Bab Ballads and Savoy Songs Part 17

And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for _me_, Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!"

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since pa.s.sed away, And convince 'em if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's palmiest day.

Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude and mean, And that art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine, And everyone will say, As you walk your mystic way, "If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for _me_, Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!"

Then a sentimental pa.s.sion of a vegetable fas.h.i.+on must excite your languid spleen, An attachment _a la_ Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.

Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Picadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediaeval hand.

And everyone will say, As you walk your flowery way, "If he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit _me_, Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!"

PROPER PRIDE.

The Sun, whose rays Are all ablaze With ever living glory, Does not deny His majesty-- He scorns to tell a story!

He don't exclaim "I blush for shame, So kindly be indulgent,"

But, fierce and bold, In fiery gold, He glories all effulgent!

I mean to rule the earth.

As he the sky-- We really know our worth, The Sun and I!

Observe his flame, That placid dame, The Moon's Celestial Highness; There's not a trace Upon her face Of diffidence or shyness: She borrows light That, through the night, Mankind may all acclaim her!

And, truth to tell, She lights up well, So I, for one, don't blame her!

Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy; We're very wide awake, The Moon and I!

THE BAFFLED GRUMBLER.

Whene'er I poke Sarcastic joke Replete with malice spiteful, The people vile Politely smile And vote me quite delightful!

Now, when a wight Sits up all night Ill-natured jokes devising, And all his wiles Are met with smiles, It's hard, there's no disguising!

Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at!

When German bands From music stands Play Wagner imper_fect_ly-- I bid them go-- They don't say no, But off they trot directly!

The organ boys They stop their noise With readiness surprising, And grinning herds Of hurdy-gurds Retire apologizing!

Oh, don't the days seem lank and long When all goes right and nothing goes wrong, And isn't your life extremely flat With nothing whatever to grumble at!

I've offered gold, In sums untold, To all who'd contradict me-- I've said I'd pay A pound a day To any one who kicked me-- I've bribed with toys Great vulgar boys To utter something spiteful, But, bless you, no!

They _will_ be so Confoundedly politeful!

In short, these aggravating lads They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads, They give me this and they give me that, And I've nothing whatever to grumble at!

THE WORKING MONARCH.

Rising early in the morning, We proceed to light our fire; Then our Majesty adorning In its work-a-day attire, We embark without delay On the duties of the day.

First, we polish off some batches Of political dispatches, And foreign politicians circ.u.mvent; Then, if business isn't heavy, We may hold a Royal levee, Or ratify some acts of Parliament; Then we probably review the household troops-- With the usual "Shalloo humps!" and "Shalloo hoops!"

Or receive with ceremonial and state An interesting Eastern Potentate, After that we generally Go and dress our private valet-- (It's rather a nervous duty--he's a touchy little man) Write some letters literary For our private secretary-- He is shaky in his spelling, so we help him if we can.

Then, in view of cravings inner, We go down and order dinner; Or we polish the Regalia and the Coronation Plate-- Spend an hour in t.i.tivating All our Gentlemen-in-Waiting; Or we run on little errands for the Ministers of State.

Oh, philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a King; Yet the duties are delightful, and the privileges great; But the privilege and pleasure That we treasure beyond measure Is to run on little errands for the Ministers of State!

After luncheon (making merry On a bun and gla.s.s of sherry), If we've nothing particular to do, We may make a Proclamation, Or receive a Deputation-- Then we possibly create a Peer or two.

Then we help a fellow creature on his path With the Garter or the Thistle or the Bath: Or we dress and toddle off in semi-State To a festival, a function, or a _fete_.

Then we go and stand as sentry At the Palace (private entry), Marching hither, marching thither, up and down and to and fro, While the warrior on duty Goes in search of beer and beauty (And it generally happens that he hasn't far to go).

He relieves us, if he's able, Just in time to lay the table, Then we dine and serve the coffee; and at half-past twelve or one, With a pleasure that's emphatic, We retire to our attic With the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done.

Oh, philosophers may sing Of the troubles of a King, But of pleasures there are many and of troubles there are none; And the culminating pleasure That we treasure beyond measure Is the gratifying feeling that our duty has been done!

THE ROVER'S APOLOGY.

Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray; Though I own that my heart has been ranging, Of nature the laws I obey, For nature is constantly changing.

The moon in her phases is found, The time and the wind and the weather, The months in succession come round, And you don't find two Mondays together.

Consider the moral, I pray, Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow, Who loves this young lady to-day, And loves that young lady to-morrow.

You cannot eat breakfast all day, Nor is it the act of a sinner, When breakfast is taken away To turn your attention to dinner; And it's not in the range of belief, That you could hold him as a glutton, Who, when he is tired of beef, Determines to tackle the mutton.

But this I am ready to say, If it will diminish their sorrow, I'll marry this lady to-day, And I'll marry that lady to-morrow!

WOULD YOU KNOW?

Would you know the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a?

Eyes must be downcast and staid, Cheeks must flush for shame-a!

She may neither dance nor sing, But, demure in everything, Hang her head in modest way, With pouting lips that seem to say "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die of shame-a."

Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a!

When a maid is bold and gay, With a tongue goes clang-a, Flaunting it in brave array, Maiden may go hang-a!

Sunflower gay and hollyhock Never shall my garden stock; Mine the blus.h.i.+ng rose of May, With pouting lips that seem to say, "Oh, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, Though I die for shame-a!"

Please you, that's the kind of maid Sets my heart a flame-a!

[Ill.u.s.tration]