This country is extremely flat,Just like your father's head, and wereIt not for dykes and things like thatThere would not be much country there,For, if these banks should broken be,What now is land would soon be sea.So, any child who glory seeks,And in a dyke observes a hole,Must hold his finger there for weeks,And keep the water from its goal,Until the local plumbers come,Or other persons who can plumb.The Hollanders have somehow gotThe name of Dutch (why, goodness knows!),But Mrs. Hollander is notA 'duchess' as you might suppose;Mynheer Von Vanderpump is muchMore used to style her his 'Old Dutch.'Their cities' names are somewhat odd,But much in vogue with golfing menWho miss a 'put' or slice a sod,(Whose thoughts I would not dare to pen),'Oh, Rotterdam!' they can exclaim,And blamelessly resume the game.The Dutchman's dress is very neat;He minds his little flock of goatsIn cotton blouse, and on his feetHe dons a pair of wooden boats.(He evidently does not trustThose dykes I mentioned not to bust).He has the reputation tooOf being what is known as 'slim,'Which merely means he does to youWhat you had hoped to do to him;He has a business head, that's all,And takes some beating, does Oom Paul.MORALAvoid a country where the seaMay any day drop in to tea,Rememb'ring that, at golf, one touchOf bunker makes the whole world Dutch!
This country is extremely flat,Just like your father's head, and wereIt not for dykes and things like thatThere would not be much country there,For, if these banks should broken be,What now is land would soon be sea.
So, any child who glory seeks,And in a dyke observes a hole,Must hold his finger there for weeks,And keep the water from its goal,Until the local plumbers come,Or other persons who can plumb.
The Hollanders have somehow gotThe name of Dutch (why, goodness knows!),But Mrs. Hollander is notA 'duchess' as you might suppose;Mynheer Von Vanderpump is muchMore used to style her his 'Old Dutch.'
Their cities' names are somewhat odd,But much in vogue with golfing menWho miss a 'put' or slice a sod,(Whose thoughts I would not dare to pen),'Oh, Rotterdam!' they can exclaim,And blamelessly resume the game.
The Dutchman's dress is very neat;He minds his little flock of goatsIn cotton blouse, and on his feetHe dons a pair of wooden boats.(He evidently does not trustThose dykes I mentioned not to bust).
He has the reputation tooOf being what is known as 'slim,'Which merely means he does to youWhat you had hoped to do to him;He has a business head, that's all,And takes some beating, does Oom Paul.
MORAL
Avoid a country where the seaMay any day drop in to tea,Rememb'ring that, at golf, one touchOf bunker makes the whole world Dutch!
The climate is intensely cold;Wild curates would not drag me there;Not tho' they brought great bags of gold,And piled them underneath my chair.If twenty bishops bade me go,I should decidedly say, 'No!'MORALIf ev'ry man has got his price,As generally is agreed,You will, by taking my advice,Let yours be very large indeed.Corruption is not nice at all,Unless the bribe be far from small.
The climate is intensely cold;Wild curates would not drag me there;Not tho' they brought great bags of gold,And piled them underneath my chair.If twenty bishops bade me go,I should decidedly say, 'No!'
MORAL
If ev'ry man has got his price,As generally is agreed,You will, by taking my advice,Let yours be very large indeed.Corruption is not nice at all,Unless the bribe be far from small.
In Italy the sky is blue;The native loafs and lolls about,He's nothing in the world to do,And does it fairly well, no doubt;(Ital-i-ans are disinclinedTo honest work of any kind).A light Chianti wine he drinks,And fancies it extremely good;(It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks);—While macaroni is his food.(I think it must be rather hardTo eat one's breakfast by the yard).And, when he leaves his country forSome northern climate, 'tis his dreamTo be an organ grinder, orRetail bacilli in ice-cream.(The French or German student termsThese creatures 'Parisites' or 'Germs.')Sometimes an anarchist is he,And wants to slay a king or queen;So with some dynamite, may be,Concocts a murderous machine;'Here goes!' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake!'Then blows himself up by mistake.Naples and Florence both repayA visit, and, if fortune takesYour toddling little feet that way,Do stop a moment at The Lakes.While, should you go to Rome, I hopeYou'll leave your card upon the Pope.MORALDon't work too hard, but use a wise discretion;Adopt the least laborious profession.Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must,Don't let your bombshell prematurely bust.
In Italy the sky is blue;The native loafs and lolls about,He's nothing in the world to do,And does it fairly well, no doubt;(Ital-i-ans are disinclinedTo honest work of any kind).
A light Chianti wine he drinks,And fancies it extremely good;(It tastes like Stephens' Blue-black Inks);—While macaroni is his food.(I think it must be rather hardTo eat one's breakfast by the yard).
And, when he leaves his country forSome northern climate, 'tis his dreamTo be an organ grinder, orRetail bacilli in ice-cream.(The French or German student termsThese creatures 'Parisites' or 'Germs.')
Sometimes an anarchist is he,And wants to slay a king or queen;So with some dynamite, may be,Concocts a murderous machine;'Here goes!' he shouts, 'For Freedom's sake!'Then blows himself up by mistake.
Naples and Florence both repayA visit, and, if fortune takesYour toddling little feet that way,Do stop a moment at The Lakes.While, should you go to Rome, I hopeYou'll leave your card upon the Pope.
MORAL
Don't work too hard, but use a wise discretion;Adopt the least laborious profession.Don't be an anarchist, but, if you must,Don't let your bombshell prematurely bust.
Inhabitants of far JapanAre happy as the day is longTo sit behind a paper fanAnd sing a kind of tuneless song,Desisting, ev'ry little while,To have a public bath, or smile.The members of the fairer sexAre clad in a becoming dress,One garment reaching from their necksDown to the ankles more or less;Behind each dainty ear they wearA cherry-blossom in their hair.If 'Imitation's flattery'(We learn it at our mother's lap),A flatterer by birth must beOur clever little friend the Jap,Who does whatever we can do,And does it rather better too.MORALBe happy all the time, and planTo wash as often as you can.
Inhabitants of far JapanAre happy as the day is longTo sit behind a paper fanAnd sing a kind of tuneless song,Desisting, ev'ry little while,To have a public bath, or smile.
The members of the fairer sexAre clad in a becoming dress,One garment reaching from their necksDown to the ankles more or less;Behind each dainty ear they wearA cherry-blossom in their hair.
If 'Imitation's flattery'(We learn it at our mother's lap),A flatterer by birth must beOur clever little friend the Jap,Who does whatever we can do,And does it rather better too.
MORAL
Be happy all the time, and planTo wash as often as you can.
You are requested, if you please,To note that here a people livesReferred to as the Portuguese;A fact which naturally givesThe funny man a good excuseTo call his friend a Portugoose.MORALAvoid the obvious, if you can,Andneverbe a funny man.
You are requested, if you please,To note that here a people livesReferred to as the Portuguese;A fact which naturally givesThe funny man a good excuseTo call his friend a Portugoose.
MORAL
Avoid the obvious, if you can,Andneverbe a funny man.
The Russian Empire, as you see,Is governed by an Autocrat,A sort of human target heFor anarchists to practise at;And much relieved most people areNot to be lodging with the Czar.The Russian lets his whiskers grow,Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, andImbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut';A habit which (I understand)Enables him with ease to tellHis name, which nobody could spell.The climate here is cold, with snow,And you go driving in a sleigh,With bells and all the rest, you know,Just like a Henry Irving play;While, all around you, glare the eyesOf secret officers and spies!The Russian prisons have no drains,No windows or such things as that;You have no playthings there but chains,And no companion but a rat;When once behind the dungeon door,Your friends don't see you any more.I further could enlarge, 'tis true,But fear my trembling pen confines;I have no wish to travel toSiberia and work the mines.(In Russia you must write with care,Or the police will take you there.)MORALIf you hold morbid views aboutA monarch's premature decease,You only need a—Hi! Look out!Here comes an agent of police!. . . . .(In future my address will be'Siberia, Cell 63.')
The Russian Empire, as you see,Is governed by an Autocrat,A sort of human target heFor anarchists to practise at;And much relieved most people areNot to be lodging with the Czar.
The Russian lets his whiskers grow,Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, andImbibes more 'vodki' than 'il faut';A habit which (I understand)Enables him with ease to tellHis name, which nobody could spell.
The climate here is cold, with snow,And you go driving in a sleigh,With bells and all the rest, you know,Just like a Henry Irving play;While, all around you, glare the eyesOf secret officers and spies!
The Russian prisons have no drains,No windows or such things as that;You have no playthings there but chains,And no companion but a rat;When once behind the dungeon door,Your friends don't see you any more.
I further could enlarge, 'tis true,But fear my trembling pen confines;I have no wish to travel toSiberia and work the mines.(In Russia you must write with care,Or the police will take you there.)
MORAL
If you hold morbid views aboutA monarch's premature decease,You only need a—Hi! Look out!Here comes an agent of police!. . . . .(In future my address will be'Siberia, Cell 63.')
'Tis here the Spanish onion grows,And they eat garlic all the day,So, if you have a tender nose,'Tis best to go the other way,Or else you may discern, at length,The fact that 'Onion is strength.'The chestnuts flourish in this land,Quite good to eat, as you will find,For they are not, you understand,The ancient after-dinner kindThat Yankees are accustomed toFrom Mr. Chauncey M. Depew.The Spanish lady, by the bye,Is an alluring person whoHas got a bright and flashing eye,And knows just how to use it too;It's quite a treat to see her meetThe proud hidalgo on the street.He wears a sort of soft felt hat,A dagger, and a cloak, you know,Just like the wicked villains thatWe met in plays of long ago,Who sneaked about with aspect glum,Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!'His blood, of blue cerulean hue,Runs in his veins like liquid fire,And he can be most rude if youShould rob him of his heart's desire;'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack!His dagger perforates your back!If you should care to patroniseA bull-fight, as you will no doubt,You'll see a horse with blinded eyesBe very badly mauled about;By such a scene a weak insideIs sometimes rather sorely tried.And, if the bull is full of fun,The horse is generally gored,So then they fetch another one,Or else the first one is encored;The humour of the sport, of course,Is not so patent to the horse.MORALBe kind to ev'ry bull you meet,Remember how the creature feels;Don't wink at ladies in the street;And don't make speeches after meals;And lastly, I need not explain,If you're a horse, don't go to Spain.
'Tis here the Spanish onion grows,And they eat garlic all the day,So, if you have a tender nose,'Tis best to go the other way,Or else you may discern, at length,The fact that 'Onion is strength.'
The chestnuts flourish in this land,Quite good to eat, as you will find,For they are not, you understand,The ancient after-dinner kindThat Yankees are accustomed toFrom Mr. Chauncey M. Depew.
The Spanish lady, by the bye,Is an alluring person whoHas got a bright and flashing eye,And knows just how to use it too;It's quite a treat to see her meetThe proud hidalgo on the street.
He wears a sort of soft felt hat,A dagger, and a cloak, you know,Just like the wicked villains thatWe met in plays of long ago,Who sneaked about with aspect glum,Remarking, 'Ha! A time will come!'
His blood, of blue cerulean hue,Runs in his veins like liquid fire,And he can be most rude if youShould rob him of his heart's desire;'Caramba!' he exclaims, and whack!His dagger perforates your back!
If you should care to patroniseA bull-fight, as you will no doubt,You'll see a horse with blinded eyesBe very badly mauled about;By such a scene a weak insideIs sometimes rather sorely tried.
And, if the bull is full of fun,The horse is generally gored,So then they fetch another one,Or else the first one is encored;The humour of the sport, of course,Is not so patent to the horse.
MORAL
Be kind to ev'ry bull you meet,Remember how the creature feels;Don't wink at ladies in the street;And don't make speeches after meals;And lastly, I need not explain,If you're a horse, don't go to Spain.
This atmosphere is pure ozone!To climb the hills you promptly start;Unless you happen to be proneTo palpitations of the heart;In which case swarming up the AlpsBrings on a bad attack of palps.The nicest method is to stayQuite comfortably down below,And, from the steps of your chalet,Watch other people upwards go.Then you can buy an alpenstock,And scratch your name upon a rock.MORALDon't do fatiguing things which youCan pay another man to do.Let friends assume (they may be wrong),That you each year ascend Mong Blong.Some things you canpretendyou've done,And climbing up the Alps is one.
This atmosphere is pure ozone!To climb the hills you promptly start;Unless you happen to be proneTo palpitations of the heart;In which case swarming up the AlpsBrings on a bad attack of palps.
The nicest method is to stayQuite comfortably down below,And, from the steps of your chalet,Watch other people upwards go.Then you can buy an alpenstock,And scratch your name upon a rock.
MORAL
Don't do fatiguing things which youCan pay another man to do.Let friends assume (they may be wrong),That you each year ascend Mong Blong.Some things you canpretendyou've done,And climbing up the Alps is one.
The Sultan of the Purple EastIs quite a cynic, in his way,And really doesn't mind the leastHis nickname of 'Abdul the ——' (Nay!I might perhaps come in for blameIf I divulged this monarch's name.)The Turk is such a kindly man,But his ideas of sport are crude;He to the poor ArmenianIs not intentionally rude,But still it is his heartless habitTo treat him aswetreat the rabbit.If he wants bracing up a bit,His pleasing little custom isTo take a hatchet and commitA series of atrocities.I should not fancy, after dark,To meet him, say, in Regent's Park.A deeply married man is he,'Early and often' is his rule;He practises polygamyDirectly after leaving school,And so arranges that his wivesLive happy but secluded lives.If they attend a public place,They have to do so in disguise,And so conceal one-half their faceThat nothing but a pair of eyesSuggests the hidden charm that lurksBeneath the veils of lady Turks.Then too in Turkey all the menSmoke water-pipes and cross their legs;They watch their harem as a henThat guards her first attempt at eggs.(If you don't know what harems are,Just run and ask your dear papa.)MORALWives of great men oft remind usWe should make our wives sublime,But the years advancing find usVainly working over-time.We could minimise our workBy the methods of the Turk.
The Sultan of the Purple EastIs quite a cynic, in his way,And really doesn't mind the leastHis nickname of 'Abdul the ——' (Nay!I might perhaps come in for blameIf I divulged this monarch's name.)
The Turk is such a kindly man,But his ideas of sport are crude;He to the poor ArmenianIs not intentionally rude,But still it is his heartless habitTo treat him aswetreat the rabbit.
If he wants bracing up a bit,His pleasing little custom isTo take a hatchet and commitA series of atrocities.I should not fancy, after dark,To meet him, say, in Regent's Park.
A deeply married man is he,'Early and often' is his rule;He practises polygamyDirectly after leaving school,And so arranges that his wivesLive happy but secluded lives.
If they attend a public place,They have to do so in disguise,And so conceal one-half their faceThat nothing but a pair of eyesSuggests the hidden charm that lurksBeneath the veils of lady Turks.
Then too in Turkey all the menSmoke water-pipes and cross their legs;They watch their harem as a henThat guards her first attempt at eggs.(If you don't know what harems are,Just run and ask your dear papa.)
MORAL
Wives of great men oft remind usWe should make our wives sublime,But the years advancing find usVainly working over-time.We could minimise our workBy the methods of the Turk.
Here you will see strange happeningsWith absolutely placid eyes;If all your uncles sprouted wingsYou would not feel the least surprise;The oddest things that you can doDon't seem a bit absurd to you.You go (in Dreamland) to a ball,And suddenly are shocked to findThat you have nothing on at all,—But somehow no one seems to mind;And, naturally,youdon't care,If they can bear what you can bare!Then, in a moment, you're pursuedBy engines on a railway track!Your legs are tied, your feet are glued,The train comes snorting down your back!One last attempt at flight you makeAnd so (in bed) perspiring wake.You feel so free from weight of caresThat, if the staircase you should climb,You gaily mount, not single stairs,But whole battalions at a time;(My metaphor is mixed, may be,I quote from Shakespeare, as you see).If you should eat too much, you pay(In dreams) the penalty for this;A nightmare carries you awayAnd drops you down a precipice!Down! down! until, with sudden smack,You strike the mattress with your back.MORALAt meals decline to be a beast;'Too much is better than a feast.'
Here you will see strange happeningsWith absolutely placid eyes;If all your uncles sprouted wingsYou would not feel the least surprise;The oddest things that you can doDon't seem a bit absurd to you.
You go (in Dreamland) to a ball,And suddenly are shocked to findThat you have nothing on at all,—But somehow no one seems to mind;And, naturally,youdon't care,If they can bear what you can bare!
Then, in a moment, you're pursuedBy engines on a railway track!Your legs are tied, your feet are glued,The train comes snorting down your back!One last attempt at flight you makeAnd so (in bed) perspiring wake.
You feel so free from weight of caresThat, if the staircase you should climb,You gaily mount, not single stairs,But whole battalions at a time;(My metaphor is mixed, may be,I quote from Shakespeare, as you see).
If you should eat too much, you pay(In dreams) the penalty for this;A nightmare carries you awayAnd drops you down a precipice!Down! down! until, with sudden smack,You strike the mattress with your back.
MORAL
At meals decline to be a beast;'Too much is better than a feast.'
The customs of this land have allBeen published in a bulky tome.The author is a man they callJeromeK. JeromeK. Jerome.So, lest on his preserves I poach,This subject I refuse to broach.MORALThe moral here is plain to see.If true the hackneyed witticismWhich stamps OriginalityAs 'undetected plagiarism,'What a vocation I have miss'dAs undetected plagiarist!
The customs of this land have allBeen published in a bulky tome.The author is a man they callJeromeK. JeromeK. Jerome.So, lest on his preserves I poach,This subject I refuse to broach.
MORAL
The moral here is plain to see.If true the hackneyed witticismWhich stamps OriginalityAs 'undetected plagiarism,'What a vocation I have miss'dAs undetected plagiarist!
This is the land where minor bardsAnd other lunatics repair,To live in houses made of cards,Or build their castles in the air;To feed on hope, and idly dreamThat things are really what they seem.The natives are a motley lot,Of ev'ry age and creed and race,But each inhabitant has gotThe same expression on his face;They look, when this their features fills,Like angels with internal chills.The lover sits, the livelong day,Quite inarticulate of speech;He simply brims with things to say;Alas! the words he cannot reach,And, silent, lets occasion pass,Feeling a fulminating ass.It is the lady lover's wontTo blush, and look demure or coy,To say, 'You mustn't!' and, 'Oh! don't!'Or, 'Please leave off, you naughty boy!'(But this, of course, is just her way,She wouldn't wish you to obey.)The lover, in a trembling voice,Demands the hand of his lovee,And begs the lady of his choiceTo share some cottage-by-the-sea;Withhera prison would be nice,A coal-cellar a Paradise!'Love in a cottage' sounds so well;But oh, my too impatient bride,No drainage and a constant smellOf something being over-friedIs not the sort of atmosphereThat makes for wedded bliss, my dear.And when the bills are rather high,And when the money's rather low,See poor Virginia sit and sigh,And ask why Paulmustgrumble so!He slams the door and strides about,And, through the window, Love creeps out.'Tis said that Cupid blinds our sightWith fire of passion from above,Nor ever bids us see arightThe many faults in those we love;Ah no! I deem it otherwise,For lovers have the clearest eyes.They see the faults, the failures, andThe great temptations, and they know,Although they cannot understand,That they would have the loved one so.Believe me, Love is never blind,His smiling eyes are wise and kind.Tho' lovers quarrel, yet, I ween,'Tis but to make it up again;The sunshine seems the more sereneThat follows after April rain;And love should lead, if love be true,To perfect understanding too.If in our hearts this love beats strong,We shall not ever seek to earnForgiveness for some fancied wrong,Nor need to pardon in return;But learn this lesson as we live,'To understand is to forgive.'And all you little girls and boysWill find this out yourselves, some day,When you have done with childish toysAnd put your infant books away.Ah! then I pray that hand-in-handYou tread the paths of Loverland.MORALDon't fall in love, but, when you do,Take care that he (or she) does too;And, lastly, to misquote the bard,If youmustlove, don't love too hard.
This is the land where minor bardsAnd other lunatics repair,To live in houses made of cards,Or build their castles in the air;To feed on hope, and idly dreamThat things are really what they seem.
The natives are a motley lot,Of ev'ry age and creed and race,But each inhabitant has gotThe same expression on his face;They look, when this their features fills,Like angels with internal chills.
The lover sits, the livelong day,Quite inarticulate of speech;He simply brims with things to say;Alas! the words he cannot reach,And, silent, lets occasion pass,Feeling a fulminating ass.
It is the lady lover's wontTo blush, and look demure or coy,To say, 'You mustn't!' and, 'Oh! don't!'Or, 'Please leave off, you naughty boy!'(But this, of course, is just her way,She wouldn't wish you to obey.)
The lover, in a trembling voice,Demands the hand of his lovee,And begs the lady of his choiceTo share some cottage-by-the-sea;Withhera prison would be nice,A coal-cellar a Paradise!
'Love in a cottage' sounds so well;But oh, my too impatient bride,No drainage and a constant smellOf something being over-friedIs not the sort of atmosphereThat makes for wedded bliss, my dear.
And when the bills are rather high,And when the money's rather low,See poor Virginia sit and sigh,And ask why Paulmustgrumble so!He slams the door and strides about,And, through the window, Love creeps out.
'Tis said that Cupid blinds our sightWith fire of passion from above,Nor ever bids us see arightThe many faults in those we love;Ah no! I deem it otherwise,For lovers have the clearest eyes.
They see the faults, the failures, andThe great temptations, and they know,Although they cannot understand,That they would have the loved one so.Believe me, Love is never blind,His smiling eyes are wise and kind.
Tho' lovers quarrel, yet, I ween,'Tis but to make it up again;The sunshine seems the more sereneThat follows after April rain;And love should lead, if love be true,To perfect understanding too.
If in our hearts this love beats strong,We shall not ever seek to earnForgiveness for some fancied wrong,Nor need to pardon in return;But learn this lesson as we live,'To understand is to forgive.'
And all you little girls and boysWill find this out yourselves, some day,When you have done with childish toysAnd put your infant books away.Ah! then I pray that hand-in-handYou tread the paths of Loverland.
MORAL
Don't fall in love, but, when you do,Take care that he (or she) does too;And, lastly, to misquote the bard,If youmustlove, don't love too hard.
The tour is over! We must part!Our mutual journey at an end.O bid farewell, with aching heart,To guide, philosopher, and friend;And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!'The kindly tear that dims his eye.The tour is ended! Sad but true!No more together may we roam!We turn our lonely footsteps toThe spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home.Nor time nor temper can affordA more protracted trip abroad.O Home! where we must always beSo hopelessly misunderstood;Where waits a tactless family,To tell us things 'for our own good';Where relatives, with searchlight eyes,Can penetrate our choicest lies.Where all our kith and kin combineTo prove that we are worse than rude,If we should criticise the wineOr make complaints about the food.Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome,Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!'
The tour is over! We must part!Our mutual journey at an end.O bid farewell, with aching heart,To guide, philosopher, and friend;And note, as you remark 'Good-bye!'The kindly tear that dims his eye.
The tour is ended! Sad but true!No more together may we roam!We turn our lonely footsteps toThe spot that's known as Home, Sweet Home.Nor time nor temper can affordA more protracted trip abroad.
O Home! where we must always beSo hopelessly misunderstood;Where waits a tactless family,To tell us things 'for our own good';Where relatives, with searchlight eyes,Can penetrate our choicest lies.
Where all our kith and kin combineTo prove that we are worse than rude,If we should criticise the wineOr make complaints about the food.Thank goodness, then, to quote the pome,Thank goodness there's 'no place like Home!'
(By Way of Advertisement)
I have no knowledge of disease,No notion what ill-health may be,Since Housemaid's Throat and Smoker's KneesMean something different to meTo what they do to other folk.(This is, I vow, no vulgar joke.)Of course, when young, I had complaints,And little childish accidents;For twice I ate a box of paints,And once I swallowed eighteen pence.(N.B., I missed the paints a lot,But got the coins back on the spot.)But no practitioner has seenMy tongue since then, down to the present,And I, alas! have never beenAn interesting convalescent.Ah! why am I alone deniedThe Humour of a weak inside?Why is it? I will tell you why;A certain mixture is to blame.One day for fun I chanced to tryA bottle of—whatisthe name?That thing they advertise a lot,—(Oh, what a memory I've got!)It's stuff you must, of course, have seen,Retailed in bottles, tins, or pots,In cakes or little pills, I mean—(Oh goodness me! I've bought such lots,That I am really much to blameFor not remembering the name!)Still, let me recommend a keg(With maker's name, be sure, above it),'Tis sweeter than a new-mown egg,And village idiots simply love it;Old persons sit and scream for it,—I do so hope you'll try a bit!So efficacious is this stuff,Its virtue and its strength are such,One single bottle is enough,—In fact, at times, 'tis far too much.(The patient dies in frightful pain,Or else survives, and tries again.)An aunt of mine felt anyhow,All kind-of-odd, and gone-to-bits,Had freckles badly too; but nowShe doesn't have a thing but fits.She's just as strong as any horse,—Tho' still an invalid, of course.I had an uncle, too, that way,His health was in a dreadful plight;Would often spend a sleepless day,And lie unconscious half the night.He took two bottles, large and small,And now—he has no health at all!The Moral plainly bids you buyThis stuff, whose name I have forgotten;You won't regret it, if you try—(My memory is simply rotten!)My funds will profit, in addition,Since I enjoy a small commission!
I have no knowledge of disease,No notion what ill-health may be,Since Housemaid's Throat and Smoker's KneesMean something different to meTo what they do to other folk.(This is, I vow, no vulgar joke.)
Of course, when young, I had complaints,And little childish accidents;For twice I ate a box of paints,And once I swallowed eighteen pence.(N.B., I missed the paints a lot,But got the coins back on the spot.)
But no practitioner has seenMy tongue since then, down to the present,And I, alas! have never beenAn interesting convalescent.Ah! why am I alone deniedThe Humour of a weak inside?
Why is it? I will tell you why;A certain mixture is to blame.One day for fun I chanced to tryA bottle of—whatisthe name?That thing they advertise a lot,—(Oh, what a memory I've got!)
It's stuff you must, of course, have seen,Retailed in bottles, tins, or pots,In cakes or little pills, I mean—(Oh goodness me! I've bought such lots,That I am really much to blameFor not remembering the name!)
Still, let me recommend a keg(With maker's name, be sure, above it),'Tis sweeter than a new-mown egg,And village idiots simply love it;Old persons sit and scream for it,—I do so hope you'll try a bit!
So efficacious is this stuff,Its virtue and its strength are such,One single bottle is enough,—In fact, at times, 'tis far too much.(The patient dies in frightful pain,Or else survives, and tries again.)
An aunt of mine felt anyhow,All kind-of-odd, and gone-to-bits,Had freckles badly too; but nowShe doesn't have a thing but fits.She's just as strong as any horse,—Tho' still an invalid, of course.
I had an uncle, too, that way,His health was in a dreadful plight;Would often spend a sleepless day,And lie unconscious half the night.He took two bottles, large and small,And now—he has no health at all!
The Moral plainly bids you buyThis stuff, whose name I have forgotten;You won't regret it, if you try—(My memory is simply rotten!)My funds will profit, in addition,Since I enjoy a small commission!
I've got AppendicitisIn my Appendicit,But I don't mind,Because I findI'm quite 'cut out' for it.
I've got AppendicitisIn my Appendicit,But I don't mind,Because I findI'm quite 'cut out' for it.
If only I had Whooping-cough!I'd join a Circus troupe!And folks would clamour at the door,And pay a shilling—even more,To see me 'Whoop The Whoop.'
If only I had Whooping-cough!I'd join a Circus troupe!And folks would clamour at the door,And pay a shilling—even more,To see me 'Whoop The Whoop.'
Of illnesses like chickenpoxAnd measles I've had lots;I do not like them much, you know,They are not really nice, altho'They're rather nice in spots.
Of illnesses like chickenpoxAnd measles I've had lots;I do not like them much, you know,They are not really nice, altho'They're rather nice in spots.
A Cockney maid produced such snores,Folks left the City to avoid them;And all becos,She said, it wasHer adenoids that 'ad annoyed them!
A Cockney maid produced such snores,Folks left the City to avoid them;And all becos,She said, it wasHer adenoids that 'ad annoyed them!
I had the Croup, in years gone by,And that is why to-day,Altho' no longer youthful, IAm still a Croupier.
I had the Croup, in years gone by,And that is why to-day,Altho' no longer youthful, IAm still a Croupier.
When wilful little Willie BlackThrew all the tea-things at his mother,She murmured, as she hurled them back,'One good Tea-urn deserves another!'
When wilful little Willie BlackThrew all the tea-things at his mother,She murmured, as she hurled them back,'One good Tea-urn deserves another!'
Poor Uncle Joe has gone, you know,To rest beyond the stars.I miss him, oh! I miss him so,—He hadsuchgood cigars.
Poor Uncle Joe has gone, you know,To rest beyond the stars.I miss him, oh! I miss him so,—He hadsuchgood cigars.
In the drinking-well(Which the plumber built her)Aunt Eliza fell,——We must buy a filter.
In the drinking-well(Which the plumber built her)Aunt Eliza fell,——We must buy a filter.
Absent-minded Edward BrownDrove his lady into town;Suddenly the horse fell down!Mrs. Ned(Newly wed)Threw a fit and lay for dead.Edward, lacking in resource,Chafed the fetlocks of his horse,Sitting with unpleasant force(Just like lead)On the headOf the prostrate Mrs. Ned.She demanded a divorce,Jealous of the favoured horse.Edward had it shot, of course.. . . . .Years have sped;She and NedDrive a motor now instead.
Absent-minded Edward BrownDrove his lady into town;Suddenly the horse fell down!Mrs. Ned(Newly wed)Threw a fit and lay for dead.
Edward, lacking in resource,Chafed the fetlocks of his horse,Sitting with unpleasant force(Just like lead)On the headOf the prostrate Mrs. Ned.
She demanded a divorce,Jealous of the favoured horse.Edward had it shot, of course.
. . . . .
Years have sped;She and NedDrive a motor now instead.
John, across the broad Atlantic,Tried to navigate a barque,But he met an unromanticAnd extremely hungry shark.John (I blame his childhood's teachers)Thought to treat this as a lark,Ignorant of how these creaturesDo delight to bite a barque.Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and,With a scornful sort of grin,Handled an adjacent oar andChucked it underneath the chin.At this unexpected juncture,Which he had not reckoned on,Mr. Shark he made a punctureIn the barque—and then in John.. . . . .Sad am I, and sore at thinkingJohn had on some clothes of mine;I can almost see them shrinking,Washed repeatedly in brine.I shall never cease regrettingThat I lent my hat to him,For I fear a thorough wettingCannot well improve the brim.Oh! to know a shark is browsing,Boldly, blandly, on my boots!Coldly, cruelly carousingOn the choicest of my suits!Creatures I regard with loathing,Who can calmly take their fillOf one's Jaeger underclothing:—Down, my aching heart, be still!
John, across the broad Atlantic,Tried to navigate a barque,But he met an unromanticAnd extremely hungry shark.
John (I blame his childhood's teachers)Thought to treat this as a lark,Ignorant of how these creaturesDo delight to bite a barque.
Said, 'This animal's a bore!' and,With a scornful sort of grin,Handled an adjacent oar andChucked it underneath the chin.
At this unexpected juncture,Which he had not reckoned on,Mr. Shark he made a punctureIn the barque—and then in John.
. . . . .
Sad am I, and sore at thinkingJohn had on some clothes of mine;I can almost see them shrinking,Washed repeatedly in brine.
I shall never cease regrettingThat I lent my hat to him,For I fear a thorough wettingCannot well improve the brim.
Oh! to know a shark is browsing,Boldly, blandly, on my boots!Coldly, cruelly carousingOn the choicest of my suits!
Creatures I regard with loathing,Who can calmly take their fillOf one's Jaeger underclothing:—Down, my aching heart, be still!
Baby roused its father's ire,By a cold and formal lisp;So he placed it on the fire,And reduced it to a crisp.Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit!This isoverdoingit!'
Baby roused its father's ire,By a cold and formal lisp;So he placed it on the fire,And reduced it to a crisp.Mother said, 'Oh, stop a bit!This isoverdoingit!'
(Advice to the Young)
My children, you should imitateThe harmless, necessary cat,Who eats whatever's on his plate,And doesn't even leave the fat;Who never stays in bed too late,Or does immoral things like that;Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!'He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash!When shadows fall and lights grow dim,He sits beneath the kitchen stair;Regardless as to life and limb,A shady lair he chooses there;And if you tumble over him,He simply loves to hear you swear.And, while bad languageyouprefer,He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!
My children, you should imitateThe harmless, necessary cat,Who eats whatever's on his plate,And doesn't even leave the fat;Who never stays in bed too late,Or does immoral things like that;Instead of saying, 'Shan't!' or 'Bosh!'He'll sit and wash, and wash, and wash!
When shadows fall and lights grow dim,He sits beneath the kitchen stair;Regardless as to life and limb,A shady lair he chooses there;And if you tumble over him,He simply loves to hear you swear.And, while bad languageyouprefer,He'll sit and purr, and purr, and purr!