There we stood among the loilac and syringas,
More sweet than any Ess. Bouquet you boy;
[Arcadian for "buy."
And Chorley kept on squeezing of my fingers,
And I couldn't tell him not to, being shoy.
Spoken—For, as I told you before,—
Chorus—When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, &c.
Soon my slender wyste he ventured on embrycing,
While I only heaved a gentle little soy;
Though a scream I would have liked to rise my vice in,
It's so difficult to scream when you are shoy!
Spoken—People have such different ways of listening to proposals. As for me,—
Chorus—When they talk of love, I wriggle, &c.
So very soon to Church we shall be gowing,
While the bells ring out a merry peal of jy.
If obedience you do not hear me vowing,
It will only be because I am so shy.
[We have brought the rhyme off legitimately at last, it will be observed.
Spoken—Yes, and when I'm passing down the oil, on Chorley's arm, with everybody looking at me,—
Chorus—I am certain I shall wriggle,
And go off into a giggle,
And as red as any peony I'll blush.
Going through the marriage service
Will be sure to mike me nervous,
[Note the freedom of the rhyme.
And to put me in a flutter and a flush!
The history of a singer's latest love—whether fortunate or otherwise—will always command the interest and attention of a Music-hall audience. Our example, which is founded upon the very best precedents, derives an additional piquancy from the social position of the beloved object. Cultivated readers are requested not to shudder at the rhymes. Mr. Punch's Poet does them deliberately and in cold blood, being convinced that without these somewhat daring concords, no ditty would have the slightest chance of satisfying the great ear of the Music-hall public.
The title of the song is:—
The singer should come on correctly and tastefully attired in a suit of loud dittoes, a startling tie, and a white hat—the orthodox costume (on the Music-hall stage) of a middle-class swain suffering from love-sickness. The air should be of the conventional jog-trot and jingle order, chastened by a sentimental melancholy.
I've lately gone and lost my 'art—and where you'll never guess—
I'm regularly mashed upon a lovely Marchioness!
'Twas at a Fancy Fair we met, inside the Albert 'All;
So affable she smiled at me as I came near her stall!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia is stiff in behaviour!
She'd an Uncle an Earl, and a Dook for her Pa—
Still there was no starchiness in that fair Marchioness,
As she stood at her stall in the Fancy Bazaar!
At titles and distinctions once I'd ignorantly scoff,
As if no bond could be betwixt the tradesman and the toff!
I held with those who'd do away with difference in ranks—
But that was all before I met the Marchioness of Manx!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
A home was being started by some kind aristo-cràts,
For orphan kittens, born of poor, but well-connected cats;
And of the swells who planned a Fête this object to assist,
The Marchioness of Manx's name stood foremost on the list.
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
I never saw a smarter hand at serving in a shop,
For every likely customer she caught upon the 'op!
And from the form her ladyship displayed at that Bazaar,
(With enthusiasm)—You might have took your oath she'd been brought up behind a bar!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
In vain I tried to kid her that my purse had been forgot,
She spotted me in 'alf a jiff, and chaffed me precious hot!
A sov. for one regaliar she gammoned me to spend.
"You really can't refuse," she said, "I've bitten off the end!"
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
"Do buy my crewel-work," she urged, "it goes across a chair,
You'll find it come in useful, as I see you 'ile your 'air!"
So I 'anded over thirty bob, though not a coiny bloke.
I couldn't tell a Marchioness how nearly I was broke!
Spoken—Though I did take the liberty of saying: "Make it fifteen bob, my lady!" But she said, with such a fascinating look—I can see it yet!—"Oh, I'm sure you're not a 'aggling kind of a man," she says, "you haven't the face for it. And think of all them pore fatherless kittings," she says; "think what thirty bob means to them!" says she, glancing up so pitiful and tender under her long eyelashes at me. Ah, the Radicals may talk as they like, but——
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
A raffle was the next concern I put my rhino in:
The prize a talking parrot, which I didn't want to win.
Then her sister, Lady Tabby, shewed a painted milking stool,
And I bought it—though it's not a thing I sit on as a rule.
Spoken—Not but what it was a handsome article in its way, too,—had a snow-scene with a sunset done in oil on it. "It will look lovely in your chambers," says the Marchioness; "it was ever so much admired at Catterwall Castle!" It didn't look so bad in my three-pair back, I must say, though unfortunately the sunset came off on me the very first time I happened to set down on it. Still think of the condescension of painting such a thing at all!
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
The Marquis kept a-fidgeting and frowning at his wife,
For she talked to me as free as if she'd known me all my life!
I felt that I was in the swim, so wasn't over-awed,
But 'ung about and spent my cash as lavish as a lord!
Spoken—It was worth all the money, I can tell you, to be chatting there across the counter with a real live Marchioness for as long as ever my funds would 'old out. They'd have held out much longer, only the Marchioness made it a rule never to give change—she couldn't break it, she said, not even for me. I wish I could give you an idea of how she smiled as she made that remark; for the fact is, when an aristocrat does unbend—well,——
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia, &c.
Next time I meet the Marchioness a-riding in the Row,
I'll ketch her eye and raise my 'at, and up to her I'll go,
(With sentiment)—And tell her next my 'art I keep the stump of that cigar
She sold me on the 'appy day we 'ad at her Bazaar!
Spoken—And she'll be pleased to see me again, I know! She's not one of your stuck-up sort; don't you make no mistake about it, the aristocracy ain't 'alf as bloated as people imagine who don't know 'em. Whenever I hear parties running 'em down, I always say:
Chorus—Don't tell me Belgravia is stiff in behaviour, &c.
The singer (who should be a large man, in evening dress, with a crumpled shirt-front) will come on the stage with a bearing intended to convey at first sight that he is a devoted admirer of the fair sex. After removing his crush-hat in an easy manner, and winking airily at the orchestra, he will begin:—
There's enthusiasm brimming in the breasts of all the women,
And they're calling for enfranchisement with clamour eloquent:
When some parties in a huff rage at the plea for Female Suffrage,
I invariably floor them with a simple argu-ment.
Chorus (to be rendered with a winning persuasiveness).
Why shouldn't the darlings have votes? de-ar things!
On politics each of 'em dotes, de-ar things!
(Pathetically.) Oh it does seem so hard
They should all be debarred,
'Cause they happen to wear petticoats, de-ar things!
Nature all the hens to crow meant, I could prove it in a moment,
Though they've selfishly been silenced by the cockadoodle-doos.
But no man of sense afraid is of enfranchising the Ladies.
(Magnanimously.) Let 'em put their pretty fingers into any pie they choose!
Spoken—For——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
They would cease to care for dresses, if we made them elec-tresses,
No more time they'd spend on needlework, nor at pianos strum;
Every dainty little Dorcas would be sitting on a Caucus,
Busy wire-pulling to produce the New Millenni-um!
Spoken—Oh!——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
In the House we'll see them sitting soon, it will be only fitting
They should have an opportunity their country's laws to frame.
And the Ladies' legislation will be sure to cause sensation,
For they'll do away with everything that seems to them a shame!
Spoken—Then——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
They will promptly clap a stopper on whate'er they deem improper,
Put an end to vaccination, landed property, and pubs;
And they'll fine Tom, Dick, and Harry, if they don't look sharp and marry,
And for Kindergartens confiscate those nasty horrid Clubs!
Spoken—Ah!——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
They'll declare it's quite immoral to engage in foreign quarrel,
And that Britons never never will be warriors any more!
When our forces are abolished, and defences all demolished,
They will turn upon the Jingo tack, and want to go to war!
Spoken—So——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
(With a grieved air.) Yet there's some who'd close such vistars to their poor down-trodden sistars,
And persuade 'em, if they're offered votes, politely to refuse!
Say they do not care about 'em, and would rather be without 'em—
Oh, I haven't common patience with such narrer-minded views!
Spoken—No!——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
And it's females—that's the puzzle!—who petition for the muzzle,
Which I call it poor and paltry, and I think you'll say so too.
They are not in any danger. Let 'em drop the dog-in-manger!
If they don't require the vote themselves, there's other Ladies do!
Spoken—And——
Chorus—Why shouldn't the darlings, &c.
[Here the singer will gradually retreat backwards to the rear of the stage, open his crush-hat, and extend it in an attitude of triumph as the curtain descends.
Any ditty which accurately reflects the habits and amusements of the people is a valuable human document—a fact that probably accounts for the welcome which songs in the following style invariably receive from Music-hall audiences generally. If—Mr. Punch presumes—they conceived such pictures of their manner of spending a holiday to be unjustly or incorrectly drawn in any way, they would protest strongly against being so grossly misrepresented. As they do nothing of the sort, no apology can be needed for the following effusion, which several ladies now adorning the Music-hall stage could be trusted to render with immense effect. The singer should be young and charming, and attired as simply as possible. Simplicity of attire imparts additional piquancy to the words:—
We 'ad a little outing larst Sunday arternoon;
And sech a jolly lark it was, I shan't forget it soon!
We borrered an excursion van to take us down to Kew,
And—oh, we did enjoy ourselves! I don't mind telling you.
[This to the Chef d'Orchestre, who will assume a polite interest.
[Here a little spoken interlude is customary. Mr. P. does not venture to do more than indicate this by a synopsis, the details can be filled in according to the taste and fancy of the fair artiste:—"Yes, we did 'ave a time, I can assure yer." The party: "Me and Jimmy 'Opkins;" old "Pa Plapper." Asked because he lent the van. The meanness of his subsequent conduct. "Aunt Snapper;" her imposing appearance in her "cawfy-coloured front." Bill Blazer; his "girl," and his accordion. Mrs. Addick (of the fried-fish emporium round the corner); her gentility—"Never seen out of her mittens, and always the lady, no matter how much she may have taken." From this work round by an easy transition to—
The Chorus—For we 'ad to stop o' course,
Jest to bait the bloomin' 'orse,
So we'd pots of ale and porter
(Or a drop o' something shorter),
While he drunk his pail o' water,
He was sech a whale on water!
That more water than he oughter,
More water than he oughter,
'Ad the poor old 'orse!
Second Stanza.
That 'orse he was a rum 'un—a queer old quadru-pèd,
At every public-'ouse he passed he'd cock his artful 'ed!
Sez I: "If he goes on like this, we shan't see Kew to-night!"
Jim 'Opkins winks his eye, and sez—"We'll git along all right!"
Chorus—Though we 'ave to stop of course,—&c., &c.
[With slight textual modifications.
Third Stanza.
At Kinsington we 'alted, 'Ammersmith, and Turnham Green,
The 'orse 'ad sech a thust on him, its like was never seen!
With every 'arf a mile or so, that animal got blown:
And we was far too well brought-up to let 'im drink alone!
Chorus—As we 'ad to stop, o' course, &c.
Fourth Stanza.
We stopped again at Chiswick, till at last we got to Kew,
But when we reached the Gardings—well, there was a fine to-do!
The Keeper, in his gold-laced tile, was shutting-to the gate,
Sez he: "There's no admittance now—you're just arrived too late!"
[Synopsis of spoken Interlude: Spirited passage-at-arms between Mr. Wm. Blazer and the Keeper; singular action of Pa Plapper; "I want to see yer Pagoder—bring out yer old Pagoder as you're so proud on!" Mrs. Addick's disappointment at not being able to see the "Intemperate Plants," and the "Pitcher Shrub," once more. Her subsidence in tears, on the floor of the van. Keeper concludes the dialogue by inquiring why the party did not arrive sooner. An' we sez, "Well, it was like this, ole cock robin—d'yer see?"
Chorus—We've 'ad to stop, o' course, &c.
Fifth Stanza.
"Don't fret," I sez, "about it, for they ain't got much to see
Inside their precious Gardings—so let's go and 'ave some tea!
A cup I seem to fancy now—I feel that faint and limp—
With a slice of bread-and-butter, and some creases, and a s'rimp!"
[Description of the tea:—"And the s'rimps—well, I don't want to say anything against the s'rimps—but it did strike me they were feelin' the 'eat a little—s'rimps are liable to it, and you can't prevent 'em." After tea. The only tune Mr. Blazer could play on his accordion. Tragic end of that instrument. How the party had a "little more lush." Scandalous behaviour of "Bill Blazer's girl." The company consume what will be elegantly referred to as "a bit o' booze." Aunt Snapper "gets the 'ump." The outrage to her front. The proposal to start—whereupon, "Mrs. Addick, who was a'-settin' on the geraniums in the winder, smilin' at her boots, which she'd just took off because she said they stopped her breathing," protested that there was no hurry, considering that—
Chorus, as before—We've got to stop, o' course, &c.
Sixth Stanza.
But when the van was ordered, we found—what do yer think?
[To the Chef d'Orchestre, who will affect complete ignorance.
That miserable 'orse 'ad been an' took too much to drink!
He kep' a reeling round us, like a circus worked by steam,
And, 'stead o' keeping singular, he'd turned into a team!
[Disgust of the party: Pa Plapper proposes to go back to the inn for more refreshment, urging—
Chorus—We must wait awhile o' course,
Till they've sobered down the 'orse.
Just another pot o' porter
Or a drop o' something shorter,
While our good landlady's daughter
Takes him out some soda-warter.
For he's 'ad more than he oughter,
He's 'ad more than he oughter,
'As the poor old 'orse!
Seventh Stanza.
So, when they brought the 'orse round, we started on our way:
'Twas 'orful 'ow the animal from side to side would sway!
Young 'Opkins took the reins, but soon in slumber he was sunk—
(Indignantly.) When a interfering Copper ran us in for being drunk!
[Attitude of various members of the party. Unwarrantable proceeding on the part of the Constable. Remonstrance by Pa Plapper and the company generally in—
Chorus—Why, can't yer shee? o' coursh
Tishn't us—it ish the 'orsh!
He's a whale at swilling water,
We've 'ad only ale and porter,
Or a drop o' something shorter.
You le'mme go, you shnorter!
Don' you tush me till you oughter!
Jus' look 'ere—to cut it shorter—
Take the poor old 'orsh!
[General adjournment to the Police-station. Interview with the Magistrate on the following morning. Mr. Hopkins called upon to state his defence, replies in—
Chorus—Why, your wushup sees, o' course,
It was all the bloomin' 'orse!
He would 'ave a pail o' water
Every 'arf a mile (or quarter),
Which is what he didn't oughter!
He shall stick to ale or porter,
With a drop o' something shorter,
I'm my family's supporter—
Fine the poor old 'orse!
[The Magistrate's view of the case. Concluding remark that, notwithstanding the success of the excursion, as a whole—it will be some time before the singer consents to go upon any excursion with a horse of such bibulous tendencies as those of the quadruped they drove to Kew.
This is always a popular form of entertainment, demanding, as it does, even more dramatic than vocal ability on the part of the artist. A song of this kind is nothing if not severely moral, an frequently depicts the downward career of an incipient drunkard with all the lurid logic of a Temperance Tract. Mr. Punch, however, is inclined to think that the lesson would be even more appreciated and taken to heart by the audience, if a slightly different line were adopted such as he has endeavoured to indicate in the following example:—
The singer should have a great command of facial expression, which he will find greatly facilitated by employing (as indeed is the usual custom) coloured limelight at the wings.
First Verse (to be sung under pure white light).
He (these awful examples are usually, and quite properly, anonymous) was once as nice a fellow as you could desire to meet,
Partial to a pint of porter, always took his spirits neat;
Long ago a careful mother's cautions trained her son to shrink
From the meretricious sparkle of an aërated drink.
Refrain (showing the virtuous youth resisting temptation. N.B. The refrain is intended to be spoken through music. Not sung.)
Here's a pub that's handy.
Liquor up with you?
Thimbleful of brandy?
Don't mind if I do.
Soda-water? No, Sir.
Never touch the stuff.
Promised mother—so, Sir.
(With an upward glance.)
'Tisn't good enough!
Second Verse. (Primrose light for this.)
Ah, how little we suspected, as we saw him in his bloom,
What a demon dogged his footsteps, luring to an awful doom!
Vain his mother's fond monitions; soon a friend, with fiendish laugh,
Tempts him to a quiet tea-garden, plies him there with shandy-gaff!
Refrain (illustrating the first false step).
Why, it's just the mixture
I so long have sought!
Here I'll be a fixture
Till I've drunk the quart!
Just the stuff to suit yer.
Waiter, do you hear?
Make it, for the future,
Three parts ginger-beer!
Third Verse (requiring violet-tinted slide).
By-and-by, the ale discarding, ginger-beer he craves alone.
Undiluted he procures it, buys it bottled up in stone.
(The earthenware bottles are said by connoisseurs to contain
liquor of superior strength and quality.)
From his lips the foam he brushes—crimson overspreads his brow.
To his brain the ginger's mounting! Could his mother see him now!
Refrain (depicting the horrors of a solitary debauch poisoned by remorse).
Shall I have another?
Only ginger-pop!
(Wildly.) Ah! I promised mother
Not to touch a drop!
Far too much I'm tempted.
(Recklessly.) Let me drink my fill!
That's the fifth I've emptied—
Oh, I feel so ill!
[Here the singer will stagger about the boards.
Fourth Verse. (Turn on lurid crimson ray for this.)
Next with drinks they style "teetotal" he his manhood must degrade;
Swilling effervescent syrups—"ice-cream-soda," "raspberry-ade,"
Koumiss tempts his jaded palate—payment he's obliged to bilk—
Then, reduced to destitution, finds forgetfulness in—milk!
Refrain (indicating rapid moral deterioration).
What's that on the railings?
[Point dramatically at imaginary area.
Milk—and in a can!
Though I have my failings,
I'm an honest man.
[Spark of expiring rectitude here.
I can not resist it. [Pantomime of opening can.
That celestial blue!
Has the milkman missed it? [Melodramatically.
I'll be missing too!
Fifth Verse (in pale blue light).
Milk begets a taste for water, so comparatively cheap,
Every casual pump supplies him, gratis, with potations deep;
He at every drinking-fountain pounces on the pewter cup,
Conscious of becoming bloated, powerless to give it up!
Refrain (illustrative of utter loss of self-respect).
"Find one straight before me?"
Bobby, you're a trump!
Faintness stealing o'er me—
Ha—at last—a pump!
If that little maid 'll
Just make room for one,
I could grab the ladle
After she has done.
The last verse is the culminating point of this moral drama:—The miserable wretch has reached the last stage. He shuts himself up in his cheerless abode, and there, in shameful secrecy, consumes the element for which he is powerless to pay—the inevitable Nemesis following.
Sixth Verse (All lights down in front. Ghastly green light at wings).
Up his sordid stairs in secret to the cistern now he steals,
Where, amidst organic matter, gambol microscopic eels;
Tremblingly he turns the tap on—not a trickle greets the trough!
For the stony-hearted turncock's gone and cut his water off!
Refrain (in which the profligate is supposed to demand an explanation from the turncock, with a terrible dénoûment).
"Rate a quarter owing,
Comp'ny stopped supply."
"Set the stream a-flowing,
Demon—or you die!"
"Mercy!—ah! you've choked me!"
[In hoarse, strangled voice as the turncock.
"Will you turn the plug?" [Savagely as the hero.
"No!" [Faintly, as turncock.
[Business of flinging a corpse on stage, and regarding it terror-stricken. A long pause; then, in a whisper,—
"The fool provoked me!
(With a maniac laugh.) Horror! I'm a Thug!"
[Here the artist will die, mad, in frightful agony, and rise to bow his acknowledgments.
The "Duet and Dance" form so important a feature in Music-hall entertainments, that they could hardly, with any propriety, be neglected in a model compilation such as Mr. Punch's, and it is possible that he may offer more than one example of this blameless diversion. For some reason or other, the habit of singing in pairs would seem to induce a pessimistic tone of mind in most Music-hall artistes, and—why, Mr. Punch does not pretend to say—this cynicism is always more marked when the performers are of the softer sex. Our present study is intended to fulfil the requirements of the most confirmed female sceptic, and, though the Message of the Music Halls may have been given worthier and fuller expression by pens more practised in such compositions, Mr. Punch is still modestly confident that this ditty, with all its shortcomings, can be sung in any Music Hall in the Metropolis without exciting any sentiment other than entire approval of the teaching it conveys. One drawback, indeed, it has, but that concerns the performers alone. For the sake of affording contrast and relief, it was thought expedient that one of the fair duettists should profess an optimism which may—perhaps must—tend to impair her popularity. A conscientious artiste may legitimately object, for the sake of her professional reputation, to present herself in so humiliating a character as that of an ingénue, and a female "Juggins"; and it does seem as if the Cynical Sister must inevitably monopolise the sympathies of an enlightened audience. However, this difficulty is less formidable than it appears; it should be easy for the Unsophisticated Sister to convey a subtle suggestion here and there, possibly in the incidental dance between the verses, that she is not really inferior to her partner in smartness and knowledge of the world. But perhaps it would be the fairest arrangement if the Sisters could agree to alternate so ungrateful a rôle.
First Verse.
First Sister (placing three of the fingers of her left hand on her heart, and extending her right arm in timid appeal).
Dear sister, of late I'm beginning to doubt
If the world is as black as they paint it.
It mayn't be as bad as some try to make out——
Second Sister (with an elaborate mock curtsy.) That is a discovery! Mayn't it?
First S. (abashed). I'm sure there are sev'ral who aren't a bad lot,
And some sort of principle seem to have got,
For they act on the square——
Second S. Don't you talk tommy-rot!
It's done for advertisement, ain't it?
Refrain.
Second S. Why, there's nobody at bottom any better than the rest!
First S. Are you sure of it?
Second S. I'm telling you, and I know,
The principle they act upon's whatever pays 'em best.
And the only real religion now is—Rhino!
[The last word must be rendered with full metallic effect. A step-dance, expressive of conviction on one part and incipient wavering on the other, should be performed between the verses.
Second Verse.
First S. (returning, shaken, to the charge). Some unmarried men lead respectable lives.
Second S. (decisively). Well, I've never happened to meet them!
First S. There are husbands who're always polite to their wives.
Second S. Of course—if their better halves beat them!
First S. Some tradesmen have consciences, so I've heard said;
Their provisions are never adulteratèd,
But they treat all their customers fairly instead.
Second S. 'Cause they don't find it answer to cheat them!
Refrain.
First S. What?
Second S. { No,—They're none of 'em at bottom any better than the rest.
Second S. I'm speaking from experience, and I know.
If you could put a window-pane in everybody's breast
You'd see on all the hearts was written—"Rhino!"
Third Verse.
First S. There are girls you can't tempt with a title or gold.
Second S. There may be—but I've never seen one.
First S. Some much prefer love in a cottage, I'm told.
Second S. (putting her arms a-kimbo). If you swallow that, you're a green one!
They'll stick to their lover so long as he's cash,
When it's gone, they look out for a wealthier mash.
A girl on the gush talks unpractical trash—
When it comes to the point, she's a keen one!
Refrain.
First S. Then, are none of us at bottom any better than the rest!
Second S. (cheerfully). Not a bit; I am a girl myself and I know.
First S. You'd surely never give your hand to someone you detest?
Second S. Why rather—if he's rolling in the Rhino!
Fourth Verse.
First S. Philanthropists give up their lives to the poor.
Second S. It's chiefly with tracts they present them.
First S. Still, some self-denial I'm sure they endure?
Second S. It's their hobby, and seems to content them.
First S. But don't they go into those horrible slums?
Second S. Sometimes—with a flourish of trumpets and drums.
First S. I've heard they've collected magnificent sums.
Second S. And nobody knows how they've spent them!
Refrain.
Second S. Oh, they're none of 'em at bottom any better than the rest!
They are only bigger hypocrites, as I know;
They've famous opportunities for feathering their nest,
When so many fools are ready with the Rhino!
Fifth Verse.
First S. Our Statesmen are prompted by duty alone.
Second S. (compassionately). Whoever's been gammoning you so?
First S. They wouldn't seek office for ends of their own?
Second S. What else would induce 'em to do so?
First S. But Time, Health, and Money they all sacrifice.
Second S. I'd do it myself at a quarter the price.
There's pickings for all, and they needn't ask twice,
For they're able to put on the screw so!
Refrain (together).
No, they're none of 'em at bottom any better than the rest!
They may kid to their constituents—but I know;
Whatever lofty sentiments their speeches may suggest,
They regulate their actions by the Rhino!
[Here the pair will perform a final step-dance, indicative of enlightened scepticism, and skip off in an effusion of sisterly sympathy, amidst enthusiastic applause.
When a Music-hall singer does not treat of the tender passion in a rakish and knowing spirit, he is apt to exhibit an unworldliness truly ideal in its noble indifference to all social distinctions. So amiable a tendency deserves encouragement, and Mr. Punch has much pleasure in offering the following little idyl to the notice of any Mammoth Comique who may happen to be in a sentimental mood. It is supposed to be sung by a scion of the nobility, and the artiste will accordingly present himself in a brown "billy-cock" hat, a long grey frock-coat, fawn-coloured trousers, white "spats," and primrose, or green, gloves—the recognised attire of a Music-hall aristocrat. A powerful,—though not necessarily tuneful,—voice is desirable for the adequate rendering of this ditty; any words it is inconvenient to sing, can always be spoken.
First Verse.
When first I met my Mary Ann, she stood behind a barrow—
A bower of enchantment spread with many a dainty snack!
And, as I gazed, I felt my heart transfixed with Cupid's arrow,
For she opened all her oysters with so fairylike a knack.
Refrain (throaty, but tender).
She's only a little Plebeian!
And I'm a Patrician swell!
But she's as sweet as Aurora, and how I adore her,
No eloquence ever can tell!
Only a fried-fish vend-ar!
Selling her saucers of whilks,
[Almost defiant stress on the word "whilks."
But, for me, she's as slend-ar—far more true and tend-ar,
Than if she wore satins and silks!
[The grammar of the last two lines is shaky, but the Lion-Comique must try to put up with that, and, after all, does sincere emotion ever stop to think about grammar? If it does, Music-hall audiences don't—which is the main point.
Second Verse.
I longed before her little feet to grovel in the gutter:
I vowed, unless I won her as a wife, 'twould drive me mad!
Until at last a shy consent I coaxed her lips to utter,
For she dallied with her Anglo-Dutch, and whispered, "Speak to Dad!"
Refrain—For she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
Third Verse.
I called upon her sire, and found him lowly born, but brawny,
A noble type, when sober, of the British artisan;
I grasped his honest hand, and didn't mind its being horny:
"Behold!" I cried, "a suitor for your daughter, Mary Ann!"
Refrain—Though she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
Fourth Verse.
"You ask me, gov'nor, to resign," said he, "my only treasure,
And so a toff her fickle heart away from me has won!"
He turned to mask his manly woe behind a pewter measure—
Then, breathing blessings through the beer, he said; "All right, my son!
Refrain—If she's only a little Plebeian,
And you're a Patrician swell,"—&c.
Fifth Verse.
(The author flatters himself that, in quiet sentiment and homely pathos he has seldom done anything finer than the two succeeding stanzas.)
Next I sought my noble father in his old ancestral castle,
And at his gouty foot my love's fond offering I laid—
A simple gift of shellfish, in a neat brown-paper parcel!
"Ah, Sir!" I cried, "if you could know, you'd love my little maid!"
Refrain—True, she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
Sixth Verse.
Beneath his shaggy eyebrows soon I saw a tear-drop twinkle;
That artless present overcame his stubborn Norman pride!
And when I made him taste a whilk, and try a periwinkle,
His last objections vanished—so she's soon to be my bride!
Refrain—Ah! she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
Seventh Verse.
Now heraldry's a science that I haven't studied much in,
But I mean to ask the College—if it's not against their rules—
That three periwinkles proper may be quartered on our 'scutcheon,
With a whilk regardant, rampant, on an oyster-knife, all gules!
Refrain—As she's only a little Plebeian, &c.
This little ditty, which has the true, unmistakable ring about it, and will, Mr. Punch believes, touch the hearts of any Music-hall audience, is entirely at the service of any talented artiste who will undertake to fit it with an appropriate melody, and sing it in a spirit of becoming seriousness.
This ditty is designed to give some expression to the passionate enthusiasm for nature which is occasionally observable in the Music-hall songstress. The young lady who sings these verses will of course appear in appropriate costume; viz., a large white hat and feathers, a crimson sunshade, a pink frock, high-heeled sand-shoes, and a liberal extent of black silk stockings. A phonetic spelling has been adopted where necessary to bring out the rhyme, for the convenience of the reader only, as the singer will instinctively give the vowel-sounds the pronunciation intended by the author.
First Verse.
Oh, I love to sit a-gyzing on the boundless blue horizing,
When the scorching sun is blyzing down on sands, and ships, and sea!
And to watch the busy figgers of the happy little diggers,
Or to listen to the niggers, when they choose to come to me!
Chorus (to which the singer should sway in waltz-time).
For I'm offully fond of the Sea!-side!
If I'd only my w'y I would de-cide
To dwell evermore,
By the murmuring shore,
With the billows a-blustering be-side!
Second Verse.
Then how pleasant of a morning, to be up before the dorning!
And to sally forth a-prorning—e'en if nothing back you bring!
Some young men who like fatigue 'll go and try to pot a sea-gull,
What's the odds if it's illegal, or the bird they only wing?
Chorus—For it's one of the sports of the Sea-side! &c.
Third Verse.
Then what j'y to go a bything—though you'll swim, if you're a sly thing,
Like a mermaid nimbly writhing, with a foot upon the sand!
When you're tired of old Poseidon, there's the pier to promenide on,
Strauss, and Sullivan, and Haydn form the programme of the band.
Chorus—For there's always a band at the Sea-side! &c.
Fourth Verse.
And, with boatmen so beguiling, sev'ral parties go out siling!
Sitting all together smiling, handing sandwiches about,
To the sound of concertiner,—till they're gradually greener,
And they wish the ham was leaner, as they sip their bottled stout.