Chapter II: Villanelle

Now ain't they utterly too-too
(She ses, my Missus mine,[11] ses she),
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Joe, just you kool 'em-nice and skew
Upon our old meogginee,
Now ain't they utterly too-too?

They're better than a pot'n' a screw,
They're equal to a Sunday spree,
Them flymy little bits of Blue!

Suppose I put 'em up the flue,
And booze the profits, Joe? Not me.
Now ain't they utterly too-too?

I do the 'Igh Art fake, I do.
Joe, I'm consummate; and I _see_
Them flymy little bits of Blue.

Which, Joe, is why I ses te you--
Æsthetic-like, and limp, and free--
Now _ain't_ they utterly too-too,
Them flymy little bits of Blue?

I often does a quiet read
At Booty Shelly's[12] poetry;
I thinks that Swinburne at a screed
Is really almost too-too fly;
At Signor Vagna's[13] harmony
I likes a merry little flutter;
I've had at Pater many a shy;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

My mark's a tidy little feed,
And 'Enery Irving's gallery,
To see old 'Amlick do a bleed,
And Ellen Terry on the die,
Or Franky's ghostes at hi-spy,[14]
And parties carried on a shutter.[15]
Them vulgar Coupeaus is my eye!
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

The Grosvenor's nuts-it is, indeed!
I goes for 'Olman 'Unt like pie.
It's equal to a friendly lead
To see B. Jones's judes go by.
Stanhope he makes me fit to cry.
Whistler he makes me melt like butter.
Strudwick he makes me flash my cly--
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter.

_Envoy._

I'm on for any Art that's 'Igh;
I talks as quite as I can splutter;
I keeps a Dado on the sly;
In fact, my form's the Bloomin' Utter!

W. E. HENLEY.

[11] An adaptation of "Madonna mia."

[12] Probably Botticelli.

[13] Wagner (?)

[14] This seems to be a reference to _The Corsican Brothers_.

[15] _Richard III._ (?)

THE STREET SINGER.

(Villanelle from my window.)

He stands at the kerb and sings.
'Tis a doleful tune and slow,
Ah me, if I had but wings!

He bends to the coin one flings,
But he never attempts to go,-
He stands at the kerb and sings.

The conjurer comes with his rings,
And the Punch-and-Judy show.
Ah me, if I had but wings!

They pass like all fugitive things--
They fade and they pass, but lo!
He stands at the kerb and sings.

All the magic that Music brings
Is lost when he mangles it so--
Ah me, if I had but wings!

But the worst is a thought that stings!
There is nothing at hand to throw!
He stands at the kerb and sings--
Ah me, if I had but wings!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

MALAPROPOS.

(Rondeau.)

Imitated from the French of Count Anthony Hamilton.

Malàpropos do English wits revive
The Rondeau, which our beauties hear with scorn;
Hide in an extinct form a heart alive,
And woo bright lasses, whom they wish to wive,
Malàpropos, with Gaulish verse outworn.

More fondly would these rosebuds of the morn
Unfold to airs-gay, playful, amative-
Even Astrophel five phrases would contrive--
Malàpropos.

O dazzling youth, to fashion's follies sworn,
Would you their breasts with love's sweet pains were torn?
Rondeau and Ballade to the Devil drive;
Use honest English when for them you strive,
Since never to their hearts would thus arrive--
Malàpropos.

G. H. (_In "The Lute."_)

BEHOLD THE DEEDS!

(Chant Royal.)

[Being the Plaint of Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, Salesman of Fancy
Notions, held in durance of his Landlady for a failure to connect
on Saturday night.]

I.

I would that all men my hard case might know;
How grievously I suffer for no sin:
I, Adolphe Culpepper Ferguson, for lo!
I, of my landlady am lockéd in,

For being short on this sad Saturday,
Nor having shekels of silver wherewith to pay;
She has turned and is departed with my key;
Wherefore, not even as other boarders free,
I sing (as prisoners to their dungeon stones
When for ten days they expiate a spree):
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

II.

One night and one day have I wept my woe;
Nor wot I when the morrow doth begin,
If I shall have to write to Briggs & Co.,
To pray them to advance the requisite tin
For ransom of their salesman, that he may
Go forth as other boarders go alway----
As those I hear now flocking from their tea,
Led by the daughter of my landlady
Piano-ward. This day for all my moans,
Dry bread and water have been servéd me.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

III.

Miss Amabel Jones is musical, and so
The heart of the young he-boardér doth win,
Playing "The Maiden's Prayer," _adagio_--
That fetcheth him, as fetcheth the banco skin
The innocent rustic. For my part, I pray:
That Badarjewska maid may wait for aye
Ere sits she with a lover, as did we
Once sit together, Amabel! Can it be
That all that arduous wooing not atones
For Saturday shortness of trade dollars three?
_Behold_ the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

IV.

Yea! she forgets the arm was wont to go
Around her waist. She wears a buckle whose pin
Galleth the crook of the young man's elbów;
_I_ forget not, for I that youth have been.
Smith was aforetime the Lothario gay.
Yet once, I mind me, Smith was forced to stay
Close in his room. Not calm, as I, was he;
But his noise brought no pleasaunce, verily.
Small ease he gat of playing on the bones,
Or hammering on his stove-pipe, that I see.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

V.

Thou, for whose fear the figurative crow
I eat, accursed be thou and all thy kin!
Thee will I show up-yea, up will I shew
Thy too thick buckwheats, and thy tea too thin.
Ay! here I dare thee, ready for the fray!
Thou dost _not_ "keep a first-class house," I say!
It does not with the advertisements agree.
Thou lodgest a Briton with a puggaree,
And thou hast harboured Jacobses and Cohns,
Also a Mulligan. Thus denounce I thee!
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

_Envoy._

Boarders! the worst I have not told to ye:
She hath stolen my trousers, that I may not flee
Privily by the window. Hence these groans,
There is no fleeing in a _robe de nuit_.
Behold the deeds that are done of Mrs. Jones!

H. C. BUNNER.

* * * * *

THE WALTER SCOTT PRESS, NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE.

Transcriber's Notes:

Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors
were corrected.

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