Her views of earldoms and their lot, All underwent expansion-- Come, Virtue in an earldom's cot!

Go, Vice in ducal mansion!

Thomson Green And Harriet Hale

(To be sung to the Air of "An 'Orrible Tale.")

Oh list to this incredible tale Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE; Its truth in one remark you'll sum-- "Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

Oh, THOMSON GREEN was an auctioneer, And made three hundred pounds a year; And HARRIET HALE, most strange to say, Gave pianoforte lessons at a sovereign a day.

Oh, THOMSON GREEN, I may remark, Met HARRIET HALE in Regent's Park, Where he, in a casual kind of way, Spoke of the extraordinary beauty of the day.

They met again, and strange, though true, He courted her for a month or two, Then to her pa he said, says he, "Old man, I love your daughter and your daughter worships me!"

Their names were regularly banned, The wedding day was settled, and I've ascertained by dint of search They were married on the quiet at St. Mary Abbot's Church.

Oh, list to this incredible tale Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE, Its truth in one remark you'll sum-- "Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

That very self-same afternoon They started on their honeymoon, And (oh, astonishment!) took flight To a pretty little cottage close to Shanklin, Isle of Wight.

But now--you'll doubt my word, I know-- In a month they both returned, and lo!

Astounding fact! this happy pair Took a gentlemanly residence in Canonbury Square!

They led a weird and reckless life, They dined each day, this man and wife (Pray disbelieve it, if you please), On a joint of meat, a pudding, and a little bit of cheese.

In time came those maternal joys Which take the form of girls or boys, And strange to say of each they'd one-- A tiddy-iddy daughter, and a tiddy-iddy son!

Oh, list to this incredible tale Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE, Its truth in one remark you'll sum-- "Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

My name for truth is gone, I fear, But, monstrous as it may appear, They let their drawing-room one day To an eligible person in the cotton-broking way.

Whenever THOMSON GREEN fell sick His wife called in a doctor, quick, From whom some words like these would come-- Fiat mist. sumendum haustus, in a cochleyareum.

For thirty years this curious pair Hung out in Canonbury Square, And somehow, wonderful to say, They loved each other dearly in a quiet sort of way.

Well, THOMSON GREEN fell ill and died; For just a year his widow cried, And then her heart she gave away To the eligible lodger in the cotton-broking way.

Oh, list to this incredible tale Of THOMSON GREEN and HARRIET HALE, Its truth in one remark you'll sum-- "Twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twaddle twum!"

Bob Polter

BOB POLTER was a navvy, and His hands were coa.r.s.e, and dirty too, His homely face was rough and tanned, His time of life was thirty-two.

He lived among a working clan (A wife he hadn't got at all), A decent, steady, sober man-- No saint, however--not at all.

He smoked, but in a modest way, Because he thought he needed it; He drank a pot of beer a day, And sometimes he exceeded it.

At times he'd pa.s.s with other men A loud convivial night or two, With, very likely, now and then, On Sat.u.r.days, a fight or two.

But still he was a sober soul, A labour-never-shirking man, Who paid his way--upon the whole A decent English working man.

One day, when at the Nelson's Head (For which he may be blamed of you), A holy man appeared, and said, "Oh, ROBERT, I'm ashamed of you."

He laid his hand on ROBERT'S beer Before he could drink up any, And on the floor, with sigh and tear, He poured the pot of "thruppenny."

"Oh, ROBERT, at this very bar A truth you'll be discovering, A good and evil genius are Around your noddle hovering.

"They both are here to bid you shun The other one's society, For Total Abstinence is one, The other, Inebriety."

He waved his hand--a vapour came-- A wizard POLTER reckoned him; A bogy rose and called his name, And with his finger beckoned him.

The monster's salient points to sum,-- His heavy breath was portery: His glowing nose suggested rum: His eyes were gin-and-WORtery.

His dress was torn--for dregs of ale And slops of gin had rusted it; His pimpled face was wan and pale, Where filth had not encrusted it.

"Come, POLTER," said the fiend, "begin, And keep the bowl a-flowing on-- A working man needs pints of gin To keep his clockwork going on."

BOB shuddered: "Ah, you've made a miss If you take me for one of you: You filthy beast, get out of this-- BOB POLTER don't wan't none of you."

The demon gave a drunken shriek, And crept away in stealthiness, And lo! instead, a person sleek, Who seemed to burst with healthiness.

"In me, as your adviser hints, Of Abstinence you've got a type-- Of MR. TWEEDIE'S pretty prints I am the happy prototype.

"If you abjure the social toast, And pipes, and such frivolities, You possibly some day may boast My prepossessing qualities!"

BOB rubbed his eyes, and made 'em blink: "You almost make me tremble, you!

If I abjure fermented drink, Shall I, indeed, resemble you?

"And will my whiskers curl so tight?

My cheeks grow smug and muttony?

My face become so red and white?

My coat so blue and b.u.t.tony?

"Will trousers, such as yours, array Extremities inferior?

Will chubbiness a.s.sert its sway All over my exterior?

"In this, my unenlightened state, To work in heavy boots I comes; Will pumps henceforward decorate My tiddle toddle tootsic.u.ms?

"And shall I get so plump and fresh, And look no longer seedily?

My skin will henceforth fit my flesh So tightly and so TWEEDIE-ly?"