am AGONET ITTIES GEORGE R. SIMS ifornia Dnal ity Digitized by tine Internet Arcliive in 2007 witli funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/dagonetdittiesfrOOsimsiala DAGOKET DITTIES WORKS BY GEORGE R. SIMS. Post Bvo., illustrated boards. 2Sd each: cloth Ihnp 2s. 6d each, ROGUES AND VAGABONDS. THE EING 0" BELLS. MARY JANE'S MEMOIRS. MART JANE MARRIED. TALES OF TO-DAY. DRAMAS OF LIFE. With 60 Illustrations. TINKLETOP'S CRIBIE. With a Frontispiece by Maukice Greiffenhagen. Crown 8r'(?., picture copier. Is. each; cloth. Is. 6d. each. HOW THE POOR LIVE; and HORRIBLE LONDON. THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER: being Readings and Recitation'^ in Prose and V^erse, selected from his own Works by George R Sims. THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS. London : CHATTO & WINDUS, ai4, Piccadilly, W. DAGONET DITTIES [FROM ' THE REFEREE'\ ^1 5*«^ Si hi GEORGE R. SIMS '^/^ Li^ AUTHOR OF ' HOW THE POOR LIVB,' ' ROGUES AND VAGABONDS,' ETC, SECOND EDITION Hontfon CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY I«QI CONTENTS. LONDON DAY BY DAY FOR e'er AND HAIR THE artist's dilemma A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY THE PICK-ME-UP AD COR MEUM ICHABOD A DERBY DITTY SHALL WE REMEMBER? PARADISE AND THE SINNER THE INCOME TAX - NONSENSE - L£ MARDI GRAB TWO SUNDAYS THE MAILS ABOARD AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER'S - IN GAY JAPAN THE BALACLAVA HEROES - 1 3 5 7 9 11 12 14 15 16 19 20 23 24 25 27 29 31 vi CONTENTS FAoa A child's idea - - - - - 32 SANITATION AT SEA - - - - 34 GUIGNOL - - - - - - 35 THE ENGLISH SUMMER - - - - 35 A PERFECT PARADISE - - - - 36 THAT BREEZE - - - - - 38 BALLAD OF OLD-TIME FOGS- - - - 39 UNDER THE CLOCK - - - - - 40 THE GIRL OF FORTY-SEVEN - - - 41 CONVENTIONAL MALGRE LUI - - - 42 HOME, SWEET HOME - - - - 44 IN PORTLAND PLACE - - - - 45 THE SHIRT BUTTONS - - - - 46 THE LONDONER TO HIS LOVE - - - 48 THE EIFFEL BONNET - - - - 49 TO A FAIR MUSICIAN - - •« - 61 A WORD FOR THE POLICE - - - - 52 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS - - - 53 MY AMBITION - - - - - 55 A WISH - - - - - - 56 THE SONG OF HEREDITY - - - - 57 scotch'd, not kilt - - - - 58 THE LAST RESOURCE - - - - 59 YE BARS AND GATES • - - - 60 PORTRAIT OF A PRINCE - - - - 61 THE STRONG MEN - - - - - 63 A BALLAD OF SOAP- - - - -65 73 74 75 CONTENTS vjl THE JOKELETEER - - - - - 67 BILL SIKES'S PROTEST - - - - 68 THE CLARINET - - - - - 69 NO EVENING DRESS - - - "70 ALONE IN LONDON - - - - 70 THE VOLUNTEER - - - - - 71 TilOSE BOOTS .... A SUNPAY SONG - - - . - UP THE RIGI A PLEA FOR MERCY - - - - 77 IF YOU WERE HERE - - - - 78 LE BRAV' G^N^RAL - - - - 80 THE PARIS EXHIBITION - - - -81 THE NEW LEGEND- - - - - 82 A MILD DECEMBER - - - - 84 THE LAST DUKE - - - - - 86 TO THE FOG - - - - - 88 THE REMINISCENCES OF ME. JOHN DOBBS - Sd PICKPOCKET POEMS - - - - 91 THE CIGARETTE - - - - - 94 THE EARLY MILK-CART - - - - 95 THE COLLABORATORS - - - - 98 THE WEN CURE ----- 101 THAT NEW-BORN BABE - - - - 103 THE BUTTON . - - - - 106 A FAgON DE PARLER - - - - 109 JACKSON - - - - - - 110 CONTENTS A.NOTHER DANGER - AFTER THE ACT - THE RIGADOON HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL - THE GERMAN GYM TOTTIE THE WELSHMAN IN LONDON THE MAGISTRATE - THE IMPERIAL INSTITUTE - THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN - THE PEOPLE'S PALACE A CHARADE A TRUE STORY THE PIRATE 'BUS - THE WAR-CRY THE "LANCET" A TALE OF A TUP. THE COMIC KING - PAGE 112 lU 117 121 124 126 127 129 131 132 133 135 137 138 141 143 148 150 Da GO NET Ditties. Xon^on 2)ai? bi^ Dai?. H E smoke in vaster volumes rolls, The fever fiend takes larger tolls, And sin a fiercer grip of souls, ■ In London day by day. Still Buggins builds on swampy site. And Eiffel houses block the light, And make a town of dreadful night Of London day by day. In fashion's long and busy street, The outcast foreign harlots meet. While Robert smiles upon his beat, In London day by day. Still modest maidens' cheeks are stung With foulest words from wanton's tongue, And oaths yelled out with leathern lung, In London day by day. 1 LONDON DAY BY DAY Wealth riots in a mad excess, While thousands, poor and penniless, Starve in the mighty wilderness, Of London day by day. Wrong proudly rears its wicked head, While Right's sad eyes with tears are red, And sluggard Justice lies abed, In London day by day. The liar triumphs, and the knave Rides buoyant on the rolling wave, And Liberty makes many a slave In London day by day. Yet Hope and Trust and Faith and Love, And God's fair dowers from above, Still find a branch, like Noah's dove, In London day by day. And onward still, though slow the pace, Press pilgrims of our grand old race, Who seek the Right with firm-set face, And shed Truth's light by God's good grace O'er London day by day. [3} for ]6'er anb 1l3air. SAID to my sweet in the morning, " We must start on our journey at ten "- She was up in her bedroom adorning, She'd been there a goodish time then ; And she answered me tenderly, " Poppet," As she came to the top of the stair, " If you see a cab pass you can stop it, For Fve only to finish my hair." It was ten by the clock of St. Stephen's As I sat and looked glum in the hall, And I offered to wager her evens She would never be ready at all. I counted the half and the quarters — At eleven I ventured to swear ; Then she answered, like one of Eve's daughters, " AU right, dear — I must do my hair." I waited till daylight was waning, I waited till darkness began, Upbraiding myself for complaining Like a selfish and bad-tempered man. But when midnight rang out from the steeple I ventured to whisper a prayer. And she answered, " I hate surly people ; You must let me finish my hair !" 1—2 FOR E'ER AND HAIR I paid for the cab and dismissed it, I took off my coat and my hat, I held her fair hand and I kissed it, And I curled myself up on the mat. And when I awoke on the morrow, I cried, " Oh, where art thou, my fair ?" And she answered, " Oh, run out and borrow A hairpin or two for my hair." The summers have faded to winters, The winters have melted to springs ; My patience is shivered to splinters, And still, as she " puts on her things," My sweet, though I'm weary of waiting. And groan in my bitter despair, Contents herself simply by stating " She's just got to finish her hair." If she's here when the world's at its finish. And lists to the last crack of doom, She will watch our poor planet diminish From the window upstairs in her room. And when the last trumpet is blowing. And the angel says, " Hurry up, there !" She will answer, " All right, sir, I'm going, But you must let me finish my hair !" [5] Xlbc Brtisfs Dilemma. [HE artist was out on the stormy seas, When his vessel turned upside down, And his body was blown by the autumn breeze To the shores of a seaside town. The fisher-folk spied him miles away, And, raising a hearty cheer. They rowed the lifeboat across the bay, And shouted that help was near. The artist had sunk for the second time, He'd a shark on his starboard tack. But he looked on the boat with a look sublime, And he told them to take it back. " My bones may bleach in the mermaid's cave. But to art wiU I e'er be true. And never a man my life shall save In a boat of that vulgar blue." They found his body at break of day, It lay on the briny beach, But he soon got better and stole away To the house of a local leech. THE ARTIST'S DILEMMA He took a draught, and he went to bed In a garret that was to spare ; And when he awoke his host had fled, For the place had begun to flare. He was up in a garret against the sky, And a fire had broken out, The flames about him were broad and high, And he heard the people shout. " Oh, come to the window !" the people cried, As they bellowed a mighty cheer ; " You'd better come down before you're fried, For the fire-escape is here." He opened the casement wide, and reeled Back through the flame and smoke — For the fire-escape the light revealed — And then to the crowd he spoke : " I'll leap in the jaws of the flames that gape, For I'd rather be picked up dead Than save my life in a fire-escape That is painted a vulgar red." They gatliered him up with a broom and pan From the pavement where he fell, And they sent for the undertaker's man, And they toU'd him a passing bell. They gave him a funeral plain but good, And out of the local purse They bought him a coffin of polished wood. Which they put in a pair-horse hearse. THE ARTISTS DILEMMA But the artist-spirit in death was strong, And it lifted the coffin-lid While the horses lazily jogged along, And out of the hearse it slid. It raised its body and yelled a curse, And it shouted and cried " Alack I I'm blest if I ride in a beastly hearso That is painted a vulgar black." a Domestic ^rageb^» |HE was a housemaid, tall and slim, A well-conducted, modest girl ; Her dress was always neat and trim. She never sported fringe or curl. She did her work, and kept her mind Intent upon her household cares ; One fault alone there was to find — She left her dustpan on the stairs. She loved her mistress very much, She held her master in respect ; Her grief the hardest heart would touch When they'd occasion to correct ; But still, in spite of all they said — In spite of scolding and of prayers — Ah, me ! to what at last it led ! — She left her dustpan on the stairs. A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY One morn while breakfasting below, And glancing at the Morning Post, She heard a wild and sudden ** Oh !" That made her drop her buttered toast. She heard a heavy fall — and groans ; The master, taken unawares, Had slipped and broken sev'ral bones — She'd left the dustpan on the istairs. They sent for doctors by the score, They fetched in haste Sir Andrew Clark ; But master's sufferings soon were o'er — That night he sat in Charon's barque. Now in a cell at Colney Hatch A gibbering housemaid groans and glares, And tries with trembling hands to snatch A ghostly dustpan from the stairs. MORAL. Ye housemaids who this tale may read, Hemember, backs are hard to mend, And injured noses freely bleed, And falls may cause untimely end ; Your masters are but mortal men, A neck once broken naught repairs. Oh ! think of this, ye housemaids, when You leave the dustpan on the stairs. [9] (written after one bottle.) N the market-place or fornra, If 3'ou're dull, my cockalorum, Never heed the censor morum. But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker, Is a patent pick-me-up. It was near the Yorkshire Stingo That in modern London lingo, With a face like a flamingo, Said a friend of mine, ** By Jingo ! What a wretched wreck you are !" I replied, " I'm melancholic, And my pains are diabolic. I, who once was frisk and frolic, Now am glum and vitriolic — Every nerve is on the jar !" lo THE PICKME-UP Then a smile that was sardonic Beamed about his brow Byronic, And he said, *' This is masonic, But I think you want a tonic — Try the famous (something) wine." And he further said with unction That I need have no compunction In obeying his injunction, 'Twould renew each vital function, And just suit a case like mine. I have drunk and I'm a giant Quite refreshed and grown defiant ; All my limbs are free and pliant, And now neither May nor Bryant Can supply a match to me. Now my pen again grows graphic. And my verse is strictly sapphic, And my tricycle in traffic I can ride with smile seraphic, From all nervous tremors free. I can laugh at Punch and Judy, And enjoy a book from Mudie ; I am spick and span and dudey. And I freely spend my scudi, And I feel that I could tiy. THE PICK-ME-UP II I've a bearing that is regal, All my acts are strictly legal, And I'll -wager that an eagle, Though he'd taken Mother Seigel, Couldn't show as clear an eye. So in market-place or forum, If you're dull, my cockalorum. Never heed the censor morum, But just brew yourself a jorum, In a beaker or a cup, Of this stimulating liquor, Which, when life begins to flicker, And your soul grows slowly sicker, And you feel a bucket-kicker. Is a patent pick-me-up. UX> Cor riDcum. HEART, my heart, that faintly flutters And sinks within my coward breast At every sound a demon utters — The demon of a wild unrest — What poison is it in you lurking That taints the rich red stream of life. And leaves your trembling owner shirking The storm and stress of daily strife ? 12 AD COR MEUM The skies are black as Night's dark daughters, The Haven's far, and fierce the sea ; Ill-omened birds above the waters Fly low and shriek with evil glee. 0, sinking heart, to hope a traitor, If through the storm's the peace we prize, Bid me sail on — the risk is greater For him who here at anchor lies. Beat, heart, again with brave endeavour ; Beat, heart, with faith in God's right hand. Stretched out to those who ask it ever To lead them to the Promised Land. Mine eyes to earth no more inclining, I watch the storm that clears the sky ; Who'd see the sun in splendour shining Must boldly fix his gaze on high. |RITE it up with falt'ring fingers, Write it with a blush of shame, Since no ray of glory lingers 'Mid the temples of our fame. O'er a Christian Church blaspheming, Which has dragged the name of God Through the mire of party scheming, Write the lesrend ** Ichabod." ICHABOD 13 Write it where our peers assemble, Dullards decked in solemn state. Though their sires made Europe tremble In the days when we were great. Peers to-day the land encumber, Lazy lords no spur can prod ; O'er the House where now they slumber Write the legend " Ichabod." Shrined in History's grandest pages Are the deeds of those who bent Tyrant kings in kingly rages To the will of Parliament. Now but placemen, bores, and traitors Tread the halls that Hampden trod ; O'er the House of idle praters Write the legend "Ichabod." Once old England's pride and glory Was that all her sons were free ; Ah, to-day how changed the story ! Where is now our liberty ? Cranks and faddists forge our fetters, Every day we feel the rod, " Grandmamma " in sampler letters Works o'er England " Ichabod." [ 14] E Derb^ Bitti?, UD in my eyes, and mud on my cheek, My hat that drips, and my boots that leak, And a voice so hoarse that I scarce can speak — That's how I went to the Derby. A fight with a man at the station-gate. Apoplexy through being late, A score in a carriage that seated eight — That's how I went to the Derby. Never a cab for love or oof, The dye running out of my waterproof, Through chalk and water I pad the hoof — That's how I got to the Derby. Smashed and crushed in a crowded pen. Bruised and battered by bustling men, A lamb in a roaring lion's den — That's how I saw the Derby. '* The favourite's beat !" the millions cry, The next umbrella extracts my eye, And I've laid two thousand to one with Fry That's how I liked the Derby. A DERBY DITTY 15 I've lost my temper, I've lost my tin ; Where is my watch — my chain — my pin ? And my boots are letting the water in — That's how I left the Derby. A couple of doctors by my bed, A block of ice on my burning head, And somehow I wish that I was dead — That's what came of the Derby. The brokers in on a bill of sale, Pills and potions of no avail, A jerry-built tomb with a rusty rail — That's what came of the Derby. R.I.P. on a soot-grimed stone, And under my name these words alone : "The biggest juggins that ever was known " Has gone where's there no more Derby. Sball we IRemember? H, love, my love, as hand in hand. This glorious autumn weather, We stroll along the golden strand, And watch the ships together, We murmur vows we mean to keep. But by next year's September, How many made beside the deep Shall We Remember? l6 SHALL WE REMEMBER Old love is dead ; new love awakes. And hearts are playthings ever ; Though change may mar, 'tis change that makes ; Time every link can sever ; Though dull love's fire, to glowing gold We fan the dying ember — Yet in new love, the love of old Shall We Remember ? The race of life is to the strong, The pace grows fast and faster, The leader takes the field along, And brings the weak disaster. The prize is won ! Yet what is fame ? A rushlight in November. In twelve short months the victor's name Shall We Remember ? parabise anb tbe Sinner. (the new version.) ME morn a sinner at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate, And as he pondered on the things In life he'd done, his wild oats sowing. He felt the pang that conscience brings, And both his cheeks with shame were glowing PARADISE AND THE SINNER 17 He thought of all the vows he'd broken, He thought of falsehoods lightly told, Of all the hasty words he'd spoken, And all the tricks he'd played for gold. "Ah me !" he cried, " I own my sin, So, pitying angel, let me in !" The angel heard the sinner's tale, He blushed not, neither turned he pale, But " Think you then," in wrath he cried, " For crimes like these to pass inside ? Your life's not been so badly spent ; You must do something worse by far. Come back with something to repent, And then 111 raise the crystal bar." The sinner he flew from the spot sublime Away to the earth below, *' I wonder," he thought, " what kind of crime Is reckoned the worst en haut." He picked a pocket and stole a purse ; , He plotted against the Crown ; He changed two babies put out to nurse. And he left a dog to drown.. " Good," said the angel as he heard A list of the sinner's sins ; " But this is only about a third Of the crime that entrance wins. Your record, I trow, must be blacker far Before I can raise the crystal bar." 1 8 PARADISE AND THE SINNER Tlie sinner flew back to the earth once more, And he steeped his hands in his brother's gore ; He poisoned his wife by slow degrees, And hanged his twins on a couple of trees ; And then with a broken and rusty saw He cut ofi' the head of his mother-in-law ; And he cried, as a shuddering world turned sick, "If the chaplain's right I have done the trick." Once more he stood before the gate And told his tale and asked his fate. The angel smiled — said, " Kight you arc," And swiftly raised the crystal bar. But oh, when the sinner was once inside, " There is some mistake !" he in terror cried, As down in the bottomless pit he fell, And found he had knocked at the gate of hell. " It was your mistake," the angel said, ** To think that because your hands were red You could pass at once to the realms above. The beautiful realms of peace and love. The clerical gents may tell you so. But this is the 'place to which murderers go " [ 19] Zbc 3nconie Zns* ^H, Goschen, hear us groan, Relieve our burdened backs : We weep and wail and moan, "Reduce the income tax!" It is a wicked plan, And decency it lacks ; It makes a Christian man Say, " Hang the income tax !" Poor Job, he had to bear Some very nasty smacks. But nothing to compare With this infernal tax. Not all his pains and aches Could put him in a wax ; But he'd have shouted, " Snakes 1" If asked for income tax. Oh, take the curse away, The cruel curse that racks : Why should free Britons pay This most un- British tax ? O Q THE INCOME TAX Fur years has raged the fight, Be 3' ours the cry of " Pax," And, Britain's wrongs to right. Remove the income tax. On earth that deed shall dwell Till all creation cracks, And Fame's last trumpet tell How Goschen killed the tax. Do this, and you will forge A deathless battle-axe For England's new St. George Who slew the income tax. HE Strand was in a dreadful state, And so was Mary Ann They'd gone and raised the postal rate 'Twixt her and her young man. She might have sent by parcels post Her lover's Christmas card, But gales were raging round the coast, And it was freezing hard. What was a poor distracted maid To do in such a case. When only half the odds were laid An hour before the race ? NONSENSE ai She had a right to see the rules, According to the law ; But as the staff were mostly fools, The time was all she saw. So, losing heart, she gave a groan And, taking oflf her socks, She dropped them (they were not her own) Inside the pillar-box. (Her socks, as you may shrewdly guess. Were stockmgs, truth to tell ; For as to-day young ladies dress Socks would not look so welL) She left her boots to mark the place^ And went to Drury Lane ; But there was that in Gus's face Which* filled her heart with pain. He would not pass her to the pit j She said, " I'm on the Press." She thought he would have had a fit, And burst his evening dress. " If you are on the Press," he cried, " You ought to wear your shoes But, as there's room for one inside, I cannot well refuse." 22 NONSENSE He put her in a private box. Which hid her to the knees ; And sent to Alias for some frocks, And whispered, " Choose from these." She chose a page's trunks and hose, A fairy's skirt of gauze, And while she dressed Augustus rose And left amid applause. Then back she went a fairy queen Into the G.P.O. ; She passed the rows of clerks between, And all were bowing low. They weighed her card with smirk and smile, The stamps with care imposed ; The postage was a pound a mile. Because the ends were closed. But in her fairy garment she Did look so sweet a gal, " O.H.M.S." was put by the Postmaster-General. And ere her card her love unclosed Another knot was tied : The P.M.G. himself proposed, And now she is his bride. NONSENSE 23. MORAL. If information you would ask, When P.O. clerks are pressed, You'll find it aid you in your task If you go nicely dressed ! %c flDarbi (Bras^ HE Feast of Folly is spread, Let us eat and drink and be merry ; While the fountains are running red With the juice of the glorious berry. Let us carry the forts of Joy With a series of madcap dashes, Ere the Feast of Flesh, my boy. Gives way to the Fast of Ashes. We have but a breath of life, A whiff ofi' the world's wide pleasure ; A year of its strain and strife. For a day of its dancing measure. So, hey for the fatted calf. While the carnival music crashes ! At the Feast of Flesh we'll laugh. Ere we weep at the Fast of Ashes. 0, sage with the grim gray face, With our quips is there cause to quarrel ? We know ere we run our race We shall master the Mardi's moral 24 TWO SUNDAYS We shall be as the monks who scourge Their skins with a hundred lashes : Youth's Feast of the Flesh we must purge With our manhood's Fast of Ashes. |HE bigot, with his narrow mind, Can ill in every pleasure find ; He makes his God a god of gloom, The pulsing world a living tomb, A curse in every blessing sees, And, thinking Heaven to appease, He cuts — Religion is his knife — The blossom from the Tree of Life. From fogs, that gave that bigot birth, Far off, in many a land of mirth Hearts full of faith in God above Look on Him as a God of Love — A God who bids His children play, And smiles to see His loved ones gay : As earthly fathers smile to see Their children sing and dance with glee. Oh, British Sabbath, bigot bred. Our youth's despair, our childhood's dread ! God does not scowl in solemn state Behind a gloomy prison gate ; TWO SUNDAYS He smiles enthroned in sunny skies, Where only joyous songs arise. To make God's day, then, 'twere as well, Seem more like heaven and less Hke helL ^be riDails aboard iHE captain of the Cuckoo took His glasses from the starboard hook ; He gazed across the raging main, Then put his glasses back again. The Cuckoo's mate remarked, " I guess You saw a signal of distress ?" " I did, but it must be ignored ; You see, we've got the mails aboard." This was the captain's curt reply ; The first mate heard it with a sigh. But all the Cuckoo's captain said Was " Steady !" then " Full steam ahead !" He crossed the sinking vessel's bows. As close as seamanship allows. " Can't stop !" he through his trumpet roared, " Because I have the mails aboard." The passengers and all the crew Replied, "Oh, please to save us — do!" And, plunging in the raging sea, Declined the captain's RI.P. 26 THE MAILS ABOARD They followed in the Cuckoo's wake, Till swimming made their stomachs ache ; Their lot the captain much deplored, But waved them off with " Mails aboard !" The storm to fiercest tempest grew, But straight ahead the Cuckoo flew ; Till onco again the captain took His glasses from the starboard hook ; " Hullo !" he cried ; " if I am not Mistaken, there's the royal yacht ; A hidden rock her side has bored, She signals ! Answer, ' Mails aboard !' " The yacht replied with haughty mien, " Stop, by the order of the Queen, Who, braving equinoctial gales, Now in this sinking vessel sails." " Alas !" the Cuckoo's captain cried, " To save my Queen would be my pride " (Here he saluted with his sword), " But tell her I've the mails aboard." " Ha !" cried the Queen, " for this I will Cut off his head on Tower Hill, The knave shall see the House of Guelpli Respected still can make itself." She sent a man to ev'ry gun. And, just to stop the captain's fun, Into his ship a broadside poured. Although he had the mails aboard. THE MAILS ABOARD Y] The Cuckoo's captain cried, " The deuce !" And straight ran up a flag of truce ; And then he sent a boat to save His sovereign from a watery grave. The Queen stepped nimbly on the deck, And left the royal yacht a wreck ; But flung, though mercy he implored, The Cuckoo's captain overboard. When he recovered from the shock, He lay upon a lonely rock ; And there ships' captains as they pass Survey him sternly through the glass. And by Victoria's orders scoff At all his cries of "Take me off!" And say, " By us your fate's deplored, But we can't stop — we've mails ahoarcl." Ht tbe pbotograpber'0. (a ballad of BROADMOOR.) [HEY coaxed me up a hundred stairs. They lured me to their den, For me they laid their artful snares- Those photographing men. They dragged me to a room of glass Beneath a blazing sun, I thought I should have died. Alas ! I'm nearly fourteen stone ! 28 AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER'S They saw their victim pant and blow. They heard him cry, " I melt !" But ne'er a one for all my woe One grain of pity felt. They seized my head and screwed it round, And fixed it in a vice, And simpered when they had me bound, ** That pose is very nice ! ** Look up — look up, and wear a smile ; Look pleasant, if you please. You must keep still a little while ; Just straighten up your knees." 'Tis thus they jeer and jibe at mo As, faint and hot, I try An inch before my nose to see With sunstroke in my eye. I think of all the bitter wrongs My later life has known ; I writhe beneath Fate's cruel thongs, I knit my brow and groan. And still with many a smile and smirk The artist trips about. And gives my chin a little jerk And sticks my elbows out. Ye gods, am I a grinning ape To pose and posture thus ? Am I a man in human shape Or turkey that they truss ? AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER'S 29 My head is free ; with fiendish mirth I raise a vengeful hand, And dash the camera to earth, And fell the iron stand. I take the artist by the throat And pin him to the wall, And jerk his chin and tear his coat, And hold his head in thrall. I bid the trembling victim smile, I cry, " Be gay and laugh, And in the very latest style ni take your photograph !" I twisted till I broke his neck, I baked him in the sun ; I left the room an awful wreck, And then the deed was done. They held an inquest on the bits ; Ye photographing crew, Before to you the writer sits Just read that inquest through. 3n (5ai2 3apan, BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. R. LAWSON, if you please. Just a little line to say I'm a-taking of my ease In a Japaneasy way. 30 IN GAY JAPAN Ilere I Avrite ** By Lands and Seas " For your ** London Day by Day," 'Neath the blossom-laden trees Of Japan, the glad and gay. Here I watch the pretty shes As they don their night array ; And they ask me to their teas, And they sing to me and play. Tis 'mid pleasures such as these That I hope you'll let me stay — 'Tis a climate that agrees With your faithful Edwin A. Now no more I have to seize Editorial pen to flay Home Rule freaks of Mr. G.'s Or to keep the Rads at bay. ■ Mona's " Marriage," Lubbock's bees, Mr. Stanley, Tottie Fay, Water rates, and School Board fees On my mind no longer prey. Glad Japan my spirit frees From its tenement of clay^, And, my note-book on my knees. With the muses I can stray. So, dear Lawson, if you please, I will stop here if I may. Sending " Over Lands and Seas " From Japan, the glad and gay. [31 ] Zbc Balaclava 1[3eroc0. (JULY 2j i8go.) [PEN the workhouse doors to-day To the men who fought in that fearful fray ; Weary and worn and scant of breath Are the men who rode through the valley of Death ; But, clad in the pauper's garb of shame, They are getting the meed of their deathless fame. These are the heroes our poet sang When over the world their story rang ; These are the heroes, gnarled and bent, With the tale of whose deeds the skies were rent ; These are the soldiers whose fame's writ large On the glorious page of that deathless charge. Open the workhouse doors to-day To the penniless heroes old and gray ; In each wrinkled face is a soldier's pride, They have won the guerdon so long denied, And we honour their deed with — what do you think ? — A benefit at a sJcating rinJc ! [32] ijIGHTLY holding her mother's hand, A Httle girl tripped o'er her father's land ; Squire of all the acres he, As far as the little one's eyes could see, And his wife and his daughter, his "Baby Ma}'," Were " seeing the folks " this Christmas Day. Six years old was the baby girl, And her brain was all in a dreamy whirl With the puddings and pies and the Christmas- trees And the bells and carols, and, if you please, The night before had St. Nicholas been With the loveliest dolly that ever was seen. " How good of the saint, mamma, to leave Such beautiful things upon Christmas Eve !" She had cried, as against her baby breast She hushed her dear little doll to rest. And then the wonders of Christmas Day Had almost taken her breath away. And now through the village she gaily trips, As the greeting comes from a score of lips : ** A Merry Christmas and bright New Year !" ■ And the air is heavy with Christmas cheer — Goose and pudding and beef galore — And the fires glow bright through each open door A CHILD'S IDEA 33 There's a happy smile upon ev'ry face, The village is quite a fairy place ; And in every cottage at which they call The green and holly are on the wall ; And all the family gathered there Are seated around the Christmas fare. "How happy they are !" says Baby May, As she looks at the feast and the feasters gay ; And then there comes to her childish mind A scene or two of a different kind — Of weeping women and frowning men, And nobody seems so happy then ! She had grasped the fact in hov childish way That the poor had " troubles " and '* rents " to pay- That children ailed, and that some men's wives Were " nearly worrited out of their lives." She had heard the gossip, as children do. And to-day it came back to her mind anew. She thought of the village of then and now, And there came a cloud on her baby brow ; She knew there was sorrow where now was mirth, And she whispered, "Mamma, when He made the earth, What a pity it was God did not say, ' Let it be always Christmas Day ' !" 8 [34] Sanitation at Sea. HAVE sailed o'er the ocean to spots far away, I've also done " Margate and back " in the day; I have spent the long nights upon deck in a storm, And stood by the funnel to keep myself warm ; And when I've been poorly as poorly can be, I have sighed for some slight " sanitation at sea." I have been in the cabin where sufferers lay In an atmosphere fitted a nigger to slay, I have slept in a bunk where the air was so foul That I woke in the mom with an agonized howl, And I've staggered upstairs crying, " Oh, dearie me I Why will they ignore ' sanitation at sea ' ?" By the smell of the engine, the dirt on the deck, By the stairs you descend at the risk of your neck, By the cabin whose odour is stuffy and stale. By the dirty old tub which is known as " the Mail," By the horrors from which scarce a vessel is free, We'd welcome the least " sanitation at sea." [35] 6ui(jnoL PA Y two sous and take my chair Among the little girls and boys ; The nurses turn their heads and stare For puppet-shows are children's joys. And yet, though Time has hit me hard, And life I'm given to revile, From every joy I'm not debarred, For Guignol still can make me smile. Dear Guignol of my golden youth ! How oft in these Elysian fields I've listened to his words of truth, And watched the baton that he wields ! And still in autumn'« pleasant glow A happy hour away I while, And with the babies " see the show," For Guignol still can make me smile ! Zbc jeuGlteb Summer. N Monday the weather was fine and bright. Three fine days and a thunderstorm ! On Tuesday the floods had reached their height, And a hurricane blew on Wednesday night, And the land was a swamp and a dismal sight — Three fine days and a thunderstorm ! 36 THE ENGLISH SUMMER On Thursday the dogs all panting lay, Three fine days and a thunderstorm ! And sunstroke settled two boys at play. On Friday the winter had come to stay — Three fine days and a thunderstorm ! On Saturday snow was a good foot high, Three fine days and a thunderstorm ! On Sunday there fell from the jet-black sky A deluge that covered the mountains high ; And to-day in a tropical sun we fry— Three fine days and a thunderstorm ! H perfect iparaMee. (vide pelican, affidavits.) HE quiet of the woodland way Bird-broken is by night and day, But ne'er a song-bird trills its lay In Gerrard Street, Soho. No breeze here bears the babel roar — Life's ocean, tideless evermore, Lies dead upon the silent shore Of Gerrard Street, Soho. The hermit seeking holy calm May soothe his soul with Gilead balm Beneath the desert's one green palm In Gerrard Street, Soho. A PERFECT PARADISE 37 But 'twas, oh, 'twas not always thus Men flying from life's fume and fuss In urbe found a peaceful rus In Gerrard Street, Soho. There was a lime when shout and shriek And song and oath and drunken freak Made matters lively all the week In Gerrard Street, Soho. Then, too, alas ! the Sabbath eve Heard sounds to make the pious grieve, And quiet tenants thought they'd leave In Gerrard Street, Soho. When came the change from noise to peace, When did the clattering hansom cease, When rose the value of a lease In Gerrard Street, Soho ? When came that sense of perfect rest Which makes the region doubly blest ? 'Twas when, as members' oaths attest, The Pelicans first built their nest In Gerrard Street, Soho J [38] ^bat Breeje. HE poets wlio write in the magazines Have pitched their tents amid sylvan scenes ; Treading with joy in their lazy lay The primrose path of the woodland way, They always stop on the road to sing Of " the balmy breeze of awakening Spring." I know that breeze of the lilting line — That breeze is a very old friend of mine ; That it takes bards in, need cause no surprise — For at throwing dust into people's eyes, Facile princeps and also king Is ** the balmy breeze of awakening Spring." It's the " poet " that's balmy, and not the breeze. When he sings in praise of our English " bise," The wind that blows 'neath the cold gray sky, That stabs the chest and inflames the eye ; It is death that hovers with sable wing On " the balmy breeze of awakening Spring." Fd sing the song that this breeze deserves, But, alas ! I've " liver " and also " nerves ;" Sciatica racks me day and night, And I haven't a bronchial tube that's right ; And the fiend that all these woes doth bring Is " the balmy breeze of awakening Spring." [39] Ballab of Glb^Zimc foga. [HE sky above my head is fair — Not dark, as once it used to be— And joy and life are in the air, And green is every budding tree That, wind-swept, makes its bough to me ; And all the world is glad and gay, Which makes me cry when this I see — " Where are the fogs of yesterday ?" My heart is light and void of care — Though this year's months are yet but three- I miss the mid-day gas-lamps' glare, I meet the folks who used to flee To Southern France and Italy ; In London now they gladly stay, In London spend their £ s. d. — Where are the fogs of yesterday ? One shirt till eve I now can wear. Which once was quite a rarity, And even folks in Bedford Square And erstwhile blackest Bloomsbury, Can from their windows gaze with glee And nod to friends across the way, And Auguste says to Stephen G., " Where are the fogs of yesterday ?" 40 UNDER THE CLOCK Prince, since of them at last we're free, And London 'scapes their cruel sway. Why need we care a single D ? Where are the fogs of yesterday ? (an actor's song.) [^* For the remainder of cast see Under the Clock."" — Theatrical advertisement. ] NDER the Clock," with the rank and file, That's where you have to look for me ; That is the End of the Centur}' style — Vide the " ads." in the great D. T. Well, I suppose we can't all be starred, So the special " ad." 's for the finer flock, And the common sheep, though it's rather hard. Are huddled together " Beneath the Clock." I do my best in my humble way When I'm cast for a part that is known as " small " ; For the minor parts in a high-class play May help in its ** making," after all. And so when I'm placed below the salt. It gives my pride just a passing shock. And I own some day I should like to vault Up to the " stars " from " Beneath the Clock." UNDER THE CLOCK 41 Actors' vanity ! Yes, you're right ! Though I'd rather you called it artists' pride — It's the battle of life in the mimic fight On the boards where so many have fought and died — On the world's great stage, where they're players all, And they feel the pains that we only mock ; To a favoured few must the " star " " ads." fall, The rest are only " Beneath the Clock." ^be (Birl of Jfovt'^^scvcn. lOND lover, when you come to woo, And whisper nothings tender, I And try to span, as lovers do, A waist that once was slender, Be not upset if curt rebuff Your amorous joy should leaven ; That sort of thing is apt to huff The girl of forty-seven. That girl, who's up to every game, Knows more than you can teach her ; With Cupid's bow it's vain to aim, His arrows rarely reach her. The only words to touch her heart Are " Coutts " or " Barclay Be van ;" Gold-tipped must be the BUnd God's dart For girls of forty-seven. 42 CONVENTIONAL MA LORE LUI Don't think by gazing in her eyes With simulated rapture. Don't think by sentimental sighs Her seasoned heart to capture ; Just show your banker's book, my son, And if the will of Heaven Has Hessed your balance, you have won The girl of fort}''- seven. (Tonventtonal nDalgre %\xl lONVENTION is a thing I hate, Convention is a thing I scorn ; And yet, alas ! I grieve to state I was conventionally born. My father and my mother were (A curse be on Convention's head !) Two sweethearts — youth and maiden — ere They were conventionally wed. Then came my vaccination, and. Convention though I cannot brook, I'm given now to understand It quite conventionally ** took." I cut my teeth — convention ! Bah ! A tear stood in my baby eye ; Oh, why did I not learn from ma That teething babies always cry ? CONVENTIONAL MA LORE LUI 43 I was an infant, then a child, And then a boy, and then a youth ; Ah ! even now it makes me wild — But I must tell the bitter truth. And then I came to man's estate ; You see that I no single jot Did from convention deviate, And yet I think convention " rot." I fell in love ! Ah, he who sits In judgment on the modern stage And tears the common play to bits Will understand my frenzied rage. I fell in love ! Convention's slave To dull convention bowed the knee ; And in return the maiden gave Her love (conventional) to me. And now I have some girls and boys Who grow, and play, and go to school; Conventional are all my joys — I'm just like any other fooL I give off Ibsen to my wife, And quote the notes of W. A. ; But still I lead a common life — Convention won't be kept at bay. The end, of course, will come at last Oh, may I, like Elijah, rise In something safe upon the blast, And living pass beyond the skies 1 44 HOME, SWEET HOME When quitting^ earth I'd keep my breath — I hope sincerely that I shall — I loathe the bare idea of death, It is so damn'd conventional. Ibome, Sweet 1bome» (a winter's tale.) IHROUGH every chink there roars the blast, My stock of coals is falling fast ; I have a cold that's come to last, I'm booked until the blizzard's past — For home, sweet home. The fog has filled the house with gloom, The blacks lie thick in every room ; Dim through the mist the gas-jets loom, And not unlike a living tomb Is home, sweet home. To devils blue I fall a prey. And sit and think the livelong day Of happier times when I was gay. In winter Edens, far away From home, sweet home. HOME, SWEET HOME 45 A prisoner I in climes accurst, Where fog and frost are at their worst ; Hullo ! What's that ? the pipes have burst ! A plumber, quick ! but save me first From home, sweet home ! Fling wide the door and bring a light. Hi, cabman ! 'Tis an awful night ; Put down the glass and I'll sit tight, But drive me from the dreadful sight Of home, sweet home. Poor horse, poor horse I Oh, spare the lash ! His quivering carcass cease to thrash. He's down ! the cab has come to smash ; The snow falls fast, I'll make a dash For home, sweet home. 3n iportlanb JMace. HE world and wife are out of town, The blast sweeps down the empty street ; The bobby in a study brown Thinks of the sea upon his beat. The cab-horse dozes on the rank. The empty 'buses cease to race ; The hungry cat roams, lean and lank — The blinds are down in Portland Place. 46 IN PORTLAND PLACE The birds still sing in Regent's Park, The ducks emit their bronchial quack ; But all day long from dawn to dark The crossing-sweeper's trade is slack. The Langham porter's wand'ring eye Encounters ne'er a human face ; No smoke curls upward to the sky — The blinds are down in Portland Place. The thoroughfare is broad and wide, The vestry keeps the roadway clean, And I can walk on either side, Or 'gainst each separate lamp-post loan. I'm king of all that I survey — As sad as Selkirk's is my case — Oh, soon, to save my reason, may The blinds go up in Portland Place ! (after SWINBURNE.) PFF ! at the neck and wristband ! Off ! — and laid on the bed ! And she of the sweet white kist band Is the one whom I chose to wed. Off! the two pearl-white buttons ! And yet it is laid out there (To return, as it were, to our muttons). The shirt I am going to wear. THE SHIRT BUTTONS 47 I list to the bolls' sweet chiming, In the still of the Sabbath morn, And I ask myself, in rhyming, How a buttonless shirt is worn. Shall I put myself in a passion, And curse the unwifely act, Or — which isn't a poet's fashion — Behave with a little tact ? Shall I show her the shirt and scold her, My scarcely a month- wed wife, Or wait till our union's older, For the frown and the wordy strife ? Ah ! soul of my soul, my darling, No buttonless shirt shall rise To set the old Adam snarling At his Eve in their. Paradise. Are we twain made one to wrangle, That the wifely way's unlearnt, That a shirt has gone wrong in the mangle Or a handkerchiefs badly burnt ? No ; never shall wrath be blighting The beautiful bliss that buds. And I'll fasten — ^your love requiting — My buttonless shirt with studs. f48] Zbc !Ilon^oner to Udis %ovc. (song and DAInCE.) {A\B. — T/tt's Ame)kan song and dance can only be pet formed on the production of a certificate of lunacy signed by three members of the London County Council.) |H, come, my love, where the fog lies thif;t, Down in the shadov/ where the microbes grow ; Wc shall catch Na Nonna if we're only quick, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow ; For our bower is built on London clay, Where the gray mist hangs from the dawn of day, And the gay young germs of neuralgia play Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. Oh, come, my love, where the sun ne'er smirks, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow ; To the wild wet waste where consumption lurks — Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. Where the cough makes music, and the bronchial wheeze Replies to the echo of the sniff and sneeze, And asthma flirts with the cut-throat breeze, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. THE LONDONER TO HIS LOVE 49 Oh, come, my love, and abide with me, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; Where the weathercock always points N.E., Down in the shadow where the microbes grow; Where the damp drips dank down the dismal wall, And the fungi flourish in the mildewed hall. And the undertaker is the lord of all, Down in the shadow where the microbes grow. ^be leitfel Bonnet. lEHIND an Eiffel bonnet I sat one matinee. And, oh, the feathers on it Completely hid the play. Because that Eiffel bonnet Kept bobbing in my way. That awful Eiffel bonnet, It blotted out the scene And all the people on it Just like a giant screen : It was the sort of bonnet You couldn't see between. 5© THE EIFFEL BONNET The wearer of that bonnet Between two friends she sat, And swayed (and hence this sonnet) Now this way and now that, And bent her head and bonnet With either side to chat. To left she moved her bonnet, I bent my head to right The stage to look upon it ; But ere I had a sight, Back came that Eiffel bonnet And blotted out the light. awful Eiffel bonnet That towers to the sky ! If ladies still will don it, 'Twill happen by-and-by, *' Down with that Eiffel bonnet '" Poor playgoers will cry. To see a swaying bonnet We don't go to the play, 'Tis not to gaze upon it Our ten-and-six we pay — So d the Eiffel bonnet That damns the matinee 1 w ^a [5' J ^0 a ifair nDu0ician. LADY next door, could your glance on me fall, There are times when my lot you would _ pity, And shut the piano that stands by the wall, And spare me your favourite ditty. That music hath charms I'm the last to deny, But music from eight to eleven Is apt the weak nerves of a poet to try, And to hasten his journey to heaven. In vain in my study on work I've in hand I endeavour to fix my attention — That moment you sit yourself down to your "grand," And I use a nice word I won't mention. lady, I know you are gentle and fair. And I grant that you play very nicely ; But if you are anxious my reason to spare. Don't start, ma'am, at eight so precisely. 1 wait for that moment, each nerve on the strain — I tremble with wild agitation ; A thousand sharp needles seem pricking my brain And I'm bathed in a cold perspiration. 4—2 52 A WORD FOR THE POLICE For I know you'll commence on the last stroke of eight To perform all the morceaux that you know, From " Dorothy," " Doris," and " Faust up to Date," From Mendelssohn, Mozart, and Gounod. lady next door, could your glance but once fall On the eye in which madness is lurking. You would move your piano away from the wall. And you'd play when the Bard wasn't working. a Morb for tbe IPoUce, HE soldiers of our " City Guard," Through winter snows and summer heats, From all the soldiers' joys debarred, Keep watch and ward in London streets. For them no martial trumpets sound, For them there waits no victor's bay, But on the lonely midnight round. Unarmed, they face the fiercest fray. Alone, they brave the brawler's blows, The burglar's shot, the ruffian's knife ; Undaunted, dare a hundred foes. And risk, unflinching, limb and Ufa A WORD FOR THE POLICE 53 What heroes, then, have more than they To London's love and honour right, These quiet guardians of the day, These lonely soldiers of the night ? XLbc Qlt> Clock on tbe Stairs. (a ballad of BROADMOOR.) |HERE standeth in my entrance-hall A grim grandfather's clock, That holds my inmost heart in thrall, And gives it many a shock. It has a crueil, cunning face. And two long hands that glide Like demon fates who run a race For ever by my side. So day by day, and year by year, It strikes a ceaseless knell, For all that to my heart was dear, For all I loved so well. It tolls for youth and love and trust. For joys and pleasures fled, For dreams long gathered to the dust, For hopes long cold and dead. In mournful beats it ticks away The moments of my span, And makes me, when I would be gay, A miserable man. 54 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS No other sound the silence breaks, Save when with hollow boom Its sad sepulchral voice awakes The echoes of the tomb. It shall not tick my life away — Its raven croak no more Shall tell me that I'm old and gray And all my dreams are o'er ! My fist is through its gloomy face, I wring its iron neck — Thus ! thus ! I smash its heartless case, And dance upon the wreck. Hurrah, hurrah ! for hope returns, The mocking voice is still ; Within my breast ambition burns. And all my pulses thrill. That fateful tongue, thank God, I miss, I know not how time flies ; And oh, where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. [55] nDl2 ambition. HE hedges are green with the spring, The sun is on meadow and lea, The little birds merrily sing, And the blossom is sweet on the tree. I have wandered for many a mile — All around is a feast for the eye ; So I'll whittle a stick on this stile, . And I'll grin as the girls go by. I am far from the turmoil of town ; Here is rest in this Devonshire lane — Here is rest from the world's cruel frown, Here is rest from the passion and pain. Here, forgetting my woes for awhile, I will sit 'neath the blue southern sky, And whittle a stick on the stile, And grin as the girls go by. Sing on, little bird on the tree ; Little sunbeam, dance on and be gay ; Oh, the future is nothing to me ! And, Memory, please go and play. Here, with nothing my temper to rile, I would like to remain till I die ; And whittle a stick on the stile, And grin as the girls go by. [56] £l Ml0lX j|HEN London's wrapped in filthy fogs, When seized are my unmuzzled dogs, When full and fierce the east winds blow. I wish myself in Jericho ! When all night long the howling cad Disturbs my sleep and drives me mad, And milk-carts rattle to and fro, I wish myself in Jericho. W^hen snow and slush block up the street, And " slides " send skyward both my feet, And bang upon my back I go, I wish myself in Jericho. When County Council cranks disgust, When schemes that drew my coin go bust, W^hen bigots harass every show, I wish myself in Jericho. When frost gives way to sudden thaw. And all my pipes have got a flaw, And through my house the waters flow, I wish myself in Jericho. A WISH 57 When for next Sunday's Referee I have to do my M. and C. While in dyspepsia's direst throe, I wish myself in Jericho. ^be Song of Iberebiti?. Y father was a madman, do you wonder I'm insane ? My mother wasn't pretty, do you wonder I am plain ? My father was consumptive, and my hollow cheeks you see ; Can you wonder I'm a drunkard when my mother had d.t. ? Science speaks out pretty plainly on ** hereditary taint," And the sinner breeds a sinner, as the saint begets a saint ; Then why call me Ananias, and reproach me, since, forsooth, My papa was such a liar that I cauTiot tell the truth ? When his ancestors for ages by their own mad acts have died, Do you wonder that a fellow has a taste for suicide ? When a nose for generations is the feature of a race, And you know a fellow's surname just by glancing' at his face, — 58 SCOTCHED, NOT KILT When this modern law of nature throughout all creation runs, And it's odds on roaring racers having only roaring sons, Do you think that Ananias you should dub a luck- less youth Whose papa was such a liar that he cannot tell the truth ? Scotcfy^ not 1Rtlt (the kaiser's song.) Air. — " / winna gang back to my mammy againP WINNA gang back to auld Bizzy again, I'll never gang back to auld Bizzy again ; I've held by his coat-tails this aught months and ten, But I'll never gang back to auld Bizzy again. I've held by his coat-tails, etc. Caprivi came down i' the gloaming to woo. He lookit sae bonnie and honest and true ; " Oh, com' awa', Willie, ne'er let Bizzy ken ;" And I made young Caprivi the best o' my men, Oh, com' awa', Willie, etc. SCOTCHED, NOT KILT 59 He told me whatever I would I might do, And pressed hame his words wi' a smile on his mou', So I fell on Ms bosom, and said, " Ye maun reign, For aiblins yell leave me a will 0' my ain." So I fell on his bosom, etc. For many lang months sin' I cam' to the crown Auld Bizzy's been hecklin' and haudin' me down ; I've held by his coat-tails this aught months and ten, But I'll never gang back to auld Bizzy again. I've held by his coat-tails, etc. ZTbe Xaat IReeource, T forty-three, in broken health, The heel of Fate has crushed my pride ; No joy I find in work or wealth — There's nothing left but suicide. The wind blows ever from the east ; It's madness now my trike to ride ; My pony's lame, poor little beast — There's nothing left but suicide. My hair is thin, my face is fat. My waist is spreading far and wide ; Last week I lost my favourite cat — There's nothing left but suicide. 6o THE LAST RESOURCE I am not starred on any bills, The critics all my work deride ; I'm sick of taking draughts and pills — There's nothing left but suicide. I am too sad to make a joke, The girl I love's another's bride ; The doctors will not let me smoke — There's nothing left but suicide. My house, I find, is built on clay, In vain to let it I have tried ; The income tax is due to-day — There's nothing left but suicide. What's this ? — a box of chocolates, With pale pink ribbon neatly tied ? The " sweets of life " again, Fates, I taste, and laugh at suicide. l?e 3Bar6 anb (5ate0. E bars and gates o' Bloomsbury, How can ye stand so silent there ? How can ye, knowing ye are doomed, From some sma' signs o' grief forbear ? He'll break his heart, will Bedford's duke, Whose grandeur County Councils spurn. As he bemoans his feudal rights — Departed never to return. YE BARS AND GATES 6l Ye bars and gates, ye're comin' docn ; No more ye'll block the freeman's path, And make the traveller lose his train, Or rouse the British cabman's wrath. Wi' lightsome heart we root ye up, And leave the streets o' London free ; And there's but one will mourn your loss, And that's his grace the Duke of B. portrait of a prince^ (by a society gossiper.) E'S the dropsy, he's the gout, And he looks like pegging out ; And he's sobbing and he's sighing all the day — All the day. He is haggard, he is pale, And his limbs begin to fail, And his whiskers and moustache are going gray- Going gray. . He is but a bag of bones, And he lies awake and groans. When he's carried by his valet up to bed — , Up to bed. ,^- 62 PORTRAIT OF A PRINCE He is hollow cheeked and eyed, And, though everything is tried, He never sleeps a moment for neuralgia in the head — In the head. Bitter tears are in his eyes Night and morning, as he cries, " Oh, my health is slowly breaking : I'm so ill — I'm so ill ! " I shall soon be on the shelf, For I'm • going ' like a Guelph. Please obHge me with my mixture and a pill — And a pUL" (by himself.) Which I simply answer. Rot 1 For Wales hasn't gone to pot. Please to contradict the rumours that are rife- That are rife. Now he's had a little rest Wales can go it with the best. And he never felt so jolly in his life — In his life. [63] Zbe Strong flDen. ]HEY lined the quays on every shore, They fought for ships to take them o'er; They filled those ships from stern to stem, And still there was no end of them. They came by river, road, and rail. By every Continental mail. By White Star, Inman, and Cunard, And sent the managers a card. With iron bars and chains of steel, A mixture of the sham and real, With mighty weights and cannon-balls They sought the London music-halls. From every land beneath the sun, And each of them the strongest one. They all performed the self-same feats. And still they played to big receipts. Still fiercer grew the strong man boom, And still for more the shows made room ; For, since so much one strong man drew. What wealth might there not be in two ! 64 THE STRONG MEN The halls were crowded night and day To see strong men with dumb-bells play ; The playhouse saw its public lost, And all but "strong man" was a "firost." They put a strong man in the play — The first in " London Day by Day " ; Then Willard cried to Jones, " A plan ! Put Sandow in * The Middleman.' " " Ah, me !" Pinero said, " too late — • We might have saved ' The Profligate. No Tosca and no Bernard-Beere, Had we but had a Samson here !" They filled the houses and the halls, They crammed the boxes and the stalls; Where'er a strong man did a show, They had to add " an extra row." The men of strength were Britain's pride- — Adored, exalted, deified — Till suddenly John Bull awoke. And rubbed his eyes and saw the joke. " Good lord !" he cried, and danced with rage, " Have I gone daft in my old age ? These chaps Pve seen, I do declare, At every common country fair. THE STRONG MEN 65 " A hundred pounds a week for this ! Pooh ! bosh ! here, hang it, let me hiss ! The chap at fairs who did all that Collected coppers in his hat !" 4: ^ ^ H: The strong men, finding all is o'er. Have wisely sought another shore ; But, though they search from sea to sea, They'll never find such fools as we. a Ballab of Soap* After Andrew Lang. HE hours are passing slow. To see my watch I dread, 'Tis ten o'clock, I know, And yet I lie in bed, With dull and aching head. That pint of fizz with Joe, That big cigar with Fred, Have wrought dyspeptic woe. No more with friends I'll topo. It's twelve ! Ho, PhylHs, ho ! Hot water and some soap ! I see the feet of crow Around my lids of lead ; My pallid face also With yellow hues o'erspread. 66 A BALLAD OF SOAP My eyes are very red ! What good is growling so ? I'll wash myself instead. * * * * What means this healthy glow ? What means this new-born hope ? Why rosy do I grow ? I'm using Samson's soap ! My thoughts resume their flow, My garb of sloth is fled ; I'm waltzing to and fro, And feel no longer dead. My gloomy hour has sped — A dashing, mashing beau ; My yellow hue has fled — I'm game to ride or row. I envy not the Pope, I'm full of life and go, Thanks be to Samson's Soap ! Envoy. Prince ! whose pet name is " Ted," When you are feeling low, And wake at dawn and mope, And tumble out of bed, And wash from top to toe. Use only Samson's soap ! [67] Zbz JoJieletcer, f^SS i^'^ER the sobs of mourners, I ^v^i i Over the cry of pain, ' «=^ Where men gather with bloodless faces To search for the mangled slain, The sound of my mocking laughter In the silence is loud and clear ; What do I care for corpses. Since I am a Jokeleteer ? While the heart of the nation pulses In sympathy with woe, While the living claim their dead ones Who lie in a ghastly row, Into the weeping faces With a pitiless glance I peer, As I merrily crack my wheezes, For I am a Jokeleteer. While strong men reel and sicken, And their eyes grow dim and red, My poor little brains I cudgel For a joke about the dead. I've a jest for a man's last moments, A pun for his open bier, And a jape for the Day of Judgment, For I am a Jokeleteer. ^ [68] Bill Sike0'0 protest. ENGLAND, can you hear it Without a blush of shame ? Our lay, they mean to queer it, And stop our little game. It's right down mean and sneaking — They're going to give the blues, To stop their boots from creaking, New indiarubber shoes. It makes a Briton shirty, And sets his hair on end, To think to tricks so dirty The law should condescend, — That in the land of freedom And honourable views, The slops, e'en though they need 'em, Should walk in silent shoes. Fair play they say's a jewel ; There's honour among thieves ; But this new dodge is cruel — For look how it deceives ! Our Mayor should call a meeting— His lordship can't refuse — Denouncing law competing With crime in silent shoes. BILL SIKESS PROTEST 69 It's hard enough at present For us to earn our bread, And always most unpleasant To hear the peeler's tread ; But we between starvation And honesty must choose, If once the British nation Allows these blarsted shoes. ^be Clarinet "HEN aU the sunshine lies behind, And all the dusk before, When friends have turned to foes unkind. And love is love no more ; When life is but a cruel ache, And living but a fret, 'Tis then, poor heart, the time to tako Your good old clarinet. When wife and child have passed away, And health has broken down ; When you are growing old and gray, And Fortune wears a frown, — When to your heart's despairing cry No answer you can get, Tis then, if you are wise, you'll try Your good old clarinet. THE CLARINET Go, victim of life's battle, go, And, heedless of your scars, Find solace here for all your woo In half a dozen bars. 'Twill reconcile us to our stay Here, where our task is set, To hear life's million victims play The good old clarinet. 1Ro lEventng S)re60» iHE Church believes God will not bless A crowd that comes in evening dress. Of worldliness the antidote, Our " Arch." proclaims the morning coat. What folly ! — since God's only care Is what we are, not what we luear. aione in Xonbon* (dizain.) HE dust blows through the empty street, The low skies gather grim and gray, The raindrops on the windows beat This cold and cheerless August day. And all my friends are far away Across the moors or by the sea, But I must linger, woe is me ! Since cruel fortune so doth choose Then, friends who read the Refereey Forsfive me if I jret the blues. [71 ] Zhc IDolunteer* |T was a gallant Volunteer, He woke one wintry night, The long-expected sound to hear, " The foe is now in sight." He leapt from out his cosy bed, He kissed his frightened wife, Then put his helmet on his head, To tight for home and life. He gaily donned his uniform — Such portions as he had — And then went out into the storm ; The night was very bad. The snowflakes fell as large as eggs, The blast his bosom smote ; He had no trousers on his legs, He had no overcoat. His heart was full of brave intent, He started at a trot ; But 0, he shivered as he went — II n'avait pas de bottes 1 72 THE VOLUNTEER Ten thousand strong in legs all bare, And only in their socks, Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare, Yet stood their ground like rocks. But when the Frenchmen saw the foo, Our noble Volunteers, They laughed " Ha, ha !" and yelled " Ho, ho I" And greeted them with sneers. " C'est drole," they cried ; " e'est bien drolo, Cette arm^e sans culottes," And Alphonse yelled to Anatole, " lis n'ont done pas de bottes." The British blushed with bitter shame, Their feelings were acute, And, though they were extremely game. They felt too pained to shoot. Their wail was borne upon the breeze, " The foe our army mocks," But still the cold benumbed their knees. The snow soaked through their socks. And so because they weren't equipped As Volunteers should be, The well- clad Frenchmen by them skipped. And it was all U P. THE VOLUNTEER Britons, for your country's sake, And all you hold most dear, A lesson from this story take. And clothe the Yolunteor. For trousers, boots, and overcoats To Lord Mayor Whitehead hand A cheque or Bank of England notes, And save your native land. |UR Prince a little change would seek, To town a short adieu he bids ; In Paris spends his Whitsun week. And takes " the missus and the kids." At Dover on the deck he stands (See ad. — " The shortest of sea routes "), And hies him o'er to Calais sands In tourist tweed and untanned boots. The cares of State no longer vex, From Fashion's whirl he steps aside. And takes a trip, our future Rex, And with him goes his silver bride. They take their boys and girls to see The show no sceptred hand salutes, And start, from princely trammels free. In tourist tweeds and untanned boots. 74 THOSE BOOTS Prince ! standing in the blazing light That beats upon a modern throne, 'Tis not in royal robes bedight, I ween. 3'oiir happiest hours are known. The white stones on your road of life Mark where you pluck sweet leisure's fruits, And with your boys and girls and wife Go trips in tweeds and untanned boots. STOOD and I shivered last Sunday night Till I bade them set the fire alight, Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar, And I told them to bring me the whisky jar. I filled me a glass, and I held it high As I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky, And I sang to a sad funereal tune The doleful dirge of an English June, " gruesome herald of Whitsun week," I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak, " The blazing heat of our one hot day Has fried us up and has passed away ; And the weary summer of bliglits and chills Has come to us big with its thousand ills, And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoon In. Regent's Park in our English June." A SUNDAY SONG 75 A red nose pressed to the window-pane, The swirling dust and the threatening rain, A blue-black blight in the raw rough air, A cut-throat climate and dull despair ; A tear for the days that will come no more, A dose of physic at twelve and four. And that is my Sunday afternoon In the Arctic arms of an Ensrlish June. inp tbe IRiGi. iJDING up the mountain In an open car. Engine puffing bravely- 0, how high we are ! Higher we are climbing, To the clouds we sail ; AU the world's beneath us On the Rigi Rail. Past the slopes of verdure, Gay with gold and white. Past the crags and fissures, Up the giddy height. Torrents down below us Dashing through the valO; Snowclad peaks above us, On the Ri