Songs Of A Savoyard By W S Gilbert

Songs of a Savoyard Contents: The Darned MounseerThe EnglishmanThe Disagreeable ManThe Coming By-And-ByThe Highly Respectable GondolierThe Fairy Queen’s SongIs Life A BoonThe Modern Major-GeneralThe Heavy DragoonProper PrideThe Policeman’s LotThe Baffled GrumblerThe House Of PeersA Merry MadrigalThe Duke And The DuchessEheu Fugaces -!They’ll None Of `Em Be MissedGirl GraduatesBraid The Raven HairThe Working MonarchThe Ape And The LadyOnly RosesThe Rover’s ApologyAn AppealThe Reward Of MeritThe Magnet And The ChurnThe Family FoolSans SouciA RecipeThe Merryman And His MaidThe Susceptible ChancellorWhen A Merry Maiden MarriesThe British TarA Man Who Would Woo A Fair MaidThe Sorcerer’s SongThe Fickle BreezeThe First Lord’s SongWould You Know?SpeculationAh Me!The Duke Of Plaza-ToroThe AestheteSaid I To Myself, Said ISorry Her LotThe Contemplative SentryThe Philosophic PillBlue BloodThe Judge’s SongWhen I First Put This Uniform OnSolatiumA NightmareDon’t Forget!The Suicide’s GraveHe And SheThe Mighty MustA MirageThe Ghosts’ High NoonThe Humane MikadoWillow Waly!Life Is Lovely All The YearThe Usher’s ChargeThe Great Oak TreeKing GoodheartSleep On!The Love-Sick BoyPoetry EverywhereHe Loves!True DiffidenceThe Tangled SkeinMy LadyOne Against The WorldPut A Penny In The SlotGood Little GirlsLifeLimited LiabilityAnglicised UtopiaAn English GirlA Manager’s PerplexitiesOut Of SortsHow It’s DoneA Classical RevivalThe Practical JokerThe National AnthemHer TermsThe Independent BeeThe Disconcerted TenorThe Played-Out Humorist Ballad: The Darned Mounseer I shipped, d’ye see, in a Revenue sloop, And, off Cape Finisteere,A merchantman we see,A Frenchman, going free,So we made for the bold Mounseer,D’ye see?We made for the bold Mounseer!But she proved to be a Frigate – and she up with her ports, And fires with a thirty-two!It come uncommon near,But we answered with a cheer,Which paralysed the Parley-voo,D’ye see?Which paralysed the Parley-voo! Then our Captain he up and he says, says he, “That chap we need not fear, –We can take her, if we like,She is sartin for to strike,For she’s only a darned Mounseer,D’ye see?She’s only a darned Mounseer!But to fight a French fal-lal – it’s like hittin’ of a gal – It’s a lubberly thing for to do;For we, with all our faults,Why, we’re sturdy British salts,While she’s but a Parley-voo,D’ye see?A miserable Parley-voo!” So we up with our helm, and we scuds before the breeze, As we gives a compassionating cheer;Froggee answers with a shoutAs he sees us go about,Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer, D’ye see?Which was grateful of the poor Mounseer! And I’ll wager in their joy they kissed each other’s cheek (Which is what them furriners do),And they blessed their lucky starsWe were hardy British tarsWho had pity on a poor Parley-voo,D’ye see?Who had pity on a poor Parley-voo! Ballad: The Englishman He is an Englishman!For he himself has said it,And it’s greatly to his credit,That he is an Englishman!For he might have been a Roosian,A French, or Turk, or Proosian,Or perhaps Itali-an!But in spite of all temptations,To belong to other nations,He remains an Englishman!Hurrah!For the true-born Englishman! Ballad: The Disagreeable Man If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am: I’m a genuine philanthropist – all other kinds are sham. Each little fault of temper and each social defect In my erring fellow-creatures, I endeavour to correct. To all their little weaknesses I open people’s eyes, And little plans to snub the self-sufficient I devise; I love my fellow-creatures – I do all the good I can – Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why! To compliments inflated I’ve a withering reply, And vanity I always do my best to mortify; A charitable action I can skilfully dissect; And interested motives I’m delighted to detect. I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns, And I carefully compare it with the income-tax returns; But to benefit humanity, however much I plan, Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why! I’m sure I’m no ascetic; I’m as pleasant as can be; You’ll always find me ready with a crushing repartee; I’ve an irritating chuckle, I’ve a celebrated sneer, I’ve an entertaining snigger, I’ve a fascinating leer; To everybody’s prejudice I know a thing or two; I can tell a woman’s age in half a minute – and I do – But although I try to make myself as pleasant as I can, Yet everybody says I’m such a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why! Ballad: The Coming By-And-By Sad is that woman’s lot who, year by year, Sees, one by one, her beauties disappear; As Time, grown weary of her heart-drawn sighs, Impatiently begins to “dim her eyes”! –Herself compelled, in life’s uncertain gloamings, To wreathe her wrinkled brow with well-saved “combings” – Reduced, with rouge, lipsalve, and pearly grey, To “make up” for lost time, as best she may! Silvered is the raven hair,Spreading is the parting straight,Mottled the complexion fair,Halting is the youthful gait, Hollow is the laughter free,Spectacled the limpid eye,Little will be left of me,In the coming by-and-by!Fading is the taper waist –Shapeless grows the shapely limb,And although securely laced,Spreading is the figure trim!Stouter than I used to be,Still more corpulent grow I –There will be too much of meIn the coming by-and-by! Ballad: The Highly Respectable Gondolier I stole the Prince, and I brought him here, And left him, gaily prattlingWith a highly respectable Gondolier, Who promised the Royal babe to rear,And teach him the trade of a timoneer With his own beloved bratling. Both of the babes were strong and stout, And, considering all things, clever.Of that there is no manner of doubt – No probable, possible shadow of doubt –No possible doubt whatever. Time sped, and when at the end of a year I sought that infant cherished,That highly respectable GondolierWas lying a corpse on his humble bier – I dropped a Grand Inquisitor’s tear –That Gondolier had perished! A taste for drink, combined with gout, Had doubled him up for ever.Of THAT there is no manner of doubt – No probable, possible shadow of doubt –No possible doubt whatever. But owing, I’m much disposed to fear, To his terrible taste for tippling,That highly respectable GondolierCould never declare with a mind sincere Which of the two was his offspring dear, And which the Royal stripling! Which was which he could never make out, Despite his best endeavour.Of THAT there is no manner of doubt – No probable, possible shadow of doubt –No possible doubt whatever. The children followed his old career – (This statement can’t be parried)Of a highly respectable Gondolier:Well, one of the two (who will soon be here) – But WHICH of the two is not quite clear – Is the Royal Prince you married! Search in and out and round aboutAnd you’ll discover neverA tale so free from every doubt –All probable, possible shadow of doubt – All possible doubt whatever! Ballad: The Fairy Queen’s Song Oh, foolish fay,Think you becauseMan’s brave arrayMy bosom thawsI’d disobeyOur fairy laws?Because I flyIn realms above,In tendencyTo fall in loveResemble IThe amorous dove? Oh, amorous dove!Type of Ovidius Naso!This heart of mineIs soft as thine,Although I dare not say so! On fire that glowsWith heat intenseI turn the hoseOf Common Sense,And out it goesAt small expense!We must maintainOur fairy law;That is the mainOn which to draw –In that we gainA Captain Shaw. Oh, Captain Shaw!Type of true love kept under!Could thy BrigadeWith cold cascadeQuench my great love, I wonder! Ballad: Is Life A Boon Is life a boon?If so, it must befallThat Death, whene’er he call,Must call too soon.Though fourscore years he giveYet one would pray to liveAnother moon!What kind of plaint have I,Who perish in July?I might have had to diePerchance in June! Is life a thorn?Then count it not a whit!Man is well done with it;Soon as he’s bornHe should all means essayTo put the plague away;And I, war-worn,Poor captured fugitive,My life most gladly give –I might have had to liveAnother morn! Ballad: The Modern Major-General I am the very pattern of a modern Major-Gineral, I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral; I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical, From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical; I’m very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical; About binomial theorem I’m teeming with a lot o’ news, With interesting facts about the square of the hypotenuse, I’m very good at integral and differential calculus, I know the scientific names of beings animalculous. In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral. I know our mythic history – KING ARTHUR’S and SIR CARADOC’S, I answer hard acrostics, I’ve a pretty taste for paradox; I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of HELIOGABALUS, In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous. I tell undoubted RAPHAELS from GERARD DOWS and ZOFFANIES, I know the croaking chorus from the “Frogs” of ARISTOPHANES; Then I can hum a fugue, of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore, And whistle all the airs from that confounded nonsense “Pinafore.” Then I can write a washing-bill in Babylonic cuneiform, And tell you every detail of CARACTACUS’S uniform. In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral. In fact, when I know what is meant by “mamelon” and “ravelin,” When I can tell at sight a Chassepot rifle from a javelin, When such affairs as SORTIES and surprises I’m more wary at, And when I know precisely what is meant by Commissariat, When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery, When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery, In short, when I’ve a smattering of elementary strategy, You’ll say a better Major-GenerAL has never SAT a gee – For my military knowledge, though I’m plucky and adventury, Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century. But still in learning vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-Gineral! Ballad: The Heavy Dragoon If you want a receipt for that popular mystery, Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon,Take all the remarkable people in history, Rattle them off to a popular tune!The pluck of LORD NELSON on board of the VICTORY – Genius of BISMARCK devising a plan;The humour of FIELDING (which sounds contradictory) – Coolness of PAGET about to trepan –The grace of MOZART, that unparalleled musico – Wit of MACAULAY, who wrote of QUEEN ANNE – The pathos of PADDY, as rendered by BOUCICAULT – Style of the BISHOP OF SODOR AND MAN –The dash of a D’ORSAY, divested of quackery – Narrative powers of DICKENS and THACKERAY – VICTOR EMMANUEL – peak-haunting PEVERIL – THOMAS AQUINAS, and DOCTOR SACHEVERELL – TUPPER and TENNYSON – DANIEL DEFOE –ANTHONY TROLLOPE and MISTER GUIZOT! Take of these elements all that is fusible, Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible, Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum, And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum! If you want a receipt for this soldierlike paragon, Get at the wealth of the CZAR (if you can) – The family pride of a Spaniard from Arragon – Force of MEPHISTO pronouncing a ban –A smack of LORD WATERFORD, reckless and rollicky – Swagger of RODERICK, heading his clan –The keen penetration of PADDINGTON POLLAKY – Grace of an Odalisque on a divan –The genius strategic of CAESAR or HANNIBAL – Skill of LORD WOLSELEY in thrashing a cannibal – Flavour of HAMLET – the STRANGER, a touch of him – Little of MANFRED (but not very much of him) – Beadle of Burlington – RICHARDSON’S show – MR. MICAWBER and MADAME TUSSAUD!Take of these elements all that is fusible – Melt ’em all down in a pipkin or crucible – Set ’em to simmer and take off the scum, And a Heavy Dragoon is the residuum! Ballad: Proper Pride The Sun, whose raysAre all ablazeWith ever-living glory,Will not denyHis majesty –He scorns to tell a story:He won’t exclaim,“I blush for shame,So kindly be indulgent,”But, fierce and bold,In fiery gold,He glories all effulgent! I mean to rule the earth,As he the sky –We really know our worth,The Sun and I! Observe his flame,That placid dame,The Moon’s Celestial Highness;There’s not a traceUpon her faceOf diffidence or shyness:She borrows lightThat, through the night,Mankind may all acclaim her!And, truth to tell,She lights up well,So I, for one, don’t blame her! Ah, pray make no mistake,We are not shy;We’re very wide awake,The Moon and I! Ballad: The Policeman’s Lot When a felon’s not engaged in his employment, Or maturing his felonious little plans,His capacity for innocent enjoyment Is just as great as any honest man’s.Our feelings we with difficulty smother When constabulary duty’s to be done:Ah, take one consideration with another, A policeman’s lot is not a happy one! When the enterprising burglar isn’t burgling, When the cut-throat isn’t occupied in crime, He loves to hear the little brook a-gurgling, And listen to the merry village chime.When the coster’s finished jumping on his mother, He loves to lie a-basking in the sun:Ah, take one consideration with another, The policeman’s lot is not a happy one! Ballad: The Baffled Grumbler Whene’er I pokeSarcastic jokeReplete with malice spiteful,The people vilePolitely smileAnd vote me quite delightful!Now, when a wightSits up all nightIll-natured jokes devising,And all his wilesAre met with smiles,It’s hard, there’s no disguising!Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn’t your life extremely flatWith nothing whatever to grumble at! When German bands,From music standsPlay Wagner imperFECTly –I bid them go –They don’t say no,But off they trot directly!The organ boysThey stop their noiseWith readiness surprising,And grinning herdsOf hurdy-gurdsRetire apologising!Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn’t your life extremely flatWith nothing whatever to grumble at! I’ve offered gold,In sums untold,To all who’d contradict me –I’ve said I’d payA pound a dayTo any one who kicked me –I’ve bribed with toysGreat vulgar boysTo utter something spiteful,But, bless you, no!They WILL be soConfoundedly politeful!In short, these aggravating lads,They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads, They give me this and they give me that, And I’ve nothing whatever to grumble at! Ballad: The House Of Peers When Britain really ruled the waves – (In good Queen Bess’s time)The House of Peers made no pretence To intellectual eminence,Or scholarship sublime;Yet Britain won her proudest baysIn good Queen Bess’s glorious days! When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte,As every child can tell,The House of Peers, throughout the war, Did nothing in particular,And did it very well;Yet Britain set the world ablazeIn good King George’s glorious days! And while the House of Peers withholds Its legislative hand,And noble statesmen do not itchTo interfere with matters whichThey do not understand,As bright will shine Great Britain’s rays, As in King George’s glorious days! Ballad: A Merry Madrigal Brightly dawns our wedding day;Joyous hour, we give thee greeting! Whither, whither art thou fleeting?Fickle moment, prithee stay!What though mortal joys be hollow?Pleasures come, if sorrows follow.Though the tocsin sound, ere long,Ding dong! Ding dong!Yet until the shadows fallOver one and over all,Sing a merry madrigal –Fal la! Let us dry the ready tear;Though the hours are surely creeping, Little need for woeful weepingTill the sad sundown is near.All must sip the cup of sorrow,I to-day and thou to-morrow:This the close of every song –Ding dong! Ding dong!What though solemn shadows fall,Sooner, later, over all?Sing a merry madrigal –Fal la! Ballad: The Duke And The Duchess [THE DUKE.]Small titles and ordersFor Mayors and RecordersI get – and they’re highly delighted. M.P.s baronetted,Sham Colonels gazetted,And second-rate Aldermen knighted.Foundation-stone layingI find very paying,It adds a large sum to my makings.At charity dinnersThe best of speech-spinners,I get ten per cent on the takings! [THE DUCHESS.]I present any ladyWhose conduct is shadyOr smacking of doubtful propriety;When Virtue would quash herI take and whitewash herAnd launch her in first-rate society. I recommend acresOf clumsy dressmakers –Their fit and their finishing touches; A sum in additionThey pay for permissionTo say that they make for the Duchess! [THE DUKE.]Those pressing prevailers,The ready-made tailors,Quote me as their great double-barrel; I allow them to do so,Though ROBINSON CRUSOEWould jib at their wearing apparel! I sit, by selection,Upon the directionOf several Companies bubble;As soon as they’re floatedI’m freely bank-noted –I’m pretty well paid for my trouble! [THE DUCHESS.]At middle-class partyI play at ECARTE –And I’m by no means a beginner;To one of my stationThe remuneration –Five guineas a night and my dinner. I write letters blatantOn medicines patent –And use any other you mustn’t;And vow my complexionDerives its perfectionFrom somebody’s soap – which it doesn’t. [THE DUKE.]We’re ready as witnessTo any one’s fitnessTo fill any place or preferment;We’re often in waitingAt junket FETING,And sometimes attend an interment.In short, if you’d kindleThe spark of a swindle,Lure simpletons into your clutches, Or hoodwink a debtor,You cannot do betterThan trot out a Duke or a Duchess! Ballad: Eheu Fugaces -! The air is charged with amatory numbers – Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers’ lays. Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers The aching memory of the old, old days? Time was when Love and I were well acquainted; Time was when we walked ever hand in hand; A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted, None better loved than I in all the land! Time was, when maidens of the noblest station, Forsaking even military men,Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration – Ah me, I was a fair young curate then! Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled; Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear; Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled; And when I coughed all thought the end was near! I had no care – no jealous doubts hung o’er me – For I was loved beyond all other men.Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me – Ah me, I was a pale young curate then! Ballad: They’ll None Of ‘Em Be Missed As some day it may happen that a victim must be found, I’ve got a little list – I’ve got a little list Of social offenders who might well be underground, And who never would be missed – who never would be missed! There’s the pestilential nuisances who write for autographs – All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs – All children who are up in dates, and floor you with ’em flat – All persons who in shaking hands, shake hands with you like THAT – And all third persons who on spoiling TETE-E-TETES insist – They’d none of ’em be missed – they’d none of ’em be missed! There’s the nigger serenader, and the others of his race, And the piano organist – I’ve got him on the list! And the people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face, They never would be missed – they never would be missed! Then the idiot who praises, with enthusiastic tone, All centuries but this, and every country but his own; And the lady from the provinces, who dresses like a guy, And who “doesn’t think she waltzes, but would rather like to try”; And that FIN-DE-SIECLE anomaly, the scorching motorist – I don’t think he’d be missed – I’m SURE he’d not be missed! And that NISI PRIUS nuisance, who just now is rather rife, The Judicial humorist – I’ve got HIM on the list! All funny fellows, comic men, and clowns of private life – They’d none of ’em be missed – they’d none of ’em be missed! And apologetic statesmen of the compromising kind, Such as – What-d’ye-call-him – Thing’em-Bob, and likewise – Never- mind,And ‘St – ‘st – ‘st – and What’s-his-name, and also – You-know-who –(The task of filling up the blanks I’d rather leave to YOU!) But it really doesn’t matter whom you put upon the list, For they’d none of ’em be missed – they’d none of ’em be missed! Ballad: Girl Graduates They intend to send a wireTo the moon;And they’ll set the Thames on fireVery soon;Then they learn to make silk purses With their rigsFrom the ears of LADY CIRCE’SPiggy-wigs.And weasels at their slumbersThey’ll trepan;To get sunbeams from cuCUMbersThey’ve a plan.They’ve a firmly rooted notionThey can cross the Polar Ocean,And they’ll find Perpetual MotionIf they can! These are the phenomenaThat every pretty dominaHopes that we shall seeAt this Universitee! As for fashion, they forswear it,So they say,And the circle – they will square it Some fine day;Then the little pigs they’re teaching For to fly;And the niggers they’ll be bleaching By-and-by!Each newly joined aspirantTo the clanMust repudiate the tyrantKnown as Man;They mock at him and flout him,For they do not care about him,And they’re “going to do without him” If they can! These are the phenomenaThat every pretty dominaHopes that we shall seeAt this Universitee! Ballad: Braid The Raven Hair Braid the raven hair,Weave the supple tress,Deck the maiden fairIn her loveliness;Paint the pretty face,Dye the coral lip,Emphasise the graceOf her ladyship!Art and nature, thus allied,Go to make a pretty bride! Sit with downcast eye,Let it brim with dew;Try if you can cry,We will do so, too.When you’re summoned, startLike a frightened roe;Flutter, little heart,Colour, come and go!Modesty at marriage tideWell becomes a pretty bride! Ballad: The Working Monarch Rising early in the morning,We proceed to light the fire,Then our Majesty adorningIn its work-a-day attire,We embark without delayOn the duties of the day. First, we polish off some batchesOf political despatches,And foreign politicians circumvent; Then, if business isn’t heavy,We may hold a Royal LEVEE,Or ratify some Acts of Parliament:Then we probably review the household troops – With the usual “Shalloo humps” and “Shalloo hoops!” Or receive with ceremonial and stateAn interesting Eastern Potentate.After that we generallyGo and dress our private VALET – (It’s a rather nervous duty – he a touchy little man) – Write some letters literaryFor our private secretary –(He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.) Then, in view of cravings inner,We go down and order dinner;Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate – Spend an hour in titivatingAll our Gentlemen-in-Waiting;Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State. Oh, philosophers may singOf the troubles of a King,Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great; But the privilege and pleasureThat we treasure beyond measureIs to run on little errands for the Ministers of State! After luncheon (making merryOn a bun and glass of sherry),If we’ve nothing in particular to do, We may make a Proclamation,Or receive a Deputation –Then we possibly create a Peer or two. Then we help a fellow-creature on his path With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath: Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State To a festival, a function, or a FETE.Then we go and stand as sentryAt the Palace (private entry),Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro, While the warrior on dutyGoes in search of beer and beauty(And it generally happens that he hasn’t far to go). He relieves us, if he’s able,Just in time to lay the table. Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one, With a pleasure that’s emphatic;Then we seek our little atticWith the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done. Oh, philosophers may singOf the troubles of a King,But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none; And the culminating pleasureThat we treasure beyond measureIs the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done! Ballad: The Ape And The Lady A LADY fair, of lineage high,Was loved by an Ape, in the days gone by – The Maid was radiant as the sun,The Ape was a most unsightly one –So it would not do –His scheme fell through;For the Maid, when his love took formal shape, Expressed such terrorAt his monstrous error,That he stammered an apology and made his ‘scape, The picture of a disconcerted Ape. With a view to rise in the social scale, He shaved his bristles, and he docked his tail, He grew moustachios, and he took his tub, And he paid a guinea to a toilet club.But it would not do,The scheme fell through –For the Maid was Beauty’s fairest Queen, With golden tresses,Like a real princess’s,While the Ape, despite his razor keen, Was the apiest Ape that ever was seen! He bought white ties, and he bought dress suits, He crammed his feet into bright tight boots, And to start his life on a brand-new plan, He christened himself Darwinian Man!But it would not do,The scheme fell through –For the Maiden fair, whom the monkey craved, Was a radiant Being,With a brain far-seeing –While a Man, however well-behaved,At best is only a monkey shaved! Ballad: Only Roses To a garden full of posiesCometh one to gather flowers;And he wanders through its bowersToying with the wanton roses,Who, uprising from their beds,Hold on high their shameless headsWith their pretty lips a-pouting,Never doubting – never doubtingThat for Cytherean posiesHe would gather aught but roses. In a nest of weeds and nettles,Lay a violet, half hidden;Hoping that his glance unbiddenYet might fall upon her petals.Though she lived alone, apart,Hope lay nestling at her heart,But, alas! the cruel awakingSet her little heart a-breaking,For he gathered for his posiesOnly roses – only roses! Ballad: The Rover’s Apology Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;Though I own that my heart has been ranging, Of nature the laws I obey,For nature is constantly changing.The moon in her phases is found,The time and the wind and the weather, The months in succession come round,And you don’t find two Mondays together. Consider the moral, I pray,Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow, Who loves this young lady to-day,And loves that young lady to-morrow! You cannot eat breakfast all day.Nor is it the act of a sinner,When breakfast is taken away,To turn your attention to dinner;And it’s not in the range of belief That you could hold him as a glutton,Who, when he is tired of beef,Determines to tackle the mutton.But this I am ready to say,If it will diminish their sorrow,I’ll marry this lady to-day,And I’ll marry that lady to-morrow! Ballad: An Appeal Oh! is there not one maiden breastWhich does not feel the moral beauty Of making worldly interestSubordinate to sense of duty?Who would not give up willinglyAll matrimonial ambitionTo rescue such a one as IFrom his unfortunate position? Oh, is there not one maiden here,Whose homely face and bad complexion Have caused all hopes to disappearOf ever winning man’s affection?To such a one, if such there be,I swear by heaven’s arch above you, If you will cast your eyes on me, –However plain you be – I’ll love you! Ballad: The Reward Of Merit DR. BELVILLE was regarded as the CRICHTON of his age: His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage; His poems held a noble rank, although it’s very true That, being very proper, they were read by very few. He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the “line,” And even MR. RUSKIN came and worshipped at his shrine; But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high – The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy; And everybody said“How can he be repaid –This very great – this very good – this very gifted man?” But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan! He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone, A plan for making everybody’s fortune but his own; For, in business, an Inventor’s little better than a fool, And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule. His poems – people read them in the Quarterly Reviews – His pictures – they engraved them in the ILLUSTRATED NEWS – His inventions – they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees, But all his little income went in Patent Office fees; And everybody said“How can he be repaid –This very great – this very good – this very gifted man?” But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan! At last the point was given up in absolute despair, When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire, With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse, And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House! THEN it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewards Was, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords! And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can, As this very great – this very good – this very gifted man? (Though I’m more than half afraidThat it sometimes may be saidThat we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride, However great his merits – if his cousin hadn’t died!) Ballad: The Magnet And The Churn A MAGNET hung in a hardware shop,And all around was a loving cropOf scissors and needles, nails and knives, Offering love for all their lives;But for iron the Magnet felt no whim, Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him, From needles and nails and knives he’d turn, For he’d set his love on a Silver Churn! His most aesthetic,Very magneticFancy took this turn –“If I can wheedleA knife or needle,Why not a Silver Churn?” And Iron and Steel expressed surprise, The needles opened their well-drilled eyes, The pen-knives felt “shut up,” no doubt, The scissors declared themselves “cut out,” The kettles they boiled with rage, ’tis said, While every nail went off its head,And hither and thither began to roam, Till a hammer came up – and drove it home, While this magneticPeripateticLover he lived to learn,By no endeavour,Can Magnet everAttract a Silver Churn! Ballad: The Family Fool Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon, If you listen to popular rumour;From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright, And he bubbles with wit and good humour! He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse; Yet though people forgive his transgression, There are one or two rules that all Family Fools Must observe, if they love their profession. There are one or two rules,Half-a-dozen, maybe,That all family fools,Of whatever degree,Must observe if they love their profession. If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll need To consider each person’s auricular:What is all right for B would quite scandalise C (For C is so very particular);And D may be dull, and E’s very thick skull Is as empty of brains as a ladle;While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp, That he’s known your best joke from his cradle! When your humour they flout,You can’t let yourself go;And it DOES put you outWhen a person says, “Oh!I have known that old joke from my cradle!” If your master is surly, from getting up early (And tempers are short in the morning),An inopportune joke is enough to provoke Him to give you, at once, a month’s warning. Then if you refrain, he is at you again, For he likes to get value for money:He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare, “If you know that you’re paid to be funny?” It adds to the tasksOf a merryman’s place,When your principal asks,With a scowl on his face,If you know that you’re paid to be funny? Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D. – Oh, beware of his anger provoking!Better not pull his hair – don’t stick pins in his chair; He won’t understand practical joking.If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack, You may get a bland smile from these sages; But should it, by chance, be imported from France, Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages! It’s a general rule,Though your zeal it may quench,If the Family FoolMakes a joke that’s TOO French,Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages! Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack, And your senses with toothache you’re losing, And you’re mopy and flat – they don’t fine you for that If you’re properly quaint and amusing!Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day, And took with her your trifle of money;Bless your heart, they don’t mind – they’re exceedingly kind – They don’t blame you – as long as you’re funny! It’s a comfort to feelIf your partner should flit,Though YOU suffer a deal,THEY don’t mind it a bit –They don’t blame you – so long as you’re funny! Ballad: Sans Souci I cannot tell what this love may beThat cometh to all but not to me.It cannot be kind as they’d imply,Or why do these gentle ladies sigh? It cannot be joy and rapture deep,Or why do these gentle ladies weep? It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said,Or why are their eyes so wondrous red? If love is a thorn, they show no witWho foolishly hug and foster it.If love is a weed, how simple theyWho gather and gather it, day by day! If love is a nettle that makes you smart, Why do you wear it next your heart?And if it be neither of these, say I, Why do you sit and sob and sigh? Ballad: A Recipe Take a pair of sparkling eyes,Hidden, ever and anon,In a merciful eclipse –Do not heed their mild surprise –Having passed the Rubicon.Take a pair of rosy lips;Take a figure trimly planned –Such as admiration whets(Be particular in this);Take a tender little hand,Fringed with dainty fingerettes,Press it – in parenthesis; –Take all these, you lucky man –Take and keep them, if you can. Take a pretty little cot –Quite a miniature affair –Hung about with trellised vine,Furnish it upon the spotWith the treasures rich and rareI’ve endeavoured to define.Live to love and love to live –You will ripen at your ease,Growing on the sunny side –Fate has nothing more to give.You’re a dainty man to pleaseIf you are not satisfied.Take my counsel, happy man:Act upon it, if you can! Ballad: The Merryman And His Maid [HE] I have a song to sing, O![SHE] Sing me your song, O![HE] It is sung to the moonBy a love-lorn loon,Who fled from the mocking throng, O! It’s the song of a merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye.Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! [SHE] I have a song to sing, O![HE] Sing me your song, O![SHE] It is sung with the ringOf the song maids singWho love with a love life-long, O!It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloudAt the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! [HE] I have a song to sing, O![SHE] Sing me your song, O![HE] It is sung to the knellOf a churchyard bell,And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!It’s a song of a popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scornAt the humble merrymaid, peerly proud, Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloud At the moan of the merryman, moping mum, Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye! [SHE] I have a song to sing, O![HE] Sing me your song, O![SHE] It is sung with a sighAnd a tear in the eye,For it tells of a righted wrong, O! It’s a song of a merrymaid, once so gay, Who turned on her heel and tripped awayFrom the peacock popinjay, bravely born, Who turned up his noble nose with scornAt the humble heart that he did not prize; And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes, For the love of a merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum, Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb, As he sighed for the love of a ladye![BOTH] Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!His pains were o’er, and he sighed no more. For he lived in the love of a ladye! Ballad: The Susceptible Chancellor The law is the true embodimentOf everything that’s excellent.It has no kind of fault or flaw,And I, my lords, embody the Law.The constitutional guardian IOf pretty young Wards in Chancery,All very agreeable girls – and none Is over the age of twenty-one.A pleasant occupation forA rather susceptible Chancellor! But though the compliment impliedInflates me with legitimate pride,It nevertheless can’t be deniedThat it has its inconvenient side.For I’m not so old, and not so plain, And I’m quite prepared to marry again,But there’d be the deuce to pay in the Lords If I fell in love with one of my Wards:Which rather tries my temper, forI’m SUCH a susceptible Chancellor! And every one who’d marry a WardMust come to me for my accord:So in my court I sit all day,Giving agreeable girls away,With one for him – and one for he – And one for you – and one for ye –And one for thou – and one for thee – But never, oh never a one for me!Which is exasperating, forA highly susceptible Chancellor! Ballad: When A Merry Maiden Marries When a merry maiden marries,Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;Every sound becomes a song,All is right and nothing’s wrong!From to-day and ever afterLet your tears be tears of laughter – Every sigh that finds a ventBe a sigh of sweet content!When you marry merry maiden,Then the air with love is laden;Every flower is a rose,Every goose becomes a swan,Every kind of trouble goesWhere the last year’s snows have gone; Sunlight takes the place of shadeWhen you marry merry maid! When a merry maiden marriesSorrow goes and pleasure tarries;Every sound becomes a song,All is right, and nothing’s wrong.Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,Get ye gone until to-morrow;Jealousies in grim array,Ye are things of yesterday!When you marry merry maiden,Then the air with joy is laden;All the corners of the earthRing with music sweetly played,Worry is melodious mirth,Grief is joy in masquerade;Sullen night is laughing day –All the year is merry May! Ballad: The British Tar A British tar is a soaring soul,As free as a mountain bird,His energetic fist should be ready to resist A dictatorial word.His nose should pant and his lip should curl, His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl, His bosom should heave and his heart should glow, And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow. His eyes should flash with an inborn fire, His brow with scorn be rung;He never should bow down to a domineering frown, Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.His foot should stamp and his throat should growl, His hair should twirl and his face should scowl; His eyes should flash and his breast protrude, And this should be his customary attitude! Ballad: A Man Who Would Woo A Fair Maid A man who would woo a fair maid,Should ‘prentice himself to the trade; And study all day,In methodical way,How to flatter, cajole, and persuade. He should ‘prentice himself at fourteenAnd practise from morning to e’en;And when he’s of age,If he will, I’ll engage,He may capture the heart of a queen! It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every JackHe must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill! If he’s made the best use of his time, His twig he’ll so carefully limeThat every birdWill come down at his word.Whatever its plumage and clime.He must learn that the thrill of a touch May mean little, or nothing, or much;It’s an instrument rare,To be handled with care,And ought to be treated as such.It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every Jack,He must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill! Then a glance may be timid or free;It will vary in mighty degree,From an impudent stareTo a look of despairThat no maid without pity can see.And a glance of despair is no guide – It may have its ridiculous side;It may draw you a tearOr a box on the ear;You can never be sure till you’ve tried. It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every JackHe must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill! Ballad: The Sorcerer’s Song Oh! my name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS – I’m a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses,In prophecies, witches, and knells! If you want a proud foe to “make tracks” – If you’d melt a rich uncle in wax –You’ve but to look inOn our resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe. We’ve a first-class assortment of magic; And for raising a posthumous shadeWith effects that are comic or tragic, There’s no cheaper house in the trade.Love-philtre – we’ve quantities of it; And for knowledge if any one burns,We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophet Who brings us unbounded returns:For he can prophesyWith a wink OF his eye,Peep with securityInto futurity,Sum up your history,Clear up a mystery,Humour proclivityFor a nativity.With mirrors so magical,Tetrapods tragical,Bogies spectacular,Answers oracular,Facts astronomical,Solemn or comical,And, if you want it, heMakes a reduction on taking a quantity! Oh!If any one anything lacks,He’ll find it all ready in stacks,If he’ll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe! He can raise you hosts,Of ghosts,And that without reflectors;And creepy thingsWith wings,And gaunt and grisly spectres!He can fill you crowdsOf shrouds,And horrify you vastly;He can rack your brainsWith chains,And gibberings grim and ghastly.Then, if you plan it, heChanges organityWith an urbanity,Full of Satanity,Vexes humanityWith an inanityFatal to vanity –Driving your foes to the verge of insanity. Barring tautology,In demonology,‘Lectro biology,Mystic nosology,Spirit philology,High class astrology,Such is his knowledge, heIsn’t the man to require an apology Oh!My name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS,I’m a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses –In prophecies, witches, and knells. If any one anything lacks,He’ll find it all ready in stacks,If he’ll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe! Ballad: The Fickle Breeze Sighing softly to the riverComes the loving breeze,Setting nature all a-quiver,Rustling through the trees!And the brook in rippling measureLaughs for very love,While the poplars, in their pleasure, Wave their arms above!River, river, little river,May thy loving prosper ever.Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,May thy wooing happy be! Yet, the breeze is but a rover,When he wings away,Brook and poplar mourn a lover!Sighing well-a-day!Ah, the doing and undoingThat the rogue could tell!When the breeze is out a-wooing,Who can woo so well?Pretty brook, thy dream is over,For thy love is but a rover!Sad the lot of poplar trees,Courted by the fickle breeze! Ballad: The First Lord’s Song When I was a lad I served a termAs office boy to an Attorney’s firm; I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor, And I polished up the handle of the big front door. I polished up that handle so successfullee, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee! As office boy I made such a markThat they gave me the post of a junior clerk; I served the writs with a smile so bland, And I copied all the letters in a big round hand. I copied all the letters in a hand so free, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee! In serving writs I made such a nameThat an articled clerk I soon became; I wore clean collars and a brand-new suit For the Pass Examination at the Institute: And that Pass Examination did so well for me, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee! Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip That they took me into the partnership,And that junior partnership I ween, Was the only ship that I ever had seen:But that kind of ship so suited me, That now I am the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee! I grew so rich that I was sentBy a pocket borough into Parliament; I always voted at my Party’s call,And I never thought of thinking for myself at all. I thought so little, they rewarded me,By making me the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee! Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be, If you want to rise to the top of the tree – If your soul isn’t fettered to an office stool, Be careful to be guided by this golden rule – Stick close to your desks and NEVER GO TO SEA, And you all may be Rulers of the Queen’s Navee! Ballad: Would You Know? Would you know the kind of maidSets my heart a flame-a?Eyes must be downcast and staid,Cheeks must flush for shame-a!She may neither dance nor sing,But, demure in everything,Hang her head in modest wayWith pouting lips that seem to say, “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me,Though I die of shame-a!”Please you, that’s the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a! When a maid is bold and gayWith a tongue goes clang-a,Flaunting it in brave array,Maiden may go hang-a!Sunflower gay and hollyhockNever shall my garden stock;Mine the blushing rose of May,With pouting lips that seem to say“Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die for shame-a!”Please you, that’s the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a! Ballad: Speculation Comes a train of little ladiesFrom scholastic trammels free,Each a little bit afraid is,Wondering what the world can be! Is it but a world of trouble –Sadness set to song?Is its beauty but a bubbleBound to break ere long? Are its palaces and pleasuresFantasies that fade?And the glory of its treasuresShadow of a shade? Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under,From scholastic trammels free,And we wonder – how we wonder! –What on earth the world can be! Ballad: Ah Me! When maiden loves, she sits and sighs, She wanders to and fro;Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,And to all questions she replies,With a sad heigho!‘Tis but a little word – “heigho!”So soft, ’tis scarcely heard – “heigho!” An idle breath –Yet life and deathMay hang upon a maid’s “heigho!” When maiden loves, she mopes apart,As owl mopes on a tree;Although she keenly feels the smart, She cannot tell what ails her heart,With its sad “Ah me!”‘Tis but a foolish sigh – “Ah me!”Born but to droop and die – “Ah me!” Yet all the senseOf eloquenceLies hidden in a maid’s “Ah me!” Ballad: The Duke Of Plaza-Toro In enterprise of martial kind,When there was any fighting,He led his regiment from behind(He found it less exciting).But when away his regiment ran,His place was at the fore, O-That celebrated,Cultivated,UnderratedNobleman,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha! You always found that knight, ha, ha!That celebrated,Cultivated,UnderratedNobleman,The Duke of Plaza-Toro! When, to evade Destruction’s hand,To hide they all proceeded,No soldier in that gallant bandHid half as well as he did.He lay concealed throughout the war, And so preserved his gore, O!That unaffected,Undetected,Well connectedWarrior,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!In every doughty deed, ha, ha!He always took the lead, ha, ha!That unaffected,Undetected,Well connectedWarrior,The Duke of Plaza-Toro! When told that they would all be shot Unless they left the service,That hero hesitated not,So marvellous his nerve is.He sent his resignation in,The first of all his corps, O!That very knowing,Overflowing,Easy-goingPaladin,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!He always showed the way, ha, ha!That very knowing,Overflowing,Easy-goingPaladin,The Duke of Plaza-Toro! Ballad: The Aesthete If you’re anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line, as a man of culture rare,You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere.You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind(The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind).And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for ME, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!” Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good QUEEN ANNE was Culture’s palmiest day.Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.And every one will say,As you walk your mystic way,“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for ME, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!” Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,An attachment E LA Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too- French French bean.Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band,If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand.And every one will say,As you walk your flowery way,“If he’s content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit ME,Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!” Ballad: Said I To Myself, Said I When I went to the Bar as a very young man (Said I to myself – said I),I’ll work on a new and original plan (Said I to myself – said I),I’ll never assume that a rogue or a thief Is a gentleman worthy implicit belief,Because his attorney, has sent me a brief (Said I to myself – said I!) I’ll never throw dust in a juryman’s eyes (Said I to myself – said I),Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise (Said I to myself – said I),Or assume that the witnesses summoned in force In Exchequer, Queen’s Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce, Have perjured themselves as a matter of course (Said I to myself – said I!) Ere I go into court I will read my brief through (Said I to myself – said I),And I’ll never take work I’m unable to do (Said I to myself – said I).My learned profession I’ll never disgrace By taking a fee with a grin on my face,When I haven’t been there to attend to the case (Said I to myself – said I!) In other professions in which men engage (Said I to myself – said I),The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage, (Said I to myself – said I),Professional licence, if carried too far, Your chance of promotion will certainly mar – And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar (Said I to myself – said I!) Ballad: Sorry Her Lot Sorry her lot who loves too well,Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly, Sad are the sighs that own the spellUttered by eyes that speak too plainly; Heavy the sorrow that bows the headWhen Love is alive and Hope is dead! Sad is the hour when sets the Sun –Dark is the night to Earth’s poor daughters, When to the ark the wearied oneFlies from the empty waste of waters! Heavy the sorrow that bows the headWhen Love is alive and Hope is dead! Ballad: The Contemplative Sentry When all night long a chap remainsOn sentry-go, to chase monotonyHe exercises of his brains,That is, assuming that he’s got any. Though never nurtured in the lapOf luxury, yet I admonish you,I am an intellectual chap,And think of things that would astonish you. I often think it’s comicalHow Nature always does contriveThat every boy and every gal,That’s born into the world alive,Is either a little Liberal,Or else a little Conservative!Fal lal la! When in that house M.P.’s divide,If they’ve a brain and cerebellum, too, They’ve got to leave that brain outside, And vote just as their leaders tell ’em to. But then the prospect of a lotOf statesmen, all in close proximity, A-thinking for themselves, is whatNo man can face with equanimity.Then let’s rejoice with loud Fal lal That Nature wisely does contriveThat every boy and every gal,That’s born into the world alive,Is either a little Liberal,Or else a little Conservative!Fal lal la! Ballad: The Philosophic Pill I’ve wisdom from the East and from the West,