Chapter 6

A good spring gun breeds endless fun, and makes men jump like rockets, And turnip-heads on posts Make very decent ghosts: Then hornets sting like anything, when placed in waist-coat pockets— Burnt cork and walnut juice Are not without their use. No fun compares with easy chairs whose seats are stuffed with needles— Live shrimps their patience tax When put down people’s backs— Surprising, too, what one can do with fifty fat black beedles— And treacle on a chair Will make a Quaker swear! Then sharp tin tacks And pocket squirts— And cobblers’ wax For ladies’ skirts— And slimy slugs On bedroom floors— And water jugs On open doors— Prepared with these cheap properties, amusing tricks to play, Upon a friend a man may spend a most delightful day!

THE NATIONAL ANTHEM

A MONARCH is pestered with cares, Though, no doubt, he can often trepan them; But one comes in a shape he can never escape— The implacable National Anthem! Though for quiet and rest he may yearn, It pursues him at every turn— No chance of forsaking Its _rococo_ numbers; They haunt him when waking— They poison his slumbers— Like the Banbury Lady, whom every one knows, He’s cursed with its music wherever he goes! Though its words but imperfectly rhyme, And the devil himself couldn’t scan them; With composure polite he endures day and night That illiterate National Anthem!

It serves a good purpose, I own: Its strains are devout and impressive— Its heart-stirring notes raise a lump in our throats As we burn with devotion excessive: But the King, who’s been bored by that song From his cradle—each day—all day long— Who’s heard it loud-shouted By throats operatic, And loyally spouted By courtiers emphatic— By soldier—by sailor—by drum and by fife— Small blame if he thinks it the plague of his life! While his subjects sing loudly and long, Their King—who would willingly ban them— Sits, worry disguising, anathematising That Bogie, the National Anthem!

HER TERMS

MY wedded life Must every pleasure bring On scale extensive! If I’m your wife I must have everything That’s most expensive— A lady’s-maid— (My hair alone to do I am not able)— And I’m afraid I’ve been accustomed to A first-rate table. These things one must consider when one marries— And everything I wear must come from Paris! Oh, think of that! Oh, think of that! I can’t wear anything that’s not from Paris! From top to toes Quite Frenchified I am, If you examine. And then—who knows?— Perhaps some day a fam— Perhaps a famine! My argument’s correct, if you examine, What should we do, if there should come a f-famine!

Though in green pea Yourself you needn’t stint In July sunny, In Januaree It really costs a mint— A mint of money! No lamb for us— House lamb at Christmas sells At prices handsome: Asparagus, In winter, parallels A Monarch’s ransom: When purse to bread and butter barely reaches, What is your wife to do for hot-house peaches? Ah! tell me that! Ah! tell me that! What _is_ your wife to do for hot-house peaches? Your heart and hand Though at my feet you lay, All others scorning! As matters stand, There’s nothing now to say Except—good morning! Though virtue be a husband’s best adorning, That won’t pay rates and taxes—so, good morning!

THE INDEPENDENT BEE

A HIVE of bees, as I’ve heard say, Said to their Queen one sultry day, “Please your Majesty’s high position, The hive is full and the weather is warm, We rather think, with a due submission, The time has come when we ought to swarm.” Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Up spake their Queen and thus spake she— “This is a matter that rests with me, Who dares opinions thus to form? _I’ll_ tell you when it is time to swarm!” Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

Her Majesty wore an angry frown, In fact, her Majesty’s foot was down— Her Majesty sulked—declined to sup— In short, her Majesty’s back was up. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Her foot was down and her back was up!

That hive contained one obstinate bee (His name was Peter), and thus spake he— “Though every bee has shown white feather, To bow to tyranny I’m not prone— Why should a hive swarm all together? Surely a bee can swarm alone?” Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Upside down and inside out, Backwards, forwards, round about, Twirling here and twisting there, Topsy turvily everywhere— Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Pitiful sight it was to see Respectable elderly high-class bee, Who kicked the beam at sixteen stone, Trying his best to swarm alone! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Trying his best to swarm alone!

The hive were shocked to see their chum (A strict teetotaller) teetotum— The Queen exclaimed, “How terrible, very! It’s perfectly clear to all the throng Peter’s been at the old brown sherry. Old brown sherry is much too strong— Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Of all who thus themselves degrade, A stern example must be made, To Coventry go, you tipsy bee!” So off to Coventry town went he. Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. There, classed with all who misbehave, Both plausible rogue and noisome knave, In dismal dumps he lived to own The folly of trying to swarm alone! Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. All came of trying to swarm alone.

THE DISCONCERTED TENOR

A TENOR, all singers above (This doesn’t admit of a question), Should keep himself quiet, Attend to his diet, And carefully nurse his digestion. But when he is madly in love, It’s certain to tell on his singing— You can’t do chromatics With proper emphatics When anguish your bosom is wringing! When distracted with worries in plenty, And his pulse is a hundred and twenty, And his fluttering bosom the slave of mistrust is, A tenor can’t do himself justice. Now observe—(_sings a high note_)— You see, I can’t do myself justice!

I could sing, if my fervour were mock, It’s easy enough if you’re acting, But when one’s emotion Is born of devotion, You mustn’t be over-exacting. One ought to be firm as a rock To venture a shake in _vibrato_; When fervour’s expected, Keep cool and collected, Or never attempt _agitato_. But, of course, when his tongue is of leather, And his lips appear pasted together, And his sensitive palate as dry as a crust is, A tenor can’t do himself justice. Now observe—(_sings a cadence_)— It’s no use—I can’t do myself justice!

THE PLAYED-OUT HUMORIST

QUIXOTIC is his enterprise, and hopeless his adventure is, Who seeks for jocularities that haven’t yet been said. The world has joked incessantly for over fifty centuries, And every joke that’s possible has long ago been made. I started as a humorist with lots of mental fizziness, But humour is a drug which it’s the fashion to abuse; For my stock-in-trade, my fixtures, and the goodwill of the business No reasonable offer I am likely to refuse. And if anybody choose He may circulate the news That no reasonable offer I’m likely to refuse.

Oh happy was that humorist—the first that made a pun at all— Who when a joke occurred to him, however poor and mean, Was absolutely certain that it never had been done at all— How popular at dinners must that humorist have been!

Oh the days when some stepfather for the query held a handle out, The door-mat from the scraper, is it distant very far? And when no one knew where Moses was when Aaron blew the candle out, And no one had discovered that a door could be a-jar! But your modern hearers are In their tastes particular, And they sneer if you inform them that a door can be a-jar!

In search of quip and quiddity, I’ve sat all day, alone, apart— And all that I could hit on as a problem was—to find Analogy between a scrag of mutton and a Bony-part, Which offers slight employment to the speculative mind: For you cannot call it very good, however great your charity— It’s not the sort of humour that is greeted with a shout— And I’ve come to the conclusion that my mine of jocularity In present Anno Domini, is worked completely out! Though the notion you may scout, I can prove beyond a doubt That my mine of jocularity is utterly worked out.