Mr Punch's Model Music Hall Songs and Dramas
Verse VIII. (culminating in a glorious prophetic burst of the Coming Dawn).
Iniquitous burdens and rates we'll relax:For each "h" that's pronounced we will clap on a tax![A very popular measure.And a house in Belgraveyer, with furniture free,Shall each Soshalist sit in, a taking his tea!Chorus, and dance off.– Given away! Ippipooray! Gratis we'll get it for nothing and free!
Given away! Not a penny to pay! Given away! – with a Pound of Tea!
If this Democratic Dream does not appeal favourably to the imagination of the humblest citizen, the popular tone must have been misrepresented by many who claim to act as its chosen interpreters – a supposition Mr. Punch must decline to entertain for a single moment.
iv.– THE IDYLLIC
The following ballad will not be found above the heads of an average audience, while it is constructed to suit the capacities of almost any lady artiste.
SO SHY!The singer should, if possible, be of mature age, and incline to a comfortable embonpoint. As soon as the bell has given the signal for the orchestra to attack the prelude, she will step upon the stage with that air of being hung on wires, which seems to come from a consciousness of being a favourite of the public.
I'm a dynety little dysy of the dingle,[Self-praise is a great recommendation – in Music-hall songs.So retiring and so timid and so coy.If you ask me why so long I have lived single,I will tell you – 'tis because I am so shoy.[Note the manner in which the rhyme is adapted to meet Arcadian peculiarities of pronunciation.Spoken– Yes, I am – really, though you wouldn't think it to look at me, would you? But, for all that, —
Chorus– When I'm spoken to, I wriggle,Going off into a giggle,And as red as any peony I blush;Then turn paler than a lily,For I'm such a little silly,That I'm always in a flutter or a flush![After each chorus an elaborate step-dance, expressive of shrinking maidenly modesty.I've a cottage far away from other houses,Which the nybours hardly ever come anoigh;When they do, I run and hoide among the rouses,For I cannot cure myself of being shoy.Spoken– A great girl like me, too! But there, it's no use trying, for —
Chorus– When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, &cWell, the other day I felt my fice was crimson,Though I stood and fixed my gyze upon the skoy,For at the gyte was sorcy Chorley Simpson,And the sight of him's enough to turn me shoy.Spoken– It's singular, but Chorley always 'as that effect on me.
Chorus– When he speaks to me, I wriggle, &cThen said Chorley: "My pursuit there's no evyding.Now I've caught you, I insist on a reploy.Do you love me? Tell me truly, little myding!"But how is a girl to answer when she's shoy?Spoken– For even if the conversation happens to be about nothing particular, it's just the same to me.
Chorus– When I'm spoken to, I wriggle, &cThere we stood among the loilac and syringas,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, &cSoon 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, &cSo 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 serviceWill 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 MARCHIONESSThe 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, &cA 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, &cI 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, &cIn 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, &cA 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!
Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &cThe Marquis kept a-fidgeting and frowning at his wife,For she talked to me as free as if she'd known me all my life!I felt that I was in the swim, so wasn't over-awed,But 'ung about and spent my cash as lavish as a lord!Spoken– It was worth all the money, I can tell you, to be chatting there across the counter with a real live Marchioness for as long as ever my funds would 'old out. They'd have held out much longer, only the Marchioness made it a rule never to give change – she couldn't break it, she said, not even for me. I wish I could give you an idea of how she smiled as she made that remark; for the fact is, when an aristocrat does unbend – well, —
Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia, &cNext time I meet the Marchioness a-riding in the Row,I'll ketch her eye and raise my 'at, and up to her I'll go,(With sentiment) – And tell her next my 'art I keep the stump of that cigarShe sold me on the 'appy day we 'ad at her Bazaar!Spoken– And she'll be pleased to see me again, I know! She's not one of your stuck-up sort; don't you make no mistake about it, the aristocracy ain't 'alf as bloated as people imagine who don't know 'em. Whenever I hear parties running 'em down, I always say:
Chorus– Don't tell me Belgravia is stiff in behaviour, &cvi.– THE CHIVALROUS
The singer (who should be a large man, in evening dress, with a crumpled shirt-front) will come on the stage with a bearing intended to convey at first sight that he is a devoted admirer of the fair sex. After removing his crush-hat in an easy manner, and winking airily at the orchestra, he will begin: —
WHY SHOULDN'T THE DARLINGS?There's enthusiasm brimming in the breasts of all the women,And they're calling for enfranchisement with clamour eloquent:When some parties in a huff rage at the plea for Female Suffrage,I invariably floor them with a simple argu-ment.Chorus (to be rendered with a winning persuasiveness)Why shouldn't the darlings have votes? de-ar things!On politics each of 'em dotes, de-ar things!(Pathetically.) Oh it does seem so hardThey should all be debarred,'Cause they happen to wear petticoats, de-ar things!Nature all the hens to crow meant, I could prove it in a moment,Though they've selfishly been silenced by the cockadoodle-doos.But no man of sense afraid is of enfranchising the Ladies.(Magnanimously.) Let 'em put their pretty fingers into any pie they choose!Spoken– For —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &cThey would cease to care for dresses, if we made them elec-tresses,No more time they'd spend on needlework, nor at pianos strum;Every dainty little Dorcas would be sitting on a Caucus,Busy wire-pulling to produce the New Millenni-um!Spoken– Oh! —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &cIn the House we'll see them sitting soon, it will be only fittingThey should have an opportunity their country's laws to frame.And the Ladies' legislation will be sure to cause sensation,For they'll do away with everything that seems to them a shame!Spoken– Then —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &cThey will promptly clap a stopper on whate'er they deem improper,Put an end to vaccination, landed property, and pubs;And they'll fine Tom, Dick, and Harry, if they don't look sharp and marry,And for Kindergartens confiscate those nasty horrid Clubs!Spoken– Ah! —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &cThey'll declare it's quite immoral to engage in foreign quarrel,And that Britons never never will be warriors any more!When our forces are abolished, and defences all demolished,They will turn upon the Jingo tack, and want to go to war!Spoken– So —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &c(With a grieved air.) Yet there's some who'd close such vistars to their poor down-trodden sistars,And persuade 'em, if they're offered votes, politely to refuse!Say they do not care about 'em, and would rather be without 'em —Oh, I haven't common patience with such narrer-minded views!Spoken– No! —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &cAnd it's females – that's the puzzle! – who petition for the muzzle,Which I call it poor and paltry, and I think you'll say so too.They are not in any danger. Let 'em drop the dog-in-manger!If they don't require the vote themselves, there's other Ladies do!Spoken– And —
Chorus– Why shouldn't the darlings, &c[Here the singer will gradually retreat backwards to the rear of the stage, open his crush-hat, and extend it in an attitude of triumph as the curtain descends.
vii.– THE FRANKLY CANAILLE
Any ditty which accurately reflects the habits and amusements of the people is a valuable human document – a fact that probably accounts for the welcome which songs in the following style invariably receive from Music-hall audiences generally. If —Mr. Punch presumes – they conceived such pictures of their manner of spending a holiday to be unjustly or incorrectly drawn in any way, they would protest strongly against being so grossly misrepresented. As they do nothing of the sort, no apology can be needed for the following effusion, which several ladies now adorning the Music-hall stage could be trusted to render with immense effect. The singer should be young and charming, and attired as simply as possible. Simplicity of attire imparts additional piquancy to the words: —
THE POOR OLD 'ORSEWe 'ad a little outing larst Sunday arternoon;And sech a jolly lark it was, I shan't forget it soon!We borrered an excursion van to take us down to Kew,And – oh, we did enjoy ourselves! I don't mind telling you.[This to the Chef d'Orchestre, who will assume a polite interest.[Here a little spoken interlude is customary. Mr. P. does not venture to do more than indicate this by a synopsis, the details can be filled in according to the taste and fancy ofthe fair artiste: – "Yes, we did 'ave a time, I can assure yer." The party: "Me and Jimmy 'Opkins;" old "Pa Plapper." Asked because he lent the van. The meanness of his subsequent conduct. "Aunt Snapper;" her imposing appearance in her "cawfy-coloured front." Bill Blazer; his "girl," and his accordion. Mrs. Addick (of the fried-fish emporium round the corner); her gentility – "Never seen out of her mittens, and always the lady, no matter how much she may have taken." From this work round by an easy transition to —
The Chorus– For we 'ad to stop o' course,Jest to bait the bloomin' 'orse,So we'd pots of ale and porter(Or a drop o' something shorter),While he drunk his pail o' water,He was sech a whale on water!That more water than he oughter,More water than he oughter,'Ad the poor old 'orse!Second StanzaThat 'orse he was a rum 'un – a queer old quadru-pèd,At every public-'ouse he passed he'd cock his artful 'ed!Sez I: "If he goes on like this, we shan't see Kew to-night!"Jim 'Opkins winks his eye, and sez – "We'll git along all right!" Chorus– Though we 'ave to stop of course, – &c., &c.[With slight textual modifications.Third StanzaAt Kinsington we 'alted, 'Ammersmith, and Turnham Green,The 'orse 'ad sech a thust on him, its like was never seen!With every 'arf a mile or so, that animal got blown:And we was far too well brought-up to let 'im drink alone! Chorus– As we 'ad to stop, o' course, &c.Fourth StanzaWe stopped again at Chiswick, till at last we got to Kew,But when we reached the Gardings – well, there was a fine to-do!The Keeper, in his gold-laced tile, was shutting-to the gate,Sez he: "There's no admittance now – you're just arrived too late!"[Synopsis of spoken Interlude: Spirited passage-at-arms between Mr. Wm. Blazer and the Keeper; singular action of Pa Plapper; "I want to see yer Pagoder – bring out yer old Pagoder as you're so proud on!" Mrs. Addick'sdisappointment at not being able to see the "Intemperate Plants," and the "Pitcher Shrub," once more. Her subsidence in tears, on the floor of the van. Keeperconcludes the dialogue by inquiring why the party did not arrive sooner. An' we sez, "Well, it was like this, ole cock robin – d'yer see?"
Chorus– We've 'ad to stop, o' course, &c.Fifth Stanza"Don't fret," I sez, "about it, for they ain't got much to seeInside their precious Gardings – so let's go and 'ave some tea!A cup I seem to fancy now – I feel that faint and limp —With a slice of bread-and-butter, and some creases, and a s'rimp!"[Description of the tea: – "And the s'rimps – well, I don'twant to say anything against the s'rimps – but it did strike me they were feelin' the 'eat a little – s'rimps are liable to it, and you can't prevent 'em." After tea. The only tune Mr. Blazer could play on his accordion. Tragic end of that instrument. How the party had a "little more lush." Scandalous behaviour of "Bill Blazer's girl." The company consume what will be elegantly referred to as "a bit o' booze." Aunt Snapper"gets the 'ump." The outrage to her front. The proposal to start – whereupon, "Mrs. Addick, who was a'-settin' on the geraniums in the winder, smilin' at her boots, which she'd just took off because she said they stopped her breathing," protested that there was no hurry, considering that—
Chorus, as before– We've got to stop, o' course, &c.Sixth StanzaBut when the van was ordered, we found – what do yer think?[To the Chef d'Orchestre, who will affect complete ignorance.That miserable 'orse 'ad been an' took too much to drink!He kep' a reeling round us, like a circus worked by steam,And, 'stead o' keeping singular, he'd turned into a team![Disgust of the party: Pa Plapper proposes to go back to the inn for more refreshment, urging —
Chorus– We must wait awhile o' course,Till they've sobered down the 'orse.Just another pot o' porterOr a drop o' something shorter,While our good landlady's daughterTakes him out some soda-warter.For he's 'ad more than he oughter,He's 'ad more than he oughter,'As the poor old 'orse!Seventh StanzaSo, when they brought the 'orse round, we started on our way:'Twas 'orful 'ow the animal from side to side would sway!Young 'Opkins took the reins, but soon in slumber he was sunk —(Indignantly.) When a interfering Copper ran us in for being drunk![Attitude of various members of the party. Unwarrantable proceeding on the part of the Constable. Remonstrance by Pa Plapper and the company generally in—
Chorus– Why, can't yer shee? o' courshTishn't us – it ish the 'orsh!He's a whale at swilling water,We've 'ad only ale and porter,Or a drop o' something shorter.You le'mme go, you shnorter!Don' you tush me till you oughter!Jus' look 'ere – to cut it shorter —Take the poor old 'orsh![General adjournment to the Police-station. Interview with the Magistrate on the following morning. Mr. Hopkinscalled upon to state his defence, replies in—
Chorus– Why, your wushup sees, o' course,It was all the bloomin' 'orse!He would 'ave a pail o' waterEvery 'arf a mile (or quarter),Which is what he didn't oughter!He shall stick to ale or porter,With a drop o' something shorter,I'm my family's supporter —Fine the poor old 'orse![The Magistrate's view of the case. Concluding remark that, notwithstanding the success of the excursion, as a whole – it will be some time before the singer consents to go upon any excursion with a horse of such bibulous tendencies as those of the quadruped they drove to Kew.
viii.– THE DRAMATIC SCENA
This is always a popular form of entertainment, demanding, as it does, even more dramatic than vocal ability on the part of the artist. A song of this kind is nothing if not severely moral, an frequently depicts the downward career of an incipient drunkard with all the lurid logic of a Temperance Tract. Mr. Punch, however, is inclined to think that the lesson would be even more appreciated and taken to heart by the audience, if a slightly different line were adopted such as he has endeavoured to indicate in the following example: —
THE DANGER OF MIXED DRINKSThe singer should have a great command of facial expression, which he will find greatly facilitated by employing (as indeed is the usual custom) coloured limelight at the wings.
First Verse (to be sung under pure white light)He (these awful examples are usually, and quite properly, anonymous) was once as nice a fellow as you could desire to meet,Partial to a pint of porter, always took his spirits neat;Long ago a careful mother's cautions trained her son to shrinkFrom the meretricious sparkle of an aërated drink.Refrain (showing the virtuous youth resisting temptation. N.B. The refrain is intended to be spoken through music. Not sung.)
Here's a pub that's handy.Liquor up with you?Thimbleful of brandy?Don't mind if I do.Soda-water? No, Sir.Never touch the stuff.Promised mother – so, Sir.(With an upward glance.)'Tisn't good enough!Second Verse. (Primrose light for this.)Ah, how little we suspected, as we saw him in his bloom,What a demon dogged his footsteps, luring to an awful doom!Vain his mother's fond monitions; soon a friend, with fiendish laugh,Tempts him to a quiet tea-garden, plies him there with shandy-gaff!Refrain (illustrating the first false step)Why, it's just the mixtureI so long have sought!Here I'll be a fixtureTill I've drunk the quart!Just the stuff to suit yer.Waiter, do you hear?Make it, for the future,Three parts ginger-beer!Third Verse (requiring violet-tinted slide)By-and-by, the ale discarding, ginger-beer he craves alone.Undiluted he procures it, buys it bottled up in stone.(The earthenware bottles are said by connoisseurs to contain liquor of superior strength and quality.)From his lips the foam he brushes – crimson overspreads his brow.Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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Music-hall Latinity – "Para bellum."
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