Theregrew a little flower’Neath a great oak tree:When the tempest ’gan to lowerLittle heeded she:No need had she to cower,For she dreaded not its power—She was happy in the bowerOf her great oak tree!Sing hey,Lackaday!Let the tears fall freeFor the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
When she found that he was fickle,Was that great oak tree,She was in a pretty pickle,As she well might be—But his gallantries were mickle,For Death followed with his sickle,And her tears began to trickleFor her great oak tree!Sing hey,Lackaday!Let the tears fall freeFor the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Said she, “He loved me never,Did that great oak tree,But I’m neither rich nor clever,And so why should he?But though fate our fortunes sever,To be constant I’ll endeavour,Ay, for ever and for ever,To my great oak tree!”Sing hey,Lackaday!Let the tears fall freeFor the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Therelived a King, as I’ve been toldIn the wonder-working days of old,When hearts were twice as good as gold,And twenty times as mellow.Good temper triumphed in his face,And in his heart he found a placeFor all the erring human raceAnd every wretched fellow.When he had Rhenish wine to drinkIt made him very sad to thinkThat some, at junket or at jink,Must be content with toddy:He wished all men as rich as he(And he was rich as rich could be),So to the top of every treePromoted everybody.
Ambassadors cropped up like hay,Prime Ministers and such as theyGrew like asparagus in May,And Dukes were three a penny:Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,And Bishops in their shovel hatsWere plentiful as tabby cats—If possible, too many.On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed,With Admirals the ocean teemed,All round his wide dominions;And Party Leaders you might meetIn twos and threes in every streetMaintaining, with no little heat,Their various opinions.
That King, although no one denies,His heart was of abnormal size,Yet he’d have acted otherwiseIf he had been acuter.The end is easily foretold,When every blessed thing you holdIs made of silver, or of gold,You long for simple pewter.When you have nothing else to wearBut cloth of gold and satins rare,For cloth of gold you cease to care—Up goes the price of shoddy:In short, whoever you may be,To this conclusion you’ll agree,When every one is somebody,Then no one’s anybody!
Fearno unlicensed entry,Heed no bombastic talk,While guards the British SentryPall Mall and Birdcage Walk.Let European thundersOccasion no alarms,Though diplomatic blundersMay cause a cry “To arms!”Sleep on, ye pale civilians;All thunder-clouds defy:On Europe’s countless millionsThe Sentry keeps his eye!
Should foreign-born rapscallionsIn London dare to showTheir overgrown battalions,Be sure I’ll let you know.Should Russians or NorwegiansPollute our favoured climeWith rough barbaric legions,I’ll mention it in time.So sleep in peace, civilians,The Continent defy;While on its countless millionsThe Sentry keeps his eye!
Whenfirst my old, old love I knew,My bosom welled with joy;My riches at her feet I threw;I was a love-sick boy!No terms seemed too extravagantUpon her to employ—I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,Just like a love-sick boy!
But joy incessant palls the sense;And love unchanged will cloy,And she became a bore intenseUnto her love-sick boy?With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,And I grew cold and coy,At last, one morning, I becameAnother’s love-sick boy!
Whattime the poet hath hymnedThe writhing maid, lithe-limbed,Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,How can he paint her woes,Knowing, as well he knows,That all can be set right with calomel?
When from the poet’s plinthThe amorous colocynthYearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,How can he hymn their throesKnowing, as well he knows,That they are only uncompounded pills?
Is it, and can it be,Nature hath this decree,Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?Or that in all her worksSomething poetic lurks,Even in colocynth and calomel?
Heloves! If in the bygone yearsThine eyes have ever shedTears—bitter, unavailing tears,For one untimely dead—If in the eventide of lifeSad thoughts of her arise,Then let the memory of thy wifePlead for my boy—he dies!
He dies! If fondly laid asideIn some old cabinet,Memorials of thy long-dead brideLie, dearly treasured yet,Then let her hallowed bridal dress—Her little dainty gloves—Her withered flowers—her faded tress—Plead for my boy—he loves!
Myboy, you may take it from me,That of all the afflictions accurstWith which a man’s saddledAnd hampered and addled,A diffident nature’s the worst.Though clever as clever can be—A Crichton of early romance—You must stir it and stump it,And blow your own trumpet,Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.
Now take, for example,mycase:I’ve a bright intellectual brain—In all London cityThere’s no one so witty—I’ve thought so again and again.I’ve a highly intelligent face—My features cannot be denied—But, whatever I try, sir,I fail in—and why, sir?I’m modesty personified!
As a poet, I’m tender and quaint—I’ve passion and fervour and grace—From Ovid and HoraceTo Swinburne and Morris,They all of them take a back place.Then I sing and I play and I paint;Though none are accomplished as I,To say so were treason:You ask me the reason?I’m diffident, modest, and shy!
Trywe life-long, we can neverStraighten out life’s tangled skein,Why should we, in vain endeavour,Guess and guess and guess again?Life’s a pudding full of plumsCare’s a canker that benumbs.Wherefore waste our elocutionOn impossible solution?Life’s a pleasant institution,Let us take it as it comes!
Set aside the dull enigma,We shall guess it all too soon;Failure brings no kind of stigma—Dance we to another tune!String the lyre and fill the cup,Lest on sorrow we should sup;Hop and skip to Fancy’s fiddle,Hands across and down the middle—Life’s perhaps the only riddleThat we shrink from giving up!
Bedeckedin fashion trim,With every curl a-quiver;Or leaping, light of limb,O’er rivulet and river;Or skipping o’er the leaOn daffodil and daisy;Or stretched beneath a tree,All languishing and lazy;Whatever be her mood—Be she demurely prudeOr languishingly lazy—My lady drives me crazy!In vain her heart is wooed,Whatever be her mood!
What profit should I gainSuppose she loved me dearly?Her coldness turns my brainTovergeof madness merely.Her kiss—though, Heaven knows,To dream of it were treason—Would tend, as I suppose,To utter loss of reason!My state is not amiss;I would not have a kissWhich, in or out of season,Might tend to loss of reason:What profit in such bliss?A fig for such a kiss!
It’smy opinion—though I ownIn thinking so I’m quite alone—In some respects I’m but a fright.Youlike my features, I suppose?I’mdisappointed with my nose:Some rave about it—perhaps they’re right.My figure just sets off a fit;But when they say it’s exquisite(And theydosay so), that’s too strong.I hope I’m not what people callOpinionated! After all,I’m but a goose, and may be wrong!
When charms enthralThere’s some excuseFor measures strong;And after allI’m but a goose,And may be wrong!
My teeth are very neat, no doubt;But after all theymayfall out:Ithink they will—some think they won’t.My hands are small, as you may see,But not as small as they might be,At least,Ithink so—others don’t.But there, a girl may preach and prateFrom morning six to evening eight,And never stop to dine,When all the world, although misled,Is quite agreed on any head—And it is quite agreed on mine!
All said and done,It’s little IAgainst a throng.I’m only one,And possiblyI may be wrong!
Ifmy action’s stiff and crude,Do not laugh, because it’s rude.If my gestures promise larks,Do not make unkind remarks.Clockwork figures may be foundEverywhere and all around.Ten to one, if I but knew,You are clockwork figures too.And the motto of the lot,“Put a penny in the slot!”
Usurer, for money lent,Making out his cent per cent—Widow plump or maiden rare,Deaf and dumb to suitor’s prayer—Tax collectors, whom in vainYou implore to “call again”—Cautious voter, whom you findSlow in making up his mind—If you’d move them on the spot,Put a penny in the slot!
Bland reporters in the courts,Who suppress police reports—Sheriff’s yeoman, pen in fist,Making out a jury list—Stern policemen, tall and spare,Acting all “upon the square”—(Which in words that plainer fall,Means that you can square them all)—If you want to move the lot,Put a penny in the slot!
Althoughof native maids the cream,We’re brought up on the English scheme—The best of allFor great and smallWho modesty adore.For English girls are good as gold,Extremely modest (so we’re told),Demurely coy—divinely cold—And we are that—and more.To please papa, who argues thus—All girls should mould themselves on us,Because we are,By furlongs far,The best of all the bunch;We show ourselves to loud applauseFrom ten to four without a pause—Which is an awkward time becauseIt cuts into our lunch.
Oh, maids of high and low degree,Whose social code is rather free,Please look at us and you will seeWhat good young ladies ought to be!
And as we stand, like clockwork toys,A lecturer papa employsTo puff and praiseOur modest waysAnd guileless character—Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes—Our famous look of mild surprise(Which competition still defies)—Our celebrated “Sir!!!”Then all the crowd take down our looksIn pocket memorandum books.To diagnose,Our modest poseThe kodaks do their best:If evidence you would possessOf what is maiden bashfulness,You only need a button press—Andwedo all the rest.
Firstyou’re born—and I’ll be bound youFind a dozen strangers round you.“Hallo,” cries the new-born baby,“Where’s my parents? which may they be?”Awkward silence—no reply—Puzzled baby wonders why!Father rises, bows politely—Mother smiles (but not too brightly)—Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing—Nurse is busy mixing something.—Every symptom tends to showYou’re decidedlyde trop—Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! he! ho! ho!Time’s teetotum,If you spin it,Give its quotumOnce a minute:I’ll go bailYou hit the nail,And if you failThe deuce is in it!
You grow up, and you discoverWhat it is to be a lover.Some young lady is selected—Poor, perhaps, but well-connected,Whom you hail (for Love is blind)As the Queen of Fairy-kind.Though she’s plain—perhaps unsightly,Makes her face up—laces tightly,In her form your fancy tracesAll the gifts of all the graces.Rivals none the maiden woo,So you take her and she takes you!Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!Joke beginning,Never ceases,Till your inningTime releases;On your wayYou blindly stray,And day by dayThe joke increases!
Ten years later—Time progresses—Sours your temper—thins your tresses;Fancy, then, her chain relaxes;Rates are facts and so are taxes.Fairy Queen’s no longer young—Fairy Queen has such a tongue!Twins have probably intruded—Quite unbidden—just as you did;They’re a source of care and trouble—Just as you were—only double.Comes at last the final stroke—Time has had his little joke!Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!Daily driven(Wife as drover)Ill you’ve thriven—Ne’er in clover:Lastly, whenThreescore and ten(And not till then),The joke is over!Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho!Then—and thenThe joke is over!
Someseven men form an Association(If possible, all Peers and Baronets),They start off with a public declarationTo what extent they mean to pay their debts.That’s called their Capital: if they are waryThey will not quote it at a sum immense.The figure’s immaterial—it may varyFrom eighteen million down to eighteenpence.Ishould put it rather low;The good sense of doing soWill be evident at once to any debtor.When it’s left to you to sayWhat amount you mean to pay,Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.
They then proceed to trade with all who’ll trust ’em,Quite irrespective of their capital(It’s shady, but it’s sanctified by custom);Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal.You can’t embark on trading too tremendous—It’s strictly fair, and based on common sense—If you succeed, your profits are stupendous—And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence.Make the money-spinner spin!For you only stand to win,And you’ll never with dishonesty be twitted.For nobody can know,To a million or so,To what extent your capital’s committed!
If you come to grief, and creditors are craving(For nothing that is planned by mortal headIs certain in this Vale of Sorrow—savingThat one’s Liability is Limited),—Do you suppose that signifies perdition?If so you’re but a monetary dunce—You merely file a Winding-Up Petition,And start another Company at once!Though a Rothschild you may beIn your own capacity,As a Company you’ve come to utter sorrow—But the Liquidators say,“Never mind—you needn’t pay,”So you start another Company to-morrow!
Societyhas quite forsaken all her wicked courses,Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.(That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.)No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passesWho wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes;Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England—with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our city we have beautified—we’ve done it willy-nilly—And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly.(They haven’t any slummeries in England.)We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished,So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished—(They are going to abolish it in England.)The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question,Of “risky” situation and indelicate suggestion;No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly—In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England—with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our Peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis,Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races—(They are going to remodel it in England.)The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek admission,And Literary Merit meets with proper recognition—(As Literary Merit does in England!)Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickensLike them an Earl of Thackeray and p’raps a Duke of Dickens—Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly—And then, this happy country will be Anglicised completely!It really is surprisingWhat a thorough AnglicisingWe’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land;In her enterprising movements,She is England—with improvements,Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Awonderfuljoy our eyes to bless,In her magnificent comeliness,Is an English girl of eleven stone two,And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!She follows the hounds, and on she pounds—The “field” tails off and the muffs diminish—Over the hedges and brooks she bounds—Straight as a crow, from find to finish.At cricket, her kin will lose or win—She and her maids, on grass and clover,Eleven maids out—eleven maids in—(And perhaps an occasional “maiden over”).Go search the world and search the sea,Then come you home and sing with meThere’s no such gold and no such pearlAs a bright and beautiful English girl!
With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims—She plays, she sings, she dances, too,From ten or eleven till all is blue!At ball or drum, till small hours come(Chaperon’s fan conceals her yawning),She’ll waltz away like a teetotum,And never go home till daylight’s dawning.Lawn tennis may share her favours fair—Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing—Down comes her hair, but what does she care?It’s all her own and it’s worth the showing!Go search the world and search the sea,Then come you home and sing with meThere’s no such gold and no such pearlAs a bright and beautiful English girl!
Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,For prudery knows no haven there;To find mock-modesty, please applyTo the conscious blush and the downcast eye.Rich in the things contentment brings,In every pure enjoyment wealthy,Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings,For body and mind are hale and healthy.Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill—Her heart is light as a floating feather—As pure and bright as the mountain rillThat leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!Go search the world and search the sea,Then come you home and sing with meThere’s no such gold and no such pearlAs a bright and beautiful English girl!
WereI a king in very truth,And had a son—a guileless youth—In probable succession;To teach him patience, teach him tact,How promptly in a fix to act,He should adopt, in point of fact,A manager’s profession.To that condition he should stoop(Despite a too fond mother),With eight or ten “stars” in his troupe,All jealous of each other!Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,Each member a genius (and some of them two),And manage to humour them, little and great,Can govern a tuppenny-ha’penny State!
Both A and B rehearsal slight—They say they’ll be “all right at night”(They’ve both to go to school yet);C in each actmustchange her dress,Dwillattempt to “square the press”;E won’t play Romeo unlessHis grandmother plays Juliet;F claims all hoydens as her rights(She’s played them thirty seasons);And G must show herself in tightsFor two convincing reasons—Two very well-shaped reasons!Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team,With wheelers and leaders in order supreme,Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin,All Europe and Asia—with Ireland thrown in!
Whenyou find you’re a broken-down critter,Who is all of a trimmle and twitter,With your palate unpleasantly bitter,As if you’d just bitten a pill—When your legs are as thin as dividers,And you’re plagued with unruly insiders,And your spine is all creepy with spiders,And you’re highly gamboge in the gill—When you’ve got a beehive in your head,And a sewing machine in each ear,And you feel that you’ve eaten your bed,And you’ve got a bad headachedown here—When such facts are about,And these symptoms you findIn your body or crown—Well, it’s time to look out,You may make up your mindYou had better lie down!
When your lips are all smeary—like tallow,And your tongue is decidedly yallow,With a pint of warm oil in your swallow,And a pound of tin-tacks in your chest—When you’re down in the mouth with the vapours,And all over your new Morris papersBlack-beetles are cutting their capers,And crawly things never at rest—When you doubt if your head is your own,And you jump when an open door slams—Then you’ve got to a state which is knownTo the medical world as “jim-jams.”If such symptoms you findIn your body or head,They’re not easy to quell—You may make up your mindYou are better in bed,For you’re not at all well!
Bold-faced ranger(Perfect stranger)Meets two well-behaved young ladiesHe’s attractive,Young and active—Each a little bit afraid is.Youth advances,At his glancesTo their danger they awaken;They repel himAs they tell himHe is very much mistaken.Though they speak to him politely,Please observe they’re sneering slightly,Just to show he’s acting vainly.This is Virtue saying plainly,“Go away, young bachelor,We are not what you take us for!”(When addressed impertinently,English ladies answer gently,“Go away, young bachelor,We are not what you take us for!”)
As he gazes,Hat he raises,Enters into conversation.Makes excuses—This producesInteresting agitation.He, with daring,Undespairing,Gives his card—his rank discloses—Little heedingThis proceeding,They turn up their little noses.Pray observe this lesson vital—When a man of rank and titleHis position first discloses,Always cock your little noses.When at home, let all the classTry this in the looking-glass.(English girls of well-bred notionsShun all unrehearsed emotions,English girls of highest classPractise them before the glass.)
His intentionsThen he mentions,Something definite to go on—Makes recitalsOf his titles,Hints at settlements, and so on.Smiling sweetly,They, discreetly,Ask for further evidences:Thus invited,He, delighted,Gives the usual references.This is business. Each is flutteredWhen the offer’s fairly uttered.“Which of them has his affection?”He declines to make selection.Do they quarrel for his dross?Not a bit of it—they toss!Please observe this cogent moral—English ladies never quarrel.When a doubt they come across,English ladies always toss.
Atthe outset I may mention it’s my sovereign intentionTo revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.We’ve a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)Who respond to thechoreutaeof that cultivated age,And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster,Would accept as thechoregusof the early Attic stage.This return to classic ages is considered in their wages,Which are always calculated by the day or by the week—And I’ll pay ’em (if they’ll back me) all inoboloianddrachmae,Which they’ll get (if they prefer it) at the Kalends that are Greek!
(At this juncture I may mentionThat this erudition shamIs but classical pretension,The result of steady “cram.”:Periphrastic methods spurning,To my readers all discerningI admit this show of learningIs the fruit of steady “cram.”!)
In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind),There they’d satisfy their twist on arecherchécoldἄριστον,Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you’re inclined.As they gradually got on, they’dπρέπεσθαι πρὸς τὸν πότον(Which is Attic for a steady and a conscientious drink).But they mixed their wine with water—which I’m sure they didn’t oughter—And we Anglo-Saxons know a trick worth two of that, I think!Then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances)Which would shock that worthy gentleman, the Licenser of Plays,Corybantian maniackick—Dionysiac or Bacchic—And the Dithyrambic revels of those indecorous days.
(And perhaps I’d better mentionLest alarming you I am,That it isn’t our intentionTo perform a Dithyramb—It displays a lot of stocking,Which is always very shocking,And of course I’m only mockingAt the prevalence of “cram.”)
Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nationWhich are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day,And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify,Or Mrs. Grundy, p’r’aps, may have a word or two to say:For they hadn’t macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes—And a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce,And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing,For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn’t know the use.They wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or no-thing—And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent in design—Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the “altogether.”And it’sthere, I rather fancy, I shall have to draw the line!
(And again I wish to mentionThat this erudition shamIs but classical pretension,The result of steady “cram.”Yet my classic love aggressive,If you’ll pardon the possessive,Is exceedingly impressiveWhen you’re passing an exam.)
Ohwhat a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes!What keen enjoyment springsFrom cheap and simple things!What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,That pain and trouble brewFor every one but you!Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,Its unexpected flashBurns eyebrows and moustache;When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,But common sense suggestsYou keep it for your guests—Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,And much amusement bidesIn common butter-slides.And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.Coal scuttles, recollect,Produce the same effect.A man possessedOf common senseNeed not investAt great expense—It does not callFor pocket deep,These jokes are allExtremely cheap.If you commence with eighteenpence (it’s all you’ll have to pay),You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.
A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets,And turnip-heads on postsMake very decent ghosts:Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waist-coat pockets—Burnt cork and walnut juiceAre not without their use.No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles—Live shrimps their patience taxWhen put down people’s backs—Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles—And treacle on a chairWill make a Quaker swear!Then sharp tin tacksAnd pocket squirts—And cobblers’ waxFor ladies’ skirts—And slimy slugsOn bedroom floors—And water jugsOn open doors—Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!
Amonarchis pestered with cares,Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them;But one comes in a shape he can never escape—The implacable National Anthem!Though for quiet and rest he may yearn,It pursues him at every turn—No chance of forsakingItsrococonumbers;They haunt him when waking—They poison his slumbers—Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows,He’s cursed with its music wherever he goes!Though its words but imperfectly rhyme,And the devil himself couldn’t scan them;With composure polite he endures day and nightThat illiterate National Anthem!
It serves a good purpose, I own:Its strains are devout and impressive—Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throatsAs we burn with devotion excessive:But the King, who’s been bored by that songFrom his cradle—each day—all day long—Who’s heard it loud-shoutedBy throats operatic,And loyally spoutedBy courtiers emphatic—By soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife—Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life!While his subjects sing loudly and long,Their King—who would willingly ban them—Sits, worry disguising, anathematisingThat Bogie, the National Anthem!
Mywedded lifeMust every pleasure bringOn scale extensive!If I’m your wifeI must have everythingThat’s most expensive—A lady’s-maid—(My hair alone to doI am not able)—And I’m afraidI’ve been accustomed toA first-rate table.These things one must consider when one marries—And everything I wear must come from Paris!Oh, think of that!Oh, think of that!I can’t wear anything that’s not from Paris!From top to toesQuite Frenchified I am,If you examine.And then—who knows?—Perhaps some day a fam—Perhaps a famine!My argument’s correct, if you examine,What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!
Though in green peaYourself you needn’t stintIn July sunny,In JanuareeIt really costs a mint—A mint of money!No lamb for us—House lamb at Christmas sellsAt prices handsome:Asparagus,In winter, parallelsA Monarch’s ransom:When purse to bread and butter barely reaches,What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches?Ah! tell me that!Ah! tell me that!Whatisyour wife to do for hot-house peaches?Your heart and handThough at my feet you lay,All others scorning!As matters stand,There’s nothing now to sayExcept—good morning!Though virtue be a husband’s best adorning,That won’t pay rates and taxes—so, good morning!
Ahiveof bees, as I’ve heard say,Said to their Queen one sultry day,“Please your Majesty’s high position,The hive is full and the weather is warm,We rather think, with a due submission,The time has come when we ought to swarm.”Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.Up spake their Queen and thus spake she—“This is a matter that rests with me,Who dares opinions thus to form?I’lltell you when it is time to swarm!”Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.
Her Majesty wore an angry frown,In fact, her Majesty’s foot was down—Her Majesty sulked—declined to sup—In short, her Majesty’s back was up.Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.Her foot was down and her back was up!
That hive contained one obstinate bee(His name was Peter), and thus spake he—“Though every bee has shown white feather,To bow to tyranny I’m not prone—Why should a hive swarm all together?Surely a bee can swarm alone?”Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.Upside down and inside out,Backwards, forwards, round about,Twirling here and twisting there,Topsy turvily everywhere—Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.Pitiful sight it was to seeRespectable elderly high-class bee,Who kicked the beam at sixteen stone,Trying his best to swarm alone!Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.Trying his best to swarm alone!
The hive were shocked to see their chum(A strict teetotaller) teetotum—The Queen exclaimed, “How terrible, very!It’s perfectly clear to all the throngPeter’s been at the old brown sherry.Old brown sherry is much too strong—Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.Of all who thus themselves degrade,A stern example must be made,To Coventry go, you tipsy bee!”So off to Coventry town went he.Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.There, classed with all who misbehave,Both plausible rogue and noisome knave,In dismal dumps he lived to ownThe folly of trying to swarm alone!Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.All came of trying to swarm alone.
Atenor, all singers above(This doesn’t admit of a question),Should keep himself quiet,Attend to his diet,And carefully nurse his digestion.But when he is madly in love,It’s certain to tell on his singing—You can’t do chromaticsWith proper emphaticsWhen anguish your bosom is wringing!When distracted with worries in plenty,And his pulse is a hundred and twenty,And his fluttering bosom the slave of mistrust is,A tenor can’t do himself justice.Now observe—(sings a high note)—You see, I can’t do myself justice!
I could sing, if my fervour were mock,It’s easy enough if you’re acting,But when one’s emotionIs born of devotion,You mustn’t be over-exacting.One ought to be firm as a rockTo venture a shake invibrato;When fervour’s expected,Keep cool and collected,Or never attemptagitato.But, of course, when his tongue is of leather,And his lips appear pasted together,And his sensitive palate as dry as a crust is,A tenor can’t do himself justice.Now observe—(sings a cadence)—It’s no use—I can’t do myself justice!
Quixoticis his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is,Who seeks for jocularities that haven’t yet been said.The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries,And every joke that’s possible has long ago been made.I started as a humorist with lots of mental fizziness,But humour is a drug which it’s the fashion to abuse;For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the businessNo reasonable offer I am likely to refuse.And if anybody chooseHe may circulate the newsThat no reasonable offer I’m likely to refuse.
Oh happy was that humorist—the first that made a pun at all—Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean,Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all—How popular at dinners must that humorist have been!
Oh the days when some stepfather for the query held a handle out,The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far?And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron blew the candle out,And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar!But your modern hearers areIn their tastes particular,And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a-jar!
In search of quip and quiddity, I’ve sat all day, alone, apart—And all that I could hit on as a problem was—to findAnalogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part,Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind:For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity—It’s not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout—And I’ve come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularityIn present Anno Domini, is worked completely out!Though the notion you may scout,I can prove beyond a doubtThat my mine of jocularity is utterly worked out.