Mr Punch's Model Music Hall Songs and Dramas. F. Anstey

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ we'd give 'em away—with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—Give 'em away! So we all say, &c.

      Verse V.—(More frankly Democratic still.)

      To-wards a Republic we're getting on fast;

       Many old Institootions are things of the past.

       (Philosophically) Soon the Crown 'll go, too, as an a-noma-lee, And be given away—with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—"Given away!" Some future day, &c.

      Verse VI.—(Which expresses the peaceful proclivities of the populace with equal eloquence and wisdom. A welcome contrast to the era when Britons had a bellicose and immoral belief in the possibility of being called upon to defend themselves at some time!)

      We've made up our minds—though the Jingoes may jor—

       Under no provocation to drift into war!

       So the best thing to do with our costly Na-vee

       Is—Give each ship away, with a Pound of Tea!

      Chorus—Give 'em away, &c.

      Verse VII.—(We cannot well avoid some reference to the Irish Question in a Music-hall ditty, but observe the logical and statesmanlike method of treating it here. The argument—if crudely stated—is borrowed from some advanced by our foremost politicians.)

      We've also discovered at last that it's crule

       To deny the poor Irish their right to 'Ome Rule!

       So to give 'em a Parlyment let us agree—

       (Rationally) Or they may blow us up with a Pound of their "Tea"!

      [A euphemism which may possibly be remembered and understood.

      Chorus—Give it away, &c.

      Verse VIII. (culminating in a glorious prophetic burst of the Coming Dawn).

      Iniquitous burdens and rates we'll relax:

       For each "h" that's pronounced we will clap on a tax!

       [A very popular measure. And a house in Belgraveyer, with furniture free, Shall each Soshalist sit in, a taking his tea!

      Chorus, and dance off.—Given away! Ippipooray! Gratis we'll get it for nothing and free! Given away! Not a penny to pay! Given away!—with a Pound of Tea!

      If this Democratic Dream does not appeal favourably to the imagination of the humblest citizen, the popular tone must have been misrepresented by many who claim to act as its chosen interpreters—a supposition Mr. Punch must decline to entertain for a single moment.

iv.—THE IDYLLIC.

       Table of Contents

      The following ballad will not be found above the heads of an average audience, while it is constructed to suit the capacities of almost any lady artiste.

      SO SHY!

      The singer should, if possible, be of mature age, and incline to a comfortable embonpoint. As soon as the bell has given the signal for the orchestra to attack the prelude, she will step upon the stage with that air of being hung on wires, which seems to come from a consciousness of being a favourite of the public.

      I'm a dynety little dysy of the dingle,

       [Self-praise is a great recommendation—in Music-hall songs. So retiring and so timid and so coy. If you ask me why so long I have lived single, I will tell you—'tis because I am so shoy.

      [Note the manner in which the rhyme is adapted to meet Arcadian peculiarities of pronunciation.

      Spoken—Yes, I am—really, though you wouldn't think it to look at me, would you? But, for all that—

      Chorus—When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, Going off into a giggle, And as red as any peony I blush; Then turn paler than a lily, For I'm such a little silly, That I'm always in a flutter or a flush!

      [After each chorus an elaborate step-dance, expressive of shrinking maidenly modesty.

      I've a cottage far away from other houses,

       Which the nybours hardly ever come anoigh;

       When they do, I run and hoide among the rouses,

       For I cannot cure myself of being shoy.

      Spoken—A great girl like me, too! But there, it's no use trying, for—

      Chorus—When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, &c.

      Well, the other day I felt my fice was crimson,

       Though I stood and fixed my gyze upon the skoy,

       For at the gyte was sorcy Chorley Simpson,

       And the sight of him's enough to turn me shoy.

      Spoken—It's singular, but Chorley always 'as that effect on me.

      Chorus—When he speaks to me, I wriggle, &c.

      Then said Chorley: "My pursuit there's no evyding.

       Now I've caught you, I insist on a reploy.

       Do you love me? Tell me truly, little myding!"

       But how is a girl to answer when she's shoy?

      Spoken—For even if the conversation happens to be about nothing particular, it's just the same to me.

      Chorus—When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, &c.

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

      Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим СКАЧАТЬ