Ah me! since first, long, long ago,
I learned to love the British stage,
It has--or I have--altered so,
It scarce receives my patronage!
Where are the villain's spangled tabs,
His cloak, his ringlets, and his belt?
Where are his scowls, his growls, his stabs,
As shown of old by Park and Skelt?
Once was I manager myself,
And played the 'Miller and his Men';
My company--ah, happy elf!
I had no trouble with them then--
They never sulked, forgot their lines,
Threw up their parts, or asked for "gelt"--
For as the reader p'r'aps divines--
I got them all of Park and Skelt.
I stuck them on, and cut them out,
I painted them with colors bright;
I scattered tinsel-specks about,
And made them things of beauty, quite--
Not joys forever--ne'ertheless,
They've vanished just as snowflakes melt.
None can restore the bliss, I guess,
I once derived from Park and Skelt.
How I revered the artist's skill
Who did my heroes represent--
With scowls the very soul to thrill--
With one leg straight and one leg bent!
I loved his ladies full of grace,
And on their beauties fondly dwelt:--
My first pictorial love could trace
Her pedigree to Park and Skelt.
Ah me! 'tis many a year since I
Those dear old plates--a penny plain
And two-pence colored--did espy;
I ne'er shall see their like again!
The world's with disappointment rife,
And I have far too often felt
That actors now are less like life
Than those I bought of Park and Skelt!