Songs of a Savoyard Part 11

Fear no unlicensed entry, Heed no bombastic talk, While guards the British Sentry Pall Mall and Birdcage Walk.

Let European thunders Occasion no alarms, Though diplomatic blunders May cause a cry "To arms!"

Sleep on, ye pale civilians; All thunder-clouds defy: On Europe's countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye!

Should foreign-born rapscallions In London dare to show Their overgrown battalions, Be sure I'll let you know.

Should Russians or Norwegians Pollute our favoured clime With rough barbaric legions, I'll mention it in time.

So sleep in peace, civilians, The Continent defy; While on its countless millions The Sentry keeps his eye !

Ballad: The Love-Sick Boy

When first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy!

No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ - I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense; And love unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy?

With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another's love-sick boy!

Ballad: Poetry Everywhere

What time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows, That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet's plinth The amorous colocynth Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows, That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be, Nature hath this decree, Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?

Or that in all her works Something poetic lurks, Even in colocynth and calomel?

Ballad: He Loves!

He loves! If in the bygone years Thine eyes have ever shed Tears - bitter, unavailing tears, For one untimely dead - If in the eventide of life Sad thoughts of her arise, Then let the memory of thy wife Plead for my boy - he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside In some old cabinet, Memorials of thy long-dead bride Lie, dearly treasured yet, Then let her hallowed bridal dress - Her little dainty gloves - Her withered flowers - her faded tress - Plead for my boy - he loves!

Ballad: True Diffidence

My boy, you may take it from me, That of all the afflictions accurst With which a man's saddled And hampered and addled, A diffident nature's the worst.

Though clever as clever can be - A Crichton of early romance - You must stir it and stump it, And blow your own trumpet, Or, trust me, you haven't a chance.

Now take, for example, MY case: I've a bright intellectual brain - In all London city There's no one so witty - I've thought so again and again.

I've a highly intelligent face - My features cannot be denied - But, whatever I try, sir, I fail in - and why, sir?

I'm modesty personified!

As a poet, I'm tender and quaint - I've pa.s.sion and fervour and grace - From Ovid and Horace To Swinburne and Morris, They all of them take a back place.

Then I sing and I play and I paint; Though none are accomplished as I, To say so were treason: You ask me the reason?

I'm diffident, modest, and shy!

Ballad: The Tangled Skein

Try we life-long, we can never Straighten out life's tangled skein, Why should we, in vain endeavour, Guess and guess and guess again?

Life's a pudding full of plums Care's a canker that benumbs.

Wherefore waste our elocution On impossible solution?

Life's a pleasant inst.i.tution, Let us take it as it comes!

Set aside the dull enigma, We shall guess it all too soon; Failure brings no kind of stigma - Dance we to another tune!

String the lyre and fill the cup, Lest on sorrow we should sup; Hop and skip to Fancy's fiddle, Hands across and down the middle - Life's perhaps the only riddle That we shrink from giving up!

Ballad: My Lady

Bedecked in fas.h.i.+on trim, With every curl a-quiver; Or leaping, light of limb, O'er rivulet and river; Or skipping o'er the lea On daffodil and daisy; Or stretched beneath a tree, All languis.h.i.+ng and lazy; Whatever be her mood - Be she demurely prude Or languis.h.i.+ngly lazy - My lady drives me crazy!

In vain her heart is wooed, Whatever be her mood!

What profit should I gain Suppose she loved me dearly?

Her coldness turns my brain To VERGE of madness merely.

Her kiss - though, Heaven knows, To dream of it were treason - Would tend, as I suppose, To utter loss of reason!

My state is not amiss; I would not have a kiss Which, in or out of season, Might tend to loss of reason: What profit in such bliss?

A fig for such a kiss!

Ballad: One Against The World

It's my opinion - though I own In thinking so I'm quite alone - In some respects I'm but a fright.

YOU like my features, I suppose?

I'M disappointed with my nose: Some rave about it - perhaps they're right.