Part 4

He leapt from out his cosy bed, He kissed his frightened wife, Then put his helmet on his head, To fight for home and life.

He gaily donned his uniform-- Such portions as he had-- And then went out into the storm; The night was very bad.

The snowflakes fell as large as eggs, The blast his bosom smote; He had no trousers on his legs, He had no overcoat.

His heart was full of brave intent, He started at a trot; But O, he shivered as he went-- Il n’avait pas de bottes!

Ten thousand strong in legs all bare, And only in their socks, Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare, Yet stood their ground like rocks.

But when the Frenchmen saw the foe, Our noble Volunteers, They laughed “Ha, ha!” and yelled “Ho, ho!” And greeted them with sneers.

“C’est drôle,” they cried; “c’est bien drôle, Cette armée sans culottes,” And Alphonse yelled to Anatole, “Ils n’ont donc pas de bottes.”

The British blushed with bitter shame, Their feelings were acute, And, though they were extremely game, They felt too pained to shoot.

Their wail was borne upon the breeze, “The foe our army mocks,” But still the cold benumbed their knees, The snow soaked through their socks.

And so because they weren’t equipped As Volunteers should be, The well-clad Frenchmen by them skipped, And it was all U P.

O Britons, for your country’s sake, And all you hold most dear, A lesson from this story take, And clothe the Volunteer.

For trousers, boots, and overcoats To Lord Mayor Whitehead hand A cheque or Bank of England notes, And save your native land.

Those Boots.

Our Prince a little change would seek, To town a short adieu he bids; In Paris spends his Whitsun week, And takes “the missus and the kids.” At Dover on the deck he stands (See ad.--“The shortest of sea routes”), And hies him o’er to Calais sands In tourist tweed and untanned boots.

The cares of State no longer vex, From Fashion’s whirl he steps aside, And takes a trip, our future Rex, And with him goes his silver bride. They take their boys and girls to see The show no sceptred hand salutes, And start, from princely trammels free, In tourist tweeds and untanned boots.

Prince! standing in the blazing light That beats upon a modern throne, ’Tis not in royal robes bedight, I ween, your happiest hours are known. The white stones on your road of life Mark where you pluck sweet leisure’s fruits, And with your boys and girls and wife Go trips in tweeds and untanned boots.

A Sunday Song.

I stood and I shivered last Sunday night Till I bade them set the fire alight, Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar, And I told them to bring me the whisky jar. I filled me a glass, and I held it high As I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky, And I sang to a sad funereal tune The doleful dirge of an English June.

“O gruesome herald of Whitsun week,” I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak, “The blazing heat of our one hot day Has fried us up and has passed away; And the weary summer of blights and chills Has come to us big with its thousand ills, And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoon In Regent’s Park in our English June.”

A red nose pressed to the window-pane, The swirling dust and the threatening rain, A blue-black blight in the raw rough air, A cut-throat climate and dull despair; A tear for the days that will come no more, A dose of physic at twelve and four. And that is my Sunday afternoon In the Arctic arms of an English June.

Up the Rigi.

Riding up the mountain In an open car, Engine puffing bravely-- O, how high we are! Higher we are climbing, To the clouds we sail; All the world’s beneath us On the Rigi Rail.

Past the slopes of verdure, Gay with gold and white, Past the crags and fissures, Up the giddy height. Torrents down below us Dashing through the vale, Snowclad peaks above us, On the Rigi Rail.

Up, still up to cloudland, While the world below Shrinks to dots and pigmies Higher as we go. All around grows barren; Timid girls grow pale As the snow surrounds us On the Rigi Rail.

Up at last--the summit Puffing Billy gains, And the sight that greets us Pays for all our pains. Alp on alp far stretching, Lake and plain and vale Spread in glory round us On the Rigi Rail.

Nerves with joy are thrilling In that wondrous air, Ne’er did eyes enchanted See a sight so fair. Ne’er till memory falters And my senses fail Shall I forget that journey Upon the Rigi Rail.

A Plea for Mercy.

O, do not flog the brutal rough Who jumps upon his wife, Or in a little drunken huff Prods children with a knife. O, do not flog the brute who takes The old man by the throat And chokes him while a search he makes Of trousers, vest, and coat.

O, do not flog the coward cur Who pulps a woman’s face; It cannot do much good to her, And think of _his_ disgrace. O, think of all the smart and pain If his poor hide be thin; The cat, you know, must leave a stain On mind as well as skin.

O, do not flog the prowling wretch Who bashes us for pelf, But some nice kind old parson fetch, Or talk to him yourself. Present him with a kindly tract, Or pray with him awhile; Explain that skulls should not be crackt In such a shocking style.

And when you’ve turned his wrath away And shown him he was wrong, Then teach him, if you’ve time to stay, Some sweet Salvation song. Far better let ten thousand such Go free to bash again, Than one should know the cat’s vile touch Or feel a moment’s pain.

O, do not flog--in mercy spare The burglar’s tender hide. Though murder’s rife, what need we care? The Scripture’s on our side. Come then, ye bashing burglar crew, Put up your sweet mouths--so, And let the cranks who plead for you Return you kiss for blow.

If You Were Here.

(ANY HUSBAND TO ANY WIFE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ALFRED AUSTIN.)

If you were here, if you were here, My butcher’s bill would be more clear, The Life Guards out for exercise Would not so often raise their eyes To where the housemaids smile and smirk, And play the hours away at work. If you were here my morning tea Perchance would slightly stronger be, My evenings, now so lone and long, Might know the solace of a song; I should not feel inclined to shriek When chairs and tables groan and creak. My midnight ghosts I should not fear If you were here, if you were here.

’Tis sad to be alone; but still There is some sugar round the pill. I’m master now, and have my way-- There’s no one here to say me nay. Though all is silent as the tomb, I smoke my pipe in ev’ry room. When out no train I rush to catch-- My key goes boldly in the latch. No more, lest I disturb your sleep, On tiptoe up the stairs I creep. Nor do I have to scratch my pate To think what kept me out so late. And that I’d oft to do, my dear, When you were here, when you were here.

Le Brav’ General

It costs some cash to catch the Gauls, And placard all the Paris walls, But his big balance never falls. Who finds the money?

He travels like a little king, And “cuts a dash” and “does the thing,” And spares no cost to have his fling. Who finds the money?

He’s no estate, he’s lost his pay, Yet thousands go from day to day In working France for Boulanger. Who finds the money?

In London he has settled down; He means to have his fling in town-- A little king without a crown. Who finds the money?

When kings and princes meet at tea, When statesmen other statesmen see, They jerk their thumbs at General B---- And whisper on the strict q.t., Who finds the money?

The Paris Exhibition.

Within, without, abroad, at home, Though all appears a bilious chrome, With May shall flee dyspeptic throes And life assume a tint of rose-- For France, the gay and debonair, Will ask us to her fancy fair, The Exhibition.

Then East and West and South and North Will pour their choicest treasures forth, And all the world will hie away Upon a pleasant holiday; While Frenchmen cry, and chink the cash, “We’re glad Boulanger did not smash The Exhibition!”

And you, ma mie, of years ago, Who with me wandered to and fro Through all the aisles of wonder set Like gems in some vast coronet-- How sweet you were, ma’mselle, to me!-- Will you be there this time to see The Exhibition?

O’er both our heads the years have rolled, And I am stout and growing old; And you are married, I dare say, And know a mother’s cares to-day. Maybe our chairs--bath-chairs, I mean-- May pass some day ere we’ve quite seen The Exhibition.

The New Legend.

When my liver’s out of order, and my nerves are all awry, And I want to sit in corners and to tear my hair and cry, When a demon stands behind me with a razor or a knife, And suggests the use of either as a short-cut out of life, When the gloom outside my window is the gloom inside my heart, And the ghostly sounds about make me shake and make me start, Then I walk about my dwelling, but my sorrows do not flee When I find my goods and chattels all were “made in Germany.”

The globes upon my gas-lamps bear that exquisite device, It is worked upon my carpets and the trap that catches mice; It is stamped upon my dusters, and imprinted on my hat, And I half expect to find it on the collar of my cat. “Made in Germany”‘s the motto on my knocker and my bell, And the scraper and the doormat have it written large as well; From the basement to the attic all around those words I see, And e’en my patent chimney-pots were “made in Germany.”

Then I wander forth for shelter from this legend, but in vain, For it polks in flaming letters through my agitated brain; It is stamped on all the lamp-posts and the flagstones at my feet, And I see it on the helmets of the bobbies on the street. “Give me respite from this legend!” in my agony I cry, And my gentle Albert Edward says to comfort me he’ll try; But while weeping on his bosom there is no relief for me, For, like everything about me, he was “made in Germany.”

A Mild December.

A balmy breeze o’er London plays, The summer sun is shining, The weather’s clerk has (scandal says) Undoubtedly been dining.

Old fogeys sit about the parks, And “Dear, can you remember,” Old Darby to old Joan remarks, “Such mildness in December?”

When Master Sandford takes his walks Abroad with Master Merton, He says, “O, ain’t I hot, O lawks, With my thick flannel shirt on!”

“My pupils will take notice, please,” Exclaims the Reverend Barlow, “It’s warmer here by seven degrees Than ’tis in Monte Carlo.”

For garden-seats the public run To Shoolbred’s and to Maple’s; It’s five degrees more in the sun In London than in Naples!

I shut my eyes and dream a dream About our winter season, That does not seem to have a gleam Of common-sense or reason.

I dream that from the southern land The foreigners are flocking; They promenade along the Strand, The Thames Embankment blocking.

The train de luxe from every part Brings foreigners to London; The Riviera breaks its heart, Algeria is undone.

In search of sun from Southern Spain The Andalusian wanders; The Roman lolls in Drury Lane, The Turk in Holborn ponders.

The world this mild December flocks To our delightful climate; Rich Russian ’gainst rich German knocks, And princeling jostles primate.

The great hotels are packed and jammed, And all the trades are booming, The theatres and cafés crammed, And summer roses blooming.

I dream a dream of London made A winter spot delightful; I wake from sleep, and start dismayed To find the weather frightful!

No balmy breeze o’er London plays, No summer sun is shining; ’Tis not the clerk (so scandal says) But _I_ who have been dining.

The Last Duke.

They had taken the brightest, the nicest, the best; They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest; America’s daughters no quarter had shown, And but one Duke of Britain was blooming alone.

Belgravian mothers in frenzied despair Tore out by the roots their luxuriant hair, And the maidens of Albion shuddered and sighed, And but for their eyes would have certainly cried.

Every prize of the season had gone to the States, The American girls had the best of the weights; The “piles” of the pa’s and their personal charms Had proved in the battle all-conquering arms.

And now but one Duke there remained to be had. He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad; But the belles of Great Britain to rescue him swore From the sirens who hail from Columbia’s shore.

Then the belles of Columbia picked up the glove, And encouraged his grace to make desperate love; They crowded Cunarders and weighted White Stars, And descended on London in drawing-room cars.

But the maidens who flirt ’neath the Union Jack At the Yankee invasion weren’t taken aback, Though it must be confessed there were exquisite types Of feminine flirts ’neath the Stars and the Stripes.

The Duke stood aghast ’twixt the double array, But endeavoured to all some attention to pay. First he smiled at a Briton, then ogled a Yank, Then bolted, and hailed the first cab on the rank.

He drove to the station, and, catching the train, He sailed o’er the stormy and murderous main. He landed at Calais and fell at the feet Of the first pretty French girl he met in the street.

He asked for her hand, and the maiden replied, “Avec plaisir, m’sieu. Here’s a church; step inside.” They were married at once, and next day they set sail By the London and Chatham’s first outgoing mail.

Sir Algernon Borthwick, who edits the _Post_, Had received the first news from the opposite coast; And the maids of our isles and the maids of the States In special editions were told of their fates.

“Peace with honour” at once was proclaimed ’twixt the fair (As neither had won what did either set care?); And the Duke was much praised on both sides by the Press, And the little French Duchess is quite a success.

To the Fog.

A thousand welcomes let us sing To that dear old November fog Which harbingers the days that bring The early gas, the flaming log.

Ah! well we know, sweet fog, when first You wrap the town in your embrace, The winter from its shell has burst, And come to bless the human race.

I love the merry winter when The day is darker than the night, For then, contented in my den, I sit beside the fire and write.

I love the fog that wraps in gloom My second-class suburban square; For then within my dingy room I light the gas, and let it flare.

I hate the dreary days and love The nights that shut the black world out; And so I prize, all things above, The fog that puts the day to rout.

The Reminiscences of Mr. John Dobbs.

WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

(WITH THE SPELLING CORRECTED, THE GRAMMAR LOOKED TO, AND THE LANGUAGE TOUCHED UP BY A LITERARY FRIEND.)

My name is John Dobbs. In the year ’58 I was born in a street which I fear was fifth-rate. My pa was a gent who had had a reverse, And my ma took in other folks’ babies to nurse.

Thus early my life-long acquaintance began With the folks who are first in Society’s van; In the cradle next mine slept the son of a peer, Who had gone to the dogs all through skittles and beer.

At six I developed a beautiful voice, Which made the fond hearts of my parents rejoice; I was sent out to sing with a man in the street, But I plied my vocation among the élite.

We sang in the squares where proud nobles reside; And often a duchess’s face I espied, As she peered o’er the blind at the little artiste; Thus I grew to mind duchesses not in the least.

I pass o’er my youth, merely pausing to state That I met many folks who were famous and great, And it frequently happened my supper I took With a tip-top celebrity’s housemaid or cook.

I was just in the twentieth year of my age When I made my début on the music-hall stage; And ’twas there that I soon made a very big name, And earned all my subsequent fortune and fame.

I’d a song with a chorus of “jammy jam-jam,” That was sung from Southend to Seringapatam; And often, when singing my song at the halls, I have seen lords and marquises smile in the stalls.

Lord Beaconsfield once I’d the honour to meet-- His lordship was walking up Parliament Street-- By the merest of chances I trod on his toe, And his lordship looked up and remarked to me “Oh!”

Conversations like these I have frequently had With the rich and the great, and the good and the bad; And I once had the pleasure and honour to dine With the Prince, who’s a very great patron of mine.

The banquet, I own, was a public affair, At which his Royal Highness had taken the chair. And I paid for my ticket; but still I’ve a right To say with the Prince I had dinner that night.

And now, as folks’ memoirses seem all the go, I’ve thought that the public might p’raps like to know All about the great people of whom I can speak With the candour becoming a Lion Comique.

Pickpocket Poems

I.

The way was long, the wind was cold, The minstrel was infirm and old. Of two bioncs I robbed the bard, For which I got three months with hard.

II.

She wore a wreath of roses The night that first we met, I went to call her carriage-- Ne’er that night can I forget. I held the door a moment, And, as she stepped inside, I sneaked her lovely bracelet, And round the corner guyed.

The next time that I met her ’Twas in the busy Strand; She wore a hat and feathers, And her purse was in her hand. I saw it in a moment, And methinks I see her now As I snatched her purse and hooked it Ere she’d time to make a row.

Yet once again I saw her-- It was in the witness-box-- A fashionable bonnet Adorned her golden locks. She looked at me a moment, Then said what she’d to say; And that is why they sent me To gloomy Holloway.

III.

It was night in the month of October, And the stars were alight in the sky, When a gent as I thought wasn’t sober The corner I stood at passed by.

I saw that his chain was a gold one; I guessed that his watch was the same; And so, as the gent was an old one, I thought him legitimate game.

I’d got his gold chain in my fingers, And was going to give it a tug, When whack came a couple of stingers-- Two beauties--and right on my lug.

Then I’d one that struck stars from my peeper And another that shifted my jaw-- A regular send-you-to-sleeper-- And that is the last that I saw.

The last that I saw till a peeler, To fill sorrow’s cup to the brim, Put my carcase inside a four-wheeler, And said, “What a flat to try him!”

“Who is he?” I groaned, as in torture I nervously felt for my face; And he said, “Well, you tackled a scorcher; That elderly gent was Jem Mace.”

The Cigarette.

Young England, ’twixt its idle lips, A tiny twirl of ’baccy grips, And puffs a lazy cloud of blue, And rests between a draw or two. Our youth, alas! have grown of late So languid and effeminate, They’ve dropped cigars and heavy wet For lemon-squash and cigarette.

The vulgar pipe is rarely seen Their dainty lisping lips between; The dude would scorn a big cigar, His tout ensemble a weed would mar; And so he rolls the paper toys We used to smoke as little boys, And all the dressed-up, mashing set Affect the foreign cigarette.

But now they tremble and go pale-- The doctors tell a dreadful tale. A wretched fellow writes to say They’d better throw such weeds away. Their faultless shirt-fronts quake with fear, And crease and tumble when they hear They in their breasts a viper pet-- There’s poison in the cigarette.

Go! let the foreign fellow puff His tissue-paper Turkish stuff, But let Young England scorn its yoke, And once more like a Briton smoke Between his lips a good cigar, Whose bright red glow one sees afar: He’ll feel a man, and soon forget The poisoned foreign cigarette.

The Early Milk-Cart.

I do not know what you are like--I know not where you go; I’ve never seen you as you jolt along the streets below. It’s always in the early morn my house you rattle by, And banish sleep that won’t return, however hard I try.

I wonder if the fiend, who drives like mad through Gower Street, And on the asphalte likes to hear his horse’s heavy feet, And bangs against the kerb and makes his swaying milk-cans crash, _Desires_ to settle straight away a nervous mortal’s hash.

Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side, A genuine Jekyll tortured by a much too real Hyde; And when at last my drooping lids have shut that Hyde away, The early milk-cart rattles by and bids the demon stay.

You little reck, you noisy thing, as ’neath the fading stars You jump and jolt, that every jerk on some poor toiler jars; You little reck, as merrily your cans together bang, You’ve roused a serpent in my breast which has a poisoned fang.

All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast, Sometimes I sail o’er summer seas where ne’er a shadow’s cast; And youth and hope are mine again, and life’s a sweet green isle That sleeps upon the ocean’s breast and basks in heaven’s smile.

My lazy barque floats placidly towards that haven fair, The sunny slopes grow nearer still--one moment, and I’m there; One little leap from deck to shore--I wake with quite a start, The milk-cans dance a carmagnole upon that early cart.

Yet sometimes have I cause to bless the awful noise they make, ’Tis when from some infernal dream their crashing bids me wake; When on my breast a demon sits, who’s marked me for his prey, I’m glad that milk-carts go about so early in the day.

Pass on, disturber of my rest--pass on thy way unseen; You little know how very near to murder you have been; Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his share In making me the wreck I am--and p’r’aps he doesn’t care.

Yet when I sleep the dreamless sleep in that great silent town, Where ne’er a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down-- The coroner who sat on me may possibly suggest That “Died of too much early milk” would suit my tombstone best.

The Collaborators.

Once on a time ’twas the freak of fate That Fidgitt and Whims should collaborate, So they sat them down on a midsummer day To think of a plot and to write a play.