Part 12

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 We have solved the labour question with discrimination polished, So poverty is obsolete and hunger is abolished— (They are going to abolish it in England.)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 swallow, 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 maniac 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!