Songs of a Savoyard

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 afraid
                     That it sometimes may be said
That we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride,
However great his merits—if his cousin hadn’t died!)

A Magnet hung in a hardware shop,
And all around was a loving crop
Of 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 æsthetic,
         Very magnetic
      Fancy took this turn—
         “If I can wheedle
         A 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 magnetic
         Peripatetic
      Lover he lived to learn,
         By no endeavour,
         Can Magnet ever
      Attract a Silver Churn!

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 out
                  When 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 tasks
                  Of 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 Fool
                  Makes 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 feel
                  If 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!

I cannot tell what this love may be
That 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 wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who 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?

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 spot
      With the treasures rich and rare
            I’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 please
            If you are not satisfied.
Take my counsel, happy man:
Act upon it, if you can!

He.         I have a song to sing, O!
She.            Sing me your song, O!
He.                It is sung to the moon
                     By 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 ring
                        Of the song maids sing
      Who love with a love life-long, O!
It’s the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,
Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloud
At 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 knell
                     Of 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 scorn
At 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 sigh
                        And 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 away
From the peacock popinjay, bravely born,
Who turned up his noble nose with scorn
At 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!

The law is the true embodiment
Of everything that’s excellent.
It has no kind of fault or flaw,
And I, my lords, embody the Law.
The constitutional guardian I
Of pretty young Wards in Chancery,
All very agreeable girls—and none
Is over the age of twenty-one.
   A pleasant occupation for
   A rather susceptible Chancellor!

But though the compliment implied
Inflates me with legitimate pride,
It nevertheless can’t be denied
That 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, for
   I’m such a susceptible Chancellor!

And every one who’d marry a Ward
Must 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, for
   A highly susceptible Chancellor!

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 after
Let your tears be tears of laughter—
   Every sigh that finds a vent
   Be 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 goes
      Where the last year’s snows have gone;
   Sunlight takes the place of shade
   When you marry merry maid!

When a merry maiden marries
Sorrow 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 earth
      Ring with music sweetly played,
   Worry is melodious mirth,
      Grief is joy in masquerade;
   Sullen night is laughing day—
   All the year is merry May!

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!

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 fourteen
And 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 Jack
            He must study the knack
         If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

If he’s made the best use of his time,
His twig he’ll so carefully lime
      That every bird
      Will 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 knack
         If 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 stare
      To a look of despair
That 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 tear
      Or 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 Jack
            He must study the knack
         If he wants to make sure of his Jill!

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 in
      On our resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe.

We’ve a first-class assortment of magic;
   And for raising a posthumous shade
With 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 prophesy
         With a wink of his eye,
         Peep with security
         Into futurity,
         Sum up your history,
         Clear up a mystery,
         Humour proclivity
         For a nativity.
         With mirrors so magical,
         Tetrapods tragical,
         Bogies spectacular,
         Answers oracular,
         Facts astronomical,
         Solemn or comical,
         And, if you want it, he
Makes 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 in
            On the resident Djinn,
   Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

      He can raise you hosts,
                     Of ghosts,
   And that without reflectors;
      And creepy things
                     With wings,
And gaunt and grisly spectres!
   He can fill you crowds
                     Of shrouds,
And horrify you vastly;
   He can rack your brains
                     With chains,
And gibberings grim and ghastly.
   Then, if you plan it, he
   Changes organity
   With an urbanity,
   Full of Satanity,
   Vexes humanity
   With an inanity
   Fatal 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, he
Isn’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 in
      On the resident Djinn,
Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

Sighing softly to the river
   Comes the loving breeze,
Setting nature all a-quiver,
   Rustling through the trees!
And the brook in rippling measure
   Laughs 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 undoing
   That 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!

When I was a lad I served a term
As 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 mark
That 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 name
That 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 sent
By 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!

Would you know the kind of maid
   Sets 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 way
         With 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 gay
   With a tongue goes clang-a,
Flaunting it in brave array,
   Maiden may go hang-a!
         Sunflower gay and hollyhock
         Never 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!

Comes a train of little ladies
   From 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 bubble
   Bound to break ere long?

Are its palaces and pleasures
   Fantasies that fade?
And the glory of its treasures
   Shadow 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!

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 death
      May 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 sense
            Of eloquence
      Lies hidden in a maid’s “Ah me!”

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,
            Underrated
                  Nobleman,
            The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!
You always found that knight, ha, ha!
            That celebrated,
            Cultivated,
            Underrated
                  Nobleman,
      The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

When, to evade Destruction’s hand,
      To hide they all proceeded,
No soldier in that gallant band
      Hid half as well as he did.
He lay concealed throughout the war,
      And so preserved his gore, O!
            That unaffected,
            Undetected,
            Well connected
                  Warrior,
            The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
In every doughty deed, ha, ha!
He always took the lead, ha, ha!
            That unaffected,
            Undetected,
            Well connected
                  Warrior,
      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-going
                  Paladin,
            The Duke of Plaza-Toro!
To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!
He always showed the way, ha, ha!
            That very knowing,
            Overflowing,
            Easy-going
                  Paladin,
      The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

If you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic 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 à 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 æsthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval 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!”

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!)

Sorry her lot who loves too well,
   Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,
Sad are the sighs that own the spell
   Uttered by eyes that speak too plainly;
      Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
      When 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 one
   Flies from the empty waste of waters!
      Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
      When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

When all night long a chap remains
   On sentry-go, to chase monotony
He exercises of his brains,
   That is, assuming that he’s got any.
Though never nurtured in the lap
   Of luxury, yet I admonish you,
I am an intellectual chap,
   And think of things that would astonish you.
         I often think it’s comical
            How Nature always does contrive
         That 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 lot
   Of statesmen, all in close proximity,
A-thinking for themselves, is what
   No man can face with equanimity.
         Then let’s rejoice with loud Fal lal
            That Nature wisely does contrive
         That 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!

I’ve wisdom from the East and from the West,
   That’s subject to no academic rule;
You may find it in the jeering of a jest,
   Or distil it from the folly of a fool.
I can teach you with a quip, if I’ve a mind;
   I can trick you into learning with a laugh;
Oh, winnow all my folly, and you’ll find
   A grain or two of truth among the chaff!

I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,
   The upstart I can wither with a whim;
He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,
   But his laughter has an echo that is grim.
When they’ve offered to the world in merry guise,
   Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will—
For he who’d make his fellow-creatures wise
   Should always gild the philosophic pill!

Spurn not the nobly born
      With love affected,
Nor treat with virtuous scorn
      The well connected.
High rank involves no shame—
We boast an equal claim
With him of humble name
      To be respected!
            Blue blood!  Blue blood!
                  When virtuous love is sought,
                     Thy power is naught,
            Though dating from the Flood,
                     Blue blood!

Spare us the bitter pain
      Of stern denials,
Nor with low-born disdain
      Augment our trials.
Hearts just as pure and fair
May beat in Belgrave Square
As in the lowly air
      Of Seven Dials!
            Blue blood!  Blue blood!
                  Of what avail art thou
                     To serve me now?
            Though dating from the Flood,
                     Blue blood!

When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,
   I’d an appetite fresh and hearty,
But I was, as many young barristers are,
   An impecunious party.
I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—
   A brief which was brought by a booby—
A couple of shirts and a collar or two,
   And a ring that looked like a ruby!

In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,
   Like a semi-despondent fury;
For I thought I should never hit on a chance
   Of addressing a British Jury—
But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,
   And dinners of bread and water;
So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s
   Elderly, ugly daughter.

The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,
   And replied to my fond professions:
“You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,
   At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.
You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he,
   “And a very nice girl you’ll find her—
She may very well pass for forty-three
   In the dusk, with a light behind her!”

The rich attorney was as good as his word:
   The briefs came trooping gaily,
And every day my voice was heard
   At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.
All thieves who could my fees afford
   Relied on my orations,
And many a burglar I’ve restored
   To his friends and his relations.

At length I became as rich as the Gurneys—
   An incubus then I thought her,
So I threw over that rich attorney’s
   Elderly, ugly daughter.
The rich attorney my character high
   Tried vainly to disparage—
And now, if you please, I’m ready to try
   This Breach of Promise of Marriage!

When I first put this uniform on,
I said, as I looked in the glass,
      “It’s one to a million
      That any civilian
My figure and form will surpass.
Gold lace has a charm for the fair,
And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare,
      While a lover’s professions,
      When uttered in Hessians,
Are eloquent everywhere!”
         A fact that I counted upon,
         When I first put this uniform on!

I said, when I first put it on,
“It is plain to the veriest dunce
      That every beauty
      Will feel it her duty
To yield to its glamour at once.
They will see that I’m freely gold-laced
In a uniform handsome and chaste”—
      But the peripatetics
      Of long-haired æsthetics,
Are very much more to their taste—
         Which I never counted upon
         When I first put this uniform on!

Comes the broken flower—
   Comes the cheated maid—
Though the tempest lower,
   Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
   Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
   They are passing fair!
         Wear the flowers till they fade;
         Happy be thy life, O maid!

O’er the season vernal,
   Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
   Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
   Let the thief alone—
Winter hath a beauty
   That is all his own.
         Fairest days are sun and shade:
         Happy be thy life, O maid!

When you’re lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo’d by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire—the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles—you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you’re hot, and you’re cross, and you tumble and toss till there’s nothing ’twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick ’em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching,
But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you’d very much better be waking;
For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich,
Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage;
And you’re giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations—
They’re a ravenous horde—and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon);
He’s a bit undersized, and you don’t feel surprised when he tells you he’s only eleven.
Well, you’re driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship’s now a four-wheeler),
And you’re playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that “ties pay the dealer”;
But this you can’t stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you’re as cold as an icicle,
In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:
And he and the crew are on bicycles too—which they’ve somehow or other invested in—
And he’s telling the tars all the particulars of a company he’s interested in—
It’s a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables
(Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vegetables—
You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),
And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they’ll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree—
From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,
While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant—apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries—
The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by Rothschild and Baring,
And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing—
You’re a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head’s on the floor, and you’ve needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg’s asleep, and you’ve cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that’s intense, and a general sense that you haven’t been sleeping in clover;
But the darkness has passed, and it’s daylight at last, and the night has been long—ditto, ditto my song—and thank goodness they’re both of them over!

Now, Marco, dear,
My wishes hear:
   While you’re away
It’s understood
You will be good,
   And not too gay.
To every trace
Of maiden grace
   You will be blind,
And will not glance
By any chance
   On womankind!
If you are wise,
You’ll shut your eyes
   Till we arrive,
And not address
A lady less
   Than forty-five;
You’ll please to frown
On every gown
   That you may see;
And O, my pet,
You won’t forget
   You’ve married me!

O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don’t forget you’ve married me!

You’ll lay your head
Upon your bed
   At set of sun.
You will not sing
Of anything
   To any one:
You’ll sit and mope
All day, I hope,
   And shed a tear
Upon the life
Your little wife
   Is passing here!
And if so be
You think of me,
   Please tell the moon;
I’ll read it all
In rays that fall
   On the lagoon:
You’ll be so kind
As tell the wind
   How you may be,
And send me words
By little birds
   To comfort me!

And O, my darling, O, my pet,
Whatever else you may forget,
In yonder isle beyond the sea,
O, don’t forget you’ve married me!

On a tree by a river a little tomtit
         Sang “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And I said to him, “Dicky-bird, why do you sit
         Singing ‘Willow, titwillow, titwillow’?
Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried,
“Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?”
With a shake of his poor little head he replied,
         “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,
         Singing “Willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,
         Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!
He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,
Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,
And an echo arose from the suicide’s grave—
         “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

Now I feel just as sure as I’m sure that my name
         Isn’t Willow, titwillow, titwillow,
That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,
         “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”
And if you remain callous and obdurate, I
Shall perish as he did, and you will know why,
Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,
         “Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!”

He.  I know a youth who loves a little maid—
         (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
      Silent is he, for he’s modest and afraid—
         (Hey, but he’s timid as a youth can be!)
She.  I know a maid who loves a gallant youth—
         (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
      She cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth—
         (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both.  Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
            What in the world should the poor soul do?

He.  He cannot eat and he cannot sleep—
         (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)
      Daily he goes for to wail—for to weep—
         (Hey, but he’s wretched as a youth can be!)
She.  She’s very thin and she’s very pale—
         (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
      Daily she goes for to weep—for to wail—
         (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)
Both.  Now tell me pray, and tell me true,
            What in the world should the poor soul do?

She.  If I were the youth I should offer her my name—
         (Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)
      He.  If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame—
         (Hey, but he’s bashful as a youth can be!)
She.  If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day—
         (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)
      He.  If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way—
         (For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)
Both.  I thank you much for your counsel true;
            I’ve learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

Come mighty Must!
   Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
   Time weaves my coronal!
Go mocking Is!
   Go disappointing Was!
That I am this
   Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble Second shall be First,
            I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
            Has Been!

Oh weak Might Be!
   Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
   For evil or for good!
In every sense
   Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate’er your tense
   Ye are Imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I’ve shown
            In ye!
Away!  The Mighty Must alone
            Shall be!

      Were I thy bride,
Then the whole world beside
      Were not too wide
            To hold my wealth of love—
      Were I thy bride!
      Upon thy breast
My loving head would rest,
      As on her nest
            The tender turtle-dove—
      Were I thy bride!

      This heart of mine
Would be one heart with thine,
      And in that shrine
            Our happiness would dwell—
      Were I thy bride!
      And all day long
Our lives should be a song:
      No grief, no wrong
            Should make my heart rebel—
      Were I thy bride!

      The silvery flute,
The melancholy lute,
      Were night-owl’s hoot
            To my low-whispered coo—
      Were I thy bride!
      The skylark’s trill
Were but discordance shrill
      To the soft thrill
            Of wooing as I’d woo—
      Were I thy bride!

      The rose’s sigh
Were as a carrion’s cry
      To lullaby
            Such as I’d sing to thee—
      Were I thy bride!
      A feather’s press
Were leaden heaviness
      To my caress.
            But then, unhappily,
      I’m not thy bride!

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies—
When the footpads quail at the night-bird’s wail, and black dogs bay the moon,
Then is the spectres’ holiday—then is the ghosts’ high noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen,
From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men,
And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon,
For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim “good night”;
Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune,
And ushers our next high holiday—the dead of the night’s high noon!

A more humane Mikado never
   Did in Japan exist;
      To nobody second,
      I’m certainly reckoned
   A true philanthropist.
It is my very humane endeavour
   To make, to some extent,
   Each evil liver
      A running river
   Of harmless merriment.

   My object all sublime
   I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
      The punishment fit the crime;
   And make each prisoner pent
   Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
         Of innocent merriment!

All prosy dull society sinners,
   Who chatter and bleat and bore,
      Are sent to hear sermons
      From mystical Germans
   Who preach from ten to four:
The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies
   All desire to shirk,
      Shall, during off-hours,
      Exhibit his powers
   To Madame Tussaud’s waxwork:
The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,
   Or stains her grey hair puce,
      Or pinches her figger,
      Is blacked like a nigger
   With permanent walnut juice:
The idiot who, in railway carriages,
   Scribbles on window panes,
      We only suffer
      To ride on a buffer
   In Parliamentary trains.

   My object all sublime
   I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
         The punishment fit the crime;
   And make each prisoner pent
   Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment—
      Of innocent merriment!

The advertising quack who wearies
   With tales of countless cures,
      His teeth, I’ve enacted,
      Shall all be extracted
   By terrified amateurs:
The music-hall singer attends a series
   Of masses and fugues and “ops”
      By Bach, interwoven
      With Spohr and Beethoven,
   At classical Monday Pops:
The billiard sharp whom any one catches
   His doom’s extremely hard—
      He’s made to dwell
      In a dungeon cell
   On a spot that’s always barred;
And there he plays extravagant matches
   In fitless finger-stalls,
      On a cloth untrue
      With a twisted cue,
   And elliptical billiard balls!

   My object all sublime
   I shall achieve in time—
To let the punishment fit the crime—
      The punishment fit the crime;
   And make each prisoner pent
   Unwillingly represent
A source of innocent merriment,
      Of innocent merriment!

He.  Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee, tell me true
         (Hey, but I’m doleful, willow, willow waly!)
      Have you e’er a lover a-dangling after you?
               Hey, willow waly O!
                  I would fain discover
                  If you have a lover?
               Hey, willow waly O!

She.  Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free—
         (Hey, but he’s doleful, willow, willow waly!)
      Nobody I care for comes a-courting me—
               Hey, willow waly O!
                  Nobody I care for
                  Comes a-courting—therefore,
               Hey, willow waly O!

He.  Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?
         (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
      I may say, at once, I’m a man of propertee—
               Hey, willow waly O!
                  Money, I despise it,
                  But many people prize it,
               Hey, willow waly O!

She.  Gentle sir, although to marry I design—
         (Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!)
      As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.
               Hey, willow waly O!
                  To other maidens go you—
                  As yet I do not know you,
               Hey, willow waly O!

When the buds are blossoming,
Smiling welcome to the spring,
Lovers choose a wedding day—
Life is love in merry May!

   Spring is green—Fal lal la!
      Summer’s rose—Fal lal la!
   It is sad when Summer goes,
            Fal la!
   Autumn’s gold—Fal lal la!
      Winter’s grey—Fal lal la!
   Winter still is far away—
            Fal la!
Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;
Winter is the end of all.
Spring and summer teem with glee:
Spring and summer, then, for me!
            Fal la!

In the Spring-time seed is sown:
In the Summer grass is mown:
In the Autumn you may reap:
Winter is the time for sleep.

   Spring is hope—Fal lal la!
      Summer’s joy—Fal lal la!
   Spring and Summer never cloy,
            Fal la!
   Autumn, toil—Fal lal la!
      Winter, rest—Fal lal la!
   Winter, after all, is best—
            Fal la!
Spring and summer pleasure you,
Autumn, ay, and winter, too—
Every season has its cheer;
Life is lovely all the year!
            Fal la!

Now, Jurymen, hear my advice—
All kinds of vulgar prejudice
      I pray you set aside:
With stern judicial frame of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
      This trial must be tried!

Oh, listen to the plaintiff’s case:
Observe the features of her face—
      The broken-hearted bride!
Condole with her distress of mind—
From bias free of every kind,
      This trial must be tried!

And when amid the plaintiff’s shrieks,
The ruffianly defendant speaks—
      Upon the other side;
What he may say you need not mind—
From bias free of every kind,
      This trial must be tried!