The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDagonet Ditties

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDagonet DittiesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Dagonet DittiesAuthor: George R. SimsRelease date: November 7, 2018 [eBook #58246]Most recently updated: January 24, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, deaurider and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAGONET DITTIES ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Dagonet DittiesAuthor: George R. SimsRelease date: November 7, 2018 [eBook #58246]Most recently updated: January 24, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Chuck Greif, deaurider and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

Title: Dagonet Ditties

Author: George R. Sims

Release date: November 7, 2018 [eBook #58246]Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chuck Greif, deaurider and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAGONET DITTIES ***

DAGONET DITTIES

WORKS BY GEORGE R. SIMS.Post 8vo., illustrated boards,2s.each; cloth limp,2s. 6d.each.ROGUES AND VAGABONDS.THE RING O’ BELLS.MARY JANE’S MEMOIRS.MARY JANE MARRIED.TALES OF TO-DAY.DRAMAS OF LIFE.With 60 Illustrations.TINKLETOP’S CRIME.With a Frontispiece byMaurice Greiffenhagen.Crown 8vo., picture cover,1s.each; cloth,1s. 6d.each.HOW THE POOR LIVE; andHORRIBLE LONDON.THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER: being Readings and Recitations in Prose and Verse, selected from his own Works byGeorge R. Sims.THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS.London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, Piccadilly, W.

WORKS BY GEORGE R. SIMS.

Post 8vo., illustrated boards,2s.each; cloth limp,2s. 6d.each.

ROGUES AND VAGABONDS.

THE RING O’ BELLS.

MARY JANE’S MEMOIRS.

MARY JANE MARRIED.

TALES OF TO-DAY.

DRAMAS OF LIFE.With 60 Illustrations.

TINKLETOP’S CRIME.With a Frontispiece byMaurice Greiffenhagen.

Crown 8vo., picture cover,1s.each; cloth,1s. 6d.each.

HOW THE POOR LIVE; andHORRIBLE LONDON.

THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER: being Readings and Recitations in Prose and Verse, selected from his own Works byGeorge R. Sims.

THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS.

London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, Piccadilly, W.

[FROM ‘THE REFEREE’]BYG E O R G E R. S I M SAUTHOR OF ‘HOW THE POOR LIVE,’ ‘ROGUES AND VAGABONDS,’ ETC.SECOND EDITIONLondonCHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY1891

THE smoke in vaster volumes rolls,The fever fiend takes larger tolls,And sin a fiercer grip of souls,In London day by day.Still Buggins builds on swampy site,And Eiffel houses block the light,And make a town of dreadful nightOf London day by day.In fashion’s long and busy street,The outcast foreign harlots meet,While Robert smiles upon his beat,In London day by day.Still modest maidens’ cheeks are stungWith foulest words from wanton’s tongue,And oaths yelled out with leathern lung,In London day by day.Wealth riots in a mad excess,While thousands, poor and penniless,Starve in the mighty wilderness,Of London day by day.Wrong proudly rears its wicked head,While Right’s sad eyes with tears are red,And sluggard Justice lies abed,In London day by day.The liar triumphs, and the knaveRides buoyant on the rolling wave,And Liberty makes many a slaveIn London day by day.Yet Hope and Trust and Faith and Love,And God’s fair dowers from above,Still find a branch, like Noah’s dove,In London day by day.And onward still, though slow the pace,Press pilgrims of our grand old race,Who seek the Right with firm-set face,And shed Truth’s light by God’s good graceO’er London day by day.

THE smoke in vaster volumes rolls,The fever fiend takes larger tolls,And sin a fiercer grip of souls,In London day by day.

Still Buggins builds on swampy site,And Eiffel houses block the light,And make a town of dreadful nightOf London day by day.

In fashion’s long and busy street,The outcast foreign harlots meet,While Robert smiles upon his beat,In London day by day.

Still modest maidens’ cheeks are stungWith foulest words from wanton’s tongue,And oaths yelled out with leathern lung,In London day by day.

Wealth riots in a mad excess,While thousands, poor and penniless,Starve in the mighty wilderness,Of London day by day.

Wrong proudly rears its wicked head,While Right’s sad eyes with tears are red,And sluggard Justice lies abed,In London day by day.

The liar triumphs, and the knaveRides buoyant on the rolling wave,And Liberty makes many a slaveIn London day by day.

Yet Hope and Trust and Faith and Love,And God’s fair dowers from above,Still find a branch, like Noah’s dove,In London day by day.

And onward still, though slow the pace,Press pilgrims of our grand old race,Who seek the Right with firm-set face,And shed Truth’s light by God’s good graceO’er London day by day.

ISAID to my sweet in the morning,“We must start on our journey at ten”—She was up in her bedroom adorning,She’d been there a goodish time then;And she answered me tenderly, “Poppet,”As she came to the top of the stair,“If you see a cab pass you can stop it,For I’ve only to finish my hair.”It was ten by the clock of St. Stephen’sAs I sat and looked glum in the hall,And I offered to wager her evensShe would never be ready at all.I counted the half and the quarters—At eleven I ventured to swear;Then she answered, like one of Eve’s daughters,“All right, dear—Imustdo my hair.”I waited till daylight was waning,I waited till darkness began,Upbraiding myself for complainingLike a selfish and bad-tempered man.But when midnight rang out from the steepleI ventured to whisper a prayer,And she answered, “I hate surly people;Youmustlet me finish my hair!”I paid for the cab and dismissed it,I took off my coat and my hat,I held her fair hand and I kissed it,And I curled myself up on the mat.And when I awoke on the morrow,I cried, “Oh, where art thou, my fair?”And she answered, “Oh, run out and borrowA hairpin or two for my hair.”The summers have faded to winters,The winters have melted to springs;My patience is shivered to splinters,And still, as she “puts on her things,”My sweet, though I’m weary of waiting,And groan in my bitter despair,Contents herself simply by stating“She’s just got to finish her hair.”If she’s here when the world’s at its finish,And lists to the last crack of doom,She will watch our poor planet diminishFrom the window upstairs in her room.And when the last trumpet is blowing,And the angel says, “Hurry up, there!”She will answer, “All right, sir, I’m going,But youmustlet me finish my hair!”

It was ten by the clock of St. Stephen’sAs I sat and looked glum in the hall,And I offered to wager her evensShe would never be ready at all.I counted the half and the quarters—At eleven I ventured to swear;Then she answered, like one of Eve’s daughters,“All right, dear—Imustdo my hair.”

I waited till daylight was waning,I waited till darkness began,Upbraiding myself for complainingLike a selfish and bad-tempered man.But when midnight rang out from the steepleI ventured to whisper a prayer,And she answered, “I hate surly people;Youmustlet me finish my hair!”

I paid for the cab and dismissed it,I took off my coat and my hat,I held her fair hand and I kissed it,And I curled myself up on the mat.And when I awoke on the morrow,I cried, “Oh, where art thou, my fair?”And she answered, “Oh, run out and borrowA hairpin or two for my hair.”

The summers have faded to winters,The winters have melted to springs;My patience is shivered to splinters,And still, as she “puts on her things,”My sweet, though I’m weary of waiting,And groan in my bitter despair,Contents herself simply by stating“She’s just got to finish her hair.”

If she’s here when the world’s at its finish,And lists to the last crack of doom,She will watch our poor planet diminishFrom the window upstairs in her room.And when the last trumpet is blowing,And the angel says, “Hurry up, there!”She will answer, “All right, sir, I’m going,But youmustlet me finish my hair!”

THE artist was out on the stormy seas,When his vessel turned upside down,And his body was blown by the autumn breezeTo the shores of a seaside town.The fisher-folk spied him miles away,And, raising a hearty cheer,They rowed the lifeboat across the bay,And shouted that help was near.The artist had sunk for the second time,He’d a shark on his starboard tack,But he looked on the boat with a look sublime,And he told them to take it back.“My bones may bleach in the mermaid’s cave,But to art will I e’er be true,And never a man my life shall saveIn a boat of that vulgar blue.”They found his body at break of day,It lay on the briny beach,But he soon got better and stole awayTo the house of a local leech.He took a draught, and he went to bedIn a garret that was to spare;And when he awoke his host had fled,For the place had begun to flare.He was up in a garret against the sky,And a fire had broken out,The flames about him were broad and high,And he heard the people shout.“Oh, come to the window!” the people cried,As they bellowed a mighty cheer;“You’d better come down before you’re fried,For the fire-escape is here.”He opened the casement wide, and reeledBack through the flame and smoke—For the fire-escape the light revealed—And then to the crowd he spoke:“I’ll leap in the jaws of the flames that gape,For I’d rather be picked up deadThan save my life in a fire-escapeThat is painted a vulgar red.”They gathered him up with a broom and panFrom the pavement where he fell,And they sent for the undertaker’s man,And they toll’d him a passing bell.They gave him a funeral plain but good,And out of the local purseThey bought him a coffin of polished wood,Which they put in a pair-horse hearse.But the artist-spirit in death was strong,And it lifted the coffin-lidWhile the horses lazily jogged along,And out of the hearse it slid.It raised its body and yelled a curse,And it shouted and cried “Alack!I’m blest if I ride in a beastly hearseThat is painted a vulgar black.”

The artist had sunk for the second time,He’d a shark on his starboard tack,But he looked on the boat with a look sublime,And he told them to take it back.“My bones may bleach in the mermaid’s cave,But to art will I e’er be true,And never a man my life shall saveIn a boat of that vulgar blue.”

They found his body at break of day,It lay on the briny beach,But he soon got better and stole awayTo the house of a local leech.He took a draught, and he went to bedIn a garret that was to spare;And when he awoke his host had fled,For the place had begun to flare.

He was up in a garret against the sky,And a fire had broken out,The flames about him were broad and high,And he heard the people shout.“Oh, come to the window!” the people cried,As they bellowed a mighty cheer;“You’d better come down before you’re fried,For the fire-escape is here.”

He opened the casement wide, and reeledBack through the flame and smoke—For the fire-escape the light revealed—And then to the crowd he spoke:“I’ll leap in the jaws of the flames that gape,For I’d rather be picked up deadThan save my life in a fire-escapeThat is painted a vulgar red.”

They gathered him up with a broom and panFrom the pavement where he fell,And they sent for the undertaker’s man,And they toll’d him a passing bell.They gave him a funeral plain but good,And out of the local purseThey bought him a coffin of polished wood,Which they put in a pair-horse hearse.

But the artist-spirit in death was strong,And it lifted the coffin-lidWhile the horses lazily jogged along,And out of the hearse it slid.It raised its body and yelled a curse,And it shouted and cried “Alack!I’m blest if I ride in a beastly hearseThat is painted a vulgar black.”

SHE was a housemaid, tall and slim,A well-conducted, modest girl;Her dress was always neat and trim,She never sported fringe or curl.She did her work, and kept her mindIntent upon her household cares;One fault alone there was to find—She left her dustpan on the stairs.She loved her mistress very much,She held her master in respect;Her grief the hardest heart would touchWhen they’d occasion to correct;But still, in spite of all they said—In spite of scolding and of prayers—Ah, me! to what at last it led!—She left her dustpan on the stairs.One morn while breakfasting below,And glancing at theMorning Post,She heard a wild and sudden “Oh!”That made her drop her buttered toast.She heard a heavy fall—and groans;The master, taken unawares,Had slipped and broken sev’ral bones—She’d left the dustpan on the stairs.They sent for doctors by the score,They fetched in haste Sir Andrew Clark;But master’s sufferings soon were o’er—That night he sat in Charon’s barque.Now in a cell at Colney HatchA gibbering housemaid groans and glares,And tries with trembling hands to snatchA ghostly dustpan from the stairs.

She loved her mistress very much,She held her master in respect;Her grief the hardest heart would touchWhen they’d occasion to correct;But still, in spite of all they said—In spite of scolding and of prayers—Ah, me! to what at last it led!—She left her dustpan on the stairs.

One morn while breakfasting below,And glancing at theMorning Post,She heard a wild and sudden “Oh!”That made her drop her buttered toast.She heard a heavy fall—and groans;The master, taken unawares,Had slipped and broken sev’ral bones—She’d left the dustpan on the stairs.

They sent for doctors by the score,They fetched in haste Sir Andrew Clark;But master’s sufferings soon were o’er—That night he sat in Charon’s barque.Now in a cell at Colney HatchA gibbering housemaid groans and glares,And tries with trembling hands to snatchA ghostly dustpan from the stairs.

Ye housemaids who this tale may read,Remember, backs are hard to mend,And injured noses freely bleed,And falls may cause untimely end;Your masters are but mortal men,A neck once broken naught repairs.Oh! think of this, ye housemaids, whenYou leave the dustpan on the stairs.

IN the market-place or forum,If you’re dull, my cockalorum,Never heed the censor morum,But just brew yourself a jorum,In a beaker or a cup,Of this stimulating liquor,Which, when life begins to flicker,And your soul grows slowly sicker,And you feel a bucket-kicker,Is a patent pick-me-up.It was near the Yorkshire StingoThat in modern London lingo,With a face like a flamingo,Said a friend of mine, “By Jingo!What a wretched wreck you are!”I replied, “I’m melancholic,And my pains are diabolic.I, who once was frisk and frolic,Now am glum and vitriolic—Every nerve is on the jar!”Then a smile that was sardonicBeamed about his brow Byronic,And he said, “This is masonic,But I think you want a tonic—Try the famous (something) wine.”And he further said with unctionThat I need have no compunctionIn obeying his injunction,’Twould renew each vital function,And just suit a case like mine.I have drunk and I’m a giantQuite refreshed and grown defiant;All my limbs are free and pliant,And now neither May nor BryantCan supply a match to me.Now my pen again grows graphic,And my verse is strictly sapphic,And my tricycle in trafficI can ride with smile seraphic,From all nervous tremors free.I can laugh at Punch and Judy,And enjoy a book from Mudie;I am spick and span and dudey,And I freely spend my scudi,And I feel that I could fly.I’ve a bearing that is regal,All my acts are strictly legal,And I’ll wager that an eagle,Though he’d taken Mother Seigel,Couldn’t show as clear an eye.So in market-place or forum,If you’re dull, my cockalorum,Never heed the censor morum,But just brew yourself a jorum,In a beaker or a cup,Of this stimulating liquor,Which, when life begins to flicker,And your soul grows slowly sicker,And you feel a bucket-kicker,Is a patent pick-me-up.

It was near the Yorkshire StingoThat in modern London lingo,With a face like a flamingo,Said a friend of mine, “By Jingo!What a wretched wreck you are!”I replied, “I’m melancholic,And my pains are diabolic.I, who once was frisk and frolic,Now am glum and vitriolic—Every nerve is on the jar!”

Then a smile that was sardonicBeamed about his brow Byronic,And he said, “This is masonic,But I think you want a tonic—Try the famous (something) wine.”And he further said with unctionThat I need have no compunctionIn obeying his injunction,’Twould renew each vital function,And just suit a case like mine.

I have drunk and I’m a giantQuite refreshed and grown defiant;All my limbs are free and pliant,And now neither May nor BryantCan supply a match to me.Now my pen again grows graphic,And my verse is strictly sapphic,And my tricycle in trafficI can ride with smile seraphic,From all nervous tremors free.

I can laugh at Punch and Judy,And enjoy a book from Mudie;I am spick and span and dudey,And I freely spend my scudi,And I feel that I could fly.I’ve a bearing that is regal,All my acts are strictly legal,And I’ll wager that an eagle,Though he’d taken Mother Seigel,Couldn’t show as clear an eye.

So in market-place or forum,If you’re dull, my cockalorum,Never heed the censor morum,But just brew yourself a jorum,In a beaker or a cup,Of this stimulating liquor,Which, when life begins to flicker,And your soul grows slowly sicker,And you feel a bucket-kicker,Is a patent pick-me-up.

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