Chapter I: CANNOT tell what this love may be (2)

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.

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.