Chapter 5
BEDECKED in fashion trim, With every curl a-quiver; Or leaping, light of limb, O’er rivulet and river; Or skipping o’er the lea On daffodil and daisy; Or stretched beneath a tree, All languishing and lazy; Whatever be her mood— Be she demurely prude Or languishingly lazy— My lady drives me crazy! In vain her heart is wooed, Whatever be her mood!
What profit should I gain Suppose she loved me dearly? Her coldness turns my brain To _verge_ of madness merely. Her kiss—though, Heaven knows, To dream of it were treason— Would tend, as I suppose, To utter loss of reason! My state is not amiss; I would not have a kiss Which, in or out of season, Might tend to loss of reason: What profit in such bliss? A fig for such a kiss!
ONE AGAINST THE WORLD
IT’S my opinion—though I own In thinking so I’m quite alone— In some respects I’m but a fright. _You_ like my features, I suppose? _I’m_ disappointed with my nose: Some rave about it—perhaps they’re right. My figure just sets off a fit; But when they say it’s exquisite (And they _do_ say so), that’s too strong. I hope I’m not what people call Opinionated! After all, I’m but a goose, and may be wrong!
When charms enthral There’s some excuse For measures strong; And after all I’m but a goose, And may be wrong!
My teeth are very neat, no doubt; But after all they _may_ fall out: _I_ think they will—some think they won’t. My hands are small, as you may see, But not as small as they might be, At least, _I_ think so—others don’t. But there, a girl may preach and prate From morning six to evening eight, And never stop to dine, When all the world, although misled, Is quite agreed on any head— And it is quite agreed on mine!
All said and done, It’s little I Against a throng. I’m only one, And possibly I may be wrong!
PUT A PENNY IN THE SLOT
IF my action’s stiff and crude, Do not laugh, because it’s rude. If my gestures promise larks, Do not make unkind remarks. Clockwork figures may be found Everywhere and all around. Ten to one, if I but knew, You are clockwork figures too. And the motto of the lot, “Put a penny in the slot!”
Usurer, for money lent, Making out his cent per cent— Widow plump or maiden rare, Deaf and dumb to suitor’s prayer— Tax collectors, whom in vain You implore to “call again”— Cautious voter, whom you find Slow in making up his mind— If you’d move them on the spot, Put a penny in the slot!
Bland reporters in the courts, Who suppress police reports— Sheriff’s yeoman, pen in fist, Making out a jury list— Stern policemen, tall and spare, Acting all “upon the square”— (Which in words that plainer fall, Means that you can square them all)— If you want to move the lot, Put a penny in the slot!
GOOD LITTLE GIRLS
ALTHOUGH of native maids the cream, We’re brought up on the English scheme— The best of all For great and small Who modesty adore. For English girls are good as gold, Extremely modest (so we’re told), Demurely coy—divinely cold— And we are that—and more. To please papa, who argues thus— All girls should mould themselves on us, Because we are, By furlongs far, The best of all the bunch; We show ourselves to loud applause From ten to four without a pause— Which is an awkward time because It cuts into our lunch.
Oh, maids of high and low degree, Whose social code is rather free, Please look at us and you will see What good young ladies ought to be!
And as we stand, like clockwork toys, A lecturer papa employs To puff and praise Our modest ways And guileless character— Our well-known blush—our downcast eyes— Our famous look of mild surprise (Which competition still defies)— Our celebrated “Sir!!!” Then all the crowd take down our looks In pocket memorandum books. To diagnose, Our modest pose The kodaks do their best: If evidence you would possess Of what is maiden bashfulness, You only need a button press— And _we_ do all the rest.
LIFE
FIRST you’re born—and I’ll be bound you Find a dozen strangers round you. “Hallo,” cries the new-born baby, “Where’s my parents? which may they be?” Awkward silence—no reply— Puzzled baby wonders why! Father rises, bows politely— Mother smiles (but not too brightly)— Doctor mumbles like a dumb thing— Nurse is busy mixing something.— Every symptom tends to show You’re decidedly _de trop_— Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! he! ho! ho! Time’s teetotum, If you spin it, Give its quotum Once a minute: I’ll go bail You hit the nail, And if you fail The deuce is in it!
You grow up, and you discover What it is to be a lover. Some young lady is selected— Poor, perhaps, but well-connected, Whom you hail (for Love is blind) As the Queen of Fairy-kind. Though she’s plain—perhaps unsightly, Makes her face up—laces tightly, In her form your fancy traces All the gifts of all the graces. Rivals none the maiden woo, So you take her and she takes you! Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! Joke beginning, Never ceases, Till your inning Time releases; On your way You blindly stray, And day by day The joke increases!
Ten years later—Time progresses— Sours your temper—thins your tresses; Fancy, then, her chain relaxes; Rates are facts and so are taxes. Fairy Queen’s no longer young— Fairy Queen has such a tongue! Twins have probably intruded— Quite unbidden—just as you did; They’re a source of care and trouble— Just as you were—only double. Comes at last the final stroke— Time has had his little joke! Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! Daily driven (Wife as drover) Ill you’ve thriven— Ne’er in clover: Lastly, when Threescore and ten (And not till then), The joke is over! Ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! ho! Then—and then The joke is over!
LIMITED LIABILITY
SOME seven men form an Association (If possible, all Peers and Baronets), They start off with a public declaration To what extent they mean to pay their debts. That’s called their Capital: if they are wary They will not quote it at a sum immense. The figure’s immaterial—it may vary From eighteen million down to eighteenpence. _I_ should put it rather low; The good sense of doing so Will be evident at once to any debtor. When it’s left to you to say What amount you mean to pay, Why, the lower you can put it at, the better.
They then proceed to trade with all who’ll trust ’em, Quite irrespective of their capital (It’s shady, but it’s sanctified by custom); Bank, Railway, Loan, or Panama Canal. You can’t embark on trading too tremendous— It’s strictly fair, and based on common sense— If you succeed, your profits are stupendous— And if you fail, pop goes your eighteenpence. Make the money-spinner spin! For you only stand to win, And you’ll never with dishonesty be twitted. For nobody can know, To a million or so, To what extent your capital’s committed!
If you come to grief, and creditors are craving (For nothing that is planned by mortal head Is certain in this Vale of Sorrow—saving That one’s Liability is Limited),— Do you suppose that signifies perdition? If so you’re but a monetary dunce— You merely file a Winding-Up Petition, And start another Company at once! Though a Rothschild you may be In your own capacity, As a Company you’ve come to utter sorrow— But the Liquidators say, “Never mind—you needn’t pay,” So you start another Company to-morrow!
ANGLICISED UTOPIA
SOCIETY has quite forsaken all her wicked courses, Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces. (Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.) No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour; For the higher his position is, the greater the offender. (That’s a maxim that is prevalent in England.) No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes Who wouldn’t be accepted by the lower-middle classes; Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly. In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely! It really is surprising What a thorough Anglicising We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land; In her enterprising movements, She is England—with improvements, Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our city we have beautified—we’ve done it willy-nilly— And all that isn’t Belgrave Square is Strand and Piccadilly. (They haven’t any slummeries in England.) We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished, So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished— (They are going to abolish it in England.) The Chamberlain our native stage has purged, beyond a question, Of “risky” situation and indelicate suggestion; No piece is tolerated if it’s costumed indiscreetly— In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely! It really is surprising What a thorough Anglicising We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land; In her enterprising movements, She is England—with improvements, Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
Our Peerage we’ve remodelled on an intellectual basis, Which certainly is rough on our hereditary races— (They are going to remodel it in England.) The Brewers and the Cotton Lords no longer seek admission, And Literary Merit meets with proper recognition— (As Literary Merit does in England!) Who knows but we may count among our intellectual chickens Like them an Earl of Thackeray and p’raps a Duke of Dickens— Lord Fildes and Viscount Millais (when they come) we’ll welcome sweetly— And then, this happy country will be Anglicised completely! It really is surprising What a thorough Anglicising We’ve brought about—Utopia’s quite another land; In her enterprising movements, She is England—with improvements, Which we dutifully offer to our mother-land!
AN ENGLISH GIRL
A WONDERFUL joy our eyes to bless, In her magnificent comeliness, Is an English girl of eleven stone two, And five foot ten in her dancing shoe! She follows the hounds, and on she pounds— The “field” tails off and the muffs diminish— Over the hedges and brooks she bounds— Straight as a crow, from find to finish. At cricket, her kin will lose or win— She and her maids, on grass and clover, Eleven maids out—eleven maids in— (And perhaps an occasional “maiden over”). Go search the world and search the sea, Then come you home and sing with me There’s no such gold and no such pearl As a bright and beautiful English girl!
With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs, She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims— She plays, she sings, she dances, too, From ten or eleven till all is blue! At ball or drum, till small hours come (Chaperon’s fan conceals her yawning), She’ll waltz away like a teetotum, And never go home till daylight’s dawning. Lawn tennis may share her favours fair— Her eyes a-dance and her cheeks a-glowing— Down comes her hair, but what does she care? It’s all her own and it’s worth the showing! Go search the world and search the sea, Then come you home and sing with me There’s no such gold and no such pearl As a bright and beautiful English girl!
Her soul is sweet as the ocean air, For prudery knows no haven there; To find mock-modesty, please apply To the conscious blush and the downcast eye. Rich in the things contentment brings, In every pure enjoyment wealthy, Blithe as a beautiful bird she sings, For body and mind are hale and healthy. Her eyes they thrill with right goodwill— Her heart is light as a floating feather— As pure and bright as the mountain rill That leaps and laughs in the Highland heather! Go search the world and search the sea, Then come you home and sing with me There’s no such gold and no such pearl As a bright and beautiful English girl!
A MANAGER’S PERPLEXITIES
WERE I a king in very truth, And had a son—a guileless youth— In probable succession; To teach him patience, teach him tact, How promptly in a fix to act, He should adopt, in point of fact, A manager’s profession. To that condition he should stoop (Despite a too fond mother), With eight or ten “stars” in his troupe, All jealous of each other! Oh, the man who can rule a theatrical crew, Each member a genius (and some of them two), And manage to humour them, little and great, Can govern a tuppenny-ha’penny State!
Both A and B rehearsal slight— They say they’ll be “all right at night” (They’ve both to go to school yet); C in each act _must_ change her dress, D _will_ attempt to “square the press”; E won’t play Romeo unless His grandmother plays Juliet; F claims all hoydens as her rights (She’s played them thirty seasons); And G must show herself in tights For two convincing reasons— Two very well-shaped reasons! Oh, the man who can drive a theatrical team, With wheelers and leaders in order supreme, Can govern and rule, with a wave of his fin, All Europe and Asia—with Ireland thrown in!
OUT OF SORTS
WHEN you find you’re a broken-down critter, Who is all of a trimmle and twitter, With your palate unpleasantly bitter, As if you’d just bitten a pill— When your legs are as thin as dividers, And you’re plagued with unruly insiders, And your spine is all creepy with spiders, And you’re highly gamboge in the gill— When you’ve got a beehive in your head, And a sewing machine in each ear, And you feel that you’ve eaten your bed, And you’ve got a bad headache _down here_— When such facts are about, And these symptoms you find In your body or crown— Well, it’s time to look out, You may make up your mind You had better lie down!
When your lips are all smeary—like tallow, And your tongue is decidedly yallow, With a pint of warm oil in your sw_a_llow, And a pound of tin-tacks in your chest— When you’re down in the mouth with the vapours, And all over your new Morris papers Black-beetles are cutting their capers, And crawly things never at rest— When you doubt if your head is your own, And you jump when an open door slams— Then you’ve got to a state which is known To the medical world as “jim-jams.” If such symptoms you find In your body or head, They’re not easy to quell— You may make up your mind You are better in bed, For you’re not at all well!
HOW IT’S DONE
Bold-faced ranger (Perfect stranger) Meets two well-behaved young ladies He’s attractive, Young and active— Each a little bit afraid is. Youth advances, At his glances To their danger they awaken; They repel him As they tell him He is very much mistaken. Though they speak to him politely, Please observe they’re sneering slightly, Just to show he’s acting vainly. This is Virtue saying plainly, “Go away, young bachelor, We are not what you take us for!” (When addressed impertinently, English ladies answer gently, “Go away, young bachelor, We are not what you take us for!”)
As he gazes, Hat he raises, Enters into conversation. Makes excuses— This produces Interesting agitation. He, with daring, Undespairing, Gives his card—his rank discloses— Little heeding This proceeding, They turn up their little noses. Pray observe this lesson vital— When a man of rank and title His position first discloses, Always cock your little noses. When at home, let all the class Try this in the looking-glass. (English girls of well-bred notions Shun all unrehearsed emotions, English girls of highest class Practise them before the glass.)
His intentions Then he mentions, Something definite to go on— Makes recitals Of his titles, Hints at settlements, and so on. Smiling sweetly, They, discreetly, Ask for further evidences: Thus invited, He, delighted, Gives the usual references. This is business. Each is fluttered When the offer’s fairly uttered. “Which of them has his affection?” He declines to make selection. Do they quarrel for his dross? Not a bit of it—they toss! Please observe this cogent moral— English ladies never quarrel. When a doubt they come across, English ladies always toss.
A CLASSICAL REVIVAL
AT the outset I may mention it’s my sovereign intention To revive the classic memories of Athens at its best, For my company possesses all the necessary dresses, And a course of quiet cramming will supply us with the rest. We’ve a choir hyporchematic (that is, ballet-operatic) Who respond to the _choreutae_ of that cultivated age, And our clever chorus-master, all but captious criticaster, Would accept as the _choregus_ of the early Attic stage. This return to classic ages is considered in their wages, Which are always calculated by the day or by the week— And I’ll pay ’em (if they’ll back me) all in _oboloi_ and _drachmae_, Which they’ll get (if they prefer it) at the Kalends that are Greek!
(At this juncture I may mention That this erudition sham Is but classical pretension, The result of steady “cram.”: Periphrastic methods spurning, To my readers all discerning I admit this show of learning Is the fruit of steady “cram.”!)
In the period Socratic every dining-room was Attic (Which suggests an architecture of a topsy-turvy kind), There they’d satisfy their twist on a _recherché_ cold _ἄριστον_, Which is what they called their lunch—and so may you, if you’re inclined. As they gradually got on, they’d _πρέπεσθαι πρὸς τὸν πότον_ (Which is Attic for a steady and a conscientious drink). But they mixed their wine with water—which I’m sure they didn’t oughter— And we Anglo-Saxons know a trick worth two of that, I think! Then came rather risky dances (under certain circumstances) Which would shock that worthy gentleman, the Licenser of Plays, Corybantian mani_ac_ kick—Dionysiac or Bacchic— And the Dithyrambic revels of those indecorous days.
(And perhaps I’d better mention Lest alarming you I am, That it isn’t our intention To perform a Dithyramb— It displays a lot of stocking, Which is always very shocking, And of course I’m only mocking At the prevalence of “cram.”)
Yes, on reconsideration, there are customs of that nation Which are not in strict accordance with the habits of our day, And when I come to codify, their rules I mean to modify, Or Mrs. Grundy, p’r’aps, may have a word or two to say: For they hadn’t macintoshes or umbrellas or goloshes— And a shower with their dresses must have played the very deuce, And it must have been unpleasing when they caught a fit of sneezing, For, it seems, of pocket-handkerchiefs they didn’t know the use. They wore little underclothing—scarcely anything—or no-thing— And their dress of Coan silk was quite transparent in design— Well, in fact, in summer weather, something like the “altogether.” And it’s _there_, I rather fancy, I shall have to draw the line!
(And again I wish to mention That this erudition sham Is but classical pretension, The result of steady “cram.” Yet my classic love aggressive, If you’ll pardon the possessive, Is exceedingly impressive When you’re passing an exam.)
THE PRACTICAL JOKER
OH what a fund of joy jocund lies hid in harmless hoaxes! What keen enjoyment springs From cheap and simple things! What deep delight from sources trite inventive humour coaxes, That pain and trouble brew For every one but you! Gunpowder placed inside its waist improves a mild Havanah, Its unexpected flash Burns eyebrows and moustache; When people dine no kind of wine beats ipecacuanha, But common sense suggests You keep it for your guests— Then naught annoys the organ boys like throwing red-hot coppers, And much amusement bides In common butter-slides. And stringy snares across the stairs cause unexpected croppers. Coal scuttles, recollect, Produce the same effect. A man possessed Of common sense Need not invest At great expense— It does not call For pocket deep, These jokes are all Extremely cheap. If you commence with eighteenpence (it’s all you’ll have to pay), You may command a pleasant and a most instructive day.