WALTER HAMILTON, (continued 6)

I. God save Great George our King Long Live our noble King, God save the King, Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King. II. O Lord our God, arise, Scatter our enemies, And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save us all. III. Thy choicest gifts in store, On him be pleased to pour, Long may he reign, 112 May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing, with heart and voice God save the King. IV. Lord grant that Marshall Wade,[23] May, by thy Mighty aid, Victory bring; May he sedition hush, And like a torrent rush, Rebellious Scots to crush, God save the King.

‘Oh, Lord our God, arise, Confound the enemies Of George our King; Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us God save the King.

“From every latent foe, From the assassin’s blow, God save the King! O’er him thine arm extend, For Britain’s sake defend Our father, prince and friend— God save the King!”

“DOMINE, SALVUM FAC REGEM. O vivas, omnibus, Salvus ab hostibus, Georgi, O Rex! Tibi victoriam Deus, et Gloriam Det, et memoriam Optime rex. Hostes, O Domine Ut cadant omine Horrido, da; Praebe, cœlicolens, Deus omnipotens! Atque omnisciens, Auxilia. Fiat clarissimus Et beatissimus Georgius Rex; Cujus judicio, Cujus auspicio, Et beneficio Floreat lex!”

God save our noble King, William the Fourth we sing. God save the King. Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King. O Lord our God arise, Guard him from enemies, Or make them fall; May peace with plenty crown’d Throughout his realms abound, So be his name renown’d, God save us all. Or should some foreign band Dare to this favour’d land Discord to bring, May our brave William’s name, Proud in the lists of fame, Bring them to scorn and shame. God save the King. Thy choicest gifts in store On William deign to pour, Joy round him fling; May he defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing with heart and voice God save the King.

VICTORY! FREEDOM! AND FOX. Britons, let’s all unite In defence of our right And liberty: For us we’ll distance drive Scare-Crow Prerogative Nor ever, whilst alive, Cease to be free. Time-servers, wond’ring, shall View us determin’d all Spite of the Court; Spite of their wily tricks, And Back-stair politics, Fox is the man we fix On to support. We, like Sir Judas Wray, Will not our friends betray, But, orthodox In aid of liberty, Let the whole nation see True and staunch we will be Ever to Fox. Void of all treachery, To guard our liberty, Foremost stands Fox: Let, then, be this our cry Conquer, or let us die. Huzza! boys, Victory! Freedom, and Fox. From The History of the Westminster Election, 1784.

Our Mother Church. God save great George our King! Long live our noble King, God save the King, Send him victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the King! Old mother Church disdains The vile dissenting strains, That round her ring; She keeps her dignity, And, scorning faction’s cry, Sings with sincerity, God save the King! Sedition is their creed; Feigned sheep, but wolves indeed, How can we trust? Gunpowder Priestley would Deluge the throne with blood, And lay the great and good Low in the dust. History, thy page unfold, Did not their sires of old Murder their King! And they would overthrow King, lords and bishops too, And, while they gave the blow, Loyally sing, “O Lord our God arise Scatter our enemies, And make them fall; Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks; On thee our hopes we fix, God save us all.”

God save great Johnny Bull, Long live our noble Bull, God save John Bull. Send him victorious, Loud and uproarious, With lungs like Boreas, God save John Bull. O Johnny Bull be true, Oppose the prices new, And make them fall; Curse Kemble’s politics, Frustrate his knavish tricks, On thee our hopes we fix. Confound them all. No private boxes let Intriguing ladies get, Thy right, John Bull. From little pigeon-holes Defend us jolly souls; And we will sing, by goles, God save John Bull. The Covent Garden Journal. Vol. II. London, 1810.

Oh, Lord avar God Arais, schaeter Is enemis and Mece them fol Confond tear Politekse frosstre Their nevise trix On George avar hopes We fix. God save the Kin.

Hail! Masonry Divine. Hail! Masonry divine Glory of ages shine, Long may’st thou hold; Where’er thy lodges stand May they have great command, And always grace the land: Thou Art divine. Great fabrics still arise, And touch the azure skies, Great are thy schemes; Thy noble orders are Matchless beyond compare, No art with thee can share, Thou art divine. Hiram, the architect, Did all the craft direct How they should build; Solomon, great Israel’s King, Did mighty blessings bring, And left us room to sing, Hail! Royal Art. From The Universal Songster.

God Save the Rights of Man. God save the Rights of Man, Give him a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around, Where ever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear. See, from the universe, Darkness and clouds disperse; Mankind awake; Reason and Truth appear, Freedom advances near, Monarchs with terror hear; See how they quake! O’er the Germanic Powers Loud indignation showers, Ready to fall. Let the rude savage host, In their long numbers boast, Freedom’s Almighty trust, Laughs at them all. Let us with Spain agree, And bid the world be free, Leading the way: Let tyrants all conspire, Fearless of sword and fire, Freedom shall ne’er retire, Freedom shall sway. Fame let thy trumpet sound, Tell all the world around, Tell each degree; Tell ribbons, crowns, and stars, Kings, traitors, troops, and wars, Holy Leagues, plots, and jars, Spaniards are free. God save the Rights of Man, Give him a heart to scan Blessings so dear: Let them be spread around, Wherever man is found, And with the welcome sound Ravish his ear. From The Wreath of Freedom, or Patriot’s Song Book. (J. Marshall, Newcastle. 1820.)

People throughout the land, Join in one social band, And save yourselves; If you would happy be, Free from all slavery, Banish all knavery, And save yourselves. Why will you always toil, While others share the spoil? Work for yourselves! Let them who live so high Work for themselves, or try, Tell them ’tis time to try To keep themselves. Parsons and peers may preach, And endless falsehoods teach, Think for yourselves; Then let your watchword be “Justice and Liberty”— And toil unwearedly To save yourselves.

The National Anthem. (For use in the Bradlaughable Republic.) God = X. Title of Freethinker’s Text Book. “X” save our graceless Chief, Reward his unbelief, “X” save our B. O’er Church victorious, And Throne, once glorious, Now sole Lord over us— Xtol our B! Science, our “X”! arise! Xplode B.’s enemies, And squash them small! Confound their politics! Frustrate their knavish tricks, Oh “X”! these heretics Xtinguish all! 115 Thy Xcellent gifts in store. Great “X”! be pleased to pour, On sacred B.! May he repeal the laws Which make our conscience pause, (Oaths merely move our jaws) And win loud lip-applause. “X”! (pelled) M.P.

Deposuit Potentes de Sede. Down with their lofty seats, Down with their vain conceits, Down with the Lords! Confound their false pretence, Confound their want of sense, Confound their impudence, Down with the Lords! Down with their arrogant, Reckless, extravagant, Insolent words! Shall they reject the bill? Shall they dissolve at will? Shall they obstruct us still? Down with the Lords! Commons of England, yet Shall the proud Lords regret Their futile aim. Make then our hearts rejoice, You are the People’s choice, You are the People’s voice, They but a name. The Pall Mall Gazette. October 3, 1884.

God Save Gladstone. God save the People’s Friend! May he our cause defend! Trusted and brave. Lengthen his span of years, Deepen the tyrants fears, Until the right appears, Gladstone still save! God save the noble band Who long have led the van Of Freedom’s host! May faith and courage be Watchwords of Liberty! Until the goal we see, Each to his post! Gladstone, the People’s Friend! Our aid we gladly lend Thy work to do: Yielding no inch of ground He will his foes confound, So shall our cause abound— Liberty true. From Songs for Liberal Electors, Manchester. A. Heywood and Sons, 1885.

Soon will our gracious Queen In town again be seen— Our long-lost Queen; Let us be glorious, Yea, quite laborious With mirth uproarious To—oo—oo greet our Queen! Thus will Victoria Reg. Give us this privilege Too seldom seen. For she (oh, great event!) Hath stated her intent To o—o—open Parliament Parliament— O—o—oh! gracious Queen! Hail, then, with all your pow’r, That joyous brief half-hour, When she’ll be seen! Thanks to our politics (Which, through our M.P.’s tricks, Often are in a fix) We—e shall see our Queen! Fun. January 20, 1886.

Additional Verse composed on the Queen’s Marriage. O, grant our earnest prayer, Smile on the Royal pair, Bless Prince and Queen! May Albert’s name be dear To every Briton’s ear, The peasant and the peer— God save the Queen.

God bless her Majesty, In this her Jubilee, Long may she reign! May she be near to us, Ever more dear to us, Oftener appear to us, God save the Queen! Truth. February 17, 1887.

God bless our native land, May heaven’s protecting hand Still guard our shore; 116 May peace her power extend, Foe be transformed to friend, And Britain’s power depend On war no more. Thro’ every changing scene O Lord preserve our Queen, Well may she reign. Her heart inspire and move With wisdom from above, And in the nation’s love Her throne maintain. May just and prudent laws Uphold the public cause, And bless our Isle; Home of the brave and free, The land of liberty, We pray that still on thee Kind heaven may smile. And not this land alone, But be Thy mercies known From shore to shore. Let all the nations see That men should brothers be, And form one family The wide world o’er.

The Judge’s Song. When I, good friends, was called to the Bar, I’d an appetite fresh and hearty, But I was, as many young barristers are, An impecunious party. I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue— A brief which I bought of a booby— A couple of shirts and a collar or two, And a ring that looked like a ruby! Chorus.—A couple of shirts, &c. In Westminster Hall I danced a dance, Like a semi-despondent fury; For I thought I never should hit on a chance, Of addressing a British jury— But I soon got tired of third class journeys, And dinners of bread and water; So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter. Chorus.—So he fell in love, &c. The rich attorney he jumped with joy, And replied to my fond professions: “You shall reap the reward of your pluck, my boy “At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions. “You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he, “And a very nice girl you’ll find her! “She may very well pass for forty-three “In the dusk, with a light behind her!” Chorus.—She may very well, &c. 117 The rich attorney was good as his word; The briefs came trooping gaily, And every day my voice was heard At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey. All thieves who could my fees afford Relied on my orations, And many a burglar I’ve restored, To his friends and his relations. Chorus.—And many a burglar, &c. At length I became as rich as the Gurneys— An incubus then I thought her, So I threw over that rich attorney’s Elderly, ugly daughter. The rich attorney my character high, Tried vainly to disparage— And now, if you please, I’m ready to try This Breach of Promise of Marriage! Chorus.—And now, if you please, &c. W. S. Gilbert.

When you, my friend, are called to the Bar, Your wit may be fresh and hearty; You may be, as many young barristers are, A somewhat jocular party. But you won’t, in the course of your legal journeys, Be required to cross the water To plead, as advised by ’cute attorneys, For somebody’s jilted daughter. A cute attorney jumps with joy When he hears a maid’s confession, And chuckles to think how he’ll bully the boy, In revenge for his retrogression. “You’ll get big damages, sure,” he’ll say, And cautiously remind her That her mother should bring her to court on the day, And her brother stand close behind her. No, no. You won’t grow rich as the Gurneys Through accustomed legal slaughter; To the courts no more shall ’cute attorneys Bring somebody’s jilted daughter. That species of extortion I Most heartily disparage, And mean that henceforward no judge shall try A Breach of Promise of Marriage.” Funny Folks. May 17, 1879.

The Mahdi of Mid-Lothian. (The Mahdi and Chorus of Radicals.) The Mahdi— I am the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian. Chorus— And a very queer Mahdi too. The Mahdi— You are very, very rude; And I’d have it understood I command a motley crew. Though a Tory I was born, My creed I have forsworn, And am a Rad of a deepish dye, I never turn my coat With a view to catch a vote, And I never tell a big, big——official statement. Chorus— What, never? The Mahdi— No, never. Chorus— What, never? The Mahdi— Well, hardly ever. Chorus— Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian; Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian. The Mahdi— I’ve trimmed my sails to satisfy you all. Chorus— And we never knew what you meant. The Mahdi— Why, that’s my little game But I tell you all the same You are most impertinent. An insincere excuse I never, never use, Whatever the emergency. And I never, never ape, In any form or shape, The conduct of the late Lord B. Chorus— What, never? The Mahdi— No, never. Chorus— What, never? The Mahdi— Well, hardly ever. Chorus— Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, The Grand Old Mahdi of Mid-Lothian: Then give three cheers for the Grand Old Man, For the Mahdi of Mid-Lothian. Manchester Courier. 1885.

H.M. Home Rule Corps. Captain Gladstone— I am the captain of this Home Rule Corps! All— And a right good captain too! Captain— You’re a very mix’d lot, Some are cold, some are hot, But you’re safe “pretty far” to go. All— We’re a very mix’d lot, Some are cold, some are hot, But we’re safe “pretty far” to go. Captain— I care for no Whig mutineer, For “three courses” I can steer, Bold pilot in extremity, I’ve never miss’d my mark, With Tory, Turk, or Bismarck. Nor lost the Lib’ral ship at sea! All— What, never? Captain— No, never! All— What, Never? 118 Captain— Hardly ever! All— Hardly ever lost ship at sea! Then give three cheers and one cheer more, For the hardy captain of this Home Rule Corps. Captain— I’ll do my best to satisfy you all— All— But will you satisfy Parnell? Captain— That is neither here nor there, I play upon the square, And will “box the compass” well! All— We’re neither here nor there, He plays upon the square, And he’ll “box the compass” well Captain— Veil’d words I never use, Nor Lib’ral trust abuse, Whatever the emergency; Lose my temper I may, But friend nor foe can say I ever do it with a big, big D—— All— What, never? Captain— No, never! All— What, Never? Captain— Hardly ever! All— Hardly ever does it with a big, big D—— Then give three cheers and one cheer more For the well-bred captain of the Home Rule Corps. All— For he is the captain of this Home Rule Corps; And a right good captain too! Captain— I’ve had many a sore fall, Ere made captain of you all, But you’re a promising crew! All— He’s had many a sore fall, Ere made captain of us all, And we’re a promising crew. Captain— I’ll hit upon a plan, To please the Parnell clan, Yet keep united Nations Three; They’ll play Parli’ment for diversion, Ne’er bother ’bout coercion Nor brick-bat Constabul’ry! All— What, never? Captain— No, never! All— What, never? Captain— Hardly ever! All— Hardly ever brick-bat Constabul’ry! Then give three cheers and one cheer more, For the daring captain of this Home Rule Corps. The North British Daily Mail. February 8, 1886.

Giant Landlord. I’m the curse of my country, the terror of all, Especially those who are feeble and small; I’m a grabber of land, and the people know me As a big-acred Landlord and J. of the P. Yes, I am a J. of the big, big P., And a very funny J. I’m too; For I never, never saw any practice in the law, And I never know what to do. But the clerk to whom I look, finds the law out in a book, And he whispers what it ought to be; And the pris’ners at the bar, Who or what-so-e’er they are, They never mercy get from me! Jack— What, never? Giant L.—No, never! Jack— What, never? Giant L.—No, never! No, never mercy get from me! Jack and the Villagers— Then give three groans, and three times three, For the cruel J. of the big, big P. Aye, give three groans, and three times three, For the J, of the big, big P. Truth. Christmas Number. 1884.

Lord Beaconsfield’s Song. When I was a lad I served a term As clerk to a decent attorney’s firm; But the trammels of the office were so vile a bore, That I longed to be stepping from the big front-door! I slipped through that portal so readilee, That now I am a noble and, to boot, K.G.! As novel-writer I made such a mark, That a Seat was discovered for the lawyer’s clerk; Then I sneered and flouted with a smile so bland, Till at last I had the Tories in my own right hand! I chaffed my opponents in a style so free, That now I am a noble, and a big K.G.! By “slanging” Liberals I made such a name, That a full-blown Premier I soon became; With a “brute majority” to dance to my flute, I made an Indian Empress, and an Earl to boot! And that smart, Imperial juggle did so well for me, That now I am a noble and, you know, K.G.! I grew so trusted that I was sent To the Congress, Britain for to represent. I cut up Turkey and insulted Greece; But you know I collared Cyprus, and I “brought back peace.” For a “peace with honour” they rewarded me By making of a nobleman a brave K.G.! Now, statesmen all, whoever you may be, If you’re wishful to emulate this “big, big D.,” If your souls are not fettered to the Lower House, Be careful to be guided by the rule of nous: Stick close to the Crown, and never chop down trees, And you all may be noblemen, and all K.G.’s. Funny Folks. September 7, 1878.

President Garfield. When he was a lad he served a term On a big canal with a boatman’s firm: With a heart so free, and a will so strong, On the towpath drove two mules along; And he drove those mules so carefullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee. 119 As a driver boy he made such a mark He came to the deck of the inland barque And all of the perils to boat and crew He stood at the helm and guided thro’. He stood at the helm so manfullee He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee. He did so well with the helm and the mules, They made him a teacher of district schools; And when from college in a bran new suit, A Greek professor at the Institute, Where Greek and Latin he taught so free He’s a candidate now for the Presidencee.

Now boys who cherish ambitious schemes, Though now you may be but drivers of teams, Look well to the work you may chance to do, And do it with a hand that is kind and true. Whatever you do, do it faithfullee, And you may aspire to the Presidencee.

Little Primrose’s Song. (After Little Buttercup.) Lord B.— A many years ago, When I became a Tory, My brain was all aglow With dreams of fame and glory. Ministers— Now hear his artless story! When he became a Tory He dreamt of fame and glory A many years ago. Lord B.— One tender thought I “nussed”— To gain a high position, And mix with upper crust Was ever my ambition. Ministers— Now, hear his frank admission! To be a sham patrician Was always his ambition A many years ago. Lord B.— Oh, bitter was my lot! Oh, vast was my vexation! They never once forgot My former humble station. Ministers— Oh, what humiliation! They seized on each occasion To mock his humble station A many years ago. Lord B.— But soon I made a hit, And nobody could doubt it: They cheered my ready wit, They couldn’t do without it! Ministers— Now this is all about it— He’d wit and none could doubt it, Nor could they do without it A many years ago. Lord B.— My Party wanted power, And I so aptly taught it, That in a lucky hour To Office back I brought it. Ministers— So artfully he taught it, That back to Place he brought it; Now who’d have ever thought it A many years ago? Funny Folks. March 6, 1880.

Duet. (By two Persons of Quality.) First Person of Quality. Your Grace, we have important information— Sing hey, the silly Liberal that you are!— About a certain intimate relation Between the artful Afghan and the Czar. Sing hey, the artful Afghan, The crafty, treacherous Afghan, The sneaking, dangerous Afghan, and the Czar! Second Person of Quality. My Lord, in your romantic vein you’re speaking— Sing hey, the wily Hebrew that you are!— We don’t believe there’s any kind of sneaking Between the virtuous Afghan and the Czar. Sing hey, the virtuous Afghan, The well-intentioned Afghan, The harmless, truthful Afghan, and the Czar! First Person of Quality. Your Grace has not a spark of patriot feeling— Sing hey, the factious Radical you are!— Or you’d know we cannot letters be revealing, That touch a friendly Potentate, the Czar. (Con expressione.) Sing hey, the friendly Monarch, The much-respected Monarch, Our best of foreign relatives, the Czar. Second Person of Quality (Con furia). My Lord, we give you fair and timely warning— Sing hey, the Tory criminal you are!— We’ll talk to the Electors, one fine morning, About the ill-used Afghan, and the Czar. (Lagrimando.) ’Bout the poor ill-usèd Afghan, The much malignèd Afghan, The loyal faithful Afghan, and the Czar! Punch. March 13, 1880.

“For he himself has said it, That it’s much to his discredit That he’s an Englishman. He would rather be a Rooshan, A Turk, or Greek, or Prooshan, Or else Red In-di-an; And his future aspirations Will be turned to other nations, Not to be an Englishman.” Funny Folks.

Song for a Policeman. Hem! I represent the law, ’Sent the law. Of the Beak upon the Bench, well, I’m the claw, I’m the claw. I’m a terror and a snare To all not upon the square; And some envy me my uniform of blue, Yes, they due, Many envy me my uniform of blue. Duty calls me on some roads, On some roads, Where, I own, I meet with pleasant episodes, Episodes; Where the housemaids have good looks, And obliging are the cooks, With no beastly barracks near to make ’em rue, Make ’em rue; Yes, it’s valued then, this uniform of blue. For the credit of the Force, Of the Force, A proper pride I cultivate, of course, ’Vate, of course; But, though sad, it must be told, All that glitters is not gold, And the statement Mr. Gilbert made is true, Made is true,— No! it’s not all joy to wear this dress of blue. Judy. July 11, 1883.

Song.—By the Prince of Wales. When a Prince is not engaged in his employment— His employment, Such as laying by the score foundation stones— ’Dation stones, His capacity for innocent enjoyment— ’Cent enjoyment, For the cares of Princely etiquette atones— ’Quette atones— When he’s finished holding Levée’s for his mother— For his mother, And has done official duties for the day— For the day, He contrives his Princely weariness to smother— ’Ness to smother, By indulging in a visit to the play— To the play! So he’s often at one playhouse or another— Or another, When there is no public dinner to be done— To be done; And take one consideration with another— With another, A Prince’s lot might be a sadder one— Sadder one! When there’s no official business to be done, A Prince’s life might be a sadder one! Truth Christmas Number. 1884.

An Election Effusion. When the Free and Independent goes a voting—goes voting, He is very apt to make his presence felt; And election-news is nowadays denoting—a denoting, That a nasty knock to Gladstone he has dealt— Amid the Separation dust, and smother—dusty smother, The Unionists their task have bravely done, Taking one consideration with another—with another, They all wisely took the tip of Mr. Fun—wondrous Fun! When preserving of the Empire’s to be done—to be done, It’s always safe to follow Mr. Fun. * * * * * Fun. July 21, 1886.

The Wheelists’ Chorus. When the city man has finished his employment, —His employment; When anxiety and all its cares are o’er, —Cares are o’er; He devotes his mind to wheeling as enjoyment, —As enjoyment And voteth all his business is a bore, —Is a bore. His feelings he’ll with difficulty smother; —Culty smother; When after all his daily toil is done, Toil is done; Taking one consideration with another, With another; The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one, Happy one. When the enterprising Wheelist’s not a wheeling, Not a wheeling, When the Wheelist isn’t occupied on wheels, —Pied on wheels, He loves to saunter in the evening early, Evening early, And listen to the distant village peals, Village peals. When the tourist’s not engaged in his vocation, His vocation. He loves to go a touring in the sun, In the sun; Taking all things into due consideration, —Sideration, The Wheelist’s lot it is a happy one, Happy one. Alfred Gibbons. Wheeling Annual 1885.

Song and Chorus. (Picked up near the Opera Comique.) When Lord Beaky’s not engaged in lamentation— Lamentation, He’s tearing all his pretty curly hair— Curly hair; When Northcote can control his agitation— Agitation, He is asking “How the rabid nation dare?” Nation dare? When the enterprising Cross is not a-sobbing— Not a-sobbing, 121 When Manners is not making dismal rhymes— Dismal rhymes, The former big big D’s his water-jobbing— Water-jobbing, The last inveighs ’gainst Telegraph and Times— -graph and Times. When Smith has finished dancing in ill-humour— In ill-humour, He grinds his little tootsicums like fun— -cums like fun; Oh! despite the Disappointed Party’s rumour— Party’s rumour, The Tories’ lot is not a happy one— Happy one! Funny Folks. April 24, 1880.

The Secretary’s Song. I. When a fellow finds in Tennis his enjoyment, Or maturing his pot-hunting little plans, If the Secretarial duty’s his employment, He had rather it were any other man’s. He wishes he’d a cousin or a brother, Who would do the little job and think it fun, Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one; Ah! When a Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one. II. When the cunning young mug-lumb’rer’s not mug-lumb’ring, When the shirker doesn’t fail to come to time, Still the Secretary mustn’t be caught slumb’ring, Nor waiting for the distant village chime. When the players fall a-wrangling with each other, Or the Referee’s dry sherry short has run, Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one, Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one. III. When the grass is very hard, or wet and sloppy, Or your spikes are ploughing furrows in the ground, Every ball will be “found dead,” or much too hoppy, And, of course, will “hardly ever” fairly bound, Then you’ll surely find the cause of all the bother In the Secretary’s duty badly done; Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one. Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one. IV. When the weather is propitious, bright, and sunny, Our tournament successfully we hold; Then how gleefully we gather up the money, And the Secretary gladly counts the gold. But, when clouds and wind and rains the heavens smother, Then the Secretary’s blamed for lack of sun; Oh, take one consideration with another, His official lot is not a happy one. Ah! When the Secretary’s duty’s to be done, His official lot is not a happy one. From Tennis Cuts and Quips. London, Field and Tuer.

The Wheelist King. (Parody on “The Pirate King.”—Pirates of Penzance.) Oh, better far to ride a bike Through the air on a frosty night, And catch the breezes as they blow Till cheeks all ruddy and a glow, You feel as though you’re a man of might, And fly through the air as a thing of light, Than stay at home and mope away The length’ning night of a winter’s day. For I am the wheeling king. I am the wheeling king, And it is, it is a glorious thing To be the wheeling king. Oh, better far the path to ride Of cinders, merrily side by side, And rank as a racing man of might, Than dwindle away a summer’s night. For honour is due to racer brave, And scoff the reward of the moping slave; So still I’ll ride, and the song I’ll sing Will be that I’m the wheeling king. For I am the wheeling king, I am the wheeling king, And it is, it is a glorious thing To be the wheeling king. A. Gibbons. Wheeling Annual. 1885.

The Colonel’s Song. (Patience.) When I first put this uniform on, I said, as I looked in the glass, “It’s one to a million That any civilian, My figure and form will surpass. Gold lace has a charm for the fair, And I’ve plenty of that, and to spare, While a lover’s professions, When uttered in Hessians, Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put this uniform on! Chorus of Dragoons— By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, The same thing occurred to me too, When I first put this uniform on! * * * * *

The Impecunious Officer. But I’m bound to confess that it comes rather hard Upon those who’ve not much but their pay, To have all the Horse Guards commands to regard As to how we’ve ourselves to array. It is now—let me see—close on twenty-one years Since I had my regimentals to don; And, oh, how they’ve changed them, And re-re-arranged them, Since I first put this uniform on. The Duke, our commander, an excellent man, Has seemingly spent all his days In trying original methods to plan For putting on lace in new ways; For cutting out tunics and altering caps, To similar lengths he has gone; Scores of times he has changed them, And re-re-arranged them, Since I first put this uniform on! Truth, Christmas Number. 1882.

Song by Prince Henry of Battenberg. “When I first had the garments to don, Which are worn by the Highlander bold, The kilt I’d to wear Left my kneecaps so bare, That I shiver’d and shook with the cold! But for dear mamma-in-law’s sake, I continued to shiver and shake; Yes, though the keen breeze Seem’d my marrow to freeze, Her favour I knew was at stake And ’twas this that I reckoned upon, When I still kept that uniform on. “But though I continued to wear Those very remarkable clothes, I am sorry to say There was scarcely a day That I did not use strong (German) oaths For the mists were so damp and so chill, And the wind grew so cuttingly shrill, That at length I was fain To in sorrow complain That the kilt would me certainly kill— A fact p’rhaps not counted upon When they put me that Highland dress on. “Yet though I the tartan foreswore, And the kilt and the philibeg too, And was able to shirk Both the sporran and dirk, And the bonnet of Roderick Dhu, Yet still I in public, ’twas clear, In some uniform must appear; So my mother-in-law Colonel Atherley saw, And I soon was a bold Volunteer! The Colonel, by fiction polite, Of the valorous Fifth Isle of Wight. “But when I its uniform donned, Of a dull and invisible green, With green, too, for facings, And few tags or lacings, I own that I thought it looked mean, Compared with the liveries splendid Of those on the Queen who attended. Aye, I felt it was hard That the Yeoman on guard Had a costume that mine far transcended; Whilst the flunkeys, I had to confess, Beat me too in the matter of dress. * * * * * “And so it at length was agreed, When we many projects had weigh’d, For me to petition A Captain’s Commission In Her Majesty’s Household Brigade; And as it was felt the jack-boot Would my legs most undoubtedly suit; And that I to assume The cuirass and the plume Was fine enough, past all dispute, ’Twas further decided that I The Life Guards to join should apply. “Meanwhile, though, I’m sorry to say, There has been some strange opposition; And I haven’t as yet Been enabled to get This much-desired Captain’s commission; And so I at present don’t dare, The uniform, handsome, to wear, But still must be seen, In my Volunteer Green, Whene’er in State functions I share; A fact I think well to disclose, To those who my purpose oppose. “And I, amongst these, I am told, Not only M.P.’s must include, But the officers, too, Who essay to taboo 123 What they call my attempt to obtrude. But, surely, they will not maintain Their attitude now I’ve made plain Why it is that I fear To in public appear As a Volunteer Colonel again. No; when they my plight think upon They’ll let me their uniform don! Truth. March 4, 1886.

When I first put Joe’s uniform on. (Dissident Liberal.) When I first put Joe’s uniform on, I said as I looked in the glass, “A conscience that’s hearty Should rise above Party, And trust for support to the Mass. Independence of spirit is rare, But I’ll prove that of that I’ve to spare, While a patriot’s pleadings, Though backed by secedings. Are eloquent everywhere!” A fact that I counted upon, When I first put Joe’s uniform on! Chorus of other Dissident Liberals— By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, The same thing occurred to me, too! When I first put Joe’s uniform on! I said, when I first put it on, “It is plain to the veriest dunce, That every voter With duty for motor, Must plump for the Empire at once! They will see that a statesman debased By our Chamberlain squad has been placed In an odd situation To pass Separation. Which will surely be quite to their taste. Yes, that’s what I counted upon, When I first put Joe’s uniform on! Chorus of other Dissident Liberals— By a simple coincidence, &c. But alas! now it’s come to the pinch, I discover, unfortunate man! That the Lib’ral elector Is not an objector To Gladstone’s deplorable plan. He ranks me with Tories—oh, dear! Nor do arguments specious appear To gammon the Caucus That’s striving to baulk us, And my chance in especial to “queer”! Which I never counted upon When I first put Joe’s uniform on! Chorus of other Dissident Liberals— By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, I damaged my prospects—like you— When I first put Joe’s uniform on! Funny Folks. June 26, 1886.

The Colonel’s Song. If you want a receipt for that popular mystery, Known to the world as a Heavy Dragoon, Take all the remarkable people in history, Rattle them off to a popular tune. The pluck of Lord Nelson on board of the Victory— Genius of Bismarck devising a plan; The humour of Fielding (which sounds contradictory,) Coolness of Paget, about to trepan. Take of these elements all that is fusible, Melt them all down in a pipkin or crucible, Set them to simmer and take off the scum, And a heavy Dragoon is the residuum! Chorus—Yes! yes! yes! yes! A Heavy Dragoon is the residuum! * * * * *

Advise to a Shorthand Jenius. I. If you want a resiet for a novel stenografy, a paragon sistem, fonetik and true, and which in a trise shal extinguish Phonography, list, and I’l tel you just what you shud do. Note what inventions old authorz hav hit upon, boldly appropriate all that you kan; take the quintessens ov all that you’v lit upon, arranje it anew on a different plan; shuffel the strokes til you’v got a new alfabet; skatter the dots here and there for the vowelz: the serkelz and kurvz you must mix up yourself a bit; abbreviate words by ejekting their bowelz; lengthen your outlinez to make an addition; shorten them now to show an omission; kompile a whole pajeful ov neat intersektionz; ov rulez and exseptionz make bulky kollektionz; ov frazez and grammalogz next ad a few; turn on some digrafs and poligrafs too. Take ov theze elements all that’s most horribel; stir them together in fashion deplorribel; set them to simmer, and take of the skum; and a new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um. Yes, yes, yes, yes! A new shorthand sistem’z the re-sid-u-um! II. If you want a resiet for th’ advertisement part ov it, don’t let dul modesty stand in the way. Write a tall prefase, extolling the art ov it; ’gainst every rival most loudly inveigh: announs that none other dezervz popularity; state that ther’z everything exsellent in it, that its writerz’ attain an astounding selerity— nine hundred and ninety-nine wordz in a minit! Next kritisize Pitman in languaje sensorious; deklare that hiz sistem’z playd out and effete, that your own method’z quickly bekuming viktorious, and wil soon make Phonography take a back seat. What tho your outlinez be shocking monstrositiz, useles, exsept az sublime kuriositiz; what tho your sistem abound with absurditiz so that when a sign’z written you kan’t tel what word it iz: pen pamflets, and posterz, and frendly reviewz; hand-billz and serkularz widely diffuze. If singly theze elements don’t seem respektabel, mix them together in fashion delektabel, set them to simmer, and take of the scum, and a short span ov fame iz the resid-u-um. Yes, yes, yes, yes! A short span ov fame is the re-sid-u-um. From The Phonetic Journal, 1886.

Bunthorne’s Song. If you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line As a man of culture rare, You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, And plant them everywhere. You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases Of your complicated state of mind. The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter Of a transcendental kind. And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!” * * * * *

The Cultured Assistant. If you want to cut a shine in Professor Attfield’s line Of high-class pharmacy, You must get up all the germs and the new-notation terms Of everything you see. You must learn about the daisies, and cram botanic phrases On every flower you find. If you’ve only got a smattering, be everlasting chattering To expose your “cultured mind.” And every one shall say, as you walk your mystic way, “If this young man converses in terms that are far too deep for me, Why, what a pharmaceutically-deep young man, then, this young man must be.” Be sure you never praise those very ancient days When trade was sure to pay, But make them plainly see that eighteen eighty-three Is “culture’s” palmiest day. Of course you will pooh pooh whate’er they used to do, And pronounce it crude and mean, And declare “that oil and smalts, or pennyworths of salts, Are things you’ve never seen.” And everyone will say, as you walk your mystic way, “If that’s not good enough for him, that is good enough for me, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be.” You must study sight and sound, for these, it has been found, Are required in making pills; And in keeping up your stock, the philosophy of Locke A wond’rous power instills. And mind you never drop a word about the “shop” For it’s plain as plain can be, You bid farewell to trade, when acquaintance has been made With high-class pharmacy; Though employers oft may say, as you walk your “cultured” way, “If he’s content with scientific lore, he’ll certainly not suit me, For a money-making, practical, and business man my kind of man must be.” Phil. Bosecic. From a Chemical Journal.

Duet. Patience and Grosvenor. Grosvenor— Prithee, pretty maiden—prithee tell me true, (Hey, but I’m doleful, willow willow waly!) Have you e’er a lover a dangling after you? Hey, willow waly O! I would fain discover If you have a lover? Hey, willow waly O! Patience— Gentle Sir, my heart is frolicsome and free— (Hey, but he’s doleful, willow willow waly!) Nobody I care for comes a courting me— Hey, willow waly O! Nobody I care for Comes a courting—therefore, Hey, willow waly O! * * * * * * * * * *

Duet. Mr. Gladstone, and Sir W. Vernon Harcourt. Mr. Gladstone— Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, prithee tell me true (Hey, but it’s shocking, willow, willow waly!) Did you speak the words attributed to you? Hey, willow, waly, oh! I should like to know, sir, How far did you go, sir? Hey, willow, waly, oh! Sir W. Vernon Harcourt— Gentle chief, my words may frolicsome have been (Hey, but it’s surprising, willow, willow, waly!) Yet to such a length I did not go, I ween. Hey, willow, waly, oh! There was nought indecent, In my speech so recent, Hey, willow, waly, oh! 125 Mr. Gladstone— Prithee, Vernon Harcourt, will you sell to me (Hey, but I’m anxious, willow, willow, waly!), The paper, where reported, I your speech shall see? Hey, willow, waly, oh! Anything, I’ll pay you; What’s your price? Come, say you; Hey, willow, waly, oh! Sir W. Vernon Harcourt— Gentle chief, although to purchase you design (Hey, but it’s tempting, willow, willow, waly!) My paper’s not for sale, so I fear I must decline; Hey, willow, waly, oh! Money will not buy it, It’s no good to try it; Hey, willow, waly oh! (Together.) Sir W. V. Harcourt— Though to use such words would very wicked be. Mr. Gladstone— (Hey, but it’s shameful, willow, willow, waly!) Printed in The Times, they’d most amusing be! Sir W. V. Harcourt— Hey, willow, waly, oh! I shall get a chaffing, All the world is laughing; Hey, willow, waly, oh! The Sporting Times. January 28, 1882.

Candidate— Prithee, Secretary, what’s the latest news? (Hey, but I’m eager, willow, willow waly!) Has another Marwood stepped into his shoes? Hey, willow waly, O! Never mind the pang, man— Have they got a hangman? Hey, willow waly, O! Secretary of State— Gentle sir, the post unoccupied you see— (Hey, but he’s eager, willow, willow waly!) But you’ll p’raps explain now why you’re teasing me— Hey, willow waly, O! Kindly, please, inform one Why you come and storm one, Hey, willow waly, O! Candidate— Prithee, Secretary, give the place to me— (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow willow waly!) I may say, at once, I shall scrag ’em properlee— Hey, willow waly, O! Only deign to try me, Come, you can’t deny me, Hey, willow waly, O! Secretary of State— Gentle sir, although I honour your design— (Hey, but he’s hopeful, willow, willow waly!) I’ve not the appointment, and so I must decline, Hey, willow waly, O! To sheriffs straightway go you— Observe the door I show you. Hey, willow waly, O! Funny Folks. September 22, 1883.

A New Duet from “Patience.” Salisbury— Prithee, gentle working-man, once my bugaboo, (Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?) Are there any Radicals dangling after you, Hey, willow waly, O! I would fain climb over your shoulder into clover, Hey, willow waly, O! Working-Man— Noble lord, my vote is quite unpledged and free, (Hey, but he’s civil, isn’t he now, rale-y?) The Rads don’t seem to care for to take the stump for me, Hey, willow waly, O! And what you are there for—oh, well I know the wherefore, Hey, willow waly, O! Salisbury— Prithee, gentle working-man, won’t you vote for me? (Hey, but I’m hopeful, willow waly), And leave the Grand Old Man at home to chop his tree, Hey, willow waly, O? Truth. November 15, 1883.

Trio in “Patience.” (Duke, Colonel, and Major.) It’s clear that Mediæval art alone retains its zest, To charm and please its devotees we’ve done our little best. We’re not quite sure if all we do has the Early English ring; But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing; You hold yourself like this, You hold yourself like that, By hook and crook you try to look both angular and flat. We venture to expect That what we recollect, Though but a part of true High Art will have its due effect. If this is not exactly right, we hope you won’t upbraid; You can’t get high Æsthetic tastes, like trousers, ready made. True views on Mediævalism, Time alone will bring, But, as far as we can judge, it’s something like this sort of thing: You hold yourself like this &c., &c.

The Troublesome Trio. Appearing nightly during the Performance of “Impatience,” at St. Stephen’s. We’ve long opined the House should prove a sort of hornet’s nest; 126 At least to turn it into one we’ve done our little best; And though our pranks upon ourselves no credit seem to bring, Still, when the Grand Old Man’s our game—we’re up to anything! We gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that; We yawn or laugh: sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, We roar and yell and skip, And trust our brass may muster pass Somehow for Statesmanship! If you should think our posturings our Party but degrade, Reflect, “Our Party’s” but ourselves, and we’re all ready made: Tact, reason, judgment to their work, wise politicians bring, But when the Grand Old Man’s the butt—why, fools can have their fling. So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that; We yawn and laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, We have him by the hip! By Jove, our brass, though not high-class, Is all our Statesmanship. It isn’t that we really mean to irritate the Chair, Or worry old Sir Stafford till he’s fit to tear his hair, Nor o’er our friends do we desire our party mud to fling, But when the Grand Old Man gets up—we’re up to anything! So, we gibe at him like this, we snap at him like that, We yawn, we laugh; sometimes we chaff, or contradict him flat; And, if he make a slip, Like Cannibals we skip, And show the House what depths of nous, Has Jingo Statesmanship! Punch. November 11, 1882.

Song.—The Social Belle. It’s clear, if I’m to hold my own, I must, with ardent zest, To supplement my natural charms attempt my artful best. What Nature’s done is very well, but Art can do yet more To round, to smooth, to renovate, to polish, and restore. So I lace myself like this (does so), I pad myself like that (does so), Make what is angular look round, and what bony is look fat. I hair-pin on this hair (does so), Frisettes I stick in there (does so), And to be in the fashion quite this bird-cage thus I wear. I take my blushes from a box, complexion from a jar, My dimples are to order made (a guinea each they are), My curls were purchased through the Stores (a very cheap job lot), The alabaster of my neck is four-and-six per pot. And I line my eyes like this (does so). I mark my veins like that (does so), Fill up this wrinkle so, lay this excrescence flat (does so) I fix and I cement (does so), I powder, puff, and scent (does so), Until, at last, my form is fit in public to present! Truth. Christmas Number, 1884.

“The St. James’s Gazette” on Mr. Joseph Chamberlain in 1885. When first I went to Parliament I gazed with mock humility, On Gladstone and on Hartington, on Derby and on Bright; I followed their directions with unquestioning docility, And said that what they bid me do must certainly be right. I flattered all and each of them, And daily did beseech of them Some counsel or advice, which I accepted with civility. I hastened to defer to them; When talking, I said “Sir” to them; And all my early conduct was remarkably polite, I bowed to them, Kowtowed to them, Each day from morn till night: I laughed with them, And chaffed with them, And played the parasite. But as the proverb predicates, complete familiarity Affects a mam’s ideals with a kind of moral blight: And G. and H. and D. and B. (observe the singularity!) Revealed defects of character that shocked their proselyte. I could no longer follow them, or go to them as reference; Their methods, I discovered, differed totally from mine: And therefore I reluctantly, and quite against my preference, Informed them, “Either you or I, good people must resign.” They simply would not hear of it: They had the greatest fear of it: They treated what I said to them with unaccustomed deference: They never would demur to me: They even whispered “Sir” to me; And one and all they flattered me, and asked me home to dine. They bowed to me, Kowtowed to me: And how could I decline? I sneered at them And jeered at them, But went, and drank their wine. Don’t talk to me of impudence, deception, or audacity. I worried them, I flurried them, I worked upon their fears: And now they duly recognise my value and capacity, And meekly let me lead them by their noses and their ears.

“Who are They?” A very long-nosed young man, An evil-disposed young man, An oily-tongued, empty pate, Down with the Church and State— Brother to Dilke young man. 127 A very astute young man, A remarkably ’cute young man, A very good act is his Gainst corrupt practices— Try it at Taunton young man. A “Rabbit and Hares” young man, Confront-me-who-dares young man, A modern Trebonius, Mighty Pomponius— Take-care-of-himself young man. A slap-at-the-Crown young man, A levelling down young man; A robbery, jobbery, Quakery, snobbery, Chamberlain-Bright young man. A dignified grand young man, A lord of the land young man; A stand-no-rebukery, Heir to a dukery, Devonshire House young man. A genial and kind young man, Who does all the good that he can; But the job quite bewilders Poor darling old Childers, Our army reform young man. A stolid and square young man, A troubled-with-care young man; A buckshotty, bullety, Utter futility, Message-of-peace young man. A plausible, bland old man; A shifty-as-sand old man; To aid Revolution Laws, Land, Constitution, He’d fling to the winds, old man. The Morning Post. January, 1882.

The Flippity-Flop Young Man. I once was a matter of fact young man, And thrived on port and sherry; But now I’m a kind of a cracked young man, The reverse of or-din-ary. I flip and I flop (echo) All over the shop (echo) And take it for granted you can; I’m a very Sunflowery, Aprily showery, Eastcheapy, Towery man. Chorus— I’m a very æsthetic young man, A non energetic young man, Slippity sloppity over the shoppity, Flippity flop young man. I once was a hymny and tract young man, And sternly opposed to stooping; A kind of a stick up the back young man, But now I incline to drooping, Consummately if (echo) On no account stiff (echo) I scarcely know how I began; I’m a bitter and mildy, naturey childy, Oscary Wylde-y man. Chorus— I’m a Fuller’s earth colour young man, A greeny and “yuller” young man: Pretty externally “Patience” and “Colonelly,” Utterly, utter young man. I once was a cobby and hack young man. And a little bit calico bally, A picture card out of the pack young man, And frequently Music Hally. I’d sing and I’d shout (echo) “Poor ’Liza” about (echo) And after the ladies I ran, Said Jenny to Amily, Oh, he’s a jammily, “Morally, family man.” Chorus— But I’m now a good goody young man, A head rather “Woody” young man: Body quite rickety, pose plas-tickety, Never go wrong young man. I once was a three-and-six dinner young man, And at table knew which was the best end; But now you would not find a thinner young man Tho’ you walk from the East to the West End. Two steps and a stop (echo) A skip and a hop (echo) I require but a puff and a fan; I’m a Regent Street cuttery, skip o’er the guttery, New bread and buttery man. Chorus— I’m a worship the lily young man, Crutch and tooth pick-a-dilly young man, Cracked in the filberty, Burnand and Gilberty, Strike you with paper young man. "Harry Adams.

Sir Wilfrid Lawson. A down-with-the-Tories M.P., A never-drink-spirits M.P., A won’t-touch-a-drop-ery Ginger-y, pop-ery, Friend-to-the-pump M.P. Judy. October 5, 1881.

F. C. Burnand. A threepenny Punch Young Man, A Happy-Thought Young Man; A try-to-make Punch, The best of the bunch, But bad is the best Young Man. Henry Irving and Miss Terry. A very-much sought Young Pair, An angular, well-matched Pair; A worship-the-Bard, Whilst he proves a safe card, Then fall back on Wills Young Pair! General and Mrs. Booth. A very acute Old Pair, A ranting and roaring Pair; A bawling, fanatical. Send-round-the-hat-i-cal, Pick-up-the-pence Old Pair! 128 The Daily Telegraph. A caught in the act D. T., A swiftly-condemned D. T.; A basely sensational, False informational, Properly hanged D. T.! Mr. Gladstone. A regular Grand Old Man, An easily-drawn Old Man; A noli-me-tangere, Quickly-made-anger-y, Not to be chaffed Old Man. Marquis of Salisbury. A reckless and fierce Old Man, A not-mind-a-fib Old Man; A Schouvaloff-Treatery, Up-to-deceitery, Berlin fiasco Old Man! Sir Stafford H. Northcote. A worthy but weak Old Dame, A limp and defied Old Dame; An often-defeated, Ungratefully-treated, Can’t-manage-her-brats Old Dame. Truth. Christmas Number, 1882.

An American Ideal. A common-place young girl; A decidedly rare young girl; Stay home at night, Do what is right. Help-her-old-mother young girl. A hard-to-find young girl; A reader-of-fact young girl; An extra poetical, Anti-æsthetical, Care-nothing-for-novels young girl. A minus her bangs young girl; A show-on-her-brains young girl; With an unpowdered face; One that don’t lace, A dress-for-her-health young girl. An up-in-the-morning young girl; A help-in-the-wash young girl; One that can rub, Not afraid of the tub, A roll-up-her-sleeves young girl. A quiet-and-modest young girl; A sweet-and-pure young girl; An upright, ambitious, Lovely, delicious, A pride-of-the-home young girl. A remarkably scarce young girl; A very much wanted young girl; A truly-American, Too-utter paragon, The kind-that-I-like young girl. New York Independent.

Players at Playing. Chorus of Fashionable Amateurs. When upon the stage we play, Tantantara! Our acting that of pro’s surpasses, Yaas! So pro’s and public, please, make way, And view us through your opera-glasses, Tantantara! Make room! Bow, bow, ye playhouse-loving masses, We’re taught by “coaches” and in classes, Such the power of brass is, that, although we’re asses To act we all presume. Though we boast high rank and station, Acting is our recreation, Tantantara! Make room! Solo. Spurn not the wealthy swell (Whose mind’s affected), Nor with disdain repel Pro’s self-elected. Once we would sink with shame If actors near us came, Now by rich swell and dame That art’s respected. We swells! We swells! Fair actresses would once select And them “protect,” But now we act ourselves—we swells! Chorus. In tragedy and comedy to shine is our intention. Swells. Yaas, yaas—for acting is in vogue; And we hope the pwo’s appweciate our gwacious condescension. Pro’s. To Colney Hatch you ought to be removed, we say, You noodles pay to act, and of engagements you defraud us, And often through your little game adversity has gnawed us. Swells. But look how it amuses us, and how our fwiends applaud us— Besides, it is “the thing,” you know, at acting now to play. When we seek the “coach” or the S.D.A., And wish some famous part to play, The “coach” wesponds to us, “Just so; At a matinée you must show. “To a matinée you must go, Sir (or ma’am) of highest quality, You’ll appear at the Fwivolity, At a matinée you shall show!” Then each of us fwom gay Belgwaviah Thinks himself the Stage’s saviah; And all our fwiends their plaudits thunder, Voting each of us a wonder. 129 Pro’s and Public. When Billy Shakespeare ruled the stage In good Queen Bess’s reign, The swells did not to act attempt; But they wern’t then, as now, exempt From anything like brain. And yet Thalia won her bays In quaint Queen Bess’s glorious days. When David Garrick drew the town, With Woffington la belle, No Upper-Ten folks paid to play, And yet the Drama, strange to say, Succeeded very well, It did without the swellish craze In David Garrick’s glorious days. And then again, in later times, (Say, up at Sadler’s Wells), The Drama, somehow, kept alive, And still it managed to survive Without the aid of swells. And actors won renown and praise In dear old Samuel Phelps’s days. Carados. To escape there is a way: Don’t go! Whene’r these idiots play, Don’t go! They’ve L.S.D., These would-be pro’s Each fancies he Great genius shows. But no: Take warning from this lay: Don’t go! Carados. The Referee. April, 1883.

The Lay of the Lord Chief Justice.[24] A Lord Chief Justice, by common consent, Is Law’s most lovely embodiment; For the Chancellor, though a thing of dread, Is a sort of a perfunctory figurehead. And that is why the American Bar Have selected Me to travel afar. A very agreeable jaunt, and one That will lead, I trust, to some excellent fun, And furnish a capital holiday For a most mellifluous Lord Chief J. All—And furnish, &c. But though the compliment implied Inflates me with legitimate pride, It nevertheless can’t be denied That it has a—ahem!—dangerous side. For I’m not so old or melancholic As to be quite proof ’gainst the love of frolic, And there’d be the deu—— well, a certain risk, If the Lord Chief Justice began to frisk. A possibility, I should say, For a peripatetic Lord Chief J. All—A possibility, &c. I must keep on myself strict watch and ward, Lest in more than one sense I should be abroad; For the Themis young of America Is a very agreeable girl, they say; She has affable manners—and customs free— And—she laughs at wigs! Oh! deary me. I must be as careful as careful can be, Lest I should forget Law’s dignitee. ’Tis a sore temptation to throw in the way Of such a susceptible Lord Chief J.! All—’Tis a sore temptation, &c. Punch. September 1, 1883.

The cry is still “They come,” and I Could almost wriggle with agony, For while one man would a tax impose, Another, remission would fain propose; One worthy our tea would from duty free. And another would tax up our mild Bohea; While many would gladly change the law, And put the screw upon whisky raw. Which is exasperating, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor. Then, in the interest of the rats, I’m asked to discourage the spread of cats; While a widow lady whose dog is blind Protests the afflicted should not be fined; The naughty, some say, a tax should pay Whenever they go to see the play; And broadly speaking, the wickeder you, The worse the penance you ought to do. Which is to me distressing, for I’m such a susceptible Chancellor. The Liverpool Weekly Post. April 2, 1887.

The Songs of the Professions. The Church. When I went to the Church, as a very young man, (Said I to myself, said I) I’ll work on the good old pluralist plan (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll marry the daughter of Bishop or Dean; To the best paying side in church politics lean, And whatever the work, remain idly serene (Said I to myself, said I). And I’ve managed, I fancy, to do what I say, For you see what I am by my apron to-day; And if you but look at the papers you’ll know To what bigoted lengths I am willing to go. It is true I’m too weak to my diocese work, But no one can say my chief duty I shirk. No, I quarterly draw my prelatical pay, In the fine, old, full-flavoured Episcopal way! The Army. When I took my commission as a silly young man (Said I to myself, said I), I will certainly work on a Barnumesque plan—[25] 130 (Said I to myself, said I). I will flatter my General, get in a clique, My own self-advancement at all times bespeak, And to puff my own bravery always will seek (Said I to myself, said I). So I did it, and thus, as you see me to-day, Have worked very high in the Army my way, And now am quite busy in doing my best The course of my rivals to forthwith arrest, By striving that they, although equally wise, May no army discover in which they can rise. Yes, thanks to the fads in which I persist, Our army, I take it, will not long exist. The Law. When I went to the bar as a priggish young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll work on the regular, old legal plan, (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll take more briefs than I can read through, Nor care though my clients my carelessness rue. I will stick to my fees whatever I do (Said I to myself, said I) Well. I think I have managed to score a success, And have ruined more clients than ever you’d guess; And besides, when a chance was presented to me, I my politics changed and became an M.P.; And my coat having turned (’twas a very slight wrench), I soon shall be called as a judge to the bench, From there to pass sentence, for many an act In no wise so bad as my deeds were in fact. Medicine. When I hospitals walked as a merry young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll proceed to success on a Specialist plan, (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll stick to one part of our wonderful frame, And, spite of my fellow-practitioners’ blame, I think it will bring me both lucre and fame (Said I to myself, said I). The result, I am glad to report, has been good, For I’ve earned the large fortune I said that I would, And as to my fame, it is easy to tell From the way that I’m hated I’ve won that as well. So jealous, in fact, are my rivals, I think They hardly from my vivisection would shrink, In order to find, by their treatment of me, Where this Nerve most successful they grudge me can be! Truth Christmas Number. 1883.

Some New Year’s Eve Resolves. Said a Barrister, low to himself, said he, “Next year I will keep no unearned fee, I will hold no briefs that I cannot read, Nor sully my ‘silk’ with dishonest greed. Next year I will not be paid for work Which I know full well that I mean to shirk. Nay, more, I will make my clerk return Those cheques which now in my pocket burn. Aye, straight is the course that I mean to steer Through the Legal Terms of the Glad New Year!” * * * * * Said a British General, “I will try To learn that the Alphabet’s not all ‘I.’ With the year now dawning I mean to seek To become less bumptious and grow more meek; And learn to remember in former days There were Generals, too, who deserved some praise; And that British soldiers could fight and storm, Though nought had been heard of my reform. Yes, all that the Army esteem most dear I will cease to vex in the Glad New Year!” Said a West-end Tradesman, “I hereby vow That reckless credit I’ll not allow, Nor will I make up for it e’er again By the shameful profits that I maintain; Nor will I longer essay to trade By adulteration’s scurvy aid; No! I henceforth what is pure will sell, And the demon of commerce forthwith expel, Resolved to my vows to close adhere Through the coming months of the Glad New Year! Said a Jerry Builder, “Next year shall see No Jerry dwellings put up by me! I will purchase no fever-reeking site; Nor, having bribed to the left and right, Will I there run up those frail abodes Which the life of each hapless tenant loads With cramps and chills and with torture grim, ’Till Death itself seems a boon to him; No, I as a fiend will not appear In the happy days of the Glad New Year!” Said a City Alderman, “I will try My enemies’ sneers to falsify; I’ll curb, as much as ever I’m able, My gluttonous taste at the Civic table; I’ll do my best, too, myself to force To become less bigoted, dull, and coarse; I will also strive to promote no job, And to cease the poor any more to rob. ’Though, I’m bound to add, I already fear I’ve promised too much for the Glad New Year!” Said a Man of Fashion, “Hereby I swear To think much less of the clothes I wear; To gamble less when I cannot pay, Less spirits to drink, less slang essay; The spiteful talk of the Club to ban, To take my sport as becomes a man, To shoot no pigeons, to sell no race, Nor a gentleman’s name to in aught disgrace: All this I swear, so I think ’tis clear I have much to change in the Glad New Year!” Truth. January 3, 1884.

Said I to Myself, Said I. (As sung by Mr. Henry Irving). When I took to the stage as a gifted young man, Said I, &c., I’ll act on a new, if peculiar plan, Said I, &c. I’ll never consider the rôle that I play, My method need change to a different way, From the path that I’ve chosen I never will stray, Said I &c. The public are ready for anything new Said I, &c., 131 The æsthetes are raving o’er all that I do, Said I, &c. My plan is successful, my manner attracts, No matter the play, if ’tis Irving that acts, And places are booked two months off. These are facts Said I, &c. I’ll swagger and stagger, I’ll roar and I’ll rant, Said I, &c., I’ll suddenly cease, roll my eyes, gasp and pant, Said I, &c. In mounting most costly I’ll not be outdone, Though in comedy vague my idea of fun, Yet soon on the boards I shall be number one, Said I, &c. I always will keep my peculiar stride, Said I, &c., In Hamlet, Charles, Richelieu, and Romeo beside, Said I, &c. With pre-Raffaelite Ellen my woes to assuage, In London be burlesqued, in Scotland the rage, We triumph on every American stage. Said I, &c. Onny Bridge Truth. November 15, 1883.

When I went to the City a knowing young man (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll follow the fashion as much as I can (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll live upon credit when minus of cash, In the eyes of the world I will cut such a dash, That envious chappies shall cry, “Can’t he ‘mash’!” (Said I to myself, said I). I’ll never drink anything else but best “cham.” (Said I to myself, said I), Or “cotton” to fairies who’re not “real jam” (Said I to myself, said I); But of dear little pets I will have the first pick, And dress in a style most decidedly “chick.” I’ll get from my tailor unlimited tick (Said I to myself, said I). When the “shop” is shut up, and the evening begun (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll then sally forth for some frolic and fun (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll ogle the girls at the Gaiety bar, Or, soothed by the smoke of a pipe or cigar, I’ll list to the song of the music-hall star (Said I to myself, said I). If I must be a clerk to be perched on a stool (Said I to myself, said I), I’ll not give up “mashing,” I’m not such a fool (Said I to myself, said I). So now where’s that berth advertised in the News? I’m sure with my figure they cannot refuse—— Hallo! what is this—“No mashers!” the deuce! (Said I to myself, said I). Funny Folks. May, 1884.

England sings to France. Oh, nation gay. Think you, because Your brave array Poor China awes, I’d disobey Stern Justice’ laws? Because you’re sly, And not above A tendency The weak to shove, Resemble I The timid dove? Oh, timid dove! Bird of Ovidius Naso! This heart of mine Is not as thine, And no man dares to say so! On ire that glows With heat intense Turn, France, the hose Of pounds and pence, And out it goes At some expense! I must maintain Stern Justice’ law— That fact is plain; So kindly draw A cheque, and gain The heart of Shaw! Oh, Mister Shaw! Long by the Gaul kept under, Would thy crusade Without my aid Attain its end, I wonder? Funny Folks. September, 1883.

Song of the Lawn Tennis Championship. I. Oh, foolish swain, Think you, because On grassy plain I mind each clause Of sovereign Lawn-tennis laws,— In brightest gleam That fancy owns, Think you, I dream My cranial bones With rules can teem Like those of Jones? Oh, Mr. Jones, Type of Lawn-tennis Draco, This head of mine Is not as thine, Although it sometimes ache, Oh! II. When heaven glows With heat intense, 132 And grass ne’er grows In any sense, We ply the hose At great expense! When eager calls And fervent prayers For brand-new balls Are heard from players, The onus falls On F. H. Ayres. Oh, Mr. Ayres, Vendor of balls sewn-under, How are they made, Or sold, or paid For, at such price, I wonder? III. Fame’s made or marr’d At Wimbledon, And matches hard Are deftly won, And scored on card, Ere set of sun: But no young gent Scores with such art A tournament In every part As heaven-sent Young Mr. Schacht. Oh, Mr. Schacht, Type of Lawn-tennis umpire, Perched up on high, In summer sky, No grasshopper could jump higher! IV. The lists are set, The ties are drawn, And anxious yet, Ere morning dawn, We pray, no wet May spoil our lawn. The play begins, Without a flaw, The fastest spins We ever saw; The fav’rite wins,— ’Tis still Renshaw! Oh, Will Renshaw, Type of Lawn-tennis champions, None e’er so quick The world to lick From Land’s End to the Grampians! From Tennis Cuts and Quips. (London: Field & Tuer, 1884.)

The Disagreeable Man. As Sung by Mr. Henry George, the “Land Nationalization” Comique. If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am: I’m a genuine philanthropist—all other sorts are sham. Each stupid freak of Fortune and each soc-i-al defect By my lectures and my volumes I endeavour to correct; To all their little grievances I ope the people’s eyes, And pretty plans to crucify the landlords I devise. I love my fellow creatures—I do all the good I can— Yet Property declares that I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why! To Smith and to Ricardo I’ve a withering reply; Malthusians I always do my best to mortify; Political economy I skilfully dissect, And crevices within its mail I’m ready to detect. I know everybody’s income and what everybody earns, And I prove that honest labour doesn’t win its due returns; But to benefit humanity, however much I plan, Yet Property will have it I’m a disagreeable man! And I can’t think why! I’m sure I am no Marat, I’m as gentle as can be; The guillotine in Leicester Square I should regret to see. I merely want the populace to grab all “real estate,” Without regard to owners’ cry of “Please to compensate.” To those same owners’ prejudice, I know a thing or two; I can show them to be curses of the nation—and I do. But though I try to make myself as pleasant as I can, Yet Property asserts that I’m a disagreeable man— And I can’t think why! Funny Folks.

If green Cheddar you desire From the moon—from the moon— They’ll supply what you require Very soon—very soon. Then they hope to fill lean purses, Lacking pence—lacking pence— With the coin Weg-born reverses Steal from thence—steal from thence. And as harvests shirk a nation ’Neath Sol’s ban—’neath Sol’s ban, To aid farmers by taxation They’ve a plan—they’ve a plan. They’ve a firmly-rooted notion They can bridge Depression’s ocean, And they’ll set all trades in motion, If they can—if they can! These are the phenomena That Poole expects to come in a Crack or a jiffee Now that Harris is M.P. As for failure, they forswear it, So they say—so they say, And prosperity they’ll “square” it, Some fine day—some fine day. When the voter they would “sell” him— Not too “fly”—not too “fly”— “The Millennium’s,” they tell him “By-and-bye—by-and-bye!” So each newly-joined aspirant To their clan—to their clan— Must pooh-pooh Hard Times, a tyrant Known to man—known to man. They mock at him and flout him, And they chaff the Rads about him, For they’re “going to do without him” If they can—if they can! These are the phenomena, &c. From Funny Folks. May 3, 1884.

A Wasted “Infancy.” (The Lay of a Man of Forty.) I was not so very old, Twenty years ago! Quite an “infant,” I am told, Twenty years ago! How I might have gone the pace At the cost of tradesmen base, If I’d only had the face Twenty years ago! But I was a trifle shy, Twenty years ago! Let the golden time slip by, Twenty years ago! Didn’t buy on tick, alas, “Necessary” things en masse— All which branded me an ass, Twenty years ago! Funny Folks. April 5, 1884.

The Scuttle. Of all the plans there are on earth For Statesmen still to cherish O Commend me to the Premier’s own Whose glory ne’er will perish O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle. Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O! Forth, forth, from Egypt let us slope As fast as we can manage O! And let the Mahdi work his will The B.P.’ll pay the damage O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O! Forth from Afghanistan as well In spite of all our bunkum O! The only way to beat the Russ Is evermore to funk ’em O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O! So wheresoever threats a foe, Or dangers England worry O! We will surmount them all by flight And out of trouble hurry O! O the Scuttle, the base, ignoble Scuttle, Chosen fad of Lib and Rad, Our dear old Gladstone’s Scuttle O! Moonshine. May, 1885.

The Argosy Braces Ye who are cumbersome and slow, Awkward and ungainly, We would have you know The cause is Braces! mainly Those of the old fashioned type, Impeding every movement. Really the time was ripe For marvellous improvement. Then if you’re tired of the vice-like gripping Grasping, clutching, and irritating slipping, And your principal complaint Is physical restraint, You needn’t have a taint Of it now. But when you’re next engaged in shopping, Into a hosier’s go you popping, Give the “ARGOSY” a trial; Then with a placid smile, Cast off the old ones vile, As we do.

Knox et Præterea Nihil! (After King Gama’s song in the “Princess Ida.”) Scene.—Dromore. Leaders of the Local Orange Lodges discovered in Council. First Orange Leader. Common sense we bar, That is not our bent; On the whole we are Not intelligent. Chorus of Leaders. No, no! Not intelligent! Second Orange Leader. But with spiteful heart, Play we here anew Our abusive part— Insult is our cue! Chorus of Leaders. Yes, yes! Insult is our cue! Bigots fierce and strong, ha! ha! For the strife we burn; Who is in the wrong, ha! ha! We have no concern. So we wreak our spite, ha! ha! Little care we, then, Who is in the right, ha! ha! For we’re Orangemen! Chorus of their followers who have gathered round.— They are men of might, ha! ha! Bigots, moved by spite, ha! ha! Ready for the fight, ha! ha! Ready for the fight! Solo.—The Hon. Colonel Knox. “If you give me your attention I will tell you what I am; I’m a genuine Orange patriot! all other kinds are sham. I adore my dear old country, and most viciously I try To thwart the plan of statesmen who would peace to her supply; I am full of true devotion to my Queen, and so I use The most offensive epithets her Viceroy to abuse, See how I love the Irish! Why, their massacre I plan, Yet Liberal papers say I’m such an extremely dangerous man! And I can’t think why! “I’m so loyally patriotic that I strive with all my might My Monarch’s chief advisers to humiliate and spite; I so yearn to see my Ireland free, and Protestant, and great, 134 That I’d blast its hopes with bloodshed and its people decimate. No greater stickler for the Law was ever known than I, So long as it allows me its provisions to defy, Or assists me in developing some ultra-Orange plan; Yet moderate critics say I’m such a very odious man! And I can’t think why! “I am always for upholding Ulster’s right to freely meet, To walk with yellow banners, and the noisy drum to beat; Aye, sweet Freedom is the birthright of us Orangemen so true: But it is not meant for rebels like Parnell and his black crew. So with pistol and shillelagh I would quickly smite them down, If they dare to hold a meeting or perambulate a town; Thus you see I try to make myself considerate as I can, Yet everybody says I’m such a disingenuous man! And I can’t think why! “I’m blind to every party sin, and personal defect, But ready any Land League fault most sternly to correct; ’Gainst Orangemen’s besotted crimes I closely shut my eyes, But mark the slips of Nationalists with most severe surprise. And when their foul abuse of us I hear them trying at, Why, I feel they ought to know we claim monopoly of that! But although I’ve acted in this way since manhood I began, Yet people will insist I’m such an undesirable man! And I can’t think why! “So come, my worthy farmers and poor peasants, look at me, And try if you as spiteful and intolerant can be; Denounce the things in others you do without demur, And make repeated efforts their passions fierce to stir. Be prejudiced as I am, my spite and malice share, And as becomes true patriots, for civil war prepare. In short, I’d have you act upon my patriotic plan, Though everybody says I’m such a bad, contentious man, And I can’t think why!” Final chorus of Orange Leaders. Yes, with spiteful heart Here we’ve played anew Our abusive part— Insult is our cue! Yes! yes! Insult is our cue! Truth. January 10, 1884.