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DAGONET DITTIES

WORKS BY GEORGE R. SIMS.

_Post 8vo., illustrated boards_, =2s.= _each; cloth limp_, =2s. 6d.= _each_.

=ROGUES AND VAGABONDS.=

=THE RING O’ BELLS.=

=MARY JANE’S MEMOIRS.=

=MARY JANE MARRIED.=

=TALES OF TO-DAY.=

=DRAMAS OF LIFE.= With 60 Illustrations.

=TINKLETOP’S CRIME.= With a Frontispiece by MAURICE GREIFFENHAGEN.

_Crown 8vo., picture cover_, =1s.= _each; cloth_, =1s. 6d.= _each_.

=HOW THE POOR LIVE=; and =HORRIBLE LONDON=.

=THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER=: being Readings and Recitations in Prose and Verse, selected from his own Works by GEORGE R. SIMS.

THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS.

LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY, W.

DAGONET DITTIES

[_FROM ‘THE REFEREE’_]

BY

GEORGE R. SIMS

AUTHOR OF ‘HOW THE POOR LIVE,’ ‘ROGUES AND VAGABONDS,’ ETC.

_SECOND EDITION_

London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1891

CONTENTS.

PAGE

LONDON DAY BY DAY 1

FOR E’ER AND HAIR 3

THE ARTIST’S DILEMMA 5

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY 7

THE PICK-ME-UP 9

AD COR MEUM 11

ICHABOD 12

A DERBY DITTY 14

SHALL WE REMEMBER? 15

PARADISE AND THE SINNER 16

THE INCOME TAX 19

NONSENSE 20

LE MARDI GRAS 23

TWO SUNDAYS 24

THE MAILS ABOARD 25

AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S 27

IN GAY JAPAN 29

THE BALACLAVA HEROES 31

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 MALGRÉ 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 51

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

THE JOKELETEER 67

BILL SIKES’S PROTEST 68

THE CLARINET 69

NO EVENING DRESS 70

ALONE IN LONDON 70

THE VOLUNTEER 71

THOSE BOOTS 73

A SUNDAY SONG 74

UP THE RIGI 75

A PLEA FOR MERCY 77

IF YOU WERE HERE 78

LE BRAV’ GÉNÉRAL 80

THE PARIS EXHIBITION 81

THE NEW LEGEND 82

A MILD DECEMBER 84

THE LAST DUKE 86

TO THE FOG 88

THE REMINISCENCES OF MR. JOHN DOBBS 89

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 FAÇON DE PARLER 109

JACKSON 110

ANOTHER DANGER 112

AFTER THE ACT 114

THE RIGADOON 117

HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL 121

THE GERMAN GYM 124

TOTTIE 126

THE WELSHMAN IN LONDON 127

THE MAGISTRATE 129

THE IMPERIAL INSTITUTE 131

THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 132

THE PEOPLE’S PALACE 133

A CHARADE 135

A TRUE STORY 137

THE PIRATE ’BUS 138

THE WAR-CRY 141

THE “LANCET” 143

A TALE OF A TUB 148

THE COMIC KING 150

DAGONET DITTIES.

London Day by Day.

The 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.

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.

For E’er and Hair.

I 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 I’ve 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, “All 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!”

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!”

The Artist’s Dilemma.

The 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 will 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. 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 gathered him up with a broom and pan From the pavement where he fell, And they sent for the undertaker’s man, And they toll’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.

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’m blest if I ride in a beastly hearse That is painted a vulgar black.”

A Domestic Tragedy.

She 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.

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 stairs.

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, Remember, 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.

The Pick-me-up.

(WRITTEN AFTER ONE BOTTLE.)

In the 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.

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!”

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 fly. 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.

Ad Cor Meum.

O 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?

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. O, 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.

Ichabod.

Write 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 legend “Ichabod.”

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.”

A Derby Ditty.

Mud 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.

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.

Shall we Remember?

Ah, 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?

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?

Paradise and the Sinner.

(THE NEW VERSION.)

One 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.

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 I’ll 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.”

The 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 off 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.”