A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
In her magnificent comeliness,
Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
She follows the hounds, and on she pounds—
The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish—
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds—
Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
At cricket, her kin will lose or win—
She and her maids, on grass and clover,
Eleven maids out—eleven maids in—
(And perhaps an occasional "maiden over").
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims—
She plays, she sings, she dances, too,
From ten or eleven till all is blue!
At ball or drum, till small hours come
(Chaperon's fan conceals her yawning),
She'll waltz away like a teetotum,
And never go home till daylight's dawning.
Lawn tennis may share her favours fair—
Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing—
Down comes her hair, but what does she care?
It's all her own and it's worth the showing!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
Her soul is sweet as the ocean air,
For prudery knows no haven there;
To find mock-modesty, please apply
To the conscious blush and the downcast eye.
Rich in the things contentment brings,
In every pure enjoyment wealthy,
Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings,
For body and mind are hale and healthy.
Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill—
Her heart is light as a floating feather—
As pure and bright as the mountain rill
That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather!
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!
TEMPORA MUTANTUR
Letters, letters, letters, letters!
Some that please and some that bore,
Some that threaten prison fetters
(Metaphorically, fetters
Such as bind insolvent debtors)—
Invitations by the score.
One from Cogson, Wiles, and Railer,
My attorneys, off the Strand;
One from Copperblock, my tailor—
My unreasonable tailor—
One in Flagg's disgusting hand.
One from Ephraim and Moses,
Wanting coin without a doubt,
I should like to pull their noses—
Their uncompromising noses;
One from Alice with the roses—-
Ah, I know what that's about!
Time was when I waited, waited
For the missives that she wrote,
Humble postmen execrated—
Loudly, deeply execrated—
When I heard I wasn't fated
To be gladdened with a note!
Time was when I'd not have bartered
Of her little pen a dip
For a peerage duly gartered—
For a peerage starred and gartered—
With a palace-office chartered,
Or a Secretaryship.
But the time for that is over,
And I wish we'd never met.
I'm afraid I've proved a rover—
I'm afraid a heartless rover—
Quarters in a place like Dover
Tend to make a man forget.
Bills for carriages and horses,
Bills for wine and light cigar,
Matters that concern the Forces—
News that may affect the Forces—
News affecting my resources,
Much more interesting are!
And the tiny little paper,
With the words that seem to run
From her little fingers taper
(They are very small and taper),
By the tailor and the draper
Are in interest outdone.
And unopened it's remaining!
I can read her gentle hope—
Her entreaties, uncomplaining
(She was always uncomplaining),
Her devotion never waning—
Through the little envelope!
A MANAGER'S PERPLEXITIES
Were I a king in very truth,
And had a son—a guileless youth—
In probable succession;
To teach him patience, teach him tact,
How promptly in a fix to act,
He should adopt, in point of fact,
A manager's profession.
To that condition he should stoop
(Despite a too fond mother),
With eight or ten "stars" in his troupe,
All jealous of each other!
Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew,
Each member a genius (and some of them two),
And manage to humour them, little and great,
Can govern a tuppenny-ha'penny State!
Both A and B rehearsal slight—
They say they'll be "all right at night"
(They've both to go to school yet);
C in each act must change her dress,
D will attempt to "square the press";
E won't play Romeo unless
His grandmother plays Juliet;
F claims all hoydens as her rights
(She's played them thirty seasons);
And G must show herself in tights
For two convincing reasons—
Two very well-shaped reasons!
Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team,
With wheelers and leaders in order supreme,
Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin,
All Europe and Asia—with Ireland thrown in!
OUT OF SORTS
When you find you're a broken-down critter,
Who is all of a trimmle and twitter,
With your palate unpleasantly bitter,
As if you'd just bitten a pill—
When your legs are as thin as dividers,
And you're plagued with unruly insiders,
And your spine is all creepy with spiders,
And you're highly gamboge in the gill—
When you've got a beehive in your head,
And a sewing machine in each ear,
And you feel that you've eaten your bed,
And you've got a bad headache down here—
When such facts are about,
And these symptoms you find
In your body or crown—
Well, it's time to look out,
You may make up your mind
You had better lie down!
When your lips are all smeary—like tallow,
And your tongue is decidedly yallow,
With a pint of warm oil in your swallow,
And a pound of tin-tacks in your chest—
When you're down in the mouth with the vapours,
And all over your new Morris papers
Black-beetles are cutting their capers,
And crawly things never at rest—
When you doubt if your head is your own,
And you jump when an open door slams—
Then you've got to a state which is known
To the medical world as "jim-jams."
If such symptoms you find
In your body or head,
They're not easy to quell—
You may make up your mind
You are better in bed,
For you're not at all well!
AT A PANTOMIME
BY A BILIOUS ONE
An actor sits in doubtful gloom,
His stock-in-trade unfurled,
In a damp funereal dressing-room
In the Theatre Royal, World.
He comes to town at Christmas-time
And braves its icy breath,
To play in that favourite pantomime.
Harlequin Life and Death.
A hoary flowing wig his weird,
Unearthly cranium caps;
He hangs a long benevolent beard
On a pair of empty chaps.
To smooth his ghastly features down
The actor's art he cribs;
A long and a flowing padded gown
Bedecks his rattling ribs.
He cries, "Go on—begin, begin!
Turn on the light of lime;
I'm dressed for jolly Old Christmas in
A favourite pantomime!"
The curtain's up—the stage all black—
Time and the Year nigh sped—
(Time as an advertising quack)
The Old Year nearly dead.
The wand of Time is waved, and lo!
Revealed Old Christmas stands,
And little children chuckle and crow,
And laugh and clap their hands.
The cruel old scoundrel brightens up
At the death of the Olden Year,
And he waves a gorgeous golden cup,
And bids the world good cheer.
The little ones hail the festive King—
No thought can make them sad;
Their laughter comes with a sounding ring.
They clap and crow like mad!
They only see in the humbug old
A holiday every year,
And handsome gifts, and joys untold,
And unaccustomed cheer.
The old ones, palsied, blear, and hoar,
Their breasts in anguish beat—
They've seen him seventy times before,
How well they know the cheat!
They've seen that ghastly pantomime,
They've felt its blighting breath,
They know that rollicking Christmas-time
Meant cold and want and death—
Starvation—Poor Law Union fare,
And deadly cramps and chills,
And illness—illness everywhere—
And crime, and Christmas bills.
They know Old Christmas well, I ween,
Those men of ripened age;
They've often, often, often seen
That actor off the stage.
They see in his gay rotundity
A clumsy stuffed-out dress;
They see in the cup he waves on high
A tinselled emptiness.
Those aged men so lean and wan,
They've seen it all before;
They know they'll see the charlatan
But twice or three times more.
And so they bear with dance and song,
And crimson foil and green;
They wearily sit, and grimly long
For the Transformation Scene.
HOW IT'S DONE
Bold-faced ranger
(Perfect stranger)
Meets two well-behaved young ladies.
He's attractive,
Young and active—
Each a little bit afraid is.
Youth advances,
At his glances
To their danger they awaken;
They repel him
As they tell him
He is very much mistaken.
Though they speak to him politely,
Please observe they're sneering slightly,
Just to show he's acting vainly.
This is Virtue saying plainly,
"Go away, young bachelor,
We are not what you take us for!"
(When addressed impertinently,
English ladies answer gently,
"Go away, young bachelor,
We are not what you take us for!")
As he gazes,
Hat he raises,
Enters into conversation.
Makes excuses—
This produces
Interesting agitation.
He, with daring,
Undespairing,
Gives his card—his rank discloses—
Little heeding
This proceeding,
They turn up their little noses.
Pray observe this lesson vital—
When a man of rank and title
His position first discloses,
Always cock your little noses.
When at home, let all the class
Try this in the looking-glass.
(English girls of well-bred notions
Shun all unrehearsed emotions,
English girls of highest class
Practise them before the glass.)
His intentions
Then he mentions,
Something definite to go on—
Makes recitals
Of his titles,
Hints at settlements, and so on.
Smiling sweetly,
They, discreetly,
Ask for further evidences:
Thus invited,
He, delighted,
Gives the usual references.
This is business. Each is fluttered
When the offer's fairly uttered.
"Which of them has his affection?"
He declines to make selection.
Do they quarrel for his dross?
Not a bit of it—they toss!
Please observe this cogent moral—
English ladies never quarrel.
When a doubt they come across,
English ladies always toss.
A CLASSICAL REVIVAL
At the outset I may mention it's my sovereign intention
To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best,
For my company possesses all the necessary dresses,
And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest.
We've a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic)
Who respond to the choreutae of that cultivated age,
And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster
Would accept as the choregus of the early Attic stage.
This return to classic ages is considered in their wages,
Which are always calculated by the day or by the week—
And I'll pay 'em (if they'll back me) all in oboloi and drachmae,
Which they'll get (if they prefer it) at the Kalends that are Greek!
(At this juncture I may mention
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady "cram.":
Periphrastic methods spurning,
To my readers all discerning
I admit this show of learning
Is the fruit of steady "cram."!)
In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic
(Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind),
There they'd satisfy their twist on a recherché cold ἄριστον,
Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you're inclined.
As they gradually got on, they'd τρέπεσθαι πρὸς τὸν πότον
(Which is Attic for a steady and a conscientious drink).
But they mixed their wine with water—which I'm sure they didn't oughter—
And we Anglo-Saxons know a trick worth two of that, I think!
Then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances)
Which would shock that worthy gentleman, the Licenser of Plays,
Corybantian maniac kick—Dionysiac or Bacchic—
And the Dithyrambic revels of those indecorous days.
(And perhaps I'd better mention
Lest alarming you I am,
That it isn't our intention
To perform a Dithyramb—
It displays a lot of stocking,
Which is always very shocking,
And of course I'm only mocking
At the prevalence of "cram.")
Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation
Which are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day,
And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify,
Or Mrs. Grundy, p'r'aps, may have a word or two to say:
For they hadn't macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes—
And a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce,
And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing,
For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn't know the use.
They wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or no-thing—
And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent in design—
Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the "altogether."
And it's there, I rather fancy, I shall have to draw the line!
(And again I wish to mention)
That this erudition sham
Is but classical pretension,
The result of steady "cram."
Yet my classic lore aggressive,
If you'll pardon the possessive,
Is exceedingly impressive
When you're passing an exam.
THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB
Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the echoes of the past,
For of Agib, Prince of Tartary, I sing!
Of Agib, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls—
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.
Of Agib, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter—I am shaky in my dates—
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
Oh, Allah be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits."
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!
Alas! Prince Agib went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin
And when (as snobs would say)
They had "put it all away,"
He requested them to tune up and begin.
Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before—
The consequences true
Of that awful interview,
For I listened at the keyhole in the door!
They played him a sonata—let me see!
"Medulla oblongata"—key of G.
Then they began to sing
That extremely lovely thing,
"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."
He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
More beer in little kegs,
Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.
Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;
For even at this day,
Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!
The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel.
"O Prince," he says, says he,
"If a Prince indeed you be,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!
"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:
No 'Oüaits' in truth are we,
As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am Aleck—this is Beth!"
Said Agib, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"
Beth gave a dreadful shriek—
But before he'd time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat,
For listening at the keyhole of a door.
Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will!
They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never, never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!
THE PRACTICAL JOKER
Oh what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes.
What keen enjoyment springs
From cheap and simple things!
What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes,
That pain and trouble brew
For every one but you!
Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah,
Its unexpected flash
Burns eyebrows and moustache;
When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha,
But common sense suggests
You keep it for your guests—
Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers,
And much amusement bides
In common butter-slides:
And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers.
Coal scuttles, recollect,
Produce the same effect.
A man possessed
Of common sense
Need not invest
At great expense—
It does not call
For pocket deep,
These jokes are all
Extremely cheap.
If you commence with eighteenpence (it's all you'll have to pay),
You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.
A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets,
And turnip-heads on posts
Make very decent ghosts:
Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waistcoat pockets—
Burnt cork and walnut juice
Are not without their use.
No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles—
Live shrimps their patience tax
When put down people's backs—
Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles—
And treacle on a chair
Will make a Quaker swear!
Then sharp tin tacks
And pocket squirts—
And cobblers' wax
For ladies' skirts—
And slimy slugs
On bedroom floors—
And water jugs
On open doors—
Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play,
Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!