Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3833/Treasures in Store

TREASURES IN STORE.

He is a great man in the Pantomime world. As he rose from his roll-top desk with the evident intention of kicking me, I hastened to explain that I was only harmless reporter come to look at some of the new lyrics.

"Ah," said he, "that alters the case. I thought you were another topical songster. Now here's a clever little piece about the Navy."

I stretched out my hand for it.

"No," he said. "So much depends on intelligent expression and emphasis that I'd better read it to you. I think of calling this one 'The Battle of the Brine.'"

The seas roll high, and the smoke around does hang,  And the Dreadnoughts steam along in line; The big guns boom and the little fellows bang,  And the shells go bumping in the brine! The flags run up, and the Admiral says, Now, Sirs,  Buck up and send the Huns to Davy Jones!'Then the Captain cheers, and the men hitch up their trousers,And they all give Hohenzollern three groans!

"There it is;" and the Great Man fairly purred with satisfaction. "Une petite pièce de tout droit, isn't it?" he said. "I gave you a hint of the tune. It needs a stirring one."

"It does," said I, delighted to be able to agree with him on one point. "And you have other songs equally topical?"

He pointed to a bale in the corner that I had taken for a new carpet.

"I've had a good few to choose from," he said. "I fancy this one is about the best. My leading low-comedian writes all his own lyrics—extraordinarily adequate little man. He opens briskly:—

   "Pip-pip, girls!As I was walking down the street, Because it couldn't walk down me,One day last week I chanced to meet A German en-ee-mee.He had a notebook in his hand (not a sausage) And I said, ''Ere's a spy! Wot O!'So I gripped him by the collar and— And—then—I—let—him—go!For he (ha! ha! he! he!) Was bigger than me, you see,So I thought it well to run and tell The speshul constabularee!

"Yes," he gasped, "I thought that 'ud hit you. That's what I call a real live piece of work. Here's another—in the old-fashioned style. Not quite so much snap about it. But my fourth low-comedian thinks he can make it go. It's called 'When Father Threw his Wages at the Cat.'

"We're not a happy family, we're always on the nag,  Our miseries are dreadful to relate; I've got two little sisters who are both a mass of blisters  From settling disagreements in the grate; This afternoon my Uncle Charles kicked me down the stairs And walloped me for crumpling up the mat;But this, though far from nice, is simply nothing to the crisis When father threw his wages at the cat!

There have been other ructions, and especially the day  That mother lent our dicky to the sweep,When all of us were weeping and the baby gave up sleeping Because it was impossible to sleep;But all the rows that ever raged in any British home Were never half so horrible as thatWhich made the coppers rally to the storming of our alley When father threw his wages at the cat!"

"Is that out of date?" said I. "If so, I like the old style best."

He grunted. "It'll pass," he said; but the other's the business."

"Well, give me pleasure first," said I. "As a true Briton I can always take it sadly."

 

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