George R. Sims
Dagonet Ditties
EAN 8596547179597
Table of Contents
C O N T E N T S .
Dagonet Ditties.
London Day by Day.
For E’er and Hair.
The Artist’s Dilemma.
A Domestic Tragedy.
MORAL.
The Pick-me-up. (WRITTEN AFTER ONE BOTTLE.)
Ad Cor Meum.
Ichabod.
A Derby Ditty.
Shall we Remember?
Paradise and the Sinner. (THE NEW VERSION.)
The Income Tax.
Nonsense.
MORAL.
Le Mardi Gras.
Two Sundays.
The Mails Aboard.
At The Photographer’s. (A BALLAD OF BROADMOOR.)
In Gay Japan. BY SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
The Balaclava Heroes. (JULY 2, 1890.)
A Child’s Idea.
Sanitation at Sea.
Guignol.
The English Summer.
A Perfect Paradise. (VIDE PELICAN. AFFIDAVITS.)
That Breeze.
Ballad of Old-Time Fogs.
Under the Clock. (AN ACTOR’S SONG.)
The Girl of Forty-seven.
Conventional Malgré Lui.
Home, Sweet Home. (A WINTER’S TALE.)
In Portland Place.
The Shirt Buttons. (AFTER SWINBURNE.)
The Londoner to His Love. (SONG AND DANCE.)
The Eiffel Bonnet.
To a Fair Musician.
A Word for the Police.
The Old Clock on the Stairs. (A Ballad of Broadmoor.)
My Ambition.
A Wish.
The Song of Heredity.
Scotch’d, not Kilt. (THE KAISER’S SONG.)
The Last Resource.
Ye Bars and Gates.
Portrait of a Prince. (BY A SOCIETY GOSSIPER.)
(BY HIMSELF.)
The Strong Men.
A Ballad of Soap. After Andrew Lang.
Envoy.
The Jokeleteer.
Bill Sikes’s Protest.
The Clarinet.
No Evening Dress.
Alone in London. (Dizain.)
The Volunteer.
Those Boots.
A Sunday Song.
Up the Rigi.
A Plea for Mercy.
If You Were Here. (ANY HUSBAND TO ANY WIFE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ALFRED AUSTIN.)
Le Brav’ General
The Paris Exhibition.
The New Legend.
A Mild December.
The Last Duke.
To the Fog.
The Reminiscences of Mr. John Dobbs. Written by Himself.
Pickpocket Poems
I.
II.
III.
The Cigarette.
The Early Milk-Cart.
The Collaborators.
The New Cure.
[TO MR. SMITH.]
[MR. SMITH REPLIES.]
[TO A JUDGE.]
[SIR HENRY REPLIES.]
That New-born Babe.
The Button. (A TALE OF THE TUNNEL.)
A Façon de Parler.
Jackson. (OR, “ON THE TRACK.”)
Another Danger.
After the Act.
The Rigadoon. (A PASTORAL ROMANCE.)
MORAL (SLIGHTLY MIXED) .
How to Write a Novel. (THE OLD-FASHIONED RECIPE.)
The German Gym. (A MEMORY.)
Tottie. By our Lunatic Rhyming Slangster.
The Welshman in London.
The Magistrate. (BY A LUNATIC LAUREATE.)
The Imperial Institute. (AFTER LORD TENNYSON.)
The Plan of Campaign.
The People’s Palace.
A Charade.
A True Story. (A MORAL POEM FOR CHILDREN.)
The Pirate ’Bus.
The War-Cry.
The “Lancet.”
MORAL.
A Tale of a Tub.
MORAL.
The Comic King.
C O N T E N T S.
Table of Contents
PAGE
LONDON DAY BY DAY
1
FOR E’ER AND HAIR
3
A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY
7
THE PICK-ME-UP
9
AD COR MEUM
11
ICHABOD
12
A DERBY DITTY
14
SHALL WE REMEMBER?
15
PARADISE AND THE SINNER
16
THE INCOME TAX
19
NONSENSE
20
LE MARDI GRAS
23
TWO SUNDAYS
24
THE MAILS ABOARD
25
AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S
27
IN GAY JAPAN
29
THE BALACLAVA HEROES
31
A CHILD’S IDEA
32
SANITATION AT SEA
34
GUIGNOL
35
THE ENGLISH SUMMER
35
A PERFECT PARADISE
36
THAT BREEZE
38
BALLAD OF OLD-TIME FOGS
39
UNDER THE CLOCK
40
THE GIRL OF FORTY-SEVEN
41
CONVENTIONAL MALGRÉ LUI
42
HOME, SWEET HOME
44
IN PORTLAND PLACE
45
THE SHIRT BUTTONS
46
THE LONDONER TO HIS LOVE
48
THE EIFFEL BONNET
49
TO A FAIR MUSICIAN
51
A WORD FOR THE POLICE
52
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS
53
MY AMBITION
55
A WISH
56
THE SONG OF HEREDITY
57
SCOTCH’D, NOT KILT
58
THE LAST RESOURCE
59
YE BARS AND GATES
60
PORTRAIT OF A PRINCE
61
THE STRONG MEN
63
A BALLAD OF SOAP
65
THE JOKELETEER
67
BILL SIKES’S PROTEST
68
THE CLARINET
69
NO EVENING DRESS
70
ALONE IN LONDON
70
THE VOLUNTEER
71
THOSE BOOTS
73
A SUNDAY SONG
74
UP THE RIGI
75
A PLEA FOR MERCY
77
IF YOU WERE HERE
78
LE BRAV’ GÉNÉRAL
80
THE PARIS EXHIBITION
81
THE NEW LEGEND
82
A MILD DECEMBER
84
THE LAST DUKE
86
TO THE FOG
88
THE REMINISCENCES OF MR. JOHN DOBBS
89
PICKPOCKET POEMS
91
THE CIGARETTE
94
THE EARLY MILK-CART
95
THE COLLABORATORS
98
THE WEN CURE
101
THAT NEW-BORN BABE
103
THE BUTTON
106
A FAÇON DE PARLER
109
JACKSON
110
ANOTHER DANGER
112
AFTER THE ACT
114
THE RIGADOON
117
HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL
121
THE GERMAN GYM
124
TOTTIE
126
THE WELSHMAN IN LONDON
127
THE MAGISTRATE
129
THE IMPERIAL INSTITUTE
131
THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
132
THE PEOPLE’S PALACE
133
A CHARADE
135
A TRUE STORY
137
THE PIRATE ’BUS
138
THE WAR-CRY
141
THE “LANCET”
143
A TALE OF A TUB
148
THE COMIC KING
150
Dagonet Ditties.
Table of Contents
London Day by Day.
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HE smoke in vaster volumes rolls,The fever fiend takes larger tolls,And sin a fiercer grip of souls,In London day by day.
Still Buggins builds on swampy site,And Eiffel houses block the light,And make a town of dreadful nightOf London day by day.
In fashion’s long and busy street,The outcast foreign harlots meet,While Robert smiles upon his beat,In London day by day.
Still modest maidens’ cheeks are stungWith foulest words from wanton’s tongue,And oaths yelled out with leathern lung,In London day by day.
Wealth riots in a mad excess,While thousands, poor and penniless,Starve in the mighty wilderness,Of London day by day.
Wrong proudly rears its wicked head,While Right’s sad eyes with tears are red,And sluggard Justice lies abed,In London day by day.
The liar triumphs, and the knaveRides buoyant on the rolling wave,And Liberty makes many a slaveIn London day by day.
Yet Hope and Trust and Faith and Love,And God’s fair dowers from above,Still find a branch, like Noah’s dove,In London day by day.
And onward still, though slow the pace,Press pilgrims of our grand old race,Who seek the Right with firm-set face,And shed Truth’s light by God’s good graceO’er London day by day.
For E’er and Hair.
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SAID to my sweet in the morning,“We must start on our journey at ten”—She was up in her bedroom adorning,She’d been there a goodish time then;And she answered me tenderly, “Poppet,”As she came to the top of the stair,“If you see a cab pass you can stop it,For I’ve only to finish my hair.”
It was ten by the clock of St. Stephen’sAs I sat and looked glum in the hall,And I offered to wager her evensShe would never be ready at all.I counted the half and the quarters—At eleven I ventured to swear;Then she answered, like one of Eve’s daughters,“All right, dear—I must do my hair.”
I waited till daylight was waning,I waited till darkness began,Upbraiding myself for complainingLike a selfish and bad-tempered man.But when midnight rang out from the steepleI ventured to whisper a prayer,And she answered, “I hate surly people;You must let me finish my hair!”
I paid for the cab and dismissed it,I took off my coat and my hat,I held her fair hand and I kissed it,And I curled myself up on the mat.And when I awoke on the morrow,I cried, “Oh, where art thou, my fair?”And she answered, “Oh, run out and borrowA hairpin or two for my hair.”
The summers have faded to winters,The winters have melted to springs;My patience is shivered to splinters,And still, as she “puts on her things,”My sweet, though I’m weary of waiting,And groan in my bitter despair,Contents herself simply by stating“She’s just got to finish her hair.”
If she’s here when the world’s at its finish,And lists to the last crack of doom,She will watch our poor planet diminishFrom the window upstairs in her room.And when the last trumpet is blowing,And the angel says, “Hurry up, there!”She will answer, “All right, sir, I’m going,But you must let me finish my hair!”
The Artist’s Dilemma.
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HE artist was out on the stormy seas,When his vessel turned upside down,And his body was blown by the autumn breezeTo the shores of a seaside town.The fisher-folk spied him miles away,And, raising a hearty cheer,They rowed the lifeboat across the bay,And shouted that help was near.
The artist had sunk for the second time,He’d a shark on his starboard tack,But he looked on the boat with a look sublime,And he told them to take it back.“My bones may bleach in the mermaid’s cave,But to art will I e’er be true,And never a man my life shall saveIn a boat of that vulgar blue.”
They found his body at break of day,It lay on the briny beach,But he soon got better and stole awayTo the house of a local leech.He took a draught, and he went to bedIn a garret that was to spare;And when he awoke his host had fled,For the place had begun to flare.
He was up in a garret against the sky,And a fire had broken out,The flames about him were broad and high,And he heard the people shout.“Oh, come to the window!” the people cried,As they bellowed a mighty cheer;“You’d better come down before you’re fried,For the fire-escape is here.”
He opened the casement wide, and reeledBack through the flame and smoke—For the fire-escape the light revealed—And then to the crowd he spoke:“I’ll leap in the jaws of the flames that gape,For I’d rather be picked up deadThan save my life in a fire-escapeThat is painted a vulgar red.”
They gathered him up with a broom and panFrom the pavement where he fell,And they sent for the undertaker’s man,And they toll’d him a passing bell.They gave him a funeral plain but good,And out of the local purseThey bought him a coffin of polished wood,Which they put in a pair-horse hearse.
But the artist-spirit in death was strong,And it lifted the coffin-lidWhile the horses lazily jogged along,And out of the hearse it slid.It raised its body and yelled a curse,And it shouted and cried “Alack!I’m blest if I ride in a beastly hearseThat is painted a vulgar black.”
