Chapter III

In this lecture I shall deal with the production of Lyrics, Blank Verse and (if I am allowed) Hymns (Ancient and Modern).

First we will write a humorous lyric for the Stage, bearing in mind, of course, the peculiar foibles, idiosyncrasies and whims of Mr. Alf Bubble, who will sing it (we hope). Mr. Bubble’s principal source of fun is the personal appearance of his fellow-citizens. Whenever a new character comes on the stage he makes some remark about the character’s “face.” Whenever he does this the entire audience rolls about on its seat, and cackles and gurgles and wipes its eyes, and repeats in a hoarse whisper, with variations of its own, the uproarious phrasing of Mr. Bubble’s remark. If Mr. Bubble says, “But look at his _face_!” the audience, fearful lest its neighbours may have missed the cream of the thing, splutters hysterically in the intervals of eye-wiping and coughing and choking and sneezing, “He said, ‘_What_ a face!’” or “He said, ‘_Did_ you _see_ his face?’” or “He said, ‘Is it a _face_?’”

All this we have got to remember when we are writing a lyric for Mr. Bubble. Why Mr. Bubble of all people should find so much mirth in other men’s faces I can’t say, but there it is. If we write a song embodying this great joke we may be certain that it will please Mr. Bubble; so we will do it.

Somebody, I think, will have made some slighting remark about the Government, and that will give the cue for the first verse, which will be political.

We will begin:--

Thompson ...

I don’t know why the people in humorous lyrics are always called Thompson (or Brown), but they are.

Thompson, being indigent,
Thought that it was time he went
Into England’s Parliament,
To earn his daily bread....

That is a joke against Parliament, you see--Payment of Members and all that; it is good. At the same time it is usual to reserve one’s jokes for the chorus. The composer, you see, reserves his tune for the chorus, and, if the author puts too much into the verse, there will be trouble between their Unions.

Now we introduce the _face-motif_:--

Thompson’s features were not neat;
When he canvassed dahn our street
Things were said I won’t repeat,
And my old moth-ah said:--

This verse, you notice, is both in metre and rhyme; I don’t know how that has happened; it ought not to be.

Now we have the chorus:--

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,
It isn’t any good;
I shouldn’t like to vote for you,
So I won’t pretend I should;
I know that you’re the noblest
Of all the human race....”

That shows the audience that _face_ is coming very soon, and they all get ready to burst themselves.

“I haven’t a doubt, if you get in,
The Golden Age will soon begin--
But I DON’T LIKE--your FACE.”

* SOLUTION: It comes of my having a sniff (see page 83).

At this point several of the audience will simply slide off their seats on to the floor and wallow about there, snorting.

The next verse had better be a love-verse.

Thompson wooed a lovely maid
Every evening in the shade,
Meaning, I am much afraid,
To hide his ugly head...

_Head_ is not very good, I admit, but we must have _said_ in the last line, and as we were mad enough to have rhymes in the first verse we have got to go on with it.

But when he proposed one night--
Did it by electric light--
Mabel, who retained her sight,
Just looked at him and said:--

Now you see the idea?

“Oh, Mr. Thompson,
It isn’t any good;
I shouldn’t like to marry you,
So I won’t pretend I should;
I know that you have riches
And a house in Eaton Place ...

(Here all the audience pulls out its handkerchief)

I haven’t a doubt that you must be
The properest possible match for me,
But I DON’T LIKE--your FACE.”

I have got another verse to this song, but I will not give it to you now, as I think the Editor is rather bored with it. It is fortunate for Mr. Bubble that he does not have to perform before an audience of Editors.

Having written the lyric the next thing to do is to get a composer to compose music for it, and then you get it published. This is most difficult, as composers are people who don’t ever keep appointments, and music publishers like locking up lyrics in drawers till the mice have got at the chorus and the whole thing is out of date.

By the time that this song is ready Mr. Bubble may quite possibly have exhausted the _face-motif_ altogether and struck a new vein. Then we shall have wasted our labour. In that case we will arrange to have it buried in somebody’s grave (Mr. Bubble’s for choice), and in A.D. 2000 it will be dug up by antiquaries and deciphered. Even a lyric like this may become an Old Manuscript in time. I ought to add that I myself have composed the music for this lyric, but I really cannot undertake to explain composing as well as poetry.

The serious lyric or Queen’s Hall ballad is a much easier affair. But I must first warn the student that there are some peculiar customs attaching to this traffic which may at first sight appear discouraging. When you have written a good lyric and induced someone to compose a tune for it your first thought will be, “I will get Mr. Throstle to sing this, and he will pay me a small fee or royalty per performance”; and this indeed would be a good arrangement to make. The only objection is that Mr. Throstle, so far from paying any money to the student, will expect to be paid about fifty pounds by the student for singing his lyric. I do not know the origin of this quaint old custom, but the student had better not borrow any money on the security of his first lyric.

For a serious or Queen’s Hall lyric all that is necessary is to think of some natural objects like the sun, the birds, the flowers or the trees, mention them briefly in the first verse and then in the second verse draw a sort of analogy or comparison between the natural object and something to do with love. The verses can be extremely short, since in this class of music the composer is allowed to spread himself indefinitely and can eke out the tiniest words.

Here is a perfect lyric I have written. It is called, quite simply, _Evening_:--

Sunshine in the forest,
Blossom on the tree,
And all the brave birds singing
For you--and me.

Kisses in the sunshine,
Laughter in the dew,
And all the brave world singing
For me--and you.

I see now that the dew has got into the second verse, so it had better be called quite simply “The Dawn.”

You notice the artistic parallelism of this lyric; I mean, “The brave birds singing” in one verse and “The brave _world_ singing” in the next, That is a tip I got from Hebrew poetry, especially the Psalms: “One day telleth another; and one night certifieth another,” and so on. It is a useful trick to remember, and is employed freely by many modern writers, the author of “The King’s Regulations,” for example, who in Regulation 1680 has the fine line:--

“Disembarkations are carried out in a similar manner to embarkations.”

That goes well to the Chant in C major by Mr. P. Humphreys.

But I am wandering. It is becoming clear to me now that I shall not have time to do Blank Verse or Hymns (Ancient and Modern) in this lecture, after all, so I will give you a rough outline of that special kind of lyric, the Topical Song. All that is required for this class of work is a good refrain or central idea; when you have got that, you see how many topics you can tack on to it. But if you can tack on Mr. Winston Churchill you need not bother about the others.

Our central idea will be “Rations,” and the song will be called “Heaps and Heaps”:--

Now Jimmy Brown

(always begin like that)

Now Jimmy Brown
He went to town,
But all the people said,
“We’re rationed in our jam, you know,
Likewise our cheese and bread;
But we’ve lot of politicians
And Ministers galore,
We’ve got enough of them and, gee!
We don’t want any more.”

_Chorus._

We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of Mr. SMILLIE
(Loud cheers);
We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of our M.P.
(Significant chuckles);
At political carouses
We’ve had heaps of (paper) houses
But though we WAIT, no houses do we SEE (Bitter
laughter).
The khaki-boys were good enough for fighting,
But now we hear the khaki-coat is barred;
If they ration us in Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL,
Why, anyone may have my ration-card! (Uproar.)

All you have to do now is to work in some more topics. I don’t think I shall do any more now. The truth is, that that verse has rather taken it out of me.

I feel all barren.

The Book of Jonah

(_As almost any modern Irishman would have written it_)

(_The circumlocution of the play--there is no action--takes place I don’t know where and I can’t think when. But the scene is the corner of the village square. Mrs. Joner is discovered sitting in front of her house, knitting, washing socks, or perhaps just thinking. In the distance can be seen the figure of a male statue, very new, with a long inscription on the pedestal. Timothy James O’Leary walks by, gazing at the statue._)

_T.J._ Good day to you, Bridget Ellen Joner. And it’s many’s the day since I was seeing you. (_With a jerk of his head._) And isn’t it the fine statue you have on himself there?

_Mrs. J._ It is so. Though, indeed, it is like no husband I ever had--or ever will have, I’m hoping.

_T.J._ It is not--and why would it be? Who wants likenesses in a statue when they have all that writing and printing below to tell who it is above--(_piously_)--“Michael Flannigan Joner, that gave his life for his fellow-travelers”?

_Mrs. J._ Aye, it was the only time he ever gave anything away in his life, to my knowing, unless it would be them sermons and prophecies that he would be handing to the folk in the public street, and none wanting them any more than the cows in the bog.

_T. J._ Ah, it was a queer thing entirely! Have you heard any more now what was the way of it, for I am not understanding how it was at all.

_Mrs. J._ It was the sailors of the ship that did be saying they would sail the ship no longer when they found that himself was in the Post Office, and him travelling for the Government. And there was a great storm and the ship was tossing the way you wouldn’t know was she a ship at all, or a cork that a boy throws in the water out of a bottle; and the sailors said it was the English Government--and why would it not be?--and they cried out against himself and said it was having the ship sunk on them he would be, and he rose up out of his bed and “Is it sinking the ship I would be?” he said, and he threw himself over the side into the water--and that was the way of it.

_T. J._ (_reflectively_). And him with the rheumatics--God rest his soul! And have you any pension taken from the Government?

_Mrs. J._ I have so. And it’s worth more to me he is now he’s dead than ever he was when he was alive with all his praying and preaching and prophesying----

_T. J._ Maybe it’s thinking of marrying again you might be?

_Mrs. J._ And how would I be marrying again, Timothy James, and I a lone widow woman with no money to pay for the roof over my head--let alone weddings?

_T. J._ And why would you not be? Sure, you have the pension for himself, and what better use can a woman find for a pension that is for her man that is dead than to get another that is alive and well?

_Mrs. J._ Will you tell me now where I would find a husband that would be the equal of a man who gave his life for his fellow-travellers--and him with the rheumatics?

_T. J._ Sure, it’s the grand position you have entirely now, and every man and woman in the whole country-side scheming and scraping to give a few pennies to the collection for the statue, and the Lord-Lieutenant himself coming down for the unveiling--and it’s difficult it would be to find a man that was fine enough to marry you at all--but--but (_looking round_) don’t I know the very man for you?

_Mrs. J._ And who might that be, for goodness sake?

_T. J._ (_confidentially_). Come within now and I’ll tell you. I’d be fearful here that one of the lads would maybe hear me.

(_They go into the house._)

(_A man strolls along the road, looking about him with keen interest; he is wild and mysterious of aspect, with shaggy hair and travel-stained, untidy clothes. He stops with a start in front of the statue and gazes at it with amazement; then he slowly reads the inscription._)

_Mr. J._ “Michael Flannigan Joner, who gave his life for his fellow-travellers.” (_In stupefaction._) Glory be to God! (_Turning to the house._) Bridget Ellen--are you within there? (_He turns and gazes at the statue again._)

(_There is a sound of laughter in the house. Mrs. J. and Timothy J. come out, arm-in-arm and affectionate; they see the man and stop dead in the doorway._)

_T. J._ Glory be to God!

_Mrs. J._ The Saints preserve us!

_T. J._ If it isn’t Michael Joner himself!

_Mr. J._ It is so (_pointing indignantly_). And what call had you to make a graven image of him in the public street the like of the Kings of England or Parnell himself?

_Mrs. J._ And what call had you to come back from the dead without a word of warning and I after promising myself to a better man?

_Mr. J._ (_still full of statue_). “Gave his life for his fellow-trav----” And is it mad you all are?

_Mrs. J._ Then you did not do so? (_To T. J._) Wasn’t I telling you?

_Mr. J._ I did not indeed. And why would I--the low heathen--and I that had my fare paid to Tarshish?

_Mrs. J._ and _T. J. raise their eyebrows at this suspicious utterance._

_Mrs. J._ Tarshish! Sure it’s drunk he is!... Then how came you lepping into the water like a young dog or a boy that does be diving in the hot weather, and you with----

_Mr. J._ It was not lepping I was nor diving neither, but it’s thrown in I was by a lot of heathen sailors because I was after prophesying the wrath of the Lord upon them----

_Mrs. J._ Didn’t I tell you now that no good would come of the prophesying, and you that was brought up a decent lad by your own father in Kilbay?

_T. J._ And what happened to you when you were thrown in at all?

_Mr. J._ Sure, I was swallowed by a great whale, and the Lord said to the whale----

_T. J._ Holy Mother! It’s mad he is and not drunk at all!

_Mr. J._ It is not mad I am nor drunk either. Wasn’t I three days and three nights in the belly of the whale, and the sea roaring without, the same as a man would lie in his warm bed and it raining----

_Mrs. J._ Three days and three nights!--and isn’t it nine months since you lepped out of the ship? Will you tell me now where you have been in the meanwhile and what you were doing at all?

_Mr. J._ Sure the Lord spoke to the whale, and the whale threw me up on the dry land----

_Mrs. J._ (_suspicious soul_). And where would that be now?

_Mr. J._ Sure I don’t know now----

_Mrs. J._ I should think not indeed----

_Mr. J._ --but it was a small little island and devil a ship came there at all to take me away----

_Mrs. J._ (_to T. J., lifting her hands_). Did you ever hear the like of that? And were there any fine young ladies or mermaids maybe on that same small little island?

_Mr. J._ There were not then--nor statues either.

_T. J._ (_humouring him_). And what might ye be doing while you were in the belly of the whale, Michael Flannigan?

_Mr. J._ And why wouldn’t I be prophesying and praying unto the Lord, the way he would calm the whale, and it roaring and lepping in the sea like a trout that has the hook swallowed, and it tickling...?

_Mrs. J._ It’s well you might be praying unto the Lord, Michael Flannigan, for it’s a queer thing entirely if a lone widow woman can no more be left in peace without her man coming back from the dead to frighten her out of her wits with whales and the like, the way she would be the laughing stock of the whole country-side! And it’s devil a penny will I have from the Government now seeing you are alive again and not dead at all.

_T. J._ It’s a true word, Michael Flannigan, and it’s queer uneasy I am myself that had set my heart on marrying your own wife.

_Mrs. J._ And will you tell me now what will we be after doing with the grand statue we have put up on you, Michael Flannigan, and it’s myself that has the flesh worn from my fingers with working to put a few shillings together to pay for it?

_Mr. J._ (_infuriated_). Is it I that was asking for a statue at all? (_He regards it._) But sure it is a fine thing entirely--and why would it not stay where it is?

_Mrs. J._ And the whole world coming here by the train to make a mock of me, the way they would be seeing the statue of the man who “gave his life for his fellow-travellers,” and him sleeping in his own bed all the time like a common man!

_Mr. J._ Common, is it? Is it _every_ day you have a man coming from the dead that was three days and three nights in the belly of a whale?

_Mrs. J._ It is not--thanks be to God!

_T. J._ What ails you now, Bridget Ellen! Why wouldn’t we be altering the writing that is below the statue and write down this story about the whale, or any other fairy-story that he might be thinking of in the night and him lying awake--for sure it is a grand story and I wouldn’t wonder would the folk be travelling out from the big towns to see the man that was in the belly of a whale, when they wouldn’t walk across the road to see a man that gave his life for his fellow-travellers, and they English as like as not.

_Mrs. J._ It’s little the money I’ll be getting out of that, I’m thinking.

_T. J._ And why will you not? It could be that them music-halls in the big towns and the theayters themselves would pay money to Michael Flannigan for no more than walking on the stage and telling the people what went on while he was in the whale--the same as they would for a cow that has five legs or the smallest woman in the world. Sure, didn’t they give Peter O’Flaherty three pounds for the loan of his duck that had no legs at all?

_Mrs. J._ It could be that they might, Timothy James.

_Mr. J._ There is money in them whales, ’tis true, and they full of whalebone, the same as the fine ladies do use in Dublin for their dress and all. And when I was smoking my tobacco-pipe in the whale, the oil did be running down the inside of the creature the way I was afeered he would take fire and the two of us be destroyed altogether.

_T. J._ (_admiringly_). Did you ever hear the like of that? There’s them at the theayters that would pay you a mint of money for that same story, Michael Flannigan!

_Mr. J._ They might so.

_T. J._ But tell me now, Michael Flannigan, is it the truth or no that them whales have the queer small throats on them, the way they couldn’t swallow a little whiting, let alone a big man? It could be that one of them writing fellows would rise up in the theayter and say there was no man yet was swallowed by a whale, nor will be neither, because of the queer small throat they have on them! How would it be if you were to give it out that you were swallowed by a _big fish_, the way the ignorant folk would guess it was a whale and the people that do understand whales wouldn’t be able to say you were telling a lie?

_Mr. J._ ’Tis a great head you have on you, Timothy James, and it’s sorry I am it was myself was in the whale and not you.

_T. J._ Faith, ’tis glad I am I was never in a whale, for they do say they belong to the English King, the creatures, and God knows what may come of the like of that!

_Mr. J._ Is it the King of England’s they are? Then, Glory be to God, I’ll have no more to do with them!

_T. J._ Sure, and there’s nothing wrong with the King’s money, is there? And it’s plenty of that there will be, I’m thinking. I tell you, it’s the grand story they’ll make in the history-books till the world’s end of Michael Flannigan Joner that was ate by a whale!

_Mrs. J._ And devil a word will they say of Bridget Ellen, his wife, that was married to a mad fellow.

_T. J._ Let you not be vexing yourself now. I wouldn’t wonder would one of them writing fellows be writing a book about you, or maybe a play, and it’s the grand talk there will be of Joner’s wife at the latter end.

_Mrs. J._ It might.

(CURTAIN)

The Mystery of the Apple-pie Beds

(LEAVES FROM A HOLIDAY DIARY)

I

An outrage has occurred in the hotel. Late on Monday night ten innocent visitors discovered themselves the possessors of apple-pie beds. The beds were not of the offensive hair-brush variety, but they were very cleverly constructed, the under-sheet being pulled up in the good old way and turned over at the top as if it were the top-sheet.

I had one myself. The lights go out at eleven and I got into bed in the dark. When one is very old and has not been to school for a long time or had an apple-pie bed for longer still, there is something very uncanny in the sensation, especially if it is dark. I did not like it at all. My young brother-in-law, Denys, laughed immoderately in the other bed at my flounderings and imprecations. He did not have one. I suspect him....