Dalilah de Dardy adored
The very correctest of cards,
Lorenzo de Lardy, a lord—
He was one of Her Majesty's Guards.
Dalilah de Dardy was fat,
Dalilah de Dardy was old—
(No doubt in the world about that)
But Dalilah de Dardy had gold.
Lorenzo de Lardy was tall,
The flower of maidenly pets,
Young ladies would love at his call,
But Lorenzo de Lardy had debts.

His money-position was queer,
And one of his favourite freaks
Was to hide himself three times a year,
In Paris, for several weeks.
Many days didn't pass him before
He fanned himself into a flame,
For a beautiful "Dam du Comptwore,"
And this was her singular name:
Alice Eulalie Coraline
Euphrosine Colombina Thérèse
Juliette Stephanie Celestine
Charlotte Russe de la Sauce Mayonnaise.

She booked all the orders and tin,
Accoutred in showy fal-lal,
At a two-fifty Restaurant, in
The glittering Palais Royal.

He'd gaze in her orbit of blue,
Her hand he would tenderly squeeze,
But the words of her tongue that he knew
Were limited strictly to these:
"Coraline Celestine Eulalie,
Houp là! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo,
Combien donnez moi aujourd'hui
Bonjour, Mademoiselle, parlez voo."
Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise
Was a witty and beautiful miss,
Extremely correct in her ways,
But her English consisted of this:
"Oh my! pretty man, if you please,
Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb,
Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,
Rosbif, me spik Angleesh, godam."
A waiter, for seasons before,
Had basked in her beautiful gaze,
And burnt to dismember Milor,
He loved de la Sauce Mayonnaise.
He said to her, "Méchante Thérèse,
Avec désespoir tu m'accables.
Penses-tu, de la Sauce Mayonnaise,
Ses intentions sont honorables?
"Flirte toujours, ma belle, si tu oses—
Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère,
Je lui dirai de quoi l'on compose
Vol au vent à la Financière!"

Lord Lardy knew nothing of this—
The waiter's devotion ignored,
But he gazed on the beautiful miss,
And never seemed weary or bored.
The waiter would screw up his nerve,
His fingers he'd snap and he'd dance—
And Lord Lardy would smile and observe,
"How strange are the customs of France!"

Well, after delaying a space,
His tradesmen no longer would wait:
Returning to England apace,
He yielded himself to his fate.
Lord Lardy espoused, with a groan,
Miss Dardy's developing charms,
And agreed to tag on to his own
Her name and her newly-found arms.

The waiter he knelt at the toes
Of an ugly and thin coryphée,
Who danced in the hindermost rows
At the Théâtre des Variétés.
Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise
Didn't yield to a gnawing despair
But married a soldier, and plays
As a pretty and pert Vivandière.

THE BAFFLED GRUMBLER

Whene'er I poke
Sarcastic joke
Replete with malice spiteful,
The people vile
Politely smile
And vote me quite delightful!
Now, when a wight
Sits up all night
Ill-natured jokes devising,
And all his wiles
Are met with smiles,
It's hard, there's no disguising!
Oh, don't the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn't your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

When German bands
From music stands
Play Wagner imperfectly—
I bid them go—
They don't say no,
But off they trot directly!
The organ boys
They stop their noise
With readiness surprising,
And grinning herds
Of hurdy-gurds
Retire apologising!
Oh, don't the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn't your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!
I've offered gold,
In sums untold,
To all who'd contradict me—
I've said I'd pay
A pound a day
To any one who kicked me—
I've bribed with toys
Great vulgar boys
To utter something spiteful,
But, bless you, no!
They will be so
Confoundedly politeful!
In short, these aggravating lads,
They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads,
They give me this and they give me that,
And I've nothing whatever to grumble at!

DISILLUSIONED

BY AN EX-ENTHUSIAST

Oh, that my soul its gods could see
As years ago they seemed to me
When first I painted them;
Invested with the circumstance
Of old conventional romance:
Exploded theorem!
The bard who could, all men above,
Inflame my soul with songs of love,
And, with his verse, inspire
The craven soul who feared to die
With all the glow of chivalry
And old heroic fire;

I found him in a beerhouse tap
Awaking from a gin-born nap,
With pipe and sloven dress;
Amusing chums, who fooled his bent,
With muddy, maudlin sentiment,
And tipsy foolishness!
The novelist, whose painting pen
To legions of fictitious men
A real existence lends,
Brain-people whom we rarely fail,
Whene'er we hear their names, to hail
As old and welcome friends;
I found in clumsy snuffy suit,
In seedy glove, and blucher boot,
Uncomfortably big.
Particularly commonplace,
With vulgar, coarse, stockbroking face,
And spectacles and wig.
My favourite actor who, at will,
With mimic woe my eyes could fill
With unaccustomed brine:
A being who appeared to me
(Before I knew him well) to be
A song incarnadine;
I found a coarse unpleasant man
With speckled chin—unhealthy, wan—
Of self-importance full:
Existing in an atmosphere
That reeked of gin and pipes and beer—
Conceited, fractious, dull.

The warrior whose ennobled name
Is woven with his country's fame,
Triumphant over all,
I found weak, palsied, bloated, blear;
His province seemed to be, to leer
At bonnets in Pall Mall.
Would that ye always shone, who write,
Bathed in your own innate limelight,
And ye who battles wage,
Or that in darkness I had died
Before my soul had ever sighed
To see you off the stage!

THE HOUSE OF PEERS

When Britain really ruled the waves—
(In good Queen Bess's time)
The House of Peers made no pretence
To intellectual eminence,
Or scholarship sublime;
Yet Britain won her proudest bays
In good Queen Bess's glorious days!
When Wellington thrashed Bonaparte,
As every child can tell,
The House of Peers, throughout the war,
Did nothing in particular,
And did it very well;
Yet Britain set the world ablaze
In good King George's glorious days!

And while the House of Peers withholds
Its legislative hand,
And noble statesmen do not itch
To interfere with matters which
They do not understand,
As bright will shine Great Britain's rays,
As in King George's glorious days!

BABETTE'S LOVE

Babette she was a fisher gal,
With jupon striped and cap in crimps.
She passed her days inside the Halle,
Or catching little nimble shrimps.
Yet she was sweet as flowers in May,
With no professional bouquet.
Jacot was, of the Customs bold,
An officer, at gay Boulogne,
He loved Babette—his love he told,
And sighed, "Oh, soyez vous my own!"
But "Non!" said she, "Jacot, my pet,
Vous êtes trop scraggy pour Babette.

"Of one alone I nightly dream,
An able mariner is he,
And gaily serves the Gen'ral Steam-
Boat Navigation Companee.
I'll marry him, if he but will—
His name, I rather think, is Bill.
"I see him when he's not aware,
Upon our hospitable coast,
Reclining with an easy air
Upon the Port against a post,
A-thinking of, I'll dare to say,
His native Chelsea far away!"
"Oh, mon!" exclaimed the Customs bold,
"Mes yeux!" he said (which means "my eye").
"Oh, chère!" he also cried, I'm told,
"Par Jove," he added, with a sigh.
"Oh, mon! oh, chère! mes yeux! par Jove!
Je n'aime pas cet enticing cove!"
The Panther's captain stood hard by,
He was a man of morals strict,
If e'er a sailor winked his eye,
Straightway he had that sailor licked,
Mast-headed all (such was his code)
Who dashed or jiggered, blessed or blowed.
He wept to think a tar of his
Should lean so gracefully on posts,
He sighed and sobbed to think of this,
On foreign, French, and friendly coasts.
"It's human natur', p'raps—if so,
Oh, isn't human natur' low!"

He called his Bill, who pulled his curl,
He said, "My Bill, I understand
You've captivated some young gurl
On this here French and foreign land.
Her tender heart your beauties jog—
They do, you know they do, you dog.

"You have a graceful way, I learn,
Of leaning airily on posts,
By which you've been and caused to burn
A tender flame on these here coasts.
A fisher gurl, I much regret,—
Her age, sixteen—her name, Babette.
"You'll marry her, you gentle tar—
Your union I myself will bless,
And when you matrimonied are,
I will appoint her stewardess."
But William hitched himself and sighed,
And cleared his throat, and thus replied:

"Not so: unless you're fond of strife,
You'd better mind your own affairs,
I have an able-bodied wife
Awaiting me at Wapping Stairs;
If all this here to her I tell,
She'll larrup you and me as well.

"Skin-deep, and valued at a pin,
Is beauty such as Venus owns—
Her beauty is beneath her skin,
And lies in layers on her bones.
The other sailors of the crew
They always calls her 'Whopping Sue!'"
"Oho!" the Captain said, "I see!
And is she then so very strong?"
"She'd take your honour's scruff," said he,
"And pitch you over to Bolong!"
"I pardon you," the Captain said,
"The fair Babette you needn't wed."

Perhaps the Customs had his will,
And coaxed the scornful girl to wed,
Perhaps the Captain and his Bill,
And William's little wife are dead;
Or p'raps they're all alive and well:
I cannot, cannot, cannot tell.

A MERRY MADRIGAL

Brightly dawns our wedding day;
Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!
Whither, whither art thou fleeting?
Fickle moment, prithee stay!
What though mortal joys be hollow?
Pleasures come, if sorrows follow.
Though the tocsin sound, ere long,
Ding dong! Ding dong!
Yet until the shadows fall
Over one and over all,
Sing a merry madrigal—
Fal la!
Let us dry the ready tear;
Though the hours are surely creeping,
Little need for woeful weeping
Till the sad sundown is near.
All must sip the cup of sorrow,
I to-day and thou to-morrow:
This the close of every song—
Ding dong! Ding dong!
What though solemn shadows fall,
Sooner, later, over all?
Sing a merry madrigal—
Fal la!

TO MY BRIDE

(WHOEVER SHE MAY BE)

Oh! little maid!—(I do not know your name,
Or who you are, so, as a safe precaution
I'll add)—Oh, buxom widow! married dame!
(As one of these must be your present portion)
Listen, while I unveil prophetic lore for you,
And sing the fate that Fortune has in store for you.
You'll marry soon—within a year or twain—
A bachelor of circa two-and-thirty,
Tall, gentlemanly, but extremely plain,
And, when you're intimate, you call him "Bertie."
Neat—dresses well; his temper has been classified
As hasty; but he's very quickly pacified.

You'll find him working mildly at the Bar,
After a touch at two or three professions,
From easy affluence extremely far,
A brief or two on Circuit—"soup" at Sessions;
A pound or two from whist and backing horses,
And, say, three hundred from his own resources.
Quiet in harness; free from serious vice,
His faults are not particularly shady;
You'll never find him "shy"—for, once or twice
Already, he's been driven by a lady,
Who parts with him—perhaps a poor excuse for him—
Because she hasn't any further use for him.
Oh! bride of mine—tall, dumpy, dark, or fair!
Oh! widow—wife, maybe, or blushing maiden,
I've told your fortune: solved the gravest care
With which your mind has hitherto been laden.
I've prophesied correctly, never doubt it;
Now tell me mine—and please be quick about it!
You—only you—can tell me, an you will,
To whom I'm destined shortly to be mated,
Will she run up a heavy modiste's bill?
If so, I want to hear her income stated.
(This is a point which interests me greatly),
To quote the bard, "Oh! have I seen her lately?"
Say, must I wait till husband number one
Is comfortably stowed away at Woking?
How is her hair most usually done?
And tell me, please, will she object to smoking?
The colour of her eyes, too, you may mention:
Come, Sibyl, prophesy—I'm all attention.

THE DUKE AND THE DUCHESS

The Duke.     Small titles and orders
For Mayors and Recorders
I get—and they're highly delighted.
M.P.s baronetted,
Sham Colonels gazetted,
And second-rate Aldermen knighted.
Foundation-stone laying
I find very paying,
It adds a large sum to my makings.
At charity dinners
The best of speech-spinners,
I get ten per cent on the takings!
The Duchess.I present any lady
Whose conduct is shady
Or smacking of doubtful propriety;
When Virtue would quash her
I take and whitewash her
And launch her in first-rate society.

I recommend acres
Of clumsy dressmakers—
Their fit and their finishing touches;
A sum in addition
They pay for permission
To say that they make for the Duchess!
The Duke.     Those pressing prevailers,
The ready-made tailors,
Quote me as their great double-barrel;
I allow them to do so,
Though Robinson Crusoe
Would jib at their wearing apparel!
I sit, by selection,
Upon the direction
Of several Companies bubble;
As soon as they're floated
I'm freely bank-noted—
I'm pretty well paid for my trouble!
The Duchess.At middle-class party
I play at écarté—
And I'm by no means a beginner;
To one of my station
The remuneration—
Five guineas a night and my dinner.
I write letters blatant
On medicines patent—
And use any other you mustn't;
And vow my complexion
Derives its perfection
From somebody's soap—which it doesn't.

The Duke.     We're ready as witness
To any one's fitness
To fill any place or preferment;
We're often in waiting
At junket or fêting,
And sometimes attend an interment.
In short, if you'd kindle
The spark of a swindle,
Lure simpletons into your clutches,
Or hoodwink a debtor,
You cannot do better
Than trot out a Duke or a Duchess!

THE FOLLY OF BROWN

By a General Agent

I knew a boor—a clownish card
(His only friends were pigs and cows and
The poultry of a small farmyard),
Who came into two hundred thousand.
Good fortune worked no change in Brown,
Though she's a mighty social chymist;
He was a clown—and by a clown
I do not mean a pantomimist.
It left him quiet, calm, and cool,
Though hardly knowing what a crown was—
You can't imagine what a fool
Poor rich uneducated Brown was!

He scouted all who wished to come
And give him monetary schooling;
And I propose to give you some
Idea of his insensate fooling.
I formed a company or two—
(Of course I don't know what the rest meant,
I formed them solely with a view
To help him to a sound investment).
Their objects were—their only cares—
To justify their Boards in showing
A handsome dividend on shares
And keep their good promoter going.

But no—the lout sticks to his brass,
Though shares at par I freely proffer:
Yet—will it be believed?—the ass
Declines, with thanks, my well-meant offer!

He adds, with bumpkin's stolid grin
(A weakly intellect denoting),
He'd rather not invest it in
A company of my promoting!
"You have two hundred 'thou' or more,"
Said I. "You'll waste it, lose it, lend it;
Come, take my furnished second floor,
I'll gladly show you how to spend it."
But will it be believed that he,
With grin upon his face of poppy,
Declined my aid, while thanking me
For what he called my "philanthroppy"?
Some blind, suspicious fools rejoice
In doubting friends who wouldn't harm them;
They will not hear the charmer's voice,
However wisely he may charm them!
I showed him that his coat, all dust,
Top boots and cords provoked compassion,
And proved that men of station must
Conform to the decrees of fashion.
I showed him where to buy his hat,
To coat him, trouser him, and boot him;
But no—he wouldn't hear of that—
"He didn't think the style would suit him!"

I offered him a county seat,
And made no end of an oration;
I made it certainty complete,
And introduced the deputation.
But no—the clown my prospect blights—
(The worth of birth it surely teaches!)
"Why should I want to spend my nights
In Parliament, a-making speeches?
"I haven't never been to school—
I ain't had not no eddication—
And I should surely be a fool
To publish that to all the nation!"
I offered him a trotting horse—
No hack had ever trotted faster—
I also offered him, of course,
A rare and curious "old master."
I offered to procure him weeds—
Wines fit for one in his position—
But, though an ass in all his deeds,
He'd learnt the meaning of "commission."
He called me "thief" the other day,
And daily from his door he thrusts me;
Much more of this, and soon I may
Begin to think that Brown mistrusts me.

So deaf to all sound Reason's rule
This poor uneducated clown is,
You cannot fancy what a fool
Poor rich uneducated Brown is.

EHEU FUGACES—!

The air is charged with amatory numbers—
Soft madrigals, and dreamy lovers' lays.
Peace, peace, old heart! Why waken from its slumbers
The aching memory of the old, old days?
Time was when Love and I were well acquainted;
Time was when we walked ever hand in hand;
A saintly youth, with worldly thought untainted,
None better loved than I in all the land!
Time was, when maidens of the noblest station,
Forsaking even military men,
Would gaze upon me, rapt in adoration—
Ah me, I was a fair young curate then!

Had I a headache? sighed the maids assembled;
Had I a cold? welled forth the silent tear;
Did I look pale? then half a parish trembled;
And when I coughed all thought the end was near!
I had no care—no jealous doubts hung o'er me—
For I was loved beyond all other men.
Fled gilded dukes and belted earls before me—
Ah me, I was a pale young curate then!

SIR MACKLIN

Of all the youths I ever saw
None were so wicked, vain, or silly,
So lost to shame and Sabbath law
As worldly Tom, and Bob, and Billy.
For every Sabbath day they walked
(Such was their gay and thoughtless natur')
In parks or gardens, where they talked
From three to six, or even later.
Sir Macklin was a priest severe
In conduct and in conversation,
It did a sinner good to hear
Him deal in ratiocination.
He could in every action show
Some sin, and nobody could doubt him.
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.

He wept to think each thoughtless youth
Contained of wickedness a skinful,
And burnt to teach the awful truth,
That walking out on Sunday's sinful.
"Oh, youths," said he, "I grieve to find
The course of life you've been and hit on—
Sit down," said he, "and never mind
The pennies for the chairs you sit on.

"My opening head is 'Kensington,'
How walking there the sinner hardens;
Which when I have enlarged upon,
I go to 'Secondly'—its Gardens.
"My 'Thirdly' comprehendeth 'Hyde,'
Of Secrecy the guilts and shameses;
My 'Fourthly'—'Park'—its verdure wide—
My 'Fifthly' comprehends 'St. James's.'

"That matter settled I shall reach
The 'Sixthly' in my solemn tether,
And show that what is true of each,
Is also true of all, together.
"Then I shall demonstrate to you,
According to the rules of Whately.
That what is true of all, is true
Of each, considered separately."

In lavish stream his accents flow,
Tom, Bob, and Billy dare not flout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
"Ha, ha!" he said, "you loathe your ways,
Repentance on your souls is dawning,
In agony your hands you raise."
(And so they did, for they were yawning.)

To "Twenty-firstly" on they go,
The lads do not attempt to scout him;
He argued high, he argued low,
He also argued round about him.
"Ho, ho!" he cries, "you bow your crests—
My eloquence has set you weeping;
In shame you bend upon your breasts!"
(They bent their heads, for they were sleeping.)

He proved them this—he proved them that—
This good but wearisome ascetic;
He jumped and thumped upon his hat,
He was so very energetic.
His bishop at this moment chanced
To pass, and found the road encumbered;
He noticed how the Churchman danced,
And how his congregation slumbered.

The hundred and eleventh head
The priest completed of his stricture;
"Oh, bosh!" the worthy bishop said,
And walked him off, as in the picture.

THEY'LL NONE OF 'EM BE MISSED