Songs of a Savoyard

Ballad: An Appeal

Oh! is there not one maiden breastWhich does not feel the moral beautyOf making worldly interestSubordinate to sense of duty?Who would not give up willinglyAll matrimonial ambitionTo rescue such a one as IFrom his unfortunate position?Oh, is there not one maiden here,Whose homely face and bad complexionHave caused all hopes to disappearOf ever winning man's affection?To such a one, if such there be,I swear by heaven's arch above you,If you will cast your eyes on me, -However plain you be – I'll love you!

Ballad: The Reward Of Merit

DR. BELVILLE was regarded as the CRICHTON of his age:His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;His poems held a noble rank, although it's very trueThat, being very proper, they were read by very few.He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the "line,"And even MR. RUSKIN came and worshipped at his shrine;But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high -The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy;And everybody said"How can he be repaid -This very great – this very good – this very gifted man?"But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,A plan for making everybody's fortune but his own;For, in business, an Inventor's little better than a fool,And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule.His poems – people read them in the Quarterly Reviews -His pictures – they engraved them in the ILLUSTRATED NEWS -His inventions – they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees,But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;And everybody said"How can he be repaid -This very great – this very good – this very gifted man?"But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!At last the point was given up in absolute despair,When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire,With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House!THEN it flashed upon Britannia that the fittest of rewardsWas, to take him from the Commons and to put him in the Lords!And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,As this very great – this very good – this very gifted man?(Though I'm more than half afraidThat it sometimes may be saidThat we never should have revelled in that source of proper pride,However great his merits – if his cousin hadn't died!)

Ballad: The Magnet And The Churn

A MAGNET hung in a hardware shop,And all around was a loving cropOf scissors and needles, nails and knives,Offering love for all their lives;But for iron the Magnet felt no whim,Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him,From needles and nails and knives he'd turn,For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn!His most aesthetic,Very magneticFancy took this turn -"If I can wheedleA knife or needle,Why not a Silver Churn?"And Iron and Steel expressed surprise,The needles opened their well-drilled eyes,The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt,The scissors declared themselves "cut out,"The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said,While every nail went off its head,And hither and thither began to roam,Till a hammer came up – and drove it home,While this magneticPeripateticLover he lived to learn,By no endeavour,Can Magnet everAttract a Silver Churn!

Ballad: The Family Fool

Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,If you listen to popular rumour;From morning to night he's so joyous and bright,And he bubbles with wit and good humour!He's so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;Yet though people forgive his transgression,There are one or two rules that all Family FoolsMust observe, if they love their profession.There are one or two rules,Half-a-dozen, maybe,That all family fools,Of whatever degree,Must observe if they love their profession.If you wish to succeed as a jester, you'll needTo consider each person's auricular:What is all right for B would quite scandalise C(For C is so very particular);And D may be dull, and E's very thick skullIs as empty of brains as a ladle;While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,That he's known your best joke from his cradle!When your humour they flout,You can't let yourself go;And it DOES put you outWhen a person says, "Oh!I have known that old joke from my cradle!"If your master is surly, from getting up early(And tempers are short in the morning),An inopportune joke is enough to provokeHim to give you, at once, a month's warning.Then if you refrain, he is at you again,For he likes to get value for money:He'll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,"If you know that you're paid to be funny?"It adds to the tasksOf a merryman's place,When your principal asks,With a scowl on his face,If you know that you're paid to be funny?Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D. -Oh, beware of his anger provoking!Better not pull his hair – don't stick pins in his chair;He won't understand practical joking.If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,You may get a bland smile from these sages;But should it, by chance, be imported from France,Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!It's a general rule,Though your zeal it may quench,If the Family FoolMakes a joke that's TOO French,Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,And your senses with toothache you're losing,And you're mopy and flat – they don't fine you for thatIf you're properly quaint and amusing!Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,And took with her your trifle of money;Bless your heart, they don't mind – they're exceedingly kind -They don't blame you – as long as you're funny!It's a comfort to feelIf your partner should flit,Though YOU suffer a deal,THEY don't mind it a bit -They don't blame you – so long as you're funny!

Ballad: Sans Souci

I cannot tell what this love may beThat cometh to all but not to me.It cannot be kind as they'd imply,Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?It cannot be joy and rapture deep,Or why do these gentle ladies weep?It cannot be blissful, as 'tis said,Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?If love is a thorn, they show no witWho foolishly hug and foster it.If love is a weed, how simple theyWho gather and gather it, day by day!If love is a nettle that makes you smart,Why do you wear it next your heart?And if it be neither of these, say I,Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

Ballad: A Recipe

Take a pair of sparkling eyes,Hidden, ever and anon,In a merciful eclipse -Do not heed their mild surprise -Having passed the Rubicon.Take a pair of rosy lips;Take a figure trimly planned -Such as admiration whets(Be particular in this);Take a tender little hand,Fringed with dainty fingerettes,Press it – in parenthesis; -Take all these, you lucky man -Take and keep them, if you can.Take a pretty little cot -Quite a miniature affair -Hung about with trellised vine,Furnish it upon the spotWith the treasures rich and rareI've endeavoured to define.Live to love and love to live -You will ripen at your ease,Growing on the sunny side -Fate has nothing more to give.You're a dainty man to pleaseIf you are not satisfied.Take my counsel, happy man:Act upon it, if you can!

Ballad: The Merryman And His Maid

[HE] I have a song to sing, O![SHE] Sing me your song, O![HE] It is sung to the moonBy a love-lorn loon,Who fled from the mocking throng, O!It's the song of a merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye.Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye![SHE] I have a song to sing, O![HE] Sing me your song, O![SHE] It is sung with the ringOf the song maids singWho love with a love life-long, O!It's the song of a merrymaid, peerly proud,Who loved a lord, and who laughed aloudAt the moan of the merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sore, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye![HE] I have a song to sing, O![SHE] Sing me your song, O![HE] It is sung to the knellOf a churchyard bell,And a doleful dirge, ding dong, O!It's a song of a popinjay, bravely born,Who turned up his noble nose with scornAt the humble merrymaid, peerly proud,Who loved that lord, and who laughed aloudAt the moan of the merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye!Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!He sipped no sup, and he craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye![SHE] I have a song to sing, O![HE] Sing me your song, O![SHE] It is sung with a sighAnd a tear in the eye,For it tells of a righted wrong, O!It's a song of a merrymaid, once so gay,Who turned on her heel and tripped awayFrom the peacock popinjay, bravely born,Who turned up his noble nose with scornAt the humble heart that he did not prize;And it tells how she begged, with downcast eyes,For the love of a merryman, moping mum,Whose soul was sad, whose glance was glum,Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb,As he sighed for the love of a ladye![BOTH] Heighdy! heighdy!Misery me – lackadaydee!His pains were o'er, and he sighed no more.For he lived in the love of a ladye!

Ballad: The Susceptible Chancellor

The law is the true embodimentOf everything that's excellent.It has no kind of fault or flaw,And I, my lords, embody the Law.The constitutional guardian IOf pretty young Wards in Chancery,All very agreeable girls – and noneIs over the age of twenty-one.A pleasant occupation forA rather susceptible Chancellor!But though the compliment impliedInflates me with legitimate pride,It nevertheless can't be deniedThat it has its inconvenient side.For I'm not so old, and not so plain,And I'm quite prepared to marry again,But there'd be the deuce to pay in the LordsIf I fell in love with one of my Wards:Which rather tries my temper, forI'm SUCH a susceptible Chancellor!And every one who'd marry a WardMust come to me for my accord:So in my court I sit all day,Giving agreeable girls away,With one for him – and one for he -And one for you – and one for ye -And one for thou – and one for thee -But never, oh never a one for me!Which is exasperating, forA highly susceptible Chancellor!

Ballad: When A Merry Maiden Marries

When a merry maiden marries,Sorrow goes and pleasure tarries;Every sound becomes a song,All is right and nothing's wrong!From to-day and ever afterLet your tears be tears of laughter -Every sigh that finds a ventBe a sigh of sweet content!When you marry merry maiden,Then the air with love is laden;Every flower is a rose,Every goose becomes a swan,Every kind of trouble goesWhere the last year's snows have gone;Sunlight takes the place of shadeWhen you marry merry maid!When a merry maiden marriesSorrow goes and pleasure tarries;Every sound becomes a song,All is right, and nothing's wrong.Gnawing Care and aching Sorrow,Get ye gone until to-morrow;Jealousies in grim array,Ye are things of yesterday!When you marry merry maiden,Then the air with joy is laden;All the corners of the earthRing with music sweetly played,Worry is melodious mirth,Grief is joy in masquerade;Sullen night is laughing day -All the year is merry May!

Ballad: The British Tar

A British tar is a soaring soul,As free as a mountain bird,His energetic fist should be ready to resistA dictatorial word.His nose should pant and his lip should curl,His cheeks should flame and his brow should furl,His bosom should heave and his heart should glow,And his fist be ever ready for a knock-down blow.His eyes should flash with an inborn fire,His brow with scorn be rung;He never should bow down to a domineering frown,Or the tang of a tyrant tongue.His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,His hair should twirl and his face should scowl;His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,And this should be his customary attitude!

Ballad: A Man Who Would Woo A Fair Maid

A man who would woo a fair maid,Should 'prentice himself to the trade;And study all day,In methodical way,How to flatter, cajole, and persuade.He should 'prentice himself at fourteenAnd practise from morning to e'en;And when he's of age,If he will, I'll engage,He may capture the heart of a queen!It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every JackHe must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill!If he's made the best use of his time,His twig he'll so carefully limeThat every birdWill come down at his word.Whatever its plumage and clime.He must learn that the thrill of a touchMay mean little, or nothing, or much;It's an instrument rare,To be handled with care,And ought to be treated as such.It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every Jack,He must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill!Then a glance may be timid or free;It will vary in mighty degree,From an impudent stareTo a look of despairThat no maid without pity can see.And a glance of despair is no guide -It may have its ridiculous side;It may draw you a tearOr a box on the ear;You can never be sure till you've tried.It is purely a matter of skill,Which all may attain if they will:But every JackHe must study the knackIf he wants to make sure of his Jill!

Ballad: The Sorcerer's Song

Oh! my name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS -I'm a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses,In prophecies, witches, and knells!If you want a proud foe to "make tracks" -If you'd melt a rich uncle in wax -You've but to look inOn our resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe.We've a first-class assortment of magic;And for raising a posthumous shadeWith effects that are comic or tragic,There's no cheaper house in the trade.Love-philtre – we've quantities of it;And for knowledge if any one burns,We keep an extremely small prophet, a prophetWho brings us unbounded returns:For he can prophesyWith a wink OF his eye,Peep with securityInto futurity,Sum up your history,Clear up a mystery,Humour proclivityFor a nativity.With mirrors so magical,Tetrapods tragical,Bogies spectacular,Answers oracular,Facts astronomical,Solemn or comical,And, if you want it, heMakes a reduction on taking a quantity!Oh!If any one anything lacks,He'll find it all ready in stacks,If he'll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe!He can raise you hosts,Of ghosts,And that without reflectors;And creepy thingsWith wings,And gaunt and grisly spectres!He can fill you crowdsOf shrouds,And horrify you vastly;He can rack your brainsWith chains,And gibberings grim and ghastly.Then, if you plan it, heChanges organityWith an urbanity,Full of Satanity,Vexes humanityWith an inanityFatal to vanity -Driving your foes to the verge of insanity.Barring tautology,In demonology,'Lectro biology,Mystic nosology,Spirit philology,High class astrology,Such is his knowledge, heIsn't the man to require an apologyOh!My name is JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS,I'm a dealer in magic and spells,In blessings and curses,And ever-filled purses -In prophecies, witches, and knells.If any one anything lacks,He'll find it all ready in stacks,If he'll only look inOn the resident Djinn,Number seventy, Simmery Axe!

Ballad: The Fickle Breeze

Sighing softly to the riverComes the loving breeze,Setting nature all a-quiver,Rustling through the trees!And the brook in rippling measureLaughs for very love,While the poplars, in their pleasure,Wave their arms above!River, river, little river,May thy loving prosper ever.Heaven speed thee, poplar tree,May thy wooing happy be!Yet, the breeze is but a rover,When he wings away,Brook and poplar mourn a lover!Sighing well-a-day!Ah, the doing and undoingThat the rogue could tell!When the breeze is out a-wooing,Who can woo so well?Pretty brook, thy dream is over,For thy love is but a rover!Sad the lot of poplar trees,Courted by the fickle breeze!

Ballad: The First Lord's Song

When I was a lad I served a termAs office boy to an Attorney's firm;I cleaned the windows and I swept the floor,And I polished up the handle of the big front door.I polished up that handle so successfullee,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!As office boy I made such a markThat they gave me the post of a junior clerk;I served the writs with a smile so bland,And I copied all the letters in a big round hand.I copied all the letters in a hand so free,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!In serving writs I made such a nameThat an articled clerk I soon became;I wore clean collars and a brand-new suitFor the Pass Examination at the Institute:And that Pass Examination did so well for me,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!Of legal knowledge I acquired such a gripThat they took me into the partnership,And that junior partnership I ween,Was the only ship that I ever had seen:But that kind of ship so suited me,That now I am the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!I grew so rich that I was sentBy a pocket borough into Parliament;I always voted at my Party's call,And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.I thought so little, they rewarded me,By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!Now, landsmen all, whoever you may be,If you want to rise to the top of the tree -If your soul isn't fettered to an office stool,Be careful to be guided by this golden rule -Stick close to your desks and NEVER GO TO SEA,And you all may be Rulers of the Queen's Navee!

Ballad: Would You Know?

Would you know the kind of maidSets 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 wayWith 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 maidSets my heart a flame-a!When a maid is bold and gayWith a tongue goes clang-a,Flaunting it in brave array,Maiden may go hang-a!Sunflower gay and hollyhockNever shall my garden stock;Mine the blushing 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 maidSets my heart a flame-a!

Ballad: Speculation

Comes a train of little ladiesFrom scholastic trammels free,Each a little bit afraid is,Wondering what the world can be!Is it but a world of trouble -Sadness set to song?Is its beauty but a bubbleBound to break ere long?Are its palaces and pleasuresFantasies that fade?And the glory of its treasuresShadow of a shade?Schoolgirls we, eighteen and under,From scholastic trammels free,And we wonder – how we wonder! -What on earth the world can be!

Ballad: Ah Me!

When maiden loves, she sits and sighs,She wanders to and fro;Unbidden tear-drops fill her eyes,And to all questions she replies,With a sad heigho!'Tis but a little word – "heigho!"So soft, 'tis scarcely heard – "heigho!"An idle breath -Yet life and deathMay hang upon a maid's "heigho!"When maiden loves, she mopes apart,As owl mopes on a tree;Although she keenly feels the smart,She cannot tell what ails her heart,With its sad "Ah me!"'Tis but a foolish sigh – "Ah me!"Born but to droop and die – "Ah me!"Yet all the senseOf eloquenceLies hidden in a maid's "Ah me!"

Ballad: The Duke Of Plaza-Toro

In enterprise of martial kind,When there was any fighting,He led his regiment from behind(He found it less exciting).But when away his regiment ran,His place was at the fore, O-That celebrated,Cultivated,UnderratedNobleman,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!In the first and foremost flight, ha, ha!You always found that knight, ha, ha!That celebrated,Cultivated,UnderratedNobleman,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!When, to evade Destruction's hand,To hide they all proceeded,No soldier in that gallant bandHid half as well as he did.He lay concealed throughout the war,And so preserved his gore, O!That unaffected,Undetected,Well connectedWarrior,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!In every doughty deed, ha, ha!He always took the lead, ha, ha!That unaffected,Undetected,Well connectedWarrior,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!When told that they would all be shotUnless they left the service,That hero hesitated not,So marvellous his nerve is.He sent his resignation in,The first of all his corps, O!That very knowing,Overflowing,Easy-goingPaladin,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!To men of grosser clay, ha, ha!He always showed the way, ha, ha!That very knowing,Overflowing,Easy-goingPaladin,The Duke of Plaza-Toro!

Ballad: The Aesthete

If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line, as a manof culture rare,You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, andplant them everywhere.You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases ofyour complicated state of mind(The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of atranscendental kind).And every one 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 mustbe!"Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have longsince passed away,And convince 'em, if you can, that the reign of good QUEEN ANNE wasCulture's palmiest day.Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declareit's crude and mean,And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.And every one 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 mustbe!"Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite yourlanguid spleen,An attachment E 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 inthe high aesthetic band,If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in yourmediaeval hand.And every one will say,As you walk your flowery way,"If he's content with a vegetable love which would certainly notsuit ME,Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young manmust be!

Ballad: Said I To Myself, Said I

When I went to the Bar as a very young man(Said I to myself – said I),I'll work on a new and original plan(Said I to myself – said I),I'll never assume that a rogue or a thiefIs a gentleman worthy implicit belief,Because his attorney, has sent me a brief(Said I to myself – said I!)I'll never throw dust in a juryman's eyes(Said I to myself – said I),Or hoodwink a judge who is not over-wise(Said I to myself – said I),Or assume that the witnesses summoned in forceIn Exchequer, Queen's Bench, Common Pleas, or Divorce,Have perjured themselves as a matter of course(Said I to myself – said I!)Ere I go into court I will read my brief through(Said I to myself – said I),And I'll never take work I'm unable to do(Said I to myself – said I).My learned profession I'll never disgraceBy taking a fee with a grin on my face,When I haven't been there to attend to the case(Said I to myself – said I!)In other professions in which men engage(Said I to myself – said I),The Army, the Navy, the Church, and the Stage,(Said I to myself – said I),Professional licence, if carried too far,Your chance of promotion will certainly mar -And I fancy the rule might apply to the Bar(Said I to myself – said I!)

Ballad: Sorry Her Lot

Sorry her lot who loves too well,Heavy the heart that hopes but vainly,Sad are the sighs that own the spellUttered by eyes that speak too plainly;Heavy the sorrow that bows the headWhen Love is alive and Hope is dead!Sad is the hour when sets the Sun -Dark is the night to Earth's poor daughters,When to the ark the wearied oneFlies from the empty waste of waters!Heavy the sorrow that bows the headWhen Love is alive and Hope is dead!

Ballad: The Contemplative Sentry

When all night long a chap remainsOn sentry-go, to chase monotonyHe exercises of his brains,That is, assuming that he's got any.Though never nurtured in the lapOf luxury, yet I admonish you,I am an intellectual chap,And think of things that would astonish you.I often think it's comicalHow Nature always does contriveThat every boy and every gal,That's born into the world alive,Is either a little Liberal,Or else a little Conservative!Fal lal la!When in that house M.P.'s divide,If they've a brain and cerebellum, too,They've got to leave that brain outside,And vote just as their leaders tell 'em to.But then the prospect of a lotOf statesmen, all in close proximity,A-thinking for themselves, is whatNo man can face with equanimity.Then let's rejoice with loud Fal lalThat Nature wisely does contriveThat every boy and every gal,That's born into the world alive,Is either a little Liberal,Or else a little Conservative!Fal lal la!