Dagonet Ditties

E’ve been married ten years to-day, dear;
Ah, me, how the time has flown
Since I whispered in church one morning,
“I will,” in an undertone.
You’ve changed a little, my darling;
Your figure is not so slim
As it was when you won the medal
That night at the German Gym.

You’re stouter, and threads of silver
Now shine in the curly locks
That were black as the wing of raven
The night that I saw you box.
I can see you now with the gloves on,
In the pride of your strength and limb,
As you fought your man to his corner,
That night at the German Gym.

I noticed your socks of scarlet
And your jersey of dainty cream,
And I said to myself, “How handsome!”
And I fell in a blissful dream.
But, O! when your nose was bleeding
My eyes with the tears grew dim,
And I hated the man who punched you
That night at the German Gym.

And when, as the fight grew fiercer,
He gave you a bad black eye,
And the hard-hearted people cheered him,
I felt I should have to cry;
But, pulling yourself together,
You hammered away at him,
Till he reeled like a drunken gaby
That night at the German Gym.

And, O, when the nice kind judges
Declared you had won the fight,
And the people rose up and shouted,
I trembled with wild delight.
I felt so proud of my lover,
That my eyes began to swim;
I never knew how I loved you
Till that night at the German Gym.

And now we’ve been ten years married,
And Johnny our boy is eight;
His daddy’s too stout for boxing,
And has doubled his fighting weight.
But I hope that in years to come, dear—
It is only a mother’s whim—
Our Johnny will put the gloves on,
And box at the German Gym.

I should like to sit there with you, dear,
The night that our boy competes,
And see him upholding bravely
The fame of his father’s feats.
It will carry us back in fancy
To the past that no time can dim,
When his dad was the champion boxer
Of the dear old German Gym.

Tottie.

By our Lunatic Rhyming Slangster.

S she walked along the street
With her little “plates of meat,”
And the summer sunshine falling
On her golden “Barnet Fair,”
Bright as angels from the skies
Were her dark blue “mutton pies,”
In my “East and West” Dan Cupid
Shot a shaft and left it there.

She’d a Grecian “I suppose,”
And of “Hampstead Heath” two rows
In her “sunny south” that glistened
Like two pretty strings of pearls;
Down upon my “bread and cheese”
Did I drop and murmur, “Please
Be my ‘storm and strife,’ dear Tottie,
O, you darlingest of girls!”

Then a bow-wow by her side,
Who till then had stood and tried
A “Jenny Lee” to banish,
Which was on his “Jonah’s whale,”
Gave a hydrophobic bark
(She cried, “What a Noah’s ark!”),
And right through my “rank and riches”
Did my “cribbage-pegs” assail.

Ere her bull-dog I could stop
She had called a “ginger-pop,”
Who said, “What the ‘Henry Neville’
Do you think you’re doing there?”
And I heard, as off I slunk,
“Why, the fellow’s ‘Jumbo’s trunk!’”
And the “Walter Joyce” was Tottie’s
With the golden “Barnet Fair.”

The Welshman in London.

E came with his harp from the mountains of Wales—
The spirit of poetry flowed in his blood;
Declining the engine that runs on the rails,
He tramped to the fortified City of Lud.

For him had the universe paused in its course,
For him had all progress been nipped in the bud;
He came as a bard, haughty, hoary, and hoarse,
To sing in the fortified City of Lud.

He sought for a mountain to sit on its brow,
And give off his lay after chewing the cud;
And he found, after searching, the mount that is now
“Snow Hill,” in the fortified City of Lud.

He called on the Britons who gathered to jeer
To list to a lay which would curdle their blood;
But a bobby came up, and said, “None o’ that here!”
Strange! in the fortified City of Lud.

He saw no policeman—such things could not be—
But the words of invective came forth in a flood
And so the policeman 092 C
Ran him in, in the fortified City of Lud.

With his harp he was placed in the dock the next day,
When the magistrate brought down his fist with a thud,
And told him ten shillings he’d have for to pay
For obstructing the road in the City of Lud.

The bard has gone back to his mountain in Wales
With his national vanity dragged through the mud,
And his faith rudely shaken in Taffy-told tales
Of the ancient and fortified City of Lud.

The Magistrate.

(BY A LUNATIC LAUREATE.)

AILY the constable kissed the book,
And said with a smile, as his oath he took,
“It’s only the facts as I mean to state”—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable told the strangest tales,
How the chap in the dock was the Prince of Wales,
And he’d seen him begging at Albert Gate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

He had watched the Prince till he saw him try
The pockets of ladies walking by,
And pass the swag to a swell-mob mate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable added he’d seen the Queen,
Who said what a handful her boy had been,
And she guessed that the gallows would be his fate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable said when he ran Wales in,
He swore and struggled and kicked his shin,
And bit off his ear and a portion ate—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

The Prince he called for his royal mamma,
And into the box went Victoria;
She proved an alibi full of weight—
“You’re not on your oath!” yelled the magistrate.

“The case is proved,” to the Prince said he;
“You deserve six months, but I’ll give you three.”
“I’ll write to the Times,” cried the Prince irate—
“Take him away!” shrieked the magistrate.

The Queen went out of the court in tears,
As the Bench indulged in some parting sneers;
And skilly and toke was the Prince’s fate—
“It’ll do him good,” said the magistrate.

But Parliament took up the Prince’s case,
And the young P.C., with a scared, white face,
Read out to his pal the big debate—
“It’s awfully hot,” said the magistrate.

Then the constable said, “It’s the blooming Press
As has settled our nice little games, I guess;
We’d better resign, as the row’s so great”—
“I believe you, my boy,” said the magistrate.

The Imperial Institute.

(AFTER LORD TENNYSON.)

AIL, O Imperial Institute!
Strike the tabor, and play the lute,
This is South Kensington’s latest fruit:
Hail, O Imperial Institute!

Rise in thy might and make envy mute,
Slanderous sneer and snarl refute,
Slap the face of the bellowing brute,
Noble Imperial Institute!

Our Prince he promised that, coûte que coûte,
He’d find us a brand-new site to suit,
And leave the “clique” and its ill-repute
Outside the Imperial Institute.

So, hail Imperial Institute!
India, Colonies, Kyles of Bute,
Lands of Britain by every route,
Heligoland to far Tirhoot,
Into our laps your treasure shoot,
For you’ll guess if you’re only slightly cute
That there’ll always be plenty of room for “loot”
In the noble Imperial Institute.

The Plan of Campaign.

HE heart of the nation is throbbing with grief
At the tales that are told of the winter distress;
We are longing to hear of some scheme of relief
That will make London’s burthen of misery less.
But what we’re to do, or how best to commence,
There’s nobody able, it seems, to explain.
O, isn’t there someone with courage and sense
To draw up a workable Plan of Campaign?

The work of the nation is all in arrears:
We tinker the laws that need thorough repair,
We potter about between Commons and Peers,
And fools in the Senate their eloquence air.
To rout the obstruction that stands in the way,
And wields a long tongue and gives battle to brain,
Is there none who can marshal a force for the fray,
And act on a sensible Plan of Campaign?

There are women of England who toil for their bread—
Poor hard-working sisters and mothers and wives,
Whose years are a slavery, dreary and dread,
Who drag out their cruel and colourless lives.
Can nothing be done that may better their state?
Shall the white women slaves in their bondage remain?
O, manhood of Britain! think, think of their fate,
And start the New Year with some Plan of Campaign.

The People’s Palace.

SING of the People’s Palace, a tale of Arabian nights,
A place where the toiling masses could feast on all true delights.
It was opened with morning lectures, and closed with an evening hymn,
And the Bishop of London whispered it was just the place for him.

It was open for recreation from nine until six p.m.,
Which times, said the working classes, were specially fixed for them.
It was closed for the day on Sunday, and on Saturday afternoon,
So the very select declared it “a perfectly priceless boon.”

To cater for men and women who toil for their daily bread,
The beer of their hearts was vetoed, and sherbet was sold instead,
And they made it a coffee palace, with scones and a plate of “thick,”
With counters for almond hardbake and liquorice in the stick.

The pictures were all improving, the moral of all was “grand,”
And at intervals there were concerts by the Blue Ribbon Army band;
With exhibits in big glass cases of terrible temperance facts,
And the entrance fee included a bundle of stirring tracts.

It was built at the lavish outlay of a dozen of million pounds
Which included the church and chapel, and the mission-hall in the grounds;
But as nobody wanted sermons, and sherbet, and ginger-beer,
It was sold at a great reduction to a philanthropic peer.

And in less than a twelvemonth after the Palace had reared its head,
On the top of it proudly floated a banner of vulgar red;
And General Booth was shouting, and having a grand “all night”
In our latest “gigantic failure,” the Palace of No Delight.

A Charade.

E wore three hats upon his head,
And called aloud “Old clo’,”
It would not be correct to say
His Christian name was “Mo.”
His home was in a lane that used
Some time ago to bear
The Anglicised French name we give
A garment ladies wear.
You’ve seen him as the comic man
In plays at Drury Lane,
And Mr. Irving showed him once
A prey to grief and pain.
In all the tales our authors write
He’s painted at his worst;
I’ll have a “go” at him myself,
And here he stands—my first.

It was a young and noble earl,
An impecunious sinner,
He’d won a lovely Yankee girl,
And gave a little dinner.
The restaurant, a tip-top one,
Was in the town that ‘Arry,
Who once, with Cook, the trip has done,
Insists on calling “Parry.”

The bride-elect and all her friends
The noble earl invited,
They said, “He don’t mind what he spends,”
And all were much delighted.
But when the splendid spread was o’er,
The guests about departing,
The landlord came and locked the door,
This piece of news imparting:
“His lordship’s had me twice on toast,
So now, as you are going,
I’d like to ask,” exclaimed mine host,
“Who’ll pay me what is owing?
Not one of you shall pass the door,
The key is in my pocket;
And not till someone’s paid the score
Will this ’ere child unlock it.”
“I’ve not enough!” gasped out the earl—
Without his host he’d reckoned—
The friends of that proud Yankee girl
Went shares and paid my second.

I stood at eve as the sun went down
By the side of a flowing river
That runs through the East of London town,
And I turned me away with a shiver.
I have smelt some smells in thy streets, Cologne,
I have seen some filthy fluids,
But nothing like this has the wide world known
Since the days of the Ancient Druids.
Let the essence of all the stinks be stirred
And then you may fancy you smell my third.

Where’er the flag of Britain
Floats proudly on the breeze,
In this our home of freedom
And in lands beyond the seas;
In India’s wondrous cities,
On wild Australian tracks,
In vast Canadian forests,
And among the conquered blacks,—
As far as sword and bayonet
Extend our freedom’s goal,
Next year, as per arrangement,
They’ll celebrate my whole.

A True Story.

(A MORAL POEM FOR CHILDREN.)

HE waves were high in Conway Bay,
The wind it blew a gale;
Five visitors that very day
Had ventured on a sail.

The tide ran high, the little boat
Unmanageable grew,
And scarce could it be kept afloat
By its unskilful crew.

Some fisher folk upon the beach,
All in the hurricane,
Put off, that little boat to reach
And bring it back again.

And when the gale was at its height,
Those Conway boatmen brave
Went off—it was a glorious sight—
The drowning ones to save.

They risked their lives, but Fate was kind—
They reached the boat at last;
Its occupants, to death resigned,
Thought every hope was past.

Their thanks to Heaven they freely gave,
And when they reached the beach,
They to those Conway boatmen brave
Presented sixpence each!

The Pirate ’Bus.

T was a pirate omnibus, that plied its evil trade
Along the London thoroughfares, and O, the games it played!
It ran a stout old lady down, who wanted Temple Bar,
And when they reached the Marble Arch, the cad cried, “Here you are;
But ere you step ashore, old gal, your ransom you must pay.”
He charged a shilling, slammed the door, and then he sailed away,
While driver and conductor yelled, “No use to make a fuss;
We snap our fingers at the law—we are a pirate ’bus!”

The Grand Old Man one autumn day was walking, axe in hand,
Along that busy thoroughfare the gay and crowded Strand;
He hailed a passing ’bus, and said, “Are you a Hampstead, please?”
At once they seized and flung him in right on a lady’s knees.
They bore away the G.O.M. and set him down at Bow,
And when he said, “The Vale of Health—that’s where I want to go!”
The ’bus conductor said, “Get out, you are a queer old cuss;
I’ll trouble you for four-and-six—this here’s a pirate ’bus!”

A coloured bishop, just arrived in town from Timbuctoo,
Who wanted Shoreditch Church, they took and left him at the Zoo.
He walked about and round and round the wilds of Regent’s Park,
And in the Inner Circle strayed, and lost himself at dark.
In vain he looked for Shoreditch Church, he wandered round and round
Until from rage and giddiness he tumbled on the ground;
And when he heard the lions roar he funked, was taken “wuss,”
And loss his wits; and now he’s mad, all through that pirate ’bus.

Young Mr. Lawson heard the tale and went about the town,
And found fresh victims here and there, all scattered up and down.
He found a gray-haired gentleman, who left his home at Bow,
As near as he could recollect, a dozen years ago,
But who, through pirates on the road, had travelled here and there,
And paid his income all away to meet the pirate fare,
But could not get to Bow again. Said Lawson, “Is it thus?
Then I’ll away to Parliament and board the pirate ’bus.”
No more above the driver’s seat the black flag sweeps the seas,
No more the skull and bones across flaunts out upon the breeze;
The buccaneering ’bus is bust, conductor Kidd is done,
Paul Jones the driver’s game is up, his pirate race is run.
And o’er the parlour fire at home the country folks to-day
Tell wondering babes of those old days when they were borne away
To desert isle and lonely spot, and yielded watch and “puss,”
To pay the ransom and escape the roving pirate ’bus.

The War-Cry.

O, it’s down with the German sausage,
Away with the German yeast,
And never shall Turkey rhubarb
Come after an English feast.
O, it’s death to the onion Spanish,
And death to the Brussels sprout,
And we’ll scatter the Persian sherbet
In the general foreign rout.

Let plaster of Paris vanish,
And down with the old Dutch clock;
No ship of old England’s commerce
Shall strike on French almond rock
A fig for the choice Havanna,
And down with the black Japan,
And never a Turkish towel
Shall dry a true Englishman.

No more shall the Roman candle
At the Palace of Crystal rise,
And the famed Italian iron
Shall the laundry-maid despise.
No more shall the Russian leather
Envelop an English book;
No more shall a French bean simmer
’Neath the eyes of an English cook.

’Tis the cry of the bankrupt trader
That floats upon every breeze;
French rolls they have “bust” the baker,
And the cheesemonger hates Dutch cheese.
O, buy but the goods of Britain,
By the hands of the natives made,
And if they should charge you double,
All the better for English trade.

The “Lancet.”

KNEW some jolly people, all as happy as could be,
Always eager for their dinner, always ready for their tea;
Cheeks had they for ever rosy, eyes that glistened and were bright—
They could eat a hearty supper and sleep calmly through the night.
They had neither pain nor aching, and, as none of them were ill,
They had never taken physic and they paid no doctor’s bill.
O, in all the British islands none were healthier, I ween,
Or more happy and contented than the Browns of Walham Green.

But one day, inside a carriage on the smoky “Underground,”
Coming homeward from the City, pa a bulky journal found;
’Twas a Lancet, that some reader had forgotten and had left,
So pa put it in his pocket—which of course was not a theft;
If it was, upon the railway I’ve committed many crimes,
For I’ve often in this manner seized and taken home the Times,
But better, O far better, had that Lancet never been
On the seat in the compartment where sat Brown of Walham Green.

Mr. Brown, he glanced it over while partaking of his tea.
“Did you ever? Well, I never!” every moment muttered he;
And he left his tea untasted, and he put his muffin down,
And his manner altogether was so queer that Mrs. Brown
Rose and screamed, “Good gracious, Thomas! what’s the matter—tell me true!
You are going white and yellow, and your lips are turning blue;”
And for answer out he read them all the awful things he’d seen
In the Lancet, and a panic seized the Browns of Walham Green.

For they knew the germs of fever were around them everywhere—
They were told how very fatal was the family armchair;
They were told that every morning when the slavey shook the mat
Germs of death were scattered broadcast, and they shivered as they sat.
They were told that death was lurking in the teapot and the tank,
In the milk and in the water, and in everything they drank.
In their terror ’gainst each other all the family did lean—
Peace of mind had gone for ever from the Browns of Walham Green.

From that day they took the Lancet, every week they read it through,
And their faces changed from rosy to a sickly yellow hue;
And they could not eat their dinner, and they could not sleep at night,
For with every Friday’s Lancet came a new and awful fright.
Germs of all the fell diseases that lie lurking for mankind
Were, according to the Lancet, blown on every passing wind;
“How on earth from all these dangers shall our carcasses we screen?”
Cried, in throes of hourly anguish, all the Browns of Walham Green.
They were happy when they knew not of the germs that lie in wait—
In the cottage of the lowly, in the castles of the great,
In the street and in the parlour, in the train and in the ’bus.
Round the corner germs are waiting, on the watch to spring on us.
There are germs in clothes and customs—ah, the Lancet’s eye is keen,
It has even pierced the dustbin of the Browns of Walham Green!

There, it told them, germs in thousands lay in waiting night and day,
So they went and threw carbolic in a wildly lavish way.
Then it warned them in a leader that they’d better all look out
For a dreadful epidemic that came down the waterspout;
Up they went upon the housetop and poured quarts of Condy down,
Which they carried up in buckets—Mr., Miss, and Mrs. Brown—
And the neighbours stood and wondered what the dickens it could mean,
At the gath’ring on the housetop of the Browns of Walham Green.

Every week came other terrors, every week their fears grew worse,
Till they felt their lives a burthen, till they felt their home a curse;
And they sat around the table with a look of nervous dread,
So upset by fears of dying that they wished that they were dead.
And when they all were turning to mere bags of skin and bone,
And all the sound they uttered was a deep sepulchral groan,
Up rose young Tom, the eldest—a youth of seventeen—
And seized and flung the Lancet right out on Walham Green.

“Get out, you horrid bogey—you terrifying pest!”—
Exclaimed young Tom in anger as he flung it east and west.
Then pa rose up, and, lifting his hand to heaven’s dome,
Swore that never more the Lancet should come into the home.
And from that hour there vanished their look of care and woe,
And all of them grew happy as in the long ago.
At germs they snap their fingers, and now with joyous mien
They live in calm contentment—the Browns of Walham Green.

MORAL.

There ignorance is comfort, it is folly to be wise;
In mercy lies the future concealed from mortal eyes.
The thousand hidden dangers for man that lie in wait,
If known, would lead him surely to share the madman’s fate.
Life were not worth the living were we to dread the germs
The Lancet serves up weekly in scientific terms.
So snap your fingers at them—the germs, of course, I mean—
And take to heart the story of the Browns of Walham Green.

A Tale of a Tub.

T was the wife of Mr. G.,
The Irish Grand Old Man,
A little ditty carolled she,
And thus the ditty ran:
“I hear him in his dressing-room,
My Willie dear, my hub;
He little heeds his coming doom,
He warbles in his tub.

“When he is sad I hear no sound
Except the water’s plash;
A solemn silence reigns around
When thoughts my Willie fash.
But now the joyous sound of song
Accompanies each rub;
Things can’t have gone so very wrong—
He warbles in his tub.

“Although the country’s cut him dead,
And given him the sack,
He warbles while he wets his head
And while he scrubs his back.
I’m sure my Willie sees his way
The Tory gang to drub,
And that is why he’s blithe and gay
And warbles in his tub.

“He does not care for Telegraph,
Or Morning Post, or Times;
He reads therein with many a laugh
The record of his crimes.
He knows his fingers he can snap
At all ‘ye streete of Grubbe’;
They haven’t riled the dear old chap—
He warbles in his tub.

“There’s hope, he thinks, for Ireland yet,
The ‘old hand’ isn’t ‘done’;
With masses against classes set
There’s sure to be some fun.
He’ll hold his own in spite of groan
And jest and jeer and snub,
And that is why, with spirits high,
He warbles in his tub.”

MORAL.

O Erin, yet shall burst for thee
The sunshine through the gloom—
Take heart from all this melody
In Gladstone’s dressing-room;
Plank down your dollars, Yankee boys,
And tell each doubting “sub,”
No fear the Grand One’s faith alloys,
“He warbles in his tub.”

The Comic King.

I’m going to sing you a simple song,
To show that a king can do no wrong;
A lay that is laden in every line
With the grand old creed of “the right divine.”

The merriest monarch of modern times
Is the romping rex of these rambling rhymes:
The beamishest boy of the bold, bad batch,
The crack-crowned Kaiser of Colney Hatch.

For many a year he played his pranks—
He borrowed the balance of all the banks
To build him a palace in every town,
And when they were up he pulled them down.

He sat on the throne, on days of state,
With a coffee-pot jammed on his regal pate,
And he showed his Court he could kiss his toes
While he balanced his sceptre upon his nose.

He danced a jig in the House of Peers,
And offered to toss the lot for beers;
And whenever a Cabinet Council sat
He would make dirt-pies in the Premier’s hat.

When the neighbouring monarchs came to call
He would butter the steps and the marble hall;
And when his visitors broke their legs
He’d sit and he’d pelt them with hard-boiled eggs.

He dressed his army in drawers and frocks,
And little pink shoes and short white socks;
And whenever he had a grand review
He rode on a donkey painted blue.

His coachman signed all the royal decrees,
And he joined his footman in nightly sprees;
He addressed his cook as “My dear old chap,”
And in church he sat in his housemaid’s lap.

And now that I’ve finished my simple song,
If you say, “What whoppers!” you’ll just be wrong,
As this isn’t a Lunatic Laureate’s lay—
For the king was the King of Bavaria.

THE END.

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

About This Book

MORAL.

MORAL.