shore.
Then the belles of Columbia picked up the glove,And encouraged his grace to make desperate love;They crowded Cunarders and weighted White Stars,And descended on London in drawing-room cars.
But the maidens who flirt ’neath the Union JackAt the Yankee invasion weren’t taken aback,Though it must be confessed there were exquisite typesOf feminine flirts ’neath the Stars and the Stripes.
The Duke stood aghast ’twixt the double array,But endeavoured to all some attention to pay.First he smiled at a Briton, then ogled a Yank,Then bolted, and hailed the first cab on the rank.
He drove to the station, and, catching the train,He sailed o’er the stormy and murderous main.He landed at Calais and fell at the feetOf the first pretty French girl he met in the street.
He asked for her hand, and the maiden replied,“Avec plaisir, m’sieu. Here’s a church; step inside.”They were married at once, and next day they set sailBy the London and Chatham’s first outgoing mail.
Sir Algernon Borthwick, who edits thePost,Had received the first news from the opposite coast;And the maids of our isles and the maids of the StatesIn special editions were told of their fates.
“Peace with honour” at once was proclaimed ’twixt the fair(As neither had won what did either set care?);And the Duke was much praised on both sides by the Press,And the little French Duchess is quite a success.
ATHOUSAND welcomes let us singTo that dear old November fogWhich harbingers the days that bringThe early gas, the flaming log.Ah! well we know, sweet fog, when firstYou wrap the town in your embrace,The winter from its shell has burst,And come to bless the human race.I love the merry winter whenThe day is darker than the night,For then, contented in my den,I sit beside the fire and write.I love the fog that wraps in gloomMy second-class suburban square;For then within my dingy roomI light the gas, and let it flare.I hate the dreary days and loveThe nights that shut the black world out;And so I prize, all things above,The fog that puts the day to rout.
ATHOUSAND welcomes let us singTo that dear old November fogWhich harbingers the days that bringThe early gas, the flaming log.Ah! well we know, sweet fog, when firstYou wrap the town in your embrace,The winter from its shell has burst,And come to bless the human race.I love the merry winter whenThe day is darker than the night,For then, contented in my den,I sit beside the fire and write.I love the fog that wraps in gloomMy second-class suburban square;For then within my dingy roomI light the gas, and let it flare.I hate the dreary days and loveThe nights that shut the black world out;And so I prize, all things above,The fog that puts the day to rout.
ATHOUSAND welcomes let us singTo that dear old November fogWhich harbingers the days that bringThe early gas, the flaming log.
Ah! well we know, sweet fog, when firstYou wrap the town in your embrace,The winter from its shell has burst,And come to bless the human race.
I love the merry winter whenThe day is darker than the night,For then, contented in my den,I sit beside the fire and write.
I love the fog that wraps in gloomMy second-class suburban square;For then within my dingy roomI light the gas, and let it flare.
I hate the dreary days and loveThe nights that shut the black world out;And so I prize, all things above,The fog that puts the day to rout.
(WITH THE SPELLING CORRECTED, THE GRAMMARLOOKED TO, AND THE LANGUAGE TOUCHED UP BYA LITERARY FRIEND.)
MY name is John Dobbs. In the year ’58I was born in a street which I fear was fifth-rate.My pa was a gent who had had a reverse,And my ma took in other folks’ babies to nurse.Thus early my life-long acquaintance beganWith the folks who are first in Society’s van;In the cradle next mine slept the son of a peer,Who had gone to the dogs all through skittles and beer.At six I developed a beautiful voice,Which made the fond hearts of my parents rejoice;I was sent out to sing with a man in the street,But I plied my vocation among the élite.We sang in the squares where proud nobles reside;And often a duchess’s face I espied,As she peered o’er the blind at the little artiste;Thus I grew to mind duchesses not in the least.I pass o’er my youth, merely pausing to stateThat I met many folks who were famous and great,And it frequently happened my supper I tookWith a tip-top celebrity’s housemaid or cook.I was just in the twentieth year of my ageWhen I made my début on the music-hall stage;And ’twas there that I soon made a very big name,And earned all my subsequent fortune and fame.I’d a song with a chorus of “jammy jam-jam,”That was sung from Southend to Seringapatam;And often, when singing my song at the halls,I have seen lords and marquises smile in the stalls.Lord Beaconsfield once I’d the honour to meet—His lordship was walking up Parliament Street—By the merest of chances I trod on his toe,And his lordship looked up and remarked to me “Oh!”Conversations like these I have frequently hadWith the rich and the great, and the good and the bad;And I once had the pleasure and honour to dineWith the Prince, who’s a very great patron ofmine.The banquet, I own, was a public affair,At which his Royal Highness had taken the chair.And I paid for my ticket; but still I’ve a rightTo say with the Prince I had dinner that night.And now, as folks’ memoirses seem all the go,I’ve thought that the public might p’raps like to knowAll about the great people of whom I can speakWith the candour becoming a Lion Comique.
MY name is John Dobbs. In the year ’58I was born in a street which I fear was fifth-rate.My pa was a gent who had had a reverse,And my ma took in other folks’ babies to nurse.Thus early my life-long acquaintance beganWith the folks who are first in Society’s van;In the cradle next mine slept the son of a peer,Who had gone to the dogs all through skittles and beer.At six I developed a beautiful voice,Which made the fond hearts of my parents rejoice;I was sent out to sing with a man in the street,But I plied my vocation among the élite.We sang in the squares where proud nobles reside;And often a duchess’s face I espied,As she peered o’er the blind at the little artiste;Thus I grew to mind duchesses not in the least.I pass o’er my youth, merely pausing to stateThat I met many folks who were famous and great,And it frequently happened my supper I tookWith a tip-top celebrity’s housemaid or cook.I was just in the twentieth year of my ageWhen I made my début on the music-hall stage;And ’twas there that I soon made a very big name,And earned all my subsequent fortune and fame.I’d a song with a chorus of “jammy jam-jam,”That was sung from Southend to Seringapatam;And often, when singing my song at the halls,I have seen lords and marquises smile in the stalls.Lord Beaconsfield once I’d the honour to meet—His lordship was walking up Parliament Street—By the merest of chances I trod on his toe,And his lordship looked up and remarked to me “Oh!”Conversations like these I have frequently hadWith the rich and the great, and the good and the bad;And I once had the pleasure and honour to dineWith the Prince, who’s a very great patron ofmine.The banquet, I own, was a public affair,At which his Royal Highness had taken the chair.And I paid for my ticket; but still I’ve a rightTo say with the Prince I had dinner that night.And now, as folks’ memoirses seem all the go,I’ve thought that the public might p’raps like to knowAll about the great people of whom I can speakWith the candour becoming a Lion Comique.
MY name is John Dobbs. In the year ’58I was born in a street which I fear was fifth-rate.My pa was a gent who had had a reverse,And my ma took in other folks’ babies to nurse.
Thus early my life-long acquaintance beganWith the folks who are first in Society’s van;In the cradle next mine slept the son of a peer,Who had gone to the dogs all through skittles and beer.
At six I developed a beautiful voice,Which made the fond hearts of my parents rejoice;I was sent out to sing with a man in the street,But I plied my vocation among the élite.
We sang in the squares where proud nobles reside;And often a duchess’s face I espied,As she peered o’er the blind at the little artiste;Thus I grew to mind duchesses not in the least.
I pass o’er my youth, merely pausing to stateThat I met many folks who were famous and great,And it frequently happened my supper I tookWith a tip-top celebrity’s housemaid or cook.
I was just in the twentieth year of my ageWhen I made my début on the music-hall stage;And ’twas there that I soon made a very big name,And earned all my subsequent fortune and fame.
I’d a song with a chorus of “jammy jam-jam,”That was sung from Southend to Seringapatam;And often, when singing my song at the halls,I have seen lords and marquises smile in the stalls.
Lord Beaconsfield once I’d the honour to meet—His lordship was walking up Parliament Street—By the merest of chances I trod on his toe,And his lordship looked up and remarked to me “Oh!”
Conversations like these I have frequently hadWith the rich and the great, and the good and the bad;And I once had the pleasure and honour to dineWith the Prince, who’s a very great patron ofmine.
The banquet, I own, was a public affair,At which his Royal Highness had taken the chair.And I paid for my ticket; but still I’ve a rightTo say with the Prince I had dinner that night.
And now, as folks’ memoirses seem all the go,I’ve thought that the public might p’raps like to knowAll about the great people of whom I can speakWith the candour becoming a Lion Comique.
THE way was long, the wind was cold,The minstrel was infirm and old.Of two bioncs I robbed the bard,For which I got three months with hard.
THE way was long, the wind was cold,The minstrel was infirm and old.Of two bioncs I robbed the bard,For which I got three months with hard.
THE way was long, the wind was cold,The minstrel was infirm and old.Of two bioncs I robbed the bard,For which I got three months with hard.
She wore a wreath of rosesThe night that first we met,I went to call her carriage—Ne’er that night can I forget.I held the door a moment,And, as she stepped inside,I sneaked her lovely bracelet,And round the corner guyed.The next time that I met her’Twas in the busy Strand;She wore a hat and feathers,And her purse was in her hand.I saw it in a moment,And methinks I see her nowAs I snatched her purse and hooked itEre she’d time to make a row.Yet once again I saw her—It was in the witness-box—A fashionable bonnetAdorned her golden locks.She looked at me a moment,Then said what she’d to say;And that is why they sent meTo gloomy Holloway.
She wore a wreath of rosesThe night that first we met,I went to call her carriage—Ne’er that night can I forget.I held the door a moment,And, as she stepped inside,I sneaked her lovely bracelet,And round the corner guyed.The next time that I met her’Twas in the busy Strand;She wore a hat and feathers,And her purse was in her hand.I saw it in a moment,And methinks I see her nowAs I snatched her purse and hooked itEre she’d time to make a row.Yet once again I saw her—It was in the witness-box—A fashionable bonnetAdorned her golden locks.She looked at me a moment,Then said what she’d to say;And that is why they sent meTo gloomy Holloway.
She wore a wreath of rosesThe night that first we met,I went to call her carriage—Ne’er that night can I forget.I held the door a moment,And, as she stepped inside,I sneaked her lovely bracelet,And round the corner guyed.
The next time that I met her’Twas in the busy Strand;She wore a hat and feathers,And her purse was in her hand.I saw it in a moment,And methinks I see her nowAs I snatched her purse and hooked itEre she’d time to make a row.
Yet once again I saw her—It was in the witness-box—A fashionable bonnetAdorned her golden locks.She looked at me a moment,Then said what she’d to say;And that is why they sent meTo gloomy Holloway.