It was night in the month of October,And the stars were alight in the sky,When a gent as I thought wasn’t soberThe corner I stood at passed by.I saw that his chain was a gold one;I guessed that his watch was the same;And so, as the gent was an old one,I thought him legitimate game.I’d got his gold chain in my fingers,And was going to give it a tug,When whack came a couple of stingers—Two beauties—and right on my lug.Then I’d one that struck stars from my peeperAnd another that shifted my jaw—A regular send-you-to-sleeper—And that is the last that I saw.The last that I saw till a peeler,To fill sorrow’s cup to the brim,Put my carcase inside a four-wheeler,And said, “What a flat to try him!”“Who is he?” I groaned, as in tortureI nervously felt for my face;And he said, “Well, you tackled a scorcher;That elderly gent was Jem Mace.”
It was night in the month of October,And the stars were alight in the sky,When a gent as I thought wasn’t soberThe corner I stood at passed by.I saw that his chain was a gold one;I guessed that his watch was the same;And so, as the gent was an old one,I thought him legitimate game.I’d got his gold chain in my fingers,And was going to give it a tug,When whack came a couple of stingers—Two beauties—and right on my lug.Then I’d one that struck stars from my peeperAnd another that shifted my jaw—A regular send-you-to-sleeper—And that is the last that I saw.The last that I saw till a peeler,To fill sorrow’s cup to the brim,Put my carcase inside a four-wheeler,And said, “What a flat to try him!”“Who is he?” I groaned, as in tortureI nervously felt for my face;And he said, “Well, you tackled a scorcher;That elderly gent was Jem Mace.”
It was night in the month of October,And the stars were alight in the sky,When a gent as I thought wasn’t soberThe corner I stood at passed by.
I saw that his chain was a gold one;I guessed that his watch was the same;And so, as the gent was an old one,I thought him legitimate game.
I’d got his gold chain in my fingers,And was going to give it a tug,When whack came a couple of stingers—Two beauties—and right on my lug.
Then I’d one that struck stars from my peeperAnd another that shifted my jaw—A regular send-you-to-sleeper—And that is the last that I saw.
The last that I saw till a peeler,To fill sorrow’s cup to the brim,Put my carcase inside a four-wheeler,And said, “What a flat to try him!”
“Who is he?” I groaned, as in tortureI nervously felt for my face;And he said, “Well, you tackled a scorcher;That elderly gent was Jem Mace.”
YOUNG England, ’twixt its idle lips,A tiny twirl of ’baccy grips,And puffs a lazy cloud of blue,And rests between a draw or two.Our youth, alas! have grown of lateSo languid and effeminate,They’ve dropped cigars and heavy wetFor lemon-squash and cigarette.The vulgar pipe is rarely seenTheir dainty lisping lips between;The dude would scorn a big cigar,His tout ensemble a weed would mar;And so he rolls the paper toysWe used to smoke as little boys,And all the dressed-up, mashing setAffect the foreign cigarette.But now they tremble and go pale—The doctors tell a dreadful tale.A wretched fellow writes to sayThey’d better throw such weeds away.Their faultless shirt-fronts quake with fear,And crease and tumble when they hearThey in their breasts a viper pet—There’s poison in the cigarette.Go! let the foreign fellow puffHis tissue-paper Turkish stuff,But let Young England scorn its yoke,And once more like a Briton smokeBetween his lips a good cigar,Whose bright red glow one sees afar:He’ll feel a man, and soon forgetThe poisoned foreign cigarette.
YOUNG England, ’twixt its idle lips,A tiny twirl of ’baccy grips,And puffs a lazy cloud of blue,And rests between a draw or two.Our youth, alas! have grown of lateSo languid and effeminate,They’ve dropped cigars and heavy wetFor lemon-squash and cigarette.The vulgar pipe is rarely seenTheir dainty lisping lips between;The dude would scorn a big cigar,His tout ensemble a weed would mar;And so he rolls the paper toysWe used to smoke as little boys,And all the dressed-up, mashing setAffect the foreign cigarette.But now they tremble and go pale—The doctors tell a dreadful tale.A wretched fellow writes to sayThey’d better throw such weeds away.Their faultless shirt-fronts quake with fear,And crease and tumble when they hearThey in their breasts a viper pet—There’s poison in the cigarette.Go! let the foreign fellow puffHis tissue-paper Turkish stuff,But let Young England scorn its yoke,And once more like a Briton smokeBetween his lips a good cigar,Whose bright red glow one sees afar:He’ll feel a man, and soon forgetThe poisoned foreign cigarette.
YOUNG England, ’twixt its idle lips,A tiny twirl of ’baccy grips,And puffs a lazy cloud of blue,And rests between a draw or two.Our youth, alas! have grown of lateSo languid and effeminate,They’ve dropped cigars and heavy wetFor lemon-squash and cigarette.
The vulgar pipe is rarely seenTheir dainty lisping lips between;The dude would scorn a big cigar,His tout ensemble a weed would mar;And so he rolls the paper toysWe used to smoke as little boys,And all the dressed-up, mashing setAffect the foreign cigarette.
But now they tremble and go pale—The doctors tell a dreadful tale.A wretched fellow writes to sayThey’d better throw such weeds away.Their faultless shirt-fronts quake with fear,And crease and tumble when they hearThey in their breasts a viper pet—There’s poison in the cigarette.
Go! let the foreign fellow puffHis tissue-paper Turkish stuff,But let Young England scorn its yoke,And once more like a Briton smokeBetween his lips a good cigar,Whose bright red glow one sees afar:He’ll feel a man, and soon forgetThe poisoned foreign cigarette.
IDO not know what you are like—I know not where you go;I’ve never seen you as you jolt along the streets below.It’s always in the early morn my house you rattle by,And banish sleep that won’t return, however hard I try.I wonder if the fiend, who drives like mad through Gower Street,And on the asphalte likes to hear his horse’s heavy feet,And bangs against the kerb and makes his swaying milk-cans crash,Desiresto settle straight away a nervous mortal’s hash.Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side,A genuine Jekyll tortured by a much too real Hyde;And when at last my drooping lids have shut that Hyde away,The early milk-cart rattles by and bids the demon stay.You little reck, you noisy thing, as ’neath the fading starsYou jump and jolt, that every jerk on some poor toiler jars;You little reck, as merrily your cans together bang,You’ve roused a serpent in my breast which has a poisoned fang.All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast,Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast;And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isleThat sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile.My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair,The sunny slopes grow nearer still—one moment, and I’m there;One little leap from deck to shore—I wake with quite a start,The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart.Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make,’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake;When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey,I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day.Pass on, disturber of my rest—pass on thy way unseen;You little know how very near to murder you have been;Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his shareIn making me the wreck I am—and p’r’aps he doesn’t care.Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town,Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down—The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggestThat “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best.
IDO not know what you are like—I know not where you go;I’ve never seen you as you jolt along the streets below.It’s always in the early morn my house you rattle by,And banish sleep that won’t return, however hard I try.I wonder if the fiend, who drives like mad through Gower Street,And on the asphalte likes to hear his horse’s heavy feet,And bangs against the kerb and makes his swaying milk-cans crash,Desiresto settle straight away a nervous mortal’s hash.Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side,A genuine Jekyll tortured by a much too real Hyde;And when at last my drooping lids have shut that Hyde away,The early milk-cart rattles by and bids the demon stay.You little reck, you noisy thing, as ’neath the fading starsYou jump and jolt, that every jerk on some poor toiler jars;You little reck, as merrily your cans together bang,You’ve roused a serpent in my breast which has a poisoned fang.All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast,Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast;And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isleThat sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile.My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair,The sunny slopes grow nearer still—one moment, and I’m there;One little leap from deck to shore—I wake with quite a start,The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart.Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make,’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake;When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey,I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day.Pass on, disturber of my rest—pass on thy way unseen;You little know how very near to murder you have been;Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his shareIn making me the wreck I am—and p’r’aps he doesn’t care.Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town,Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down—The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggestThat “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best.
IDO not know what you are like—I know not where you go;I’ve never seen you as you jolt along the streets below.It’s always in the early morn my house you rattle by,And banish sleep that won’t return, however hard I try.
I wonder if the fiend, who drives like mad through Gower Street,And on the asphalte likes to hear his horse’s heavy feet,And bangs against the kerb and makes his swaying milk-cans crash,Desiresto settle straight away a nervous mortal’s hash.
Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side,A genuine Jekyll tortured by a much too real Hyde;And when at last my drooping lids have shut that Hyde away,The early milk-cart rattles by and bids the demon stay.
You little reck, you noisy thing, as ’neath the fading starsYou jump and jolt, that every jerk on some poor toiler jars;You little reck, as merrily your cans together bang,You’ve roused a serpent in my breast which has a poisoned fang.
All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast,Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast;And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isleThat sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile.
My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair,The sunny slopes grow nearer still—one moment, and I’m there;One little leap from deck to shore—I wake with quite a start,The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart.
Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make,’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake;When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey,I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day.
Pass on, disturber of my rest—pass on thy way unseen;You little know how very near to murder you have been;Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his shareIn making me the wreck I am—and p’r’aps he doesn’t care.
Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town,Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down—The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggestThat “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best.
ONCE on a time ’twas the freak of fateThat Fidgitt and Whims should collaborate,So they sat them down on a midsummer dayTo think of a plot and to write a play.They both shook hands ere the task began,Adopting the Prize Ring’s general plan,And said, “If each other we chance to kill,It isn’t a murder,” with right good will.They buried their heads in their hands awhile,Till Fidgitt looked up, with a sickly smile,And timidly stammered a first rough plot,Which Whims immediately said was “rot.”They buried their heads in their hands again,Till a notion fluttered in Whims’s brain;He got to the middle, and there he stuck,For Fidgitt declared the plot was “muck.”They argued the point till it came to blows,And Whims hit Fidgitt upon the nose,Then Fidgitt the inkstand seized, and threwAt Whims’s head, which it split in two.Then each in sorrow resumed his seat,And their hands they wrung and their bosoms beat,And presently Fidgitt, his cheeks aflame,With pride declared he’d the hero’s name.It wasn’t a name that Whims would keepAnd he argued till Fidgitt began to weep.So Whims suggested a name instead,And that to another discussion led.They flew at each other like angry cats,They tore their shirts and they crushed their hats;They smashed the table and broke the chairs,And kicked each other right down the stairs.They banged each other against the wall,But made it up in the entrance-hall.They said they would go for a quiet walk,And begin again with a general talk.They talked so loudly in Bedford SquareThat the people about all stopped to stare,And a poor little child from a window fell,In terror at hearing Whims’s yell.They called each other such dreadful namesThat they shocked a couple of aged dames,Who called a bobby to stop the din;He tried and couldn’t, so ran them in.They explained to the sitting magistrateThat they’d only tried to collaborate;But the magistrate said such scenes must cease,So he bound them over to keep the peace.They promised they would, and they’ve got it still,For up to the present the “piece” is nil;But see it finished perhaps we shallWhen they both come out of the hospital.
ONCE on a time ’twas the freak of fateThat Fidgitt and Whims should collaborate,So they sat them down on a midsummer dayTo think of a plot and to write a play.They both shook hands ere the task began,Adopting the Prize Ring’s general plan,And said, “If each other we chance to kill,It isn’t a murder,” with right good will.They buried their heads in their hands awhile,Till Fidgitt looked up, with a sickly smile,And timidly stammered a first rough plot,Which Whims immediately said was “rot.”They buried their heads in their hands again,Till a notion fluttered in Whims’s brain;He got to the middle, and there he stuck,For Fidgitt declared the plot was “muck.”They argued the point till it came to blows,And Whims hit Fidgitt upon the nose,Then Fidgitt the inkstand seized, and threwAt Whims’s head, which it split in two.Then each in sorrow resumed his seat,And their hands they wrung and their bosoms beat,And presently Fidgitt, his cheeks aflame,With pride declared he’d the hero’s name.It wasn’t a name that Whims would keepAnd he argued till Fidgitt began to weep.So Whims suggested a name instead,And that to another discussion led.They flew at each other like angry cats,They tore their shirts and they crushed their hats;They smashed the table and broke the chairs,And kicked each other right down the stairs.They banged each other against the wall,But made it up in the entrance-hall.They said they would go for a quiet walk,And begin again with a general talk.They talked so loudly in Bedford SquareThat the people about all stopped to stare,And a poor little child from a window fell,In terror at hearing Whims’s yell.They called each other such dreadful namesThat they shocked a couple of aged dames,Who called a bobby to stop the din;He tried and couldn’t, so ran them in.They explained to the sitting magistrateThat they’d only tried to collaborate;But the magistrate said such scenes must cease,So he bound them over to keep the peace.They promised they would, and they’ve got it still,For up to the present the “piece” is nil;But see it finished perhaps we shallWhen they both come out of the hospital.
ONCE on a time ’twas the freak of fateThat Fidgitt and Whims should collaborate,So they sat them down on a midsummer dayTo think of a plot and to write a play.
They both shook hands ere the task began,Adopting the Prize Ring’s general plan,And said, “If each other we chance to kill,It isn’t a murder,” with right good will.
They buried their heads in their hands awhile,Till Fidgitt looked up, with a sickly smile,And timidly stammered a first rough plot,Which Whims immediately said was “rot.”
They buried their heads in their hands again,Till a notion fluttered in Whims’s brain;He got to the middle, and there he stuck,For Fidgitt declared the plot was “muck.”
They argued the point till it came to blows,And Whims hit Fidgitt upon the nose,Then Fidgitt the inkstand seized, and threwAt Whims’s head, which it split in two.
Then each in sorrow resumed his seat,And their hands they wrung and their bosoms beat,And presently Fidgitt, his cheeks aflame,With pride declared he’d the hero’s name.
It wasn’t a name that Whims would keepAnd he argued till Fidgitt began to weep.So Whims suggested a name instead,And that to another discussion led.
They flew at each other like angry cats,They tore their shirts and they crushed their hats;They smashed the table and broke the chairs,And kicked each other right down the stairs.
They banged each other against the wall,But made it up in the entrance-hall.They said they would go for a quiet walk,And begin again with a general talk.
They talked so loudly in Bedford SquareThat the people about all stopped to stare,And a poor little child from a window fell,In terror at hearing Whims’s yell.
They called each other such dreadful namesThat they shocked a couple of aged dames,Who called a bobby to stop the din;He tried and couldn’t, so ran them in.
They explained to the sitting magistrateThat they’d only tried to collaborate;But the magistrate said such scenes must cease,So he bound them over to keep the peace.
They promised they would, and they’ve got it still,For up to the present the “piece” is nil;But see it finished perhaps we shallWhen they both come out of the hospital.
MR. Smith, you’re very worried,And your face looks very sad,By the Gladstonites you’re flurried,Their behaviour is so bad;And your liver is affected,And you’re bilious as well,But you need not be dejected,You’ll be sound, sir, as a bellIf you switchback,If you switchback—If you switchback, sir, forthwith.It’s a patented health-giver,It will act upon your liver,If you switchback, Mr. Smith.
MR. Smith, you’re very worried,And your face looks very sad,By the Gladstonites you’re flurried,Their behaviour is so bad;And your liver is affected,And you’re bilious as well,But you need not be dejected,You’ll be sound, sir, as a bellIf you switchback,If you switchback—If you switchback, sir, forthwith.It’s a patented health-giver,It will act upon your liver,If you switchback, Mr. Smith.
MR. Smith, you’re very worried,And your face looks very sad,By the Gladstonites you’re flurried,Their behaviour is so bad;And your liver is affected,And you’re bilious as well,But you need not be dejected,You’ll be sound, sir, as a bellIf you switchback,If you switchback—If you switchback, sir, forthwith.It’s a patented health-giver,It will act upon your liver,If you switchback, Mr. Smith.
MR. D., I’m gay and jolly,And my fingers I can snapAt the Opposition folly,And the Parnellites who yap.I can view the situationWith a calm, contented smile,And, whate’er the aggravation,Keep my temper all the while;For I’ve switchbacked,For I’ve switchbacked—For I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;And that patented health-giverHas, in acting on my liver,Made another man of me.
MR. D., I’m gay and jolly,And my fingers I can snapAt the Opposition folly,And the Parnellites who yap.I can view the situationWith a calm, contented smile,And, whate’er the aggravation,Keep my temper all the while;For I’ve switchbacked,For I’ve switchbacked—For I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;And that patented health-giverHas, in acting on my liver,Made another man of me.
MR. D., I’m gay and jolly,And my fingers I can snapAt the Opposition folly,And the Parnellites who yap.I can view the situationWith a calm, contented smile,And, whate’er the aggravation,Keep my temper all the while;For I’ve switchbacked,For I’ve switchbacked—For I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;And that patented health-giverHas, in acting on my liver,Made another man of me.
HENRY Hawkins, people mutter,That dyspeptic pain at timesIs the cause of words you utterWhen a-sitting upon crimes;When your liver’s wrong, your furyCan no murderer withstand,And you sum up to the juryWith the black cap in your hand.You should switchback,You should switchback;Please, Sir Henry, don’t say “Fudge!”For the switchback it will shake you,Stir your liver up, and make youQuite a nice agreeable judge.
HENRY Hawkins, people mutter,That dyspeptic pain at timesIs the cause of words you utterWhen a-sitting upon crimes;When your liver’s wrong, your furyCan no murderer withstand,And you sum up to the juryWith the black cap in your hand.You should switchback,You should switchback;Please, Sir Henry, don’t say “Fudge!”For the switchback it will shake you,Stir your liver up, and make youQuite a nice agreeable judge.
HENRY Hawkins, people mutter,That dyspeptic pain at timesIs the cause of words you utterWhen a-sitting upon crimes;When your liver’s wrong, your furyCan no murderer withstand,And you sum up to the juryWith the black cap in your hand.You should switchback,You should switchback;Please, Sir Henry, don’t say “Fudge!”For the switchback it will shake you,Stir your liver up, and make youQuite a nice agreeable judge.
MR. D., no more dyspeptic,I am called a kindly man;Of a prisoner’s worth no sceptic,I defend him all I can.My delight and my endeavourIs the jury to restrain,And restore a culprit cleverTo his loving friends again.For I’ve switchbacked,For I’ve switchbacked—Yes, I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;And that patented health-giverHas, in acting on my liver,Made another judge of me.
MR. D., no more dyspeptic,I am called a kindly man;Of a prisoner’s worth no sceptic,I defend him all I can.My delight and my endeavourIs the jury to restrain,And restore a culprit cleverTo his loving friends again.For I’ve switchbacked,For I’ve switchbacked—Yes, I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;And that patented health-giverHas, in acting on my liver,Made another judge of me.
MR. D., no more dyspeptic,I am called a kindly man;Of a prisoner’s worth no sceptic,I defend him all I can.My delight and my endeavourIs the jury to restrain,And restore a culprit cleverTo his loving friends again.For I’ve switchbacked,For I’ve switchbacked—Yes, I’ve switchbacked, Mr. D.;And that patented health-giverHas, in acting on my liver,Made another judge of me.
THERE was once a new-born infant; at the moment of its birthIt became the greatest villain that was ever known on earth.For there wasn’t any item in the catalogue of crimeWhich that babe had not committed in the briefest space of time.When its little peepers opened to their primal ray of lightThey’d a look of dissipation and of being out all night,And, before a score of seconds had passed o’er its infant head,It had, in a fit of passion, kicked its mother out of bed.At a week, a scheme of murder floated through its baby brain,For the monthly nurse, unwisely, had displayed her watch and chain;So he slew her, and he stole them, with an infantile “Ha, ha!”As he managed that suspicion should be cast upon his pa.Then he crowed till he was purple, and his back they had to pat,When the famous Mr. Berry made his pa a new cravat;And when nobody was looking and the hour was nice and still,He secured his father’s papers, and he tampered with the will.He bequeathed himself the mansion, the carriages, and plate,And all the landed property and personal estate.When the law his pa had Berried, with a sly, Satanic mirth,He ante-dated twenty years his “stifficate” of birth.Then at once he took possession, and he told his ma to go,And because she made objections, pushed her out into the snow;She was taken to the workhouse, where her widowed heart soon broke,For she couldn’t stand the skilly, and she turned against the toke.Then this wretched new-born infant, knowing not a parent’s care,Began to blue the property to which he was the heir.Through keeping shady company, he went from bad to worse—He was not the sort of baby that a decent girl could nurse.At law and at morality that wicked baby mocked,He was such a thorough villain that Society was shocked;And it was not much astonished when, before completing three,He had wrecked his constitution and had suffered from d.t.At the age of four a bloated, shattered martyr to the gout,He arsoned so incautiously the Office found him out.To escape a prosecution he committed suicide,And the world has been much better since that little darling died.
THERE was once a new-born infant; at the moment of its birthIt became the greatest villain that was ever known on earth.For there wasn’t any item in the catalogue of crimeWhich that babe had not committed in the briefest space of time.When its little peepers opened to their primal ray of lightThey’d a look of dissipation and of being out all night,And, before a score of seconds had passed o’er its infant head,It had, in a fit of passion, kicked its mother out of bed.At a week, a scheme of murder floated through its baby brain,For the monthly nurse, unwisely, had displayed her watch and chain;So he slew her, and he stole them, with an infantile “Ha, ha!”As he managed that suspicion should be cast upon his pa.Then he crowed till he was purple, and his back they had to pat,When the famous Mr. Berry made his pa a new cravat;And when nobody was looking and the hour was nice and still,He secured his father’s papers, and he tampered with the will.He bequeathed himself the mansion, the carriages, and plate,And all the landed property and personal estate.When the law his pa had Berried, with a sly, Satanic mirth,He ante-dated twenty years his “stifficate” of birth.Then at once he took possession, and he told his ma to go,And because she made objections, pushed her out into the snow;She was taken to the workhouse, where her widowed heart soon broke,For she couldn’t stand the skilly, and she turned against the toke.Then this wretched new-born infant, knowing not a parent’s care,Began to blue the property to which he was the heir.Through keeping shady company, he went from bad to worse—He was not the sort of baby that a decent girl could nurse.At law and at morality that wicked baby mocked,He was such a thorough villain that Society was shocked;And it was not much astonished when, before completing three,He had wrecked his constitution and had suffered from d.t.At the age of four a bloated, shattered martyr to the gout,He arsoned so incautiously the Office found him out.To escape a prosecution he committed suicide,And the world has been much better since that little darling died.
THERE was once a new-born infant; at the moment of its birthIt became the greatest villain that was ever known on earth.For there wasn’t any item in the catalogue of crimeWhich that babe had not committed in the briefest space of time.
When its little peepers opened to their primal ray of lightThey’d a look of dissipation and of being out all night,And, before a score of seconds had passed o’er its infant head,It had, in a fit of passion, kicked its mother out of bed.
At a week, a scheme of murder floated through its baby brain,For the monthly nurse, unwisely, had displayed her watch and chain;So he slew her, and he stole them, with an infantile “Ha, ha!”As he managed that suspicion should be cast upon his pa.
Then he crowed till he was purple, and his back they had to pat,When the famous Mr. Berry made his pa a new cravat;And when nobody was looking and the hour was nice and still,He secured his father’s papers, and he tampered with the will.
He bequeathed himself the mansion, the carriages, and plate,And all the landed property and personal estate.When the law his pa had Berried, with a sly, Satanic mirth,He ante-dated twenty years his “stifficate” of birth.
Then at once he took possession, and he told his ma to go,And because she made objections, pushed her out into the snow;She was taken to the workhouse, where her widowed heart soon broke,For she couldn’t stand the skilly, and she turned against the toke.
Then this wretched new-born infant, knowing not a parent’s care,Began to blue the property to which he was the heir.Through keeping shady company, he went from bad to worse—He was not the sort of baby that a decent girl could nurse.
At law and at morality that wicked baby mocked,He was such a thorough villain that Society was shocked;And it was not much astonished when, before completing three,He had wrecked his constitution and had suffered from d.t.
At the age of four a bloated, shattered martyr to the gout,He arsoned so incautiously the Office found him out.To escape a prosecution he committed suicide,And the world has been much better since that little darling died.
THE Premier sat in the Premier’s chair,And he said to his colleagues assembled there,“The Cabinet meets, as you all are aware,To discuss the momentous button.The time for action has come at last,The French in the tunnel are gathering fast;Now is the time their plans to blast—I am going to touch the button!”He put out his finger to do the deed,But a Minister cried, “We are not agreedThat the country stands in such desperate needOf a touch of that awful button.The tunnel’s a big commercial spec—Just think of the property we shall wreck!There are plenty of ways the foe to check—Let’s try ’em before the button.”And then there arose a big debate,And the Cabinet sat till rather lateBefore they could settle the final fateOf Sir Edward Watkin’s button.They argued con, and they argued pro,Till a message came to let them knowThe Commander-in-Chief was down belowIn a fury about the button.And while the statesmen were still in doubtThe panting duke (he was rather stout)Rushed in, with his brolly blown inside out,And he yelled, “You fools! the button!”In vain did Sir Watkin weep and say—“O, think of the widows and orphans, pray;The finger of fate unless you stay,Their shares won’t be worth a button.”“What are the shares,” fierce Cambridge cried,“To the fall of Britain—the ocean’s pride!”He pushed Sir Watkin, who reeled aside,And placed his thumb on the button.But, alas! for the schemes of men and mice—He pressed it once and he pressed it twice;But his heart stood still and his blood was ice—There was something wrong with the button!The tricolour floats from St. Paul’s to-day,For, led by the General Boulanger,The French have come, and they mean to stay,Now they’ve passed the dangerous button.When out of order it proved to be,The whole French army came through with gleeThat wonderful tunnel beneath the sea—And so much for Sir Watkin’s button!
THE Premier sat in the Premier’s chair,And he said to his colleagues assembled there,“The Cabinet meets, as you all are aware,To discuss the momentous button.The time for action has come at last,The French in the tunnel are gathering fast;Now is the time their plans to blast—I am going to touch the button!”He put out his finger to do the deed,But a Minister cried, “We are not agreedThat the country stands in such desperate needOf a touch of that awful button.The tunnel’s a big commercial spec—Just think of the property we shall wreck!There are plenty of ways the foe to check—Let’s try ’em before the button.”And then there arose a big debate,And the Cabinet sat till rather lateBefore they could settle the final fateOf Sir Edward Watkin’s button.They argued con, and they argued pro,Till a message came to let them knowThe Commander-in-Chief was down belowIn a fury about the button.And while the statesmen were still in doubtThe panting duke (he was rather stout)Rushed in, with his brolly blown inside out,And he yelled, “You fools! the button!”In vain did Sir Watkin weep and say—“O, think of the widows and orphans, pray;The finger of fate unless you stay,Their shares won’t be worth a button.”“What are the shares,” fierce Cambridge cried,“To the fall of Britain—the ocean’s pride!”He pushed Sir Watkin, who reeled aside,And placed his thumb on the button.But, alas! for the schemes of men and mice—He pressed it once and he pressed it twice;But his heart stood still and his blood was ice—There was something wrong with the button!The tricolour floats from St. Paul’s to-day,For, led by the General Boulanger,The French have come, and they mean to stay,Now they’ve passed the dangerous button.When out of order it proved to be,The whole French army came through with gleeThat wonderful tunnel beneath the sea—And so much for Sir Watkin’s button!
THE Premier sat in the Premier’s chair,And he said to his colleagues assembled there,“The Cabinet meets, as you all are aware,To discuss the momentous button.The time for action has come at last,The French in the tunnel are gathering fast;Now is the time their plans to blast—I am going to touch the button!”
He put out his finger to do the deed,But a Minister cried, “We are not agreedThat the country stands in such desperate needOf a touch of that awful button.The tunnel’s a big commercial spec—Just think of the property we shall wreck!There are plenty of ways the foe to check—Let’s try ’em before the button.”
And then there arose a big debate,And the Cabinet sat till rather lateBefore they could settle the final fateOf Sir Edward Watkin’s button.They argued con, and they argued pro,Till a message came to let them knowThe Commander-in-Chief was down belowIn a fury about the button.
And while the statesmen were still in doubtThe panting duke (he was rather stout)Rushed in, with his brolly blown inside out,And he yelled, “You fools! the button!”In vain did Sir Watkin weep and say—“O, think of the widows and orphans, pray;The finger of fate unless you stay,Their shares won’t be worth a button.”
“What are the shares,” fierce Cambridge cried,“To the fall of Britain—the ocean’s pride!”He pushed Sir Watkin, who reeled aside,And placed his thumb on the button.But, alas! for the schemes of men and mice—He pressed it once and he pressed it twice;But his heart stood still and his blood was ice—There was something wrong with the button!
The tricolour floats from St. Paul’s to-day,For, led by the General Boulanger,The French have come, and they mean to stay,Now they’ve passed the dangerous button.When out of order it proved to be,The whole French army came through with gleeThat wonderful tunnel beneath the sea—And so much for Sir Watkin’s button!
Sir Charles Russell: “When you said that jockeys are such d——d thieves, what did you mean?” The Duke of Portland: “It was merely a façon de parler.”
WHEN I say that a race is an infamous ramp,When I say that a man is a terrible scamp,These expressions are not of the genuine stamp,But merely a façon de parler.If my overwrought feelings find vent and reliefIn calling a fellow a thundering thief,You mustn’t conclude that I speak my belief—It’s merely a façon de parler.If I write to a friend on a matter that’s grave,And denounce so-and-so as a rascally knave,You mustn’t regard it as anything saveWhat is known as a façon de parler.And the use of a word which I need not repeatIn no way refers to Plutonian heat;It is always accepted among the éliteAs merely a façon de parler.
WHEN I say that a race is an infamous ramp,When I say that a man is a terrible scamp,These expressions are not of the genuine stamp,But merely a façon de parler.If my overwrought feelings find vent and reliefIn calling a fellow a thundering thief,You mustn’t conclude that I speak my belief—It’s merely a façon de parler.If I write to a friend on a matter that’s grave,And denounce so-and-so as a rascally knave,You mustn’t regard it as anything saveWhat is known as a façon de parler.And the use of a word which I need not repeatIn no way refers to Plutonian heat;It is always accepted among the éliteAs merely a façon de parler.
WHEN I say that a race is an infamous ramp,When I say that a man is a terrible scamp,These expressions are not of the genuine stamp,But merely a façon de parler.If my overwrought feelings find vent and reliefIn calling a fellow a thundering thief,You mustn’t conclude that I speak my belief—It’s merely a façon de parler.
If I write to a friend on a matter that’s grave,And denounce so-and-so as a rascally knave,You mustn’t regard it as anything saveWhat is known as a façon de parler.And the use of a word which I need not repeatIn no way refers to Plutonian heat;It is always accepted among the éliteAs merely a façon de parler.
WE have heard of the Bird by which Roche won renown,The Bird to posterity Boyle handed down,The Bird which the schoolboy who is not a dunceWill remember could be in two places at once;But the Bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat,While we sing of John Jackson’s more wonderful feat.John Jackson has written his commonplace nameIn the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame.A convict, he played with his warder at spoof,Then brained him, and made his escape through the roof;Walked boldly away in a broad-arrow suit,And nobody seems to have noticed his route.None saw him depart, but, as if to atone,He has never gone anywhere since an unknown;All over the kingdom, in less than a week,He has swaggered about with most marvellous cheek,Appearing—no worse for his terrible crime—In Hampstead and Hull at the very same time.He’s been traced to Penzance with a tramp for his pal;At Thurso, when seen, he was treating a gal;At Epsom he passed a flash note in the ring,Backed Ayrshire, and then was again on the wing.Flying north, flying south, if we rumours believe,Reaching Brighton and Glasgow the very same eve.He’s been seen on the switchback, all over the town;At Epping he knocked many cocoanuts down;He has mixed with the parsons at Exeter Hall,And he’ll doubtless be seen at her Majesty’s ball.And he came up to London on purpose to seeThe Princess’s drama, the Something-my-Chree.So Jackson the murderer roams o’er the land—One day in the Highlands, the next in the Strand;Men, women, and children can see at a glanceHe’s the chap who has led the police such a dance.But they scorn to betray him by gesture or look,And are “mum” till the murderer’s taken his hook.O please, dear detectives, who’re still on the track,We know that no skill, no devotion you lack;We know that you’re bound the first moment you canTo collar this wicked and wonderful man.But it’s better to let him go free for six “monce”Than to take him in twenty-five places at once.
WE have heard of the Bird by which Roche won renown,The Bird to posterity Boyle handed down,The Bird which the schoolboy who is not a dunceWill remember could be in two places at once;But the Bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat,While we sing of John Jackson’s more wonderful feat.John Jackson has written his commonplace nameIn the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame.A convict, he played with his warder at spoof,Then brained him, and made his escape through the roof;Walked boldly away in a broad-arrow suit,And nobody seems to have noticed his route.None saw him depart, but, as if to atone,He has never gone anywhere since an unknown;All over the kingdom, in less than a week,He has swaggered about with most marvellous cheek,Appearing—no worse for his terrible crime—In Hampstead and Hull at the very same time.He’s been traced to Penzance with a tramp for his pal;At Thurso, when seen, he was treating a gal;At Epsom he passed a flash note in the ring,Backed Ayrshire, and then was again on the wing.Flying north, flying south, if we rumours believe,Reaching Brighton and Glasgow the very same eve.He’s been seen on the switchback, all over the town;At Epping he knocked many cocoanuts down;He has mixed with the parsons at Exeter Hall,And he’ll doubtless be seen at her Majesty’s ball.And he came up to London on purpose to seeThe Princess’s drama, the Something-my-Chree.So Jackson the murderer roams o’er the land—One day in the Highlands, the next in the Strand;Men, women, and children can see at a glanceHe’s the chap who has led the police such a dance.But they scorn to betray him by gesture or look,And are “mum” till the murderer’s taken his hook.O please, dear detectives, who’re still on the track,We know that no skill, no devotion you lack;We know that you’re bound the first moment you canTo collar this wicked and wonderful man.But it’s better to let him go free for six “monce”Than to take him in twenty-five places at once.
WE have heard of the Bird by which Roche won renown,The Bird to posterity Boyle handed down,The Bird which the schoolboy who is not a dunceWill remember could be in two places at once;But the Bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat,While we sing of John Jackson’s more wonderful feat.
John Jackson has written his commonplace nameIn the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame.A convict, he played with his warder at spoof,Then brained him, and made his escape through the roof;Walked boldly away in a broad-arrow suit,And nobody seems to have noticed his route.
None saw him depart, but, as if to atone,He has never gone anywhere since an unknown;All over the kingdom, in less than a week,He has swaggered about with most marvellous cheek,Appearing—no worse for his terrible crime—In Hampstead and Hull at the very same time.
He’s been traced to Penzance with a tramp for his pal;At Thurso, when seen, he was treating a gal;At Epsom he passed a flash note in the ring,Backed Ayrshire, and then was again on the wing.Flying north, flying south, if we rumours believe,Reaching Brighton and Glasgow the very same eve.
He’s been seen on the switchback, all over the town;At Epping he knocked many cocoanuts down;He has mixed with the parsons at Exeter Hall,And he’ll doubtless be seen at her Majesty’s ball.And he came up to London on purpose to seeThe Princess’s drama, the Something-my-Chree.
So Jackson the murderer roams o’er the land—One day in the Highlands, the next in the Strand;Men, women, and children can see at a glanceHe’s the chap who has led the police such a dance.But they scorn to betray him by gesture or look,And are “mum” till the murderer’s taken his hook.
O please, dear detectives, who’re still on the track,We know that no skill, no devotion you lack;We know that you’re bound the first moment you canTo collar this wicked and wonderful man.But it’s better to let him go free for six “monce”Than to take him in twenty-five places at once.
MY house was in flames, and the smoke and the heatBy the staircase, I found, would prevent my retreat;So I rushed to the window and opened it wide,And I shouted for help that I might not be fried.The window was many a foot from the ground.The people came running and gathered around;They asked me to jump, but I smiled and I said,“The pavement is rather too hard for my head.”My plans soon assuming a definite shape,I said I would wait while they fetched the escape.They went off to find it, but came back to shoutThat it wasn’t the time for escapes to be out.“I am burning,” I cried; “I am stifled with smoke;If you don’t get me out I shall certainly choke.Go tell the brave fellows who guard us from fireTo bring the escape, or I’m bound to expire.”They went off again, and each man did his best—They scoured the east and they scoured the west;But wherever they went the result was the same—I was left to the mercy of smoke and of flame.They borrowed long ladders and a blanket and sheet,Then they asked me to jump about fifty-two feet;But, objecting to dash out my brains on the stone,I could only reply with a shriek and a groan.The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room,And I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom;One last look I gave, but escape saw I none—The men were off duty, their work being done.* * * *My cinders together they carefully swept,The Press were indignant, my relatives wept;But I, who have passed to a sphere far away,Am able the blame at the right door to lay.No blame must attach to the gallant Brigade,Overworked and—I’m sorry to say—underpaid;And I fail to discover a weakness or flawIn the rules as laid down by our brave Captain Shaw.No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire,But the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire,Which chose to break out, to its shame be it said,At a time when the firemen had gone home to bed.
MY house was in flames, and the smoke and the heatBy the staircase, I found, would prevent my retreat;So I rushed to the window and opened it wide,And I shouted for help that I might not be fried.The window was many a foot from the ground.The people came running and gathered around;They asked me to jump, but I smiled and I said,“The pavement is rather too hard for my head.”My plans soon assuming a definite shape,I said I would wait while they fetched the escape.They went off to find it, but came back to shoutThat it wasn’t the time for escapes to be out.“I am burning,” I cried; “I am stifled with smoke;If you don’t get me out I shall certainly choke.Go tell the brave fellows who guard us from fireTo bring the escape, or I’m bound to expire.”They went off again, and each man did his best—They scoured the east and they scoured the west;But wherever they went the result was the same—I was left to the mercy of smoke and of flame.They borrowed long ladders and a blanket and sheet,Then they asked me to jump about fifty-two feet;But, objecting to dash out my brains on the stone,I could only reply with a shriek and a groan.The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room,And I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom;One last look I gave, but escape saw I none—The men were off duty, their work being done.* * * *My cinders together they carefully swept,The Press were indignant, my relatives wept;But I, who have passed to a sphere far away,Am able the blame at the right door to lay.No blame must attach to the gallant Brigade,Overworked and—I’m sorry to say—underpaid;And I fail to discover a weakness or flawIn the rules as laid down by our brave Captain Shaw.No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire,But the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire,Which chose to break out, to its shame be it said,At a time when the firemen had gone home to bed.
MY house was in flames, and the smoke and the heatBy the staircase, I found, would prevent my retreat;So I rushed to the window and opened it wide,And I shouted for help that I might not be fried.
The window was many a foot from the ground.The people came running and gathered around;They asked me to jump, but I smiled and I said,“The pavement is rather too hard for my head.”
My plans soon assuming a definite shape,I said I would wait while they fetched the escape.They went off to find it, but came back to shoutThat it wasn’t the time for escapes to be out.
“I am burning,” I cried; “I am stifled with smoke;If you don’t get me out I shall certainly choke.Go tell the brave fellows who guard us from fireTo bring the escape, or I’m bound to expire.”
They went off again, and each man did his best—They scoured the east and they scoured the west;But wherever they went the result was the same—I was left to the mercy of smoke and of flame.
They borrowed long ladders and a blanket and sheet,Then they asked me to jump about fifty-two feet;But, objecting to dash out my brains on the stone,I could only reply with a shriek and a groan.
The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room,And I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom;One last look I gave, but escape saw I none—The men were off duty, their work being done.* * * *My cinders together they carefully swept,The Press were indignant, my relatives wept;But I, who have passed to a sphere far away,Am able the blame at the right door to lay.
No blame must attach to the gallant Brigade,Overworked and—I’m sorry to say—underpaid;And I fail to discover a weakness or flawIn the rules as laid down by our brave Captain Shaw.
No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire,But the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire,Which chose to break out, to its shame be it said,At a time when the firemen had gone home to bed.
THE Act of Sir John had been passed by the State,And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight;The desolate streets were denuded of light,And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright.The widow, whose poor little shop was her all,A tear on the shroud she was making let fall.One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead,And another was dying, the doctor had said.Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw—She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law;Her trade was all done with the people, you see,Who only at seven or eight are set free.So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came,She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name;For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns,If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains.No matter that she by herself did the trade,And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid;The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate,A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight.To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well,How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell,And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread,Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead.Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow—O God!—To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod,To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave,And free Britons load with the chains of the slave!Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand—She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the landForbids the poor widow to sell—it’s too late;The curfew has tolled—it’s a minute past eight.But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out;The poor widow weeps—the police are about;But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime,But shesells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time.She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy,When a bobby pops in—a mere bit of a boy—And exclaims, “All right, missis, I’ve copped you at last;I’ve been watching the place for a week or two past.”She is summoned and fined—O, just think of her sins!—She had sold a young woman a packet of pins,Some paper, some envelopes, and—O, the crime!—A Bible and Prayer-book, and all after time!The widow is ruined, her stock seized for debtShe is sent to the workhouse; the shop is to let.Let all honest widows be warned by her fate—How dared she do work at a minute past eight!O Lubbock, when moving your merciless Bill,You exclaimed, in a voice that made Westminster thrill,“What crimes are committed in Liberty’s name!”—“InHumanity’s” surely you meant to exclaim.
THE Act of Sir John had been passed by the State,And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight;The desolate streets were denuded of light,And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright.The widow, whose poor little shop was her all,A tear on the shroud she was making let fall.One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead,And another was dying, the doctor had said.Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw—She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law;Her trade was all done with the people, you see,Who only at seven or eight are set free.So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came,She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name;For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns,If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains.No matter that she by herself did the trade,And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid;The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate,A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight.To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well,How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell,And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread,Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead.Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow—O God!—To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod,To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave,And free Britons load with the chains of the slave!Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand—She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the landForbids the poor widow to sell—it’s too late;The curfew has tolled—it’s a minute past eight.But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out;The poor widow weeps—the police are about;But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime,But shesells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time.She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy,When a bobby pops in—a mere bit of a boy—And exclaims, “All right, missis, I’ve copped you at last;I’ve been watching the place for a week or two past.”She is summoned and fined—O, just think of her sins!—She had sold a young woman a packet of pins,Some paper, some envelopes, and—O, the crime!—A Bible and Prayer-book, and all after time!The widow is ruined, her stock seized for debtShe is sent to the workhouse; the shop is to let.Let all honest widows be warned by her fate—How dared she do work at a minute past eight!O Lubbock, when moving your merciless Bill,You exclaimed, in a voice that made Westminster thrill,“What crimes are committed in Liberty’s name!”—“InHumanity’s” surely you meant to exclaim.
THE Act of Sir John had been passed by the State,And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight;The desolate streets were denuded of light,And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright.
The widow, whose poor little shop was her all,A tear on the shroud she was making let fall.One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead,And another was dying, the doctor had said.
Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw—She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law;Her trade was all done with the people, you see,Who only at seven or eight are set free.
So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came,She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name;For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns,If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains.
No matter that she by herself did the trade,And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid;The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate,A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight.
To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well,How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell,And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread,Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead.
Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow—O God!—To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod,To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave,And free Britons load with the chains of the slave!
Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand—She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the landForbids the poor widow to sell—it’s too late;The curfew has tolled—it’s a minute past eight.
But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out;The poor widow weeps—the police are about;But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime,But shesells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time.
She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy,When a bobby pops in—a mere bit of a boy—And exclaims, “All right, missis, I’ve copped you at last;I’ve been watching the place for a week or two past.”
She is summoned and fined—O, just think of her sins!—She had sold a young woman a packet of pins,Some paper, some envelopes, and—O, the crime!—A Bible and Prayer-book, and all after time!
The widow is ruined, her stock seized for debtShe is sent to the workhouse; the shop is to let.Let all honest widows be warned by her fate—How dared she do work at a minute past eight!
O Lubbock, when moving your merciless Bill,You exclaimed, in a voice that made Westminster thrill,“What crimes are committed in Liberty’s name!”—“InHumanity’s” surely you meant to exclaim.
THE sweetest joy for him on earthWas not the Menad’s maddened mirth,For him no subtle joyance hidThe blood-feast of the Bassarid;But when unto the village green,The Strephons came with modest mien,And bashful Chloes there would steal,He gaily danced a Highland reel.The manor’s lord—he knew not why—His cards bore only plain “Sir Guy”;Nor had he e’er been known to claim,In peace or war, another name.Of noble blood and ancient race,Of lissom limb and florid face,He scorned his rent-roll, though ’twas big,And revelled in the Irish jig.Of Irish blood and Scotch descent,New grace to jig and reel he lent;But, being British to the core,He would not England’s dance ignore.So, when his tenants flocked aroundTo see him nimbly twist and bound.Before he blessed them and withdrew,He always danced a hornpipe too.From youth to manhood, day by day,Sir Guy would dance the years away,Beloved by all he lived among,The grave and gay, the old and young;Performing for the common wealThe jig, the hornpipe, and the reel.And these he might be dancing yet,Had he not made a foolish bet.It happened thus. To ArcadeeThere came one day a young M.P.Who sneered, when flushed with beer and wine,At all things human and Divine.He joined the crowd upon the green,Assumed a supercilious mien,And when Sir Guy had done, he said,“A kid could lick him on its head.”The crowd drew back in sudden awe,Which, when the sneering stranger saw,He flung his glove upon the ground,And cried, “Sir Guy, a thousand poundI’ll bet you that you cannot danceA little thing I saw in France:Its English name’s the Rigadoon.”Sir Guy replied, “Good-afternoon.”The tenants eyed their lord askance—There was a step he could not dance!For jigs and reels they did not care,And said the hornpipe they could spare.Sir Guy exclaimed, while tears he wept,“The situation I accept;I’ll win that thousand of the loon,And you shall have your Rigadoon.”With saddened face and humbled head,To foreign shores the dancer fled—And haunted France’s village greens,And gay guinguettes and lowly scenes,He learned “Ça Ira” how to troll,He learned the curious Carmagnole;He found the can-can very soon,But could not find the Rigadoon.* * * *ºA wanderer from a foreign strandOne summer reached his native land,He sought the green of days gone by,But no one recognised Sir Guy.A crowd came up—he gave a bound—Cried, “See me win the thousand pound!Behold! my friends, this afternoonYour lord will dance a Rigadoon!”He danced his dance with pride and glee,But silence fell on Arcadee.The tenants frowned, and looked askance,They called it an improper dance,And begged he would at once desist,As Mr. Burns, the Socialist,Required the ground that afternoon,They didn’t want “no Rigadoon”!
THE sweetest joy for him on earthWas not the Menad’s maddened mirth,For him no subtle joyance hidThe blood-feast of the Bassarid;But when unto the village green,The Strephons came with modest mien,And bashful Chloes there would steal,He gaily danced a Highland reel.The manor’s lord—he knew not why—His cards bore only plain “Sir Guy”;Nor had he e’er been known to claim,In peace or war, another name.Of noble blood and ancient race,Of lissom limb and florid face,He scorned his rent-roll, though ’twas big,And revelled in the Irish jig.Of Irish blood and Scotch descent,New grace to jig and reel he lent;But, being British to the core,He would not England’s dance ignore.So, when his tenants flocked aroundTo see him nimbly twist and bound.Before he blessed them and withdrew,He always danced a hornpipe too.From youth to manhood, day by day,Sir Guy would dance the years away,Beloved by all he lived among,The grave and gay, the old and young;Performing for the common wealThe jig, the hornpipe, and the reel.And these he might be dancing yet,Had he not made a foolish bet.It happened thus. To ArcadeeThere came one day a young M.P.Who sneered, when flushed with beer and wine,At all things human and Divine.He joined the crowd upon the green,Assumed a supercilious mien,And when Sir Guy had done, he said,“A kid could lick him on its head.”The crowd drew back in sudden awe,Which, when the sneering stranger saw,He flung his glove upon the ground,And cried, “Sir Guy, a thousand poundI’ll bet you that you cannot danceA little thing I saw in France:Its English name’s the Rigadoon.”Sir Guy replied, “Good-afternoon.”The tenants eyed their lord askance—There was a step he could not dance!For jigs and reels they did not care,And said the hornpipe they could spare.Sir Guy exclaimed, while tears he wept,“The situation I accept;I’ll win that thousand of the loon,And you shall have your Rigadoon.”With saddened face and humbled head,To foreign shores the dancer fled—And haunted France’s village greens,And gay guinguettes and lowly scenes,He learned “Ça Ira” how to troll,He learned the curious Carmagnole;He found the can-can very soon,But could not find the Rigadoon.* * * *ºA wanderer from a foreign strandOne summer reached his native land,He sought the green of days gone by,But no one recognised Sir Guy.A crowd came up—he gave a bound—Cried, “See me win the thousand pound!Behold! my friends, this afternoonYour lord will dance a Rigadoon!”He danced his dance with pride and glee,But silence fell on Arcadee.The tenants frowned, and looked askance,They called it an improper dance,And begged he would at once desist,As Mr. Burns, the Socialist,Required the ground that afternoon,They didn’t want “no Rigadoon”!
THE sweetest joy for him on earthWas not the Menad’s maddened mirth,For him no subtle joyance hidThe blood-feast of the Bassarid;But when unto the village green,The Strephons came with modest mien,And bashful Chloes there would steal,He gaily danced a Highland reel.
The manor’s lord—he knew not why—His cards bore only plain “Sir Guy”;Nor had he e’er been known to claim,In peace or war, another name.Of noble blood and ancient race,Of lissom limb and florid face,He scorned his rent-roll, though ’twas big,And revelled in the Irish jig.
Of Irish blood and Scotch descent,New grace to jig and reel he lent;But, being British to the core,He would not England’s dance ignore.So, when his tenants flocked aroundTo see him nimbly twist and bound.Before he blessed them and withdrew,He always danced a hornpipe too.
From youth to manhood, day by day,Sir Guy would dance the years away,Beloved by all he lived among,The grave and gay, the old and young;Performing for the common wealThe jig, the hornpipe, and the reel.And these he might be dancing yet,Had he not made a foolish bet.
It happened thus. To ArcadeeThere came one day a young M.P.Who sneered, when flushed with beer and wine,At all things human and Divine.He joined the crowd upon the green,Assumed a supercilious mien,And when Sir Guy had done, he said,“A kid could lick him on its head.”
The crowd drew back in sudden awe,Which, when the sneering stranger saw,He flung his glove upon the ground,And cried, “Sir Guy, a thousand poundI’ll bet you that you cannot danceA little thing I saw in France:Its English name’s the Rigadoon.”Sir Guy replied, “Good-afternoon.”
The tenants eyed their lord askance—There was a step he could not dance!For jigs and reels they did not care,And said the hornpipe they could spare.Sir Guy exclaimed, while tears he wept,“The situation I accept;I’ll win that thousand of the loon,And you shall have your Rigadoon.”
With saddened face and humbled head,To foreign shores the dancer fled—And haunted France’s village greens,And gay guinguettes and lowly scenes,He learned “Ça Ira” how to troll,He learned the curious Carmagnole;He found the can-can very soon,But could not find the Rigadoon.
* * * *º
A wanderer from a foreign strandOne summer reached his native land,He sought the green of days gone by,But no one recognised Sir Guy.A crowd came up—he gave a bound—Cried, “See me win the thousand pound!Behold! my friends, this afternoonYour lord will dance a Rigadoon!”
He danced his dance with pride and glee,But silence fell on Arcadee.The tenants frowned, and looked askance,They called it an improper dance,And begged he would at once desist,As Mr. Burns, the Socialist,Required the ground that afternoon,They didn’t want “no Rigadoon”!
The young M.P. had run in debt,Was “broke,” and could not pay his bet.The natives jeered the twists and turns,And spurned their squire for Mr. Burns.This proves how mad we are to roamIn search of steps too far from home;Prize British dances as a boon,And leave the French their Rigadoon.
The young M.P. had run in debt,Was “broke,” and could not pay his bet.The natives jeered the twists and turns,And spurned their squire for Mr. Burns.This proves how mad we are to roamIn search of steps too far from home;Prize British dances as a boon,And leave the French their Rigadoon.
The young M.P. had run in debt,Was “broke,” and could not pay his bet.The natives jeered the twists and turns,And spurned their squire for Mr. Burns.This proves how mad we are to roamIn search of steps too far from home;Prize British dances as a boon,And leave the French their Rigadoon.
YOU start with a murder and somebody’s killed—For the public still dearly delight to be thrilled.You make it a mystery—nobody knowsWho gave John Tregennith those terrible blows.Since jealousy’s always a motive for crime,Your heroine’s loved by two men at a time—Poor John, who has gone where the good niggers go,And big Ethelbert Brown, who was always his foe.It is Ethelbert Brown who is charged with the deed;There’s a flaw in the evidence—Ethelbert’s freed.Then he parts with his sweetheart—a heartrending scene—For she vows that John’s body their love lies between;And ne’er, till it’s proved to the world far and wideWho committed the deed, will sweet Grace be a bride.So heavenward Ethelbert raises his eyesAnd swears he will prove it, and then claim his prize.Now, Ethelbert’s mother has views of her own,For she once found Miss Grace and Tregennith alone;They were both much excited—discussion ran high;But the good dame dissembled, not wishing to pry.Yet when Ethelbert goes his mamma stays behind,One awful—one dreadful idea on her mind.By her boy’s own affianced she thinks John was slain,But she daren’t tell her darling—’twould cause him such pain.From a half-witted servant the son gets a clue—The half-witted servant is known as “Mad Hugh.”But the story he tells blanches Ethelbert’s hair—On the night of the murder his mother was there.It seems she suspected his sweetheart and John,In the words of “Mad Hugh,” “were a-carrying on.”In her anger maternal she picked up a knife,And her boy’s hated rival departed this life.In the mansion paternal Grace lives with her dad,But her face once so sunny grows sallow and sad,For she thinks it a moral, from facts which transpire,Johndidfall a victim to Ethelbert’s ire.So now you’ve the mother suspecting Miss G.,And the son half persuaded ’twas old Mrs. B.;While Miss G. feels convinced that the claret was spiltBy her lover, who some day must swing for his guilt.You pile up the agony now to the end,And you’ve three loving bosoms with anguish to rend;If skilfully handled your plot will mislead,Till in turn the fogged reader thinks each did the deed.Then, when you have given your “harrowing” scope,You bring the brave hero right under the ropeBut just as his lordship assumes the black cap,You come to a startling dénouement, ker-slap.The half-witted servant comes in with a rush—There’s a hubbub in court, then a hum, then a hush;And the idiot explains—and gives proof that he’s right—Thathedid the murder himself, out of spite.Now you wind up your story with weddings and glee,And the young married couple hug old Mrs. B.Then you put in three stars, to show time has flown past,And you drop in some babies in chapter the last.
YOU start with a murder and somebody’s killed—For the public still dearly delight to be thrilled.You make it a mystery—nobody knowsWho gave John Tregennith those terrible blows.Since jealousy’s always a motive for crime,Your heroine’s loved by two men at a time—Poor John, who has gone where the good niggers go,And big Ethelbert Brown, who was always his foe.It is Ethelbert Brown who is charged with the deed;There’s a flaw in the evidence—Ethelbert’s freed.Then he parts with his sweetheart—a heartrending scene—For she vows that John’s body their love lies between;And ne’er, till it’s proved to the world far and wideWho committed the deed, will sweet Grace be a bride.So heavenward Ethelbert raises his eyesAnd swears he will prove it, and then claim his prize.Now, Ethelbert’s mother has views of her own,For she once found Miss Grace and Tregennith alone;They were both much excited—discussion ran high;But the good dame dissembled, not wishing to pry.Yet when Ethelbert goes his mamma stays behind,One awful—one dreadful idea on her mind.By her boy’s own affianced she thinks John was slain,But she daren’t tell her darling—’twould cause him such pain.From a half-witted servant the son gets a clue—The half-witted servant is known as “Mad Hugh.”But the story he tells blanches Ethelbert’s hair—On the night of the murder his mother was there.It seems she suspected his sweetheart and John,In the words of “Mad Hugh,” “were a-carrying on.”In her anger maternal she picked up a knife,And her boy’s hated rival departed this life.In the mansion paternal Grace lives with her dad,But her face once so sunny grows sallow and sad,For she thinks it a moral, from facts which transpire,Johndidfall a victim to Ethelbert’s ire.So now you’ve the mother suspecting Miss G.,And the son half persuaded ’twas old Mrs. B.;While Miss G. feels convinced that the claret was spiltBy her lover, who some day must swing for his guilt.You pile up the agony now to the end,And you’ve three loving bosoms with anguish to rend;If skilfully handled your plot will mislead,Till in turn the fogged reader thinks each did the deed.Then, when you have given your “harrowing” scope,You bring the brave hero right under the ropeBut just as his lordship assumes the black cap,You come to a startling dénouement, ker-slap.The half-witted servant comes in with a rush—There’s a hubbub in court, then a hum, then a hush;And the idiot explains—and gives proof that he’s right—Thathedid the murder himself, out of spite.Now you wind up your story with weddings and glee,And the young married couple hug old Mrs. B.Then you put in three stars, to show time has flown past,And you drop in some babies in chapter the last.
YOU start with a murder and somebody’s killed—For the public still dearly delight to be thrilled.You make it a mystery—nobody knowsWho gave John Tregennith those terrible blows.Since jealousy’s always a motive for crime,Your heroine’s loved by two men at a time—Poor John, who has gone where the good niggers go,And big Ethelbert Brown, who was always his foe.
It is Ethelbert Brown who is charged with the deed;There’s a flaw in the evidence—Ethelbert’s freed.Then he parts with his sweetheart—a heartrending scene—For she vows that John’s body their love lies between;And ne’er, till it’s proved to the world far and wideWho committed the deed, will sweet Grace be a bride.So heavenward Ethelbert raises his eyesAnd swears he will prove it, and then claim his prize.
Now, Ethelbert’s mother has views of her own,For she once found Miss Grace and Tregennith alone;They were both much excited—discussion ran high;But the good dame dissembled, not wishing to pry.Yet when Ethelbert goes his mamma stays behind,One awful—one dreadful idea on her mind.By her boy’s own affianced she thinks John was slain,But she daren’t tell her darling—’twould cause him such pain.
From a half-witted servant the son gets a clue—The half-witted servant is known as “Mad Hugh.”But the story he tells blanches Ethelbert’s hair—On the night of the murder his mother was there.It seems she suspected his sweetheart and John,In the words of “Mad Hugh,” “were a-carrying on.”In her anger maternal she picked up a knife,And her boy’s hated rival departed this life.
In the mansion paternal Grace lives with her dad,But her face once so sunny grows sallow and sad,For she thinks it a moral, from facts which transpire,Johndidfall a victim to Ethelbert’s ire.So now you’ve the mother suspecting Miss G.,And the son half persuaded ’twas old Mrs. B.;While Miss G. feels convinced that the claret was spiltBy her lover, who some day must swing for his guilt.
You pile up the agony now to the end,And you’ve three loving bosoms with anguish to rend;If skilfully handled your plot will mislead,Till in turn the fogged reader thinks each did the deed.Then, when you have given your “harrowing” scope,You bring the brave hero right under the ropeBut just as his lordship assumes the black cap,You come to a startling dénouement, ker-slap.
The half-witted servant comes in with a rush—There’s a hubbub in court, then a hum, then a hush;And the idiot explains—and gives proof that he’s right—Thathedid the murder himself, out of spite.Now you wind up your story with weddings and glee,And the young married couple hug old Mrs. B.Then you put in three stars, to show time has flown past,And you drop in some babies in chapter the last.