The Irish Grand Old Man,
A little ditty carolled she,
And thus the ditty ran:
“I hear him in his dressing-room,
My Willie dear, my hub;
He little heeds his coming doom,
He warbles in his tub.
“When he is sad I hear no sound
Except the water’s plash;
A solemn silence reigns around
When thoughts my Willie fash.
But now the joyous sound of song
Accompanies each rub;
Things can’t have gone so very wrong--
He warbles in his tub.
“Although the country’s cut him dead,
And given him the sack,
He warbles while he wets his head
And while he scrubs his back.
I’m sure my Willie sees his way
The Tory gang to drub,
And that is why he’s blithe and gay
And warbles in his tub.
“He does not care for _Telegraph_,
Or _Morning Post_, or _Times_;
He reads therein with many a laugh
The record of his crimes.
He knows his fingers he can snap
At all ‘ye streete of Grubbe’;
They haven’t riled the dear old chap--
He warbles in his tub.
“There’s hope, he thinks, for Ireland yet,
The ‘old hand’ isn’t ‘done’;
With masses against classes set
There’s sure to be some fun.
He’ll hold his own in spite of groan
And jest and jeer and snub,
And that is why, with spirits high,
He warbles in his tub.”
MORAL.
O Erin, yet shall burst for thee
The sunshine through the gloom--
Take heart from all this melody
In Gladstone’s dressing-room;
Plank down your dollars, Yankee boys,
And tell each doubting “sub,”
No fear the Grand One’s faith alloys,
“He warbles in his tub.”
The Comic King.
I’m going to sing you a simple song,
To show that a king can do no wrong;
A lay that is laden in every line
With the grand old creed of “the right divine.”
The merriest monarch of modern times
Is the romping rex of these rambling rhymes:
The beamishest boy of the bold, bad batch,
The crack-crowned Kaiser of Colney Hatch.
For many a year he played his pranks--
He borrowed the balance of all the banks
To build him a palace in every town,
And when they were up he pulled them down.
He sat on the throne, on days of state,
With a coffee-pot jammed on his regal pate,
And he showed his Court he could kiss his toes
While he balanced his sceptre upon his nose.
He danced a jig in the House of Peers,
And offered to toss the lot for beers;
And whenever a Cabinet Council sat
He would make dirt-pies in the Premier’s hat.
When the neighbouring monarchs came to call
He would butter the steps and the marble hall;
And when his visitors broke their legs
He’d sit and he’d pelt them with hard-boiled eggs.
He dressed his army in drawers and frocks,
And little pink shoes and short white socks;
And whenever he had a grand review
He rode on a donkey painted blue.
His coachman signed all the royal decrees,
And he joined his footman in nightly sprees;
He addressed his cook as “My dear old chap,”
And in church he sat in his housemaid’s lap.
And now that I’ve finished my simple song,
If you say, “What whoppers!” you’ll just be wrong,
As this isn’t a Lunatic Laureate’s lay--
For the king was the King of Bavar_ia_.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.