Mr Punch's Model Music Hall Songs and Dramas

More sweet than any Ess. Bouquet you boy;

    [Arcadian for "buy."
And Chorley kept on squeezing of my fingers,
And I couldn't tell him not to, being shoy.

Spoken– For, as I told you before, —

Chorus– When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, &c

Soon my slender wyste he ventured on embrycing,
While I only heaved a gentle little soy;
Though a scream I would have liked to rise my vice in,
It's so difficult to scream when you are shoy!

Spoken– People have such different ways of listening to proposals. As for me, —

Chorus– When they talk of love, I wriggle, &c

So very soon to Church we shall be gowing,
While the bells ring out a merry peal of jy.
If obedience you do not hear me vowing,
It will only be because I am so shy.

    [We have brought the rhyme off legitimately at last, it will be observed.

Spoken– Yes, and when I'm passing down the oil, on Chorley's arm, with everybody looking at me, —

Chorus– I am certain I shall wriggle,
And go off into a giggle,
And as red as any peony I'll blush.
Going through the marriage service
Will be sure to mike me nervous,

    [Note the freedom of the rhyme.
And to put me in a flutter and a flush!

v.– THE AMATORY EPISODIC

The history of a singer's latest love – whether fortunate or otherwise – will always command the interest and attention of a Music-hall audience. Our example, which is founded upon the very best precedents, derives an additional piquancy from the social position of the beloved object. Cultivated readers are requested not to shudder at the rhymes. Mr. Punch's Poet does them deliberately and in cold blood, being convinced that without these somewhat daring concords, no ditty would have the slightest chance of satisfying the great ear of the Music-hall public.

The title of the song is: —

MASHED BY A MARCHIONESS

The singer should come on correctly and tastefully attired in a suit of loud dittoes, a startling tie, and a white hat—the orthodox costume (on the Music-hall stage) of a middle-class swain suffering from love-sickness. The air should be of the conventional jog-trot and jingle order, chastened by a sentimental melancholy.

I've lately gone and lost my 'art – and where you'll never guess —
I'm regularly mashed upon a lovely Marchioness!
'Twas at a Fancy Fair we met, inside the Albert 'All;
So affable she smiled at me as I came near her stall!

Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia is stiff in behaviour!
She'd an Uncle an Earl, and a Dook for her Pa —
Still there was no starchiness in that fair Marchioness,
As she stood at her stall in the Fancy Bazaar!

At titles and distinctions once I'd ignorantly scoff,
As if no bond could be betwixt the tradesman and the toff!
I held with those who'd do away with difference in ranks —
But that was all before I met the Marchioness of Manx!

Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &c

A home was being started by some kind aristo-cràts,
For orphan kittens, born of poor, but well-connected cats;
And of the swells who planned a Fête this object to assist,
The Marchioness of Manx's name stood foremost on the list.

Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &c

I never saw a smarter hand at serving in a shop,
For every likely customer she caught upon the 'op!
And from the form her ladyship displayed at that Bazaar,
(With enthusiasm) – You might have took your oath she'd been brought up behind a bar!

Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &c

In vain I tried to kid her that my purse had been forgot,
She spotted me in 'alf a jiff, and chaffed me precious hot!
A sov. for one regaliar she gammoned me to spend.
"You really can't refuse," she said, "I've bitten off the end!"

Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &c

"Do buy my crewel-work," she urged, "it goes across a chair,
You'll find it come in useful, as I see you 'ile your 'air!"
So I 'anded over thirty bob, though not a coiny bloke.
I couldn't tell a Marchioness how nearly I was broke!

Spoken– Though I did take the liberty of saying: "Make it fifteen bob, my lady!" But she said, with such a fascinating look – I can see it yet! – "Oh, I'm sure you're not a 'aggling kind of a man," she says, "you haven't the face for it. And think of all them pore fatherless kittings," she says; "think what thirty bob means to them!" says she, glancing up so pitiful and tender under her long eyelashes at me. Ah, the Radicals may talk as they like, but —

Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &c

A raffle was the next concern I put my rhino in:
The prize a talking parrot, which I didn't want to win.
Then her sister, Lady Tabby, shewed a painted milking stool,
And I bought it – though it's not a thing I sit on as a rule.

Spoken– Not but what it was a handsome article in its way, too, – had a snow-scene with a sunset done in oil on it. "It will look lovely in your chambers," says the Marchioness; "it was ever so much admired at Catterwall Castle!" It didn't look so bad in my three-pair back, I must say, though unfortunately the sunset came off on me the very first time I happened to set down on it. Still think of the condescension of painting such a thing at all!