Chorus—And they cry, "Put us back on the Sea-side!" &c.

Fifth Verse.

There is pleasure unalloyed in hiring hacks and going roiding!
(If you stick on tight, avoiding any cropper or mishap,)
Or about the rocks you ramble; over boulders slip and scramble;
Or sit down and do a gamble, playing "Loo" or "Penny Nap."

Chorus—"Penny Nap" is the gyme for the Sea-side! &c.

Sixth Verse.

Then it's lovely to be spewning, all the glamour of the mewn in,
With your love his banjo tewning, ere flirtation can begin!
As along the sands you're strowling, till the hour of ten is towling,
And your Ma, severely scowling, asks "Wherever you have bin!"

Chorus—Then you answer "I've been by the Sea-side!" &c.

Seventh Verse.

Should the sky be dark and frowning, and the restless winds be mowning,
With the breakers' thunder drowning all the laughter and the glee;
And the day should prove a drencher, out of doors you will not ventcher,
But you'll read the volumes lent yer by the Local Libraree!

Chorus—For there's sure to be one at the Sea-side! &c.

Eighth Verse.

If the weather gets no calmer, you can patronise the dramer,
Where the leading lady charmer is a chit of forty-four;
And a duty none would skirk is to attend the strolling circus,
For they'd all be in the workhouse, should their antics cease to dror!

Chorus—And they're part of the joys of the Sea-side! &c.

Encore Verse (to be used only in case of emergency).

Well, I reelly must be gowing—I've just time to make my bow in—
But I thank you for allowing me to patter on so long.
And if, like me, you're pining for the breezes there's some brine in,
Why, I'll trouble you to jine in with the chorus to my song!

Chorus (all together)—Oh, we're offully fond of the Sea-side! &c.

xii.—THE PLAINTIVELY PATHETIC.

A Music-hall audience will always be exceedingly susceptible to pathos—so long as they clearly understand that the song is not intended to be of a comic nature. However, there is very little danger of any misapprehension in the case of our present example, which is as natural and affecting a little song as any that have been moving the Music Halls of late. The ultra-fastidious may possibly be repelled by what they would term the vulgarity of the title,—"The Night-light Ever Burning by the Bed"—but, although it is true that this humble luminary is now more generally called a "Fairy Lamp," persons of true taste and refinement will prefer the homely simplicity of its earlier name. The song only contains three verses, which is the regulation allowance for Music-hall pathos, the authors probably feeling that the audience could not stand any more. It should be explained that the "tum-tum" at the end of certain lines is not intended to be sung—it is merely an indication to the orchestra to pinch their violins in a pizzicato manner. The singer should either come on as a serious black man—for burnt cork is a marvellous provocative of pathos—or as his ordinary self. In either case he should wear evening dress, with a large brilliant on each hand.

THE NIGHT-LIGHT EVER BURNING BY THE BED.

First Verse.

I've been thinking of the home where my early years were spent,
'Neath the care of a kind maiden aunt, (Tum-tum-tum!)
And to go there once again has been often my intent,
But the railway fare's expensive, so I can't! (Tum-tum!)
Still I never can forget that night when last we met:
"Oh, promise me—whate'er you do!" she said, (Tum-tum-tum!)
"Wear flannel next your chest, and, when you go to rest,
Keep a night-light always burning by your bed!" (Tum-tum!)

Refrain (pianissimo.)

And my eyes are dim and wet;
For I seem to hear them yet—
Those solemn words at parting that she said: (Tum-tum-tum!)
"Now, mind you burn a night-light,
—'Twill last until it's quite light—
In a saucerful of water by your bed!" (Tum-tum!)

Second Verse.

I promised as she wished, and her tears I gently dried,
As she gave me all the halfpence that she had: (Tum-tum-tum!)
And through the world e'er since I have wandered far and wide,
And been gradually going to the bad! (Tum-tum!)
Many a folly, many a crime I've committed in my time,
For a lawless and a chequered life I've led! (Tum-tum-tum.)
Still I've kept the promise sworn—flannel next my skin I've worn,
And I've always burnt a night-light by my bed! (Tum-tum!)

Refrain.

All unhallowed my pursuits,
(Oft to bed I've been in boots!)
Still o'er my uneasy slumber has been shed (Tum-tum-tum!)
The moderately bright light
Afforded by a night-light,
In a saucerful of water by my bed! (Tum-tum!)

Third Verse. (To be sung with increasing solemnity.)

A little while ago, in a dream my aunt I saw;
In her frill-surrounded night-cap there she stood! (Tum-tum-tum!)
And I sought to hide my head 'neath the counterpane in awe,
And I trembled—for my conscience isn't good! (Tum-tum!)
But her countenance was mild—so indulgently she smiled
That I knew there was no further need for dread! (Tum-tum-tum!)
She had seen the flannel vest enveloping my chest,
And the night-light in its saucer by my bed! (Tum-tum!)

Refrain (more pianissimo still.)

But ere a word she spoke,
I unhappily awoke!
And away, alas! the beauteous vision fled! (Tum-tum-tum!)
(In mournful recitation)—There was nothing but the slight light
Of the melancholy night-light
That was burning in a saucer by my bed! (Tum-tum!)

xiii.—THE MILITARY IMPERSONATOR.

To be a successful Military Impersonator, the principal requisite is a uniform, which may be purchased for a moderate sum, second-hand, in the neighbourhood of almost any barracks. Some slight acquaintance with the sword exercise and elementary drill is useful, though not absolutely essential. Furnished with these, together with a few commanding attitudes, and a song possessing a spirited, martial refrain, the Military Impersonator may be certain of an instant and striking success upon the Music-hall stage,—especially if he will condescend to avail himself of the ballad provided by Mr. Punch, as a vehicle for his peculiar talent. And—though we say it ourselves—it is a very nice ballad, to which Mr. McDougall himself would find it difficult to take exception. It is in three verses, too—the limit understood to be formally approved by the London County Council for such productions. It may be, indeed, that (save so far as the last verse illustrates the heroism of our troops in action—a heroism too real and too splendid to be rendered ridiculous, even by Military Impersonators), the song does not convey a particularly accurate notion of the manner and pursuits of an officer in the Guards. But then no Music-hall ditty can ever be accepted as a quite infallible authority upon any social type it may undertake to depict—with the single exception, perhaps, of the Common (or Howling) Cad. So that any lack of actuality here will be rather a merit than a blemish in the eyes of an indulgent audience. Having said so much, we will proceed to our ballad, which is called,—

IN THE GUARDS!

First Verse.

I'm a Guardsman, and my manner is perhaps a bit "haw-haw;"
But when you're in the Guards you've got to show esprit de corps.
[Pronounce "a spreedy core."
We look such heavy swells, you see, we're all aristo-cràts,
When on parade we stand arrayed in our 'eavy bearskin 'ats.

Chorus (during which the Martial Star will march round the stage in military order.)

We're all "'Ughies," "Berties," "Archies,"
In the Guards! Doncher know?
Twisting silky long moustarches,
[Suit the action to the word here.
Bein' Guards! Doncher know?
While our band is playing Marches,
For the Guards! Doncher know?
And the ladies stop to gaze upon the Guards,
Bing-Bang!

[Here a member of the orchestra will oblige with the cymbals, while the Vocalist performs a military salute, as he passes to—

Second Verse.

With duchesses I'm 'and in glove, with countesses I'm thick;
From all the nobs I get invites—they say I am "so chic!"
[Pronounce "chick."
It often makes me laugh to read, whene'er I go off guard,
"Dear Bertie, come to my At Home!" on a coronetted card!

Chorus.

For we're "Berties," "'Ughies," "Archies,"
In the Guards! Doncher know?
With our silky long moustarches,
In the Guards! Doncher know?
Where's a regiment that marches
Like the Guards? Doncher know?
All the darlings—bless 'em!—dote upon the Guards,
Bing-Bang!

Third Verse.

[Here comes the Singer's great chance, and by merely taking a little pains, he may make a tremendously effective thing out of it. If he can manage to slip away between the verses, and change his bearskin and scarlet coat for a solar topee and kharkee tunic at the wings, it will produce an enormous amount of enthusiasm, only he must not take more than five minutes over this alteration, or the audience—so curiously are British audiences constituted—may grow impatient for his return.

But hark! the trumpet sounds!... (Here a member of the orchestra will oblige upon the trumpet.) What's this? ... (The Singer will take a folded paper from his breast and peruse it with attention.) We're ordered to the front! [This should be shouted.

We'll show the foe how "Carpet-Knights" can face the battle's brunt!
They laugh at us as "Brummels"—but we'll prove ourselves "Bay-yards!"

[Now the Martial Star will draw his sword and unfasten his revolver-case, taking up the exact pose in which he is represented upon the posters outside.

As you were!... Form Square!... Mark Time!... Slope Arms!... now—'Tention!... (These military evolutions should all be gone through by the Artist.) Forward, Guards! [To be yelled through music.

Chorus.

Onward every 'ero marches,
In the Guards! Doncher know?
All the "'Ughies," "Berties," "Archies,"
Of the Guards! Doncher know?
They may twist their long moustarches,
For they're Guards! Doncher know?
Dandies? yes,—but dandy lions are the Guards!
Bing-Bang!

[Red fire and smoke at wings, as curtain falls upon the Military Impersonator in the act of changing to a new attitude.

MODEL MUSIC HALL.

DRAMAS.

i.—THE LITTLE CROSSING-SWEEPER.

Miss Jenny Jinks (leaning despondently against pillar-box, on which a ray of limelight falls in the opposite direction to the Moon).

Ah, this cruel London, so marble-'arted and vast,
Where all who try to act honest are condemned to fast!

Enter two Burglars, cautiously.

First B. (to Miss J. J.) We can put you up to a fake as will be worth your while,
For you seem a sharp, 'andy lad, and just our style!

[They proceed to unfold a scheme to break into the Ducal abode, and offer Miss J. a share of the spoil, if she will allow herself to be put through the pantry window.

Miss J. J. (proudly). I tell yer I won't 'ave nothink to do with it, fur I ain't been used
To sneak into the house of a Dook to whom I 'aven't been introdooced!

Second Burglar (coarsely). Stow that snivel, yer young himp, we don't want none of that bosh!

Miss J. J. (with spirit). You hold your jaw—for, when you opens yer mouth, there ain't much o' yer face left to wash!

[The Burglars retire, baffled, and muttering. Miss J. leans against pillar-box again—but more irresolutely.

I've arf a mind to run after 'em, I 'ave, and tell 'em I'm game to stand in!...
But, ah,—didn't my poor mother say as Burglary was a Sin!

[Duke crosses stage in a hurry; as he pulls out his latchkey, a threepenny-bit falls unregarded, except by the little Sweeper, who pounces eagerly upon it.

What's this? A bit o' good luck at last for a starvin' orfin boy!
What shall I buy? I know—I'll have a cup of cawfy, and a prime saveloy!
Ah,—but it ain't mine—and 'ark ... that music up in the air!

[A harp is heard in the flies.

Can it be mother a-playin' on the 'arp to warn her boy to beware?
(Awestruck.) There's a angel voice that is sayin' plain (solemnly) "Him as prigs what isn't his'n,
Is sure to be copped some day—and then—his time he will do in prison!"

[Goes resolutely to the door, and knocks—The Duke throws open the portals.

Miss J. J. If yer please, Sir, was you aware as you've dropped a thruppenny-bit?

The Duke (after examining the coin.) 'Tis the very piece I have searched for everywhere! You rascal, you've stolen it!

Miss J. J. (bitterly). And that's 'ow a Dook rewards honesty in this world!

[This line is sure of a round of applause.

The Duke (calling off). Policeman, I give this lad in charge for a shameless attempt to rob,

Enter Policeman.

Unless he confesses instantly who put him up to the job!

Miss J. J. (earnestly). I've told yer the bloomin' truth, I 'ave—or send I may die!
I'm on'y a Crossing-sweeper, Sir, but I'd scorn to tell yer a lie!
Give me a quarter of a hour—no more—just time to kneel down and pray,
As I used to at mother's knee long ago—then the Copper kin lead me away.

[Kneels in lime-light. The Policeman turns away, and uses his handkerchief violently; the Duke rubs his eyes.

The Duke. No, blow me if I can do it, for I feel my eyes are all twitching!
(With conviction.) If he's good enough to kneel by his mother's side, he's good enough to be in my kitching!

[Duke dismisses Constable, and, after disappearing into the Mansion for a moment, returns with a neat Page's livery, which he presents to the little Crossing-sweeper.

Miss J. J. (naïvely). 'Ow much shall I ask for on this, Sir? What! Yer don't mean to say they're for me!
Am I really to be a Page to one of England's proud aristocra-cee?

[Does some steps.

Mechanical change to Scene II.—State Apartment at the Duke's. Magnificent furniture, gilding, chandeliers. Suits of genuine old armour. Statuary (lent by British and Kensington Museums).

Enter Miss J., with her face washed, and looking particularly plump in her Page's livery. She wanders about stage, making any humorous comments that may occur to her on the armour and statuary. She might also play tricks on the Butler, and kiss the maids—all of which will serve to relieve the piece by delicate touches of comedy, and delight a discriminating audience.

Enter the Duke.

I hope, my lad, that we are making you comfortable here? [Kindly.

Miss J. J. Never was in such slap-up quarters in my life, Sir, I'll stick to yer, no fear!

[In the course of conversation the Duke learns with aristocratic surprise, that the Page's Mother was a Singer at the Music Halls.

Miss J. J. What, don't know what a Music-'all's like? and you a Dook! Well, you are a jolly old juggins! 'Ere, you sit down on this gilded cheer—that's the ticket—I'll bring you your champagne and your cigars—want a light? (Strikes match on her pantaloons.) Now you're all comfortable.

The Duke sits down, smiling indulgently, out of her way, while she introduces her popular Vocal Character Sketch, of which space only permits us to give a few specimen verses.

First the Champion Comic
Steps upon the stage;
With his latest "Grand Success."
Sure to be the rage!
Sixty pounds a week he
Easily can earn;
Round the Music Halls he goes,
And does at each a "turn."

Illustration.

Undah the stors in a sweet shady dairl,
I strolled with me awm round a deah little gairl,
And whethaw I kissed har yaw'd like me to tairl—
Well, I'd rawthah you didn't inquiah!

All golden her hair is,
She's Queen of the Fairies,
And known by the name of the lovely Mariah,
She's a regular Venus,
But what passed between us,
I'd very much rawthah you didn't inquiah!

Next the Lady Serio,
Mincing as she walks;
If a note's too high for her,
She doesn't sing—she talks,
What she thinks about the men
You're pretty sure to learn,
She always has a hit at them,
Before she's done her "turn!"

Illustration.

You notty young men, ow! you notty young men!
You tell us you're toffs, and the real Upper Ten,
But behind all your ears is the mark of a pen!
So don't you deceive us, you notty young men!

Miss J. J. (concluding). And such, Sir, are these entertainments grand,
In which Mirth and Refinement go 'and-in-'and!

[As the Duke is expressing his appreciation of the elevating effect of such performances, the Butler rushes in, followed by two flurried Footmen.

Butler. Pardon this interruption, my Lord, but I come to announce the fact
That by armed house-breakers the pantry has just been attacked!

Duke. Then we'll repel them—each to his weapons look!
I know how to defend my property, although I am a Dook!

Miss J. (snatching sword from one of the men-in-armour).
With such a weapon I their hash will settle!
You'll lend it, won't yer, old Britannia Metal?
[Shouts and firing without; the Footmen hide under sofa.
Let flunkeys flee—though danger may encircle us,
A British Buttons ain't afeard of Burgulars!

[Tremendous firing, during which the Burglars are supposed to be repulsed with heavy loss by the Duke, Butler, and Page.

Miss J. 'Ere—I say, Dook, I saved yer life, didn't yer know?

(A parting shot, upon which she staggers back with a ringing scream.)

The Brutes! they've been and shot me!... Mother!... Oh!

[Dies in lime-light and great agony; the Footmen come out from under sofa and regard with sorrowing admiration the lifeless form of the Little Crossing-sweeper, which the Duke, as curtain falls, covers reverently with the best table-cloth.

ii.—JOE, THE JAM-EATER.

The Music-hall Dramatist, like Shakspeare and Molière, has a right to take his material from any source that may seem good to him. Mr. Punch, therefore, makes no secret of the fact, that he has based the following piece upon the well-known poem of "The Purloiner," by the Sisters Jane and Ann Taylor, who were not, as might be too hastily concluded, "Song and Dance Duettists," but two estimable ladies, who composed "cautionary" verses for the young, and whose works are a perfect mine of wealth for Moral Dramatists. In this dramatic version the Author has tried to infuse something of the old Greek sense of an overruling destiny, without detriment to prevailing ideas of moral responsibility. Those who have the misfortune to be born with a propensity for illicit jam, may learn from our Drama the terrible results of failing to overcome it early in life.

JOE, THE JAM-EATER.

Dramatis Personæ.

Scene—The Store-room at sunset with view of exterior of Jam Cupboard, and orchard in distance.

Enter Joe.

"As Joe was at play, Near the cupboard one day, When he thought no one saw but himself."—Vide Poem.

Joe (dreamily.) 'Tis passing strange that I so partial am
To playing in the neighbourhood of Jam!

[Here Miss Curdler will introduce her great humorous Satirical Medley illustrative of the Sports of Childhood, and entitled, "Some little Gymes we all of us 'ave Plied;" after which, Enter Joe's Mother, followed by John and the Chorus, with baskets, ladders, &c., for gathering fruit.

"His Mother and John, To the garden had gone, To gather ripe pears and ripe plums."—Poem.

Joe's Mother (with forced cheerfulness)—

Let's hope, my friends, to find our pears and plums,
Unharmed by wopses, and untouched by wums.

[Chorus signify assent in the usual manner by holding up the right hand.

Solo—John.

Fruit, when gathered ripe, is wholesome—
Otherwise if eaten green.
Once I know a boy who stole some—
[With a glance at Joe, who turns aside to conceal his confusion.
His internal pangs were keen!

Chorus (virtuously). 'Tis the doom of all who're mean,
Their internal pangs are keen!

Joe's Mother (aside). By what misgivings is a mother tortured!
I'll keep my eye on Joseph in the orchard.

[She invites him with a gesture to follow.

Joe (earnestly). Nay, Mother, here I'll stay till you have done.
Temptation it is ever best to shun!

Joe's M. So laudable his wish, I would not cross it—
(Mysteriously.) He knows not there are jam-pots in yon closet!

Chorus. Away we go tripping,
From boughs to be stripping
Each pear, plum, and pippin
Pomona supplies!
When homeward we've brought 'em,
Those products of Autumn,
We'll carefully sort 'em
(One of our old Music-hall rhymes),
According to size!      [Repeat as they caper out.

[Joe's Mother, after one fond, lingering look behind, follows: the voices are heard more and more faintly in the distance. Stage darkens: the last ray of sunset illumines key of jam-cupboard door.

Joe. At last I am alone! Suppose I tried
That cupboard—just to see what's kept inside?
[Seems drawn towards it by some fatal fascination.
There might be Guava jelly, and a plummy cake,
For such a prize I'd laugh to scorn a stomach-ache!
[Laughs a stomach-ache to scorn.
And yet (hesitating) who knows?—a pill ... perchance—a powder!
(Desperately.) What then? To scorn I'll laugh them—even louder!

[Fetches chair and unlocks cupboard. Doors fall open with loud clang, revealing Interior of Jam Closet (painted by Hawes Craven). Joe mounts chair to explore shelves.

"How sorry I am, He ate raspberry jam, And currants that stood on the shelf!"—Vide Poem.

Joe (speaking with mouth full and back to audience).
'Tis raspberry—of all the jams my favourite;
I'll clear the pot, whate'er I have to pay for it!
And finish up with currants from this shelf ...
Who'll ever see me?

The Demon of the Jam Closet (rising slowly from an immense pot of preserves).
No one—but Myself!

[The cupboard is lit up by an infernal glare (courteously lent by the Lyceum Management from "Faust" properties); weird music; Joe turns slowly and confronts the Demon with awestruck eyes. N.B.—Great opportunity for powerful acting here.

The Demon (with a bland sneer). Pray don't mind me—I will await your leisure.

Joe (automatically). Of your acquaintance, Sir, I've not the pleasure.
Who are you? Wherefore have you intervened?

The Demon (quietly). My name is "Jim-Jam;" occupation—fiend.

Joe, (cowering limply on his chair). O Mr. Fiend, I know it's very wrong of me!

Demon (politely). Don't mention it—but please to come "along of" me?

Joe (imploringly). Do let me off this once,—ha! you're relenting,
You smile——

Demon (grimly). 'Tis nothing but my jam fermenting!

[Catches Joe's ankle, and assists him to descend.

Joe. You'll drive me mad!

Demon (carelessly). I may—before I've done with you!

Joe. What do you want?

Demon (darkly). To have a little fun with you!
Of fiendish humour now I'll give a specimen.

[Chases him round and round stage, and proceeds to smear him hideously with jam.

Joe (piteously). Oh, don't! I feel so sticky. What a mess I'm in!

Demon (with affected sympathy). That is the worst of jam—it's apt to stain you.

[To Joe, as he frantically endeavours to remove the traces of his crime.

I see you're busy—so I'll not detain you!

[Vanishes down star-trap with a diabolical laugh. Cupboard-doors close with a clang; all lights down. Joe stands gazing blankly for some moments, and then drags himself off stage. His Mother and John, with Pear-and-Plum-gatherers bearing laden baskets, appear at doors at back of Scene, in faint light of torches.

Re-enter Joe bearing a candle and wringing his hands.

Joe. Out, jammed spot! What—will these hands never be clean?
Here's the smell of the raspberry jam still! All the powders of Gregory cannot unsweeten this little hand ... (Moaning.) Oh, oh, oh!

[This passage has been accused of bearing too close a resemblance to one in a popular Stage Play; if so, the coincidence is purely accidental, as the Dramatist is not in the habit of reading such profane literature.

Joe's Mother. Ah! what an icy dread my heart benumbs!
See—stains on all his fingers, and his thumbs!

"What Joe was about, His mother found out, When she look'd at his fingers and thumbs."—Poem again.

Nay, Joseph—'tis your mother ... speak to her!

Joe (tonelessly, as before). Lady, I know you not (touches lower part of waistcoat); but, prithee, undo this button. I think I have jam in all my veins, and I would fain sleep. When I am gone, lay me in a plain white jelly-pot, with a parchment cover, and on the label write—but come nearer, I have a secret for your ear alone ... there are strange things in some cupboards! Demons should keep in the dust-bin. (With a ghastly smile.) I know not what ails me, but I am not feeling at all well.

[Joe's Mother stands a few steps from him, with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.

Joe (to the Chorus). I would shake hands with you all, were not my fingers so sticky. We eat marmalade, but we know not what it is made of. Hush! if Jim-Jam comes again, tell him that I am not at home. Loo-loo-loo!

All (with conviction). Some shock has turned his brine!

Joe (sitting down on floor, and weaving straws in his hair.) My curse upon him that invented jam. Let us all play Tibbits.

[Laughs vacantly; all gather round him, shaking their heads, his Mother falls fainting at his feet as curtain falls upon a strong and moral, though undeniably gloomy dénoûment.

iii.—THE MAN-TRAP.