Songs of a Savoyard

Ballad: The Philosophic Pill

I've wisdom from the East and from the West,That's subject to no academic rule;You may find it in the jeering of a jest,Or distil it from the folly of a fool.I can teach you with a quip, if I've a mind;I can trick you into learning with a laugh;Oh, winnow all my folly, and you'll findA grain or two of truth among the chaff!I can set a braggart quailing with a quip,The upstart I can wither with a whim;He may wear a merry laugh upon his lip,But his laughter has an echo that is grim.When they've offered to the world in merry guise,Unpleasant truths are swallowed with a will -For he who'd make his fellow-creatures wiseShould always gild the philosophic pill!

Ballad: Blue Blood

Spurn not the nobly bornWith love affected,Nor treat with virtuous scornThe well connected.High rank involves no shame -We boast an equal claimWith him of humble nameTo be respected!Blue blood! Blue blood!When virtuous love is sought,Thy power is naught,Though dating from the Flood,Blue blood!Spare us the bitter painOf stern denials,Nor with low-born disdainAugment our trials.Hearts just as pure and fairMay beat in Belgrave SquareAs in the lowly airOf Seven Dials!Blue blood! Blue blood!Of what avail art thouTo serve me now?Though dating from the Flood,Blue blood!

Ballad: The Judge's Song

When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,I'd an appetite fresh and hearty,But I was, as many young barristers are,An impecunious party.I'd a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue -A brief which was brought by a booby -A couple of shirts and a collar or two,And a ring that looked like a ruby!In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,Like a semi-despondent fury;For I thought I should never hit on a chanceOf addressing a British Jury -But I soon got tired of third-class journeys,And dinners of bread and water;So I fell in love with a rich attorney'sElderly, ugly daughter.The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,And replied to my fond professions:"You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions.You'll soon get used to her looks," said he,"And a very nice girl you'll find her -She may very well pass for forty-threeIn the dusk, with a light behind her!"The rich attorney was as good as his word:The briefs came trooping gaily,And every day my voice was heardAt the Sessions or Ancient Bailey.All thieves who could my fees affordRelied on my orations,And many a burglar I've restoredTo his friends and his relations.At length I became as rich as the GURNEYS -An incubus then I thought her,So I threw over that rich attorney'sElderly, ugly daughter.The rich attorney my character highTried vainly to disparage -And now, if you please, I'm ready to tryThis Breach of Promise of Marriage!

Ballad: When I First Put This Uniform On

When I first put this uniform on,I said, as I looked in the glass,"It's one to a millionThat any civilianMy figure and form will surpass.Gold lace has a charm for the fair,And I've plenty of that, and to spare,While a lover's professions,When uttered in Hessians,Are eloquent everywhere!"A fact that I counted upon,When I first put this uniform on!I said, when I first put it on,"It is plain to the veriest dunceThat every beautyWill feel it her dutyTo yield to its glamour at once.They will see that I'm freely gold-lacedIn a uniform handsome and chaste" -But the peripateticsOf long-haired aesthetics,Are very much more to their taste -Which I never counted uponWhen I first put this uniform on!

Ballad: Solatium

Comes the broken flower -Comes the cheated maid -Though the tempest lower,Rain and cloud will fade!Take, O maid, these posies:Though thy beauty rareShame the blushing roses,They are passing fair!Wear the flowers till they fade;Happy be thy life, O maid!O'er the season vernal,Time may cast a shade;Sunshine, if eternal,Makes the roses fade:Time may do his duty;Let the thief alone -Winter hath a beautyThat is all his own.Fairest days are sun and shade:Happy be thy life, O maid!

Ballad: A Nightmare

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety, I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety; For your brain is on fire – the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you: First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you; Then the blanketing tickles – you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking, And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking. Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all up in a tangle; Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle! Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching, But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams that you'd very much better be waking; For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing about in a steamer from Harwich, Which is something between a large bathing-machine and a very small second-class carriage; And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat) to a party of friends and relations – They're a ravenous horde – and they all came on board at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations. And bound on that journey you find your attorney (who started that morning from Devon); He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised when he tells you he's only eleven. Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad (by the bye the ship's now a four-wheeler), And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad names when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer"; But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand, and you find you're as cold as an icicle, In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks), crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle: And he and the crew are on bicycles too – which they've somehow or other invested in – And he's telling the tars all the particuLARS of a company he's interested in – It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices, all goods from cough mixtures to cables (Which tickled the sailors) by treating retailers, as though they were all vegeTAbles – You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman (first take off his boots with a boot-tree), And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot, and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree – From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea, cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries, While the pastry-cook plant cherry-brandy will grant – apple puffs, and three-corners, and banberries – The shares are a penny, and ever so many are taken by ROTHSCHILD and BARING, And just as a few are allotted to you, you awake with a shudder despairing – You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore, for your head's on the floor, and you've needles and pins from your soles to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's asleep, and you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and a general sense that you haven't been sleeping in clover; But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and the night has been long – ditto, ditto my song – and thank goodness they're both of them over!

Ballad: Don't Forget!

Now, Marco, dear,My wishes hear:While you're awayIt's understoodYou will be good,And not too gay.To every traceOf maiden graceYou will be blind,And will not glanceBy any chanceOn womankind!If you are wise,You'll shut your eyesTill we arrive,And not addressA lady lessThan forty-five;You'll please to frownOn every gownThat you may see;And O, my pet,You won't forgetYou've married me!O, my darling, O, my pet,Whatever else you may forget,In yonder isle beyond the sea,O, don't forget you've married me!You'll lay your headUpon your bedAt set of sun.You will not singOf anythingTo any one:You'll sit and mopeAll day, I hope,And shed a tearUpon the lifeYour little wifeIs passing here!And if so beYou think of me,Please tell the moon;I'll read it allIn rays that fallOn the lagoon:You'll be so kindAs tell the windHow you may be,And send me wordsBy little birdsTo comfort me!And O, my darling, O, my pet,Whatever else you may forget,In yonder isle beyond the sea,O, don't forget you've married me!

Ballad: The Suicide's Grave

On a tree by a river a little tomtitSang "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"And I said to him, "Dicky-bird, why do you sitSinging 'Willow, titwillow, titwillow'?Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried,"Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"With a shake of his poor little head he replied,"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough,Singing "Willow, titwillow, titwillow!"And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow,Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave,Then he threw himself into the billowy wave,And an echo arose from the suicide's grave -"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my nameIsn't Willow, titwillow, titwillow,That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim,"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"And if you remain callous and obdurate, IShall perish as he did, and you will know why,Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die,"Oh, willow, titwillow, titwillow!"

Ballad: He And She

[HE.] I know a youth who loves a little maid -(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid -(Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!)[SHE.] I know a maid who loves a gallant youth -(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)SHE cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth -(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,What in the world should the poor soul do?[HE.] He cannot eat and he cannot sleep -(Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!)Daily he goes for to wail – for to weep -(Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!)[SHE.] She's very thin and she's very pale -(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)Daily she goes for to weep – for to wail -(Hey, but I think that little maid will die!)[BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true,What in the world should the poor soul do?[SHE.] If I were the youth I should offer her my name -(Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!)[HE.] If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame -(Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!)[SHE.] If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day -(Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!)[HE.] If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way -(For I really do believe that timid youth will die!)[BOTH.] I thank you much for your counsel true;I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

Ballad: The Mighty Must

Come mighty Must!Inevitable Shall!In thee I trust.Time weaves my coronal!Go mocking Is!Go disappointing Was!That I am thisYe are the cursed cause!Yet humble Second shall be First,I ween;And dead and buried be the curstHas Been!Oh weak Might Be!Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!How powerless yeFor evil or for good!In every senseYour moods I cheerless call,Whate'er your tenseYe are Imperfect, all!Ye have deceived the trust I've shownIn ye!Away! The Mighty Must aloneShall be!

Ballad: A Mirage

Were I thy bride,Then the whole world besideWere not too wideTo hold my wealth of love -Were I thy bride!Upon thy breastMy loving head would rest,As on her nestThe tender turtle-dove -Were I thy bride!This heart of mineWould be one heart with thine,And in that shrineOur happiness would dwell -Were I thy bride!And all day longOur lives should be a song:No grief, no wrongShould make my heart rebel -Were I thy bride!The silvery flute,The melancholy lute,Were night-owl's hootTo my low-whispered coo -Were I thy bride!The skylark's trillWere but discordance shrillTo the soft thrillOf wooing as I'd woo -Were I thy bride!The rose's sighWere as a carrion's cryTo lullabySuch as I'd sing to thee -Were I thy bride!A feather's pressWere leaden heavinessTo my caress.But then, unhappily,I'm not thy bride!

Ballad: The Ghosts' High Noon

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in themoonlight flies,And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies-When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogsbay the moon,Then is the spectres' holiday – then is the ghosts' high noon!As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lielow on the fen,From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were womenand men,And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends toosoon,For cockcrow limits our holiday – the dead of the night's highnoon!And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard bedstake flight,With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "goodnight";Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth itsjolliest tune,And ushers our next high holiday – the dead of the night's highnoon!

Ballad: The Humane Mikado

A more humane Mikado neverDid in Japan exist;To nobody second,I'm certainly reckonedA true philanthropist.It is my very humane endeavourTo make, to some extent,Each evil liverA running riverOf harmless merriment.My object all sublimeI shall achieve in time -To let the punishment fit the crime -The punishment fit the crime;And make each prisoner pentUnwillingly representA source of innocent merriment -Of innocent merriment!All prosy dull society sinners,Who chatter and bleat and bore,Are sent to hear sermonsFrom mystical GermansWho preach from ten to four:The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainiesAll desire to shirk,Shall, during off-hours,Exhibit his powersTo Madame Tussaud's waxwork:The lady who dyes a chemical yellow,Or stains her grey hair puce,Or pinches her figger,Is blacked like a niggerWith permanent walnut juice:The idiot who, in railway carriages,Scribbles on window panes,We only sufferTo ride on a bufferIn Parliamentary trains.My object all sublimeI shall achieve in time -To let the punishment fit the crime -The punishment fit the crime;And make each prisoner pentUnwillingly representA source of innocent merriment -Of innocent merriment!The advertising quack who weariesWith tales of countless cures,His teeth, I've enacted,Shall all be extractedBy terrified amateurs:The music-hall singer attends a seriesOf masses and fugues and "ops"By Bach, interwovenWith Spohr and Beethoven,At classical Monday Pops:The billiard sharp whom any one catchesHis doom's extremely hard -He's made to dwellIn a dungeon cellOn a spot that's always barred;And there he plays extravagant matchesIn fitless finger-stalls,On a cloth untrueWith a twisted cue,And elliptical billiard balls!My object all sublimeI shall achieve in time -To let the punishment fit the crime -The punishment fit the crime;And make each prisoner pentUnwillingly representA source of innocent merriment,Of innocent merriment!

Ballad: Willow Waly!

[HE.] PRITHEE, pretty maiden – prithee, tell me true(Hey, but I'm doleful, willow, willow waly!)Have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you?Hey, willow waly O!I would fain discoverIf you have a lover?Hey, willow waly O![SHE.] Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free -(Hey, but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!)Nobody I care for comes a-courting me -Hey, willow waly O!Nobody I care forComes a-courting – therefore,Hey, willow waly O![HE.] Prithee, pretty maiden, will you marry me?(Hey, but I'm hopeful, willow, willow waly!)I may say, at once, I'm a man of propertee -Hey, willow waly O!Money, I despise it,But many people prize it,Hey, willow waly O![SHE.] Gentle sir, although to marry I design -(Hey, but he's hopeful, willow, willow waly!)As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline.Hey, willow waly O!To other maidens go you -As yet I do not know you,Hey, willow waly O!

Ballad: Life Is Lovely All The Year

When the buds are blossoming,Smiling welcome to the spring,Lovers choose a wedding day -Life is love in merry May!Spring is green – Fal lal la!Summer's rose – Fal lal la!It is sad when Summer goes,Fal la!Autumn's gold – Fal lal la!Winter's grey – Fal lal la!Winter still is far away -Fal la!Leaves in Autumn fade and fall;Winter is the end of all.Spring and summer teem with glee:Spring and summer, then, for me!Fal la!In the Spring-time seed is sown:In the Summer grass is mown:In the Autumn you may reap:Winter is the time for sleep.Spring is hope – Fal lal la!Summer's joy – Fal lal la!Spring and Summer never cloy,Fal la!Autumn, toil – Fal lal la!Winter, rest – Fal lal la!Winter, after all, is best -Fal la!Spring and summer pleasure you,Autumn, ay, and winter, too -Every season has its cheer;Life is lovely all the year!Fal la!

Ballad: The Usher's Charge

Now, Jurymen, hear my advice -All kinds of vulgar prejudiceI pray you set aside:With stern judicial frame of mind -From bias free of every kind,This trial must be tried!Oh, listen to the plaintiff's case:Observe the features of her face -The broken-hearted bride!Condole with her distress of mind -From bias free of every kind,This trial must be tried!And when amid the plaintiff's shrieks,The ruffianly defendant speaks -Upon the other side;What HE may say you need not mind -From bias free of every kind,This trial must be tried!

Ballad: The Great Oak Tree

There grew a little flower'Neath a great oak tree:When the tempest 'gan to lowerLittle heeded she:No need had she to cower,For she dreaded not its power -She was happy in the bowerOf her great oak tree!Sing hey,Lackaday!Let the tears fall freeFor the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!When she found that he was fickle,Was that great oak tree,She was in a pretty pickle,As she well might be -But his gallantries were mickle,For Death followed with his sickle,And her tears began to trickleFor her great oak tree!Sing hey,Lackaday!Let the tears fall freeFor the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!Said she, "He loved me never,Did that great oak tree,But I'm neither rich nor clever,And so why should he?But though fate our fortunes sever,To be constant I'll endeavour,Ay, for ever and for ever,To my great oak tree!"Sing hey,Lackaday!Let the tears fall freeFor the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!

Ballad: King Goodheart

There lived a King, as I've been toldIn the wonder-working days of old,When hearts were twice as good as gold,And twenty times as mellow.Good temper triumphed in his face,And in his heart he found a placeFor all the erring human raceAnd every wretched fellow.When he had Rhenish wine to drinkIt made him very sad to thinkThat some, at junket or at jink,Must be content with toddy:He wished all men as rich as he(And he was rich as rich could be),So to the top of every treePromoted everybody.Ambassadors cropped up like hay,Prime Ministers and such as theyGrew like asparagus in May,And Dukes were three a penny:Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats,And Bishops in their shovel hatsWere plentiful as tabby cats -If possible, too many.On every side Field-Marshals gleamed,Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed,With Admirals the ocean teemed,All round his wide dominions;And Party Leaders you might meetIn twos and threes in every streetMaintaining, with no little heat,Their various opinions.That King, although no one denies,His heart was of abnormal size,Yet he'd have acted otherwiseIf he had been acuter.The end is easily foretold,When every blessed thing you holdIs made of silver, or of gold,You long for simple pewter.When you have nothing else to wearBut cloth of gold and satins rare,For cloth of gold you cease to care -Up goes the price of shoddy:In short, whoever you may be,To this conclusion you'll agree,When every one is somebody,Then no one's anybody!

Ballad: Sleep On!

Fear no unlicensed entry,Heed no bombastic talk,While guards the British SentryPall Mall and Birdcage Walk.Let European thundersOccasion no alarms,Though diplomatic blundersMay cause a cry "To arms!"Sleep on, ye pale civilians;All thunder-clouds defy:On Europe's countless millionsThe Sentry keeps his eye!Should foreign-born rapscallionsIn London dare to showTheir overgrown battalions,Be sure I'll let you know.Should Russians or NorwegiansPollute our favoured climeWith rough barbaric legions,I'll mention it in time.So sleep in peace, civilians,The Continent defy;While on its countless millionsThe Sentry keeps his eye !

Ballad: The Love-Sick Boy

When first my old, old love I knew,My bosom welled with joy;My riches at her feet I threw;I was a love-sick boy!No terms seemed too extravagantUpon her to employ -I used to mope, and sigh, and pant,Just like a love-sick boy!But joy incessant palls the sense;And love unchanged will cloy,And she became a bore intenseUnto her love-sick boy?With fitful glimmer burnt my flame,And I grew cold and coy,At last, one morning, I becameAnother's love-sick boy!

Ballad: Poetry Everywhere

What time the poet hath hymnedThe writhing maid, lithe-limbed,Quivering on amaranthine asphodel,How can he paint her woes,Knowing, as well he knows,That all can be set right with calomel?When from the poet's plinthThe amorous colocynthYearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills,How can he hymn their throesKnowing, as well he knows,That they are only uncompounded pills?Is it, and can it be,Nature hath this decree,Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?Or that in all her worksSomething poetic lurks,Even in colocynth and calomel?

Ballad: He Loves!

He loves! If in the bygone yearsThine eyes have ever shedTears – bitter, unavailing tears,For one untimely dead -If in the eventide of lifeSad thoughts of her arise,Then let the memory of thy wifePlead for my boy – he dies!He dies! If fondly laid asideIn some old cabinet,Memorials of thy long-dead brideLie, dearly treasured yet,Then let her hallowed bridal dress -Her little dainty gloves -Her withered flowers – her faded tress -Plead for my boy – he loves!

Ballad: True Diffidence

My boy, you may take it from me,That of all the afflictions accurstWith which a man's saddledAnd hampered and addled,A diffident nature's the worst.Though clever as clever can be -A Crichton of early romance -You must stir it and stump it,And blow your own trumpet,Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.Now take, for example, MY case:I've a bright intellectual brain -In all London cityThere's no one so witty -I've thought so again and again.I've a highly intelligent face -My features cannot be denied -But, whatever I try, sir,I fail in – and why, sir?I'm modesty personified!As a poet, I'm tender and quaint -I've passion and fervour and grace -From Ovid and HoraceTo Swinburne and Morris,They all of them take a back place.Then I sing and I play and I paint;Though none are accomplished as I,To say so were treason:You ask me the reason?I'm diffident, modest, and shy!

Ballad: The Tangled Skein

Try we life-long, we can neverStraighten out life's tangled skein,Why should we, in vain endeavour,Guess and guess and guess again?Life's a pudding full of plumsCare's a canker that benumbs.Wherefore waste our elocutionOn impossible solution?Life's a pleasant institution,Let us take it as it comes!Set aside the dull enigma,We shall guess it all too soon;Failure brings no kind of stigma -Dance we to another tune!String the lyre and fill the cup,Lest on sorrow we should sup;Hop and skip to Fancy's fiddle,Hands across and down the middle -Life's perhaps the only riddleThat we shrink from giving up!

Ballad: My Lady

Bedecked in fashion trim,With every curl a-quiver;Or leaping, light of limb,O'er rivulet and river;Or skipping o'er the leaOn daffodil and daisy;Or stretched beneath a tree,All languishing and lazy;Whatever be her mood -Be she demurely prudeOr languishingly lazy -My lady drives me crazy!In vain her heart is wooed,Whatever be her mood!What profit should I gainSuppose she loved me dearly?Her coldness turns my brainTo VERGE of madness merely.Her kiss – though, Heaven knows,To dream of it were treason -Would tend, as I suppose,To utter loss of reason!My state is not amiss;I would not have a kissWhich, in or out of season,Might tend to loss of reason:What profit in such bliss?A fig for such a kiss!

Ballad: One Against The World

It's my opinion – though I ownIn thinking so I'm quite alone -In some respects I'm but a fright.YOU like my features, I suppose?I'M disappointed with my nose:Some rave about it – perhaps they're right.My figure just sets off a fit;But when they say it's exquisite(And they DO say so), that's too strong.I hope I'm not what people callOpinionated! After all,I'm but a goose, and may be wrong!When charms enthralThere's some excuseFor measures strong;And after allI'm but a goose,And may be wrong!My teeth are very neat, no doubt;But after all they MAY fall out:I think they will – some think they won't.My hands are small, as you may see,But not as small as they might be,At least, I think so – others don't.But there, a girl may preach and prateFrom morning six to evening eight,And never stop to dine,When all the world, although misled,Is quite agreed on any head -And it is quite agreed on mine!All said and done,It's little IAgainst a throng.I'm only one,And possiblyI may be wrong!