W. S. Gilbert

Fripperies

 

 

The Baffled Grumbler

 

      Whene’er I poke
      Sarcastic joke
         Replete with malice spiteful,
      The people vile
      Politely smile
            And vote me quite delightful!
      Now, when a wight
      Sits up all night
            Ill-natured jokes devising,
      And all his wiles
      Are met with smiles,
            It’s hard, there’s no disguising!
Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn’t your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

      When German bands,
      From music stands
         Play Wagner imperfectly—
      I bid them go—
      They don’t say no,
            But off they trot directly!
      The organ boys
      They stop their noise
            With readiness surprising,
      And grinning herds
      Of hurdy-gurds
            Retire apologising!
Oh, don’t the days seem lank and long
When all goes right and nothing goes wrong,
And isn’t your life extremely flat
With nothing whatever to grumble at!

      I’ve offered gold,
      In sums untold,
         To all who’d contradict me—
      I’ve said I’d pay
      A pound a day
            To any one who kicked me—
      I’ve bribed with toys
      Great vulgar boys
            To utter something spiteful,
      But, bless you, no!
      They will be so
            Confoundedly politeful!
In short, these aggravating lads,
They tickle my tastes, they feed my fads,
They give me this and they give me that,
And I’ve nothing whatever to grumble at!

 

 

 

The Family Fool

 

Oh! a private buffoon is a light-hearted loon,
   If you listen to popular rumour;
From morning to night he’s so joyous and bright,
   And he bubbles with wit and good humour!
He’s so quaint and so terse, both in prose and in verse;
   Yet though people forgive his transgression,
There are one or two rules that all Family Fools
   Must observe, if they love their profession.
               There are one or two rules,
                  Half-a-dozen, maybe,
               That all family fools,
                  Of whatever degree,
         Must observe if they love their profession.

If you wish to succeed as a jester, you’ll need
   To consider each person’s auricular:
What is all right for B would quite scandalise C
   (For C is so very particular);
And D may be dull, and E’s very thick skull
   Is as empty of brains as a ladle;
While F is F sharp, and will cry with a carp,
   That he’s known your best joke from his cradle!
               When your humour they flout,
                  You can’t let yourself go;
               And it does put you out
                  When a person says, “Oh!
         I have known that old joke from my cradle!”

If your master is surly, from getting up early
   (And tempers are short in the morning),
An inopportune joke is enough to provoke
   Him to give you, at once, a month’s warning.
Then if you refrain, he is at you again,
   For he likes to get value for money:
He’ll ask then and there, with an insolent stare,
   “If you know that you’re paid to be funny?”
               It adds to the tasks
                  Of a merryman’s place,
               When your principal asks,
                  With a scowl on his face,
         If you know that you’re paid to be funny?

Comes a Bishop, maybe, or a solemn D.D.—
   Oh, beware of his anger provoking!
Better not pull his hair—don’t stick pins in his chair;
   He won’t understand practical joking.
If the jests that you crack have an orthodox smack,
   You may get a bland smile from these sages;
But should it, by chance, be imported from France,
   Half-a-crown is stopped out of your wages!
               It’s a general rule,
                  Though your zeal it may quench,
               If the Family Fool
                  Makes a joke that’s too French,
         Half-a-crown is stopped out of his wages!

Though your head it may rack with a bilious attack,
   And your senses with toothache you’re losing,
And you’re mopy and flat—they don’t fine you for that
   If you’re properly quaint and amusing!
Though your wife ran away with a soldier that day,
   And took with her your trifle of money;
Bless your heart, they don’t mind—they’re exceedingly kind—
   They don’t blame you—as long as you’re funny!
               It’s a comfort to feel
                  If your partner should flit,
               Though you suffer a deal,
                  They don’t mind it a bit—
         They don’t blame you—so long as you’re funny!

 

 

 

Sans Souci

 

I cannot tell what this love may be
That cometh to all but not to me.
It cannot be kind as they’d imply,
Or why do these gentle ladies sigh?
It cannot be joy and rapture deep,
Or why do these gentle ladies weep?
It cannot be blissful, as ’tis said,
Or why are their eyes so wondrous red?

If love is a thorn, they show no wit
Who foolishly hug and foster it.
If love is a weed, how simple they
Who gather and gather it, day by day!
If love is a nettle that makes you smart,
Why do you wear it next your heart?
And if it be neither of these, say I,
Why do you sit and sob and sigh?

 

 

 

A Recipe

 

Take a pair of sparkling eyes,
      Hidden, ever and anon,
            In a merciful eclipse—
Do not heed their mild surprise—
      Having passed the Rubicon.
            Take a pair of rosy lips;
Take a figure trimly planned—
      Such as admiration whets
            (Be particular in this);
Take a tender little hand,
      Fringed with dainty fingerettes,
            Press it—in parenthesis;—
Take all these, you lucky man—
Take and keep them, if you can.

Take a pretty little cot—
      Quite a miniature affair—
            Hung about with trellised vine,
Furnish it upon the spot
      With the treasures rich and rare
            I’ve endeavoured to define.
Live to love and love to live—
      You will ripen at your ease,
            Growing on the sunny side—
Fate has nothing more to give.
      You’re a dainty man to please
            If you are not satisfied.
Take my counsel, happy man:
Act upon it, if you can!

 

 

 

The Aesthete

 

If you’re anxious for to shine in the high æsthetic line, as a man of culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them everywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated state of mind
(The meaning doesn’t matter if it’s only idle chatter of a transcendental kind).
And every one will say,
               As you walk your mystic way,
               “If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!”

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed away,
And convince ’em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture’s palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever’s fresh and new, and declare it’s crude and mean,
And that Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.
               And every one will say,
               As you walk your mystic way,
“If that’s not good enough for him which is good enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!”

Then a sentimental passion of a vegetable fashion must excite your languid spleen,
An attachment à la Plato for a bashful young potato, or a not-too-French French bean.
Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high æsthetic band,
If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your mediæval hand.
And every one will say,
               As you walk your flowery way,
               “If he’s content with a vegetable love which would certainly not suit me,
Why, what a most particularly pure young man this pure young man must be!”