TEMPORA MUTANTUR

A wonderfuljoy 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!TEMPORA MUTANTURLetters, letters, letters, letters!Some that please and some that bore,Some that threaten prison fetters(Metaphorically, fettersSuch as bind insolvent debtors)—Invitations by the score.One fromCogson,Wiles, andRailer,My attorneys, off the Strand;One fromCopperblock, my tailor—My unreasonable tailor—One inFlagg'sdisgusting hand.One fromEphraimandMoses,Wanting coin without a doubt,I should like to pull their noses—Their uncompromising noses;One fromAlicewith the roses—-Ah, I know what that's about!Time was when I waited, waitedFor the missives that she wrote,Humble postmen execrated—Loudly, deeply execrated—When I heard I wasn't fatedTo be gladdened with a note!Time was when I'd not have barteredOf her little pen a dipFor a peerage duly gartered—For a peerage starred and gartered—With a palace-office chartered,Or a Secretaryship.But the time for that is over,And I wish we'd never met.I'm afraid I've proved a rover—I'm afraid a heartless rover—Quarters in a place like DoverTend to make a man forget.Bills for carriages and horses,Bills for wine and light cigar,Matters that concern the Forces—News that may affect the Forces—News affecting my resources,Much more interesting are!And the tiny little paper,With the words that seem to runFrom her little fingers taper(They are very small and taper),By the tailor and the draperAre in interest outdone.And unopened it's remaining!I can read her gentle hope—Her entreaties, uncomplaining(She was always uncomplaining),Her devotion never waning—Through the little envelope!A MANAGER'S PERPLEXITIESWereI 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!OUT OF SORTSWhenyou 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!AT A PANTOMIMEBY A BILIOUS ONEAnactor sits in doubtful gloom,His stock-in-trade unfurled,In a damp funereal dressing-roomIn the Theatre Royal, World.He comes to town at Christmas-timeAnd braves its icy breath,To play in that favourite pantomime.Harlequin Life and Death.A hoary flowing wig his weird,Unearthly cranium caps;He hangs a long benevolent beardOn a pair of empty chaps.To smooth his ghastly features downThe actor's art he cribs;A long and a flowing padded gownBedecks his rattling ribs.He cries, "Go on—begin, begin!Turn on the light of lime;I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas inA favourite pantomime!"The curtain's up—the stage all black—Time and the Year nigh sped—(Time as an advertising quack)The Old Year nearly dead.The wand of Time is waved, and lo!Revealed Old Christmas stands,And little children chuckle and crow,And laugh and clap their hands.The cruel old scoundrel brightens upAt the death of the Olden Year,And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,And bids the world good cheer.The little ones hail the festive King—No thought can make them sad;Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.They clap and crow like mad!They only see in the humbug oldA holiday every year,And handsome gifts, and joys untold,And unaccustomed cheer.The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,Their breasts in anguish beat—They've seen him seventy times before,How well they know the cheat!They've seen that ghastly pantomime,They've felt its blighting breath,They know that rollicking Christmas-timeMeant cold and want and death—Starvation—Poor Law Union fare,And deadly cramps and chills,And illness—illness everywhere—And crime, and Christmas bills.They know Old Christmas well, I ween,Those men of ripened age;They've often, often, often seenThat actor off the stage.They see in his gay rotundityA clumsy stuffed-out dress;They see in the cup he waves on highA tinselled emptiness.Those aged men so lean and wan,They've seen it all before;They know they'll see the charlatanBut twice or three times more.And so they bear with dance and song,And crimson foil and green;They wearily sit, and grimly longFor the Transformation Scene.HOW IT'S DONEBold-faced ranger(Perfect stranger)Meets two well-behaved young ladies.He'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.A CLASSICAL REVIVALAtthe 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 criticasterWould 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 arecherchécold ἄριστον,Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined.As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι 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 mention)That this erudition shamIs but classical pretension,The result of steady "cram."Yet my classic lore aggressive,If you'll pardon the possessive,Is exceedingly impressiveWhen you're passing an exam.THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIBStrikethe concertina's melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!Let the piano's martial blastRouse the echoes of the past,For ofAgib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!OfAgib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:His gentle spirit rollsIn the melody of souls—Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.OfAgib, who could readily, at sight,Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.He would diligently playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;Oh, Allah be obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!Alas!Prince Agibwent and asked them in;Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tinAnd when (as snobs would say)They had "put it all away,"He requested them to tune up and begin.Though its icy horror chill you to the core,I will tell you what I never told before—The consequences trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the keyhole in the door!They played him a sonata—let me see!"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent from a most ingenious little fount,More beer in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.Now follows the dim horror of my tale,And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;For even at this day,Though its sting has passed away,When I venture to remember it, I quail!The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,All-overish it made me for to feel."O Prince," he says, says he,"If a Prince indeed you be,I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,As you fancy that we be,For (ter-remble!) I amAleck—this isBeth!"SaidAgib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"Bethgave a dreadful shriek—But before he'd time to speakI was mercilessly collared from behind.In number ten or twelve, or even more,They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.On my face extended flat,I was walloped with a cat,For listening at the keyhole of a door.Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a will!They branded me and broke me on a wheel,And they left me in an hospital to heal;And, upon my solemn word,I have never, never heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!THE PRACTICAL JOKEROhwhat 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 waistcoat 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!

A wonderfuljoy 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 me

There's no such gold and no such pearl

As 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!

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 me

There's no such gold and no such pearl

As 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!

Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,

For prudery knows no haven there;

To find mock-modesty, please apply

To 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 rill

That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!

Go search the world and search the sea,

Then come you home and sing with me

There's no such gold and no such pearl

As a bright and beautiful English girl!

Letters, letters, letters, letters!Some that please and some that bore,Some that threaten prison fetters(Metaphorically, fettersSuch as bind insolvent debtors)—Invitations by the score.One fromCogson,Wiles, andRailer,My attorneys, off the Strand;One fromCopperblock, my tailor—My unreasonable tailor—One inFlagg'sdisgusting hand.One fromEphraimandMoses,Wanting coin without a doubt,I should like to pull their noses—Their uncompromising noses;One fromAlicewith the roses—-Ah, I know what that's about!Time was when I waited, waitedFor the missives that she wrote,Humble postmen execrated—Loudly, deeply execrated—When I heard I wasn't fatedTo be gladdened with a note!Time was when I'd not have barteredOf her little pen a dipFor a peerage duly gartered—For a peerage starred and gartered—With a palace-office chartered,Or a Secretaryship.But the time for that is over,And I wish we'd never met.I'm afraid I've proved a rover—I'm afraid a heartless rover—Quarters in a place like DoverTend to make a man forget.Bills for carriages and horses,Bills for wine and light cigar,Matters that concern the Forces—News that may affect the Forces—News affecting my resources,Much more interesting are!And the tiny little paper,With the words that seem to runFrom her little fingers taper(They are very small and taper),By the tailor and the draperAre in interest outdone.And unopened it's remaining!I can read her gentle hope—Her entreaties, uncomplaining(She was always uncomplaining),Her devotion never waning—Through the little envelope!

Letters, letters, letters, letters!Some that please and some that bore,Some that threaten prison fetters(Metaphorically, fettersSuch as bind insolvent debtors)—Invitations by the score.

Letters, letters, letters, letters!

Some that please and some that bore,

Some that threaten prison fetters

(Metaphorically, fetters

Such as bind insolvent debtors)—

Invitations by the score.

One fromCogson,Wiles, andRailer,My attorneys, off the Strand;One fromCopperblock, my tailor—My unreasonable tailor—One inFlagg'sdisgusting hand.

One fromCogson,Wiles, andRailer,

My attorneys, off the Strand;

One fromCopperblock, my tailor—

My unreasonable tailor—

One inFlagg'sdisgusting hand.

One fromEphraimandMoses,Wanting coin without a doubt,I should like to pull their noses—Their uncompromising noses;One fromAlicewith the roses—-Ah, I know what that's about!

One fromEphraimandMoses,

Wanting coin without a doubt,

I should like to pull their noses—

Their uncompromising noses;

One fromAlicewith the roses—-

Ah, I know what that's about!

Time was when I waited, waitedFor the missives that she wrote,Humble postmen execrated—Loudly, deeply execrated—When I heard I wasn't fatedTo be gladdened with a note!

Time was when I waited, waited

For the missives that she wrote,

Humble postmen execrated—

Loudly, deeply execrated—

When I heard I wasn't fated

To be gladdened with a note!

Time was when I'd not have barteredOf her little pen a dipFor a peerage duly gartered—For a peerage starred and gartered—With a palace-office chartered,Or a Secretaryship.

Time was when I'd not have bartered

Of her little pen a dip

For a peerage duly gartered—

For a peerage starred and gartered—

With a palace-office chartered,

Or a Secretaryship.

But the time for that is over,And I wish we'd never met.I'm afraid I've proved a rover—I'm afraid a heartless rover—Quarters in a place like DoverTend to make a man forget.

But the time for that is over,

And I wish we'd never met.

I'm afraid I've proved a rover—

I'm afraid a heartless rover—

Quarters in a place like Dover

Tend to make a man forget.

Bills for carriages and horses,Bills for wine and light cigar,Matters that concern the Forces—News that may affect the Forces—News affecting my resources,Much more interesting are!

Bills for carriages and horses,

Bills for wine and light cigar,

Matters that concern the Forces—

News that may affect the Forces—

News affecting my resources,

Much more interesting are!

And the tiny little paper,With the words that seem to runFrom her little fingers taper(They are very small and taper),By the tailor and the draperAre in interest outdone.

And the tiny little paper,

With the words that seem to run

From her little fingers taper

(They are very small and taper),

By the tailor and the draper

Are in interest outdone.

And unopened it's remaining!I can read her gentle hope—Her entreaties, uncomplaining(She was always uncomplaining),Her devotion never waning—Through the little envelope!

And unopened it's remaining!

I can read her gentle hope—

Her entreaties, uncomplaining

(She was always uncomplaining),

Her devotion never waning—

Through the little envelope!

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!

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!

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 unless

His grandmother plays Juliet;

F claims all hoydens as her rights

(She's played them thirty seasons);

And G must show herself in tights

For 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!

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 find

In your body or crown—

Well, it's time to look out,

You may make up your mind

You 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!

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 papers

Black-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 known

To the medical world as "jim-jams."

If such symptoms you find

In your body or head,

They're not easy to quell—

You may make up your mind

You are better in bed,

For you're not at all well!

Anactor sits in doubtful gloom,His stock-in-trade unfurled,In a damp funereal dressing-roomIn the Theatre Royal, World.He comes to town at Christmas-timeAnd braves its icy breath,To play in that favourite pantomime.Harlequin Life and Death.A hoary flowing wig his weird,Unearthly cranium caps;He hangs a long benevolent beardOn a pair of empty chaps.To smooth his ghastly features downThe actor's art he cribs;A long and a flowing padded gownBedecks his rattling ribs.He cries, "Go on—begin, begin!Turn on the light of lime;I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas inA favourite pantomime!"The curtain's up—the stage all black—Time and the Year nigh sped—(Time as an advertising quack)The Old Year nearly dead.The wand of Time is waved, and lo!Revealed Old Christmas stands,And little children chuckle and crow,And laugh and clap their hands.The cruel old scoundrel brightens upAt the death of the Olden Year,And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,And bids the world good cheer.The little ones hail the festive King—No thought can make them sad;Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.They clap and crow like mad!They only see in the humbug oldA holiday every year,And handsome gifts, and joys untold,And unaccustomed cheer.The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,Their breasts in anguish beat—They've seen him seventy times before,How well they know the cheat!They've seen that ghastly pantomime,They've felt its blighting breath,They know that rollicking Christmas-timeMeant cold and want and death—Starvation—Poor Law Union fare,And deadly cramps and chills,And illness—illness everywhere—And crime, and Christmas bills.They know Old Christmas well, I ween,Those men of ripened age;They've often, often, often seenThat actor off the stage.They see in his gay rotundityA clumsy stuffed-out dress;They see in the cup he waves on highA tinselled emptiness.Those aged men so lean and wan,They've seen it all before;They know they'll see the charlatanBut twice or three times more.And so they bear with dance and song,And crimson foil and green;They wearily sit, and grimly longFor the Transformation Scene.

Anactor sits in doubtful gloom,His stock-in-trade unfurled,In a damp funereal dressing-roomIn the Theatre Royal, World.

Anactor sits in doubtful gloom,

His stock-in-trade unfurled,

In a damp funereal dressing-room

In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-timeAnd braves its icy breath,To play in that favourite pantomime.Harlequin Life and Death.

He comes to town at Christmas-time

And braves its icy breath,

To play in that favourite pantomime.

Harlequin Life and Death.

A hoary flowing wig his weird,Unearthly cranium caps;He hangs a long benevolent beardOn a pair of empty chaps.

A hoary flowing wig his weird,

Unearthly cranium caps;

He hangs a long benevolent beard

On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features downThe actor's art he cribs;A long and a flowing padded gownBedecks his rattling ribs.

To smooth his ghastly features down

The actor's art he cribs;

A long and a flowing padded gown

Bedecks his rattling ribs.

He cries, "Go on—begin, begin!Turn on the light of lime;I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas inA favourite pantomime!"

He cries, "Go on—begin, begin!

Turn on the light of lime;

I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas in

A favourite pantomime!"

The curtain's up—the stage all black—Time and the Year nigh sped—(Time as an advertising quack)The Old Year nearly dead.

The curtain's up—the stage all black—

Time and the Year nigh sped—

(Time as an advertising quack)

The Old Year nearly dead.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo!Revealed Old Christmas stands,And little children chuckle and crow,And laugh and clap their hands.

The wand of Time is waved, and lo!

Revealed Old Christmas stands,

And little children chuckle and crow,

And laugh and clap their hands.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens upAt the death of the Olden Year,And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,And bids the world good cheer.

The cruel old scoundrel brightens up

At the death of the Olden Year,

And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,

And bids the world good cheer.

The little ones hail the festive King—No thought can make them sad;Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.They clap and crow like mad!

The little ones hail the festive King—

No thought can make them sad;

Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.

They clap and crow like mad!

They only see in the humbug oldA holiday every year,And handsome gifts, and joys untold,And unaccustomed cheer.

They only see in the humbug old

A holiday every year,

And handsome gifts, and joys untold,

And unaccustomed cheer.

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,Their breasts in anguish beat—They've seen him seventy times before,How well they know the cheat!

The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,

Their breasts in anguish beat—

They've seen him seventy times before,

How well they know the cheat!

They've seen that ghastly pantomime,They've felt its blighting breath,They know that rollicking Christmas-timeMeant cold and want and death—

They've seen that ghastly pantomime,

They've felt its blighting breath,

They know that rollicking Christmas-time

Meant cold and want and death—

Starvation—Poor Law Union fare,And deadly cramps and chills,And illness—illness everywhere—And crime, and Christmas bills.

Starvation—Poor Law Union fare,

And deadly cramps and chills,

And illness—illness everywhere—

And crime, and Christmas bills.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween,Those men of ripened age;They've often, often, often seenThat actor off the stage.

They know Old Christmas well, I ween,

Those men of ripened age;

They've often, often, often seen

That actor off the stage.

They see in his gay rotundityA clumsy stuffed-out dress;They see in the cup he waves on highA tinselled emptiness.

They see in his gay rotundity

A clumsy stuffed-out dress;

They see in the cup he waves on high

A tinselled emptiness.

Those aged men so lean and wan,They've seen it all before;They know they'll see the charlatanBut twice or three times more.

Those aged men so lean and wan,

They've seen it all before;

They know they'll see the charlatan

But twice or three times more.

And so they bear with dance and song,And crimson foil and green;They wearily sit, and grimly longFor the Transformation Scene.

And so they bear with dance and song,

And crimson foil and green;

They wearily sit, and grimly long

For the Transformation Scene.

Bold-faced ranger(Perfect stranger)Meets two well-behaved young ladies.He'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.

Bold-faced ranger

(Perfect stranger)

Meets two well-behaved young ladies.

He's attractive,

Young and active—

Each a little bit afraid is.

Youth advances,

At his glances

To their danger they awaken;

They repel him

As they tell him

He 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!")

(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.)

As he gazes,

Hat he raises,

Enters into conversation.

Makes excuses—

This produces

Interesting agitation.

He, with daring,

Undespairing,

Gives his card—his rank discloses—

Little heeding

This proceeding,

They turn up their little noses.

Pray observe this lesson vital—

When a man of rank and title

His position first discloses,

Always cock your little noses.

When at home, let all the class

Try this in the looking-glass.

(English girls of well-bred notions

Shun all unrehearsed emotions,

English girls of highest class

Practise 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,

His intentions

Then he mentions,

Something definite to go on—

Makes recitals

Of 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.

Ask for further evidences:

Thus invited,

He, delighted,

Gives the usual references.

This is business. Each is fluttered

When 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 criticasterWould 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 arecherchécold ἄριστον,Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined.As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι 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 mention)That this erudition shamIs but classical pretension,The result of steady "cram."Yet my classic lore aggressive,If you'll pardon the possessive,Is exceedingly impressiveWhen you're passing an exam.

Atthe outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention

To 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.":

(At this juncture I may mention

That this erudition sham

Is 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."!)

Periphrastic methods spurning,

To my readers all discerning

I admit this show of learning

Is 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 arecherchécold ἄριστον,Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined.As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι 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.

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 arecherchécold ἄριστον,

Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined.

As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι 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.")

(And perhaps I'd better mention

Lest alarming you I am,

That it isn't our intention

To perform a Dithyramb—

It displays a lot of stocking,

Which is always very shocking,

And of course I'm only mocking

At 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—

Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation

Which 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 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 mention)That this erudition shamIs but classical pretension,The result of steady "cram."Yet my classic lore aggressive,If you'll pardon the possessive,Is exceedingly impressiveWhen you're passing an exam.

(And again I wish to mention)

That this erudition sham

Is but classical pretension,

The result of steady "cram."

Yet my classic lore aggressive,

If you'll pardon the possessive,

Is exceedingly impressive

When you're passing an exam.

Strikethe concertina's melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!Let the piano's martial blastRouse the echoes of the past,For ofAgib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!OfAgib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:His gentle spirit rollsIn the melody of souls—Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.OfAgib, who could readily, at sight,Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.He would diligently playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;Oh, Allah be obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!Alas!Prince Agibwent and asked them in;Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tinAnd when (as snobs would say)They had "put it all away,"He requested them to tune up and begin.Though its icy horror chill you to the core,I will tell you what I never told before—The consequences trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the keyhole in the door!They played him a sonata—let me see!"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent from a most ingenious little fount,More beer in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.Now follows the dim horror of my tale,And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;For even at this day,Though its sting has passed away,When I venture to remember it, I quail!The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,All-overish it made me for to feel."O Prince," he says, says he,"If a Prince indeed you be,I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,As you fancy that we be,For (ter-remble!) I amAleck—this isBeth!"SaidAgib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"Bethgave a dreadful shriek—But before he'd time to speakI was mercilessly collared from behind.In number ten or twelve, or even more,They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.On my face extended flat,I was walloped with a cat,For listening at the keyhole of a door.Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a will!They branded me and broke me on a wheel,And they left me in an hospital to heal;And, upon my solemn word,I have never, never heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Strikethe concertina's melancholy string!Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!Let the piano's martial blastRouse the echoes of the past,For ofAgib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Strikethe concertina's melancholy string!

Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!

Let the piano's martial blast

Rouse the echoes of the past,

For ofAgib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

OfAgib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:His gentle spirit rollsIn the melody of souls—Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

OfAgib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,

Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:

His gentle spirit rolls

In the melody of souls—

Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

OfAgib, who could readily, at sight,Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.He would diligently playOn the Zoetrope all day,And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

OfAgib, who could readily, at sight,

Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.

He would diligently play

On the Zoetrope all day,

And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter—I am shaky in my dates—Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;Oh, Allah be obeyed,How infernally they played!I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."

One winter—I am shaky in my dates—

Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;

Oh, Allah be obeyed,

How infernally they played!

I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,

I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,

Photographically lined

On the tablet of my mind,

When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas!Prince Agibwent and asked them in;Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tinAnd when (as snobs would say)They had "put it all away,"He requested them to tune up and begin.

Alas!Prince Agibwent and asked them in;

Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin

And when (as snobs would say)

They had "put it all away,"

He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,I will tell you what I never told before—The consequences trueOf that awful interview,For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,

I will tell you what I never told before—

The consequences true

Of that awful interview,

For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

They played him a sonata—let me see!"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.Then they began to singThat extremely lovely thing,"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

They played him a sonata—let me see!

"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.

Then they began to sing

That extremely lovely thing,

"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count,Scent from a most ingenious little fount,More beer in little kegs,Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,And goodies to a fabulous amount.

He gave them money, more than they could count,

Scent from a most ingenious little fount,

More beer in little kegs,

Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,

And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;For even at this day,Though its sting has passed away,When I venture to remember it, I quail!

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,

And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;

For even at this day,

Though its sting has passed away,

When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,All-overish it made me for to feel."O Prince," he says, says he,"If a Prince indeed you be,I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,

All-overish it made me for to feel.

"O Prince," he says, says he,

"If a Prince indeed you be,

I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,As you fancy that we be,For (ter-remble!) I amAleck—this isBeth!"

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,

To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:

No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,

As you fancy that we be,

For (ter-remble!) I amAleck—this isBeth!"

SaidAgib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"Bethgave a dreadful shriek—But before he'd time to speakI was mercilessly collared from behind.

SaidAgib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,

I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"

Bethgave a dreadful shriek—

But before he'd time to speak

I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.On my face extended flat,I was walloped with a cat,For listening at the keyhole of a door.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,

They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.

On my face extended flat,

I was walloped with a cat,

For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)For a week from ten to fourI was fastened to the floor,While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!

(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)

For a week from ten to four

I was fastened to the floor,

While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,And they left me in an hospital to heal;And, upon my solemn word,I have never, never heardWhat those Tartars had determined to reveal.

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,

And they left me in an hospital to heal;

And, upon my solemn word,

I have never, never heard

What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,Photographically linedOn the tablet of my mind,When a yesterday has faded from its page!

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,

I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,

Photographically lined

On the tablet of my mind,

When a yesterday has faded from its page!

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 waistcoat pockets—Burnt cork and walnut juiceAre not without their use.

Ohwhat a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes.

What keen enjoyment springs

From cheap and simple things!

What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,

That pain and trouble brew

For every one but you!

Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,

Its unexpected flash

Burns eyebrows and moustache;

When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,

But common sense suggests

You keep it for your guests—

Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,

And much amusement bides

In 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.

Coal scuttles, recollect,

Produce the same effect.

A man possessed

Of common sense

Need not invest

At great expense—

It does not call

For pocket deep,

These jokes are all

Extremely 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 waistcoat pockets—Burnt cork and walnut juiceAre not without their use.

A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets,

And turnip-heads on posts

Make very decent ghosts:

Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets—

Burnt cork and walnut juice

Are 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!

No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles—

Live shrimps their patience tax

When put down people's backs—

Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles—

And treacle on a chair

Will make a Quaker swear!

Then sharp tin tacks

And pocket squirts—

And cobblers' wax

For ladies' skirts—

And slimy slugs

On bedroom floors—

And water jugs

On open doors—

Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,

Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!

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