Songs of a Savoyard Part 9

And I said to him, "d.i.c.ky-bird, why do you sit Singing 'Willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow'?

Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?" I cried, "Or a rather tough worm in your little inside?"

With a shake of his poor little head he replied, "Oh, willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow!"

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that bough, Singing "Willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow!"

And a cold perspiration bespangled his brow, Oh, willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow!

He sobbed and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave, Then he threw himself into the billowy wave, And an echo arose from the suicide's grave - "Oh, willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow!"

Now I feel just as sure as I'm sure that my name Isn't Willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow, That 'twas blighted affection that made him exclaim, "Oh, willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow!"

And if you remain callous and obdurate, I Shall perish as he did, and you will know why, Though I probably shall not exclaim as I die, "Oh, willow, t.i.twillow, t.i.twillow!"

Ballad: He And She

[HE.] I know a youth who loves a little maid - (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Silent is he, for he's modest and afraid - (Hey, but he's timid as a youth can be!) [SHE.] I know a maid who loves a gallant youth - (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) SHE cannot tell him all the sad, sad truth - (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) [BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do?

[HE.] He cannot eat and he cannot sleep - (Hey, but his face is a sight for to see!) Daily he goes for to wail - for to weep - (Hey, but he's wretched as a youth can be!) [SHE.] She's very thin and she's very pale - (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) Daily she goes for to weep - for to wail - (Hey, but I think that little maid will die!) [BOTH.] Now tell me pray, and tell me true, What in the world should the poor soul do?

[SHE.] If I were the youth I should offer her my name - (Hey, but her face is a sight for to see!) [HE.] If I were the maid I should fan his honest flame - (Hey, but he's bashful as a youth can be!) [SHE.] If I were the youth I should speak to her to-day - (Hey, but she sickens as the days go by!) [HE.] If I were the maid I should meet the lad half way - (For I really do believe that timid youth will die!) [BOTH.] I thank you much for your counsel true; I've learnt what that poor soul ought to do!

Ballad: The Mighty Must

Come mighty Must!

Inevitable Shall!

In thee I trust.

Time weaves my coronal!

Go mocking Is!

Go disappointing Was!

That I am this Ye are the cursed cause!

Yet humble Second shall be First, I ween; And dead and buried be the curst Has Been!

Oh weak Might Be!

Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!

How powerless ye For evil or for good!

In every sense Your moods I cheerless call, Whate'er your tense Ye are Imperfect, all!

Ye have deceived the trust I've shown In ye!

Away! The Mighty Must alone Shall be!

Ballad: A Mirage

Were I thy bride, Then the whole world beside Were not too wide To hold my wealth of love - Were I thy bride!

Upon thy breast My loving head would rest, As on her nest The tender turtle-dove - Were I thy bride!

This heart of mine Would be one heart with thine, And in that shrine Our happiness would dwell - Were I thy bride!

And all day long Our lives should be a song: No grief, no wrong Should make my heart rebel - Were I thy bride!

The silvery flute, The melancholy lute, Were night-owl's hoot To my low-whispered coo - Were I thy bride!

The skylark's trill Were but discordance shrill To the soft thrill Of wooing as I'd woo - Were I thy bride!

The rose's sigh Were as a carrion's cry To lullaby Such as I'd sing to thee - Were I thy bride!

A feather's press Were leaden heaviness To my caress.

But then, unhappily, I'm not thy bride!

Ballad: The Ghosts' High Noon

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies - When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday - then is the ghosts' high noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For c.o.c.kcrow limits our holiday - the dead of the night's high noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds take flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good night"; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers our next high holiday - the dead of the night's high noon!

Ballad: The Humane Mikado

A more humane Mikado never Did in j.a.pan exist; To n.o.body second, I'm certainly reckoned A true philanthropist.

It is my very humane endeavour To make, to some extent, Each evil liver A running river Of harmless merriment.

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time - To let the punishment fit the crime - The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment - Of innocent merriment!

All prosy dull society sinners, Who chatter and bleat and bore, Are sent to hear sermons From mystical Germans Who preach from ten to four: The amateur tenor, whose vocal villainies All desire to shirk, Shall, during off-hours, Exhibit his powers To Madame Tussaud's waxwork: The lady who dyes a chemical yellow, Or stains her grey hair puce, Or pinches her figger, Is blacked like a n.i.g.g.e.r With permanent walnut juice: The idiot who, in railway carriages, Scribbles on window panes, We only suffer To ride on a buffer In Parliamentary trains.

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time - To let the punishment fit the crime - The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment - Of innocent merriment!

The advertising quack who wearies With tales of countless cures, His teeth, I've enacted, Shall all be extracted By terrified amateurs: The music-hall singer attends a series Of ma.s.ses and fugues and "ops"

By Bach, interwoven With Spohr and Beethoven, At cla.s.sical Monday Pops: The billiard sharp whom any one catches His doom's extremely hard - He's made to dwell In a dungeon cell On a spot that's always barred; And there he plays extravagant matches In fitless finger-stalls, On a cloth untrue With a twisted cue, And elliptical billiard b.a.l.l.s!

My object all sublime I shall achieve in time - To let the punishment fit the crime - The punishment fit the crime; And make each prisoner pent Unwillingly represent A source of innocent merriment, Of innocent merriment!

Ballad: Willow Waly!