Absurd Ditties

XLIV

THAT OF THE BARGAIN SALE

I sing of Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe,And Mrs. Gibson-Brown;Two ladies resident withinA square, near Camden Town.Good neighbours they had been, and friends,For twenty years, or more;The Tomkins-Smythes they lived at "6,"The Gibson-Browns at "4."'Twas in that season of the yearWhen drapers' bargain salesDo fascinate the female mind,And vex the married males.An illustrated catalogueArrived at "Number 4,"Which Mrs. Gibson-Brown took inTo show her friend next door."My dear!" she cried in eager tones,"Such bargains! Gracious me!Here's this reduced from two-and-sixTo one eleven-three!"And those which you remember, dear,We thought so very nice,They're selling off at really anAlarming sacrifice!""Those remnants– " Mrs. Tomkins-SmytheRemained to hear no more;She jabbed her bonnet on with pins,And hurried to the door.A tram, a 'bus, the tupp'ny tube,And they were quickly there;And joining in the buzzing crowdOf other ladies fair.They pulled at this, they tugged at that,They turned and tumbled those;And pushed, and crowded with the best,And trod on people's toes.They glared at other buyers, andForestalled them – when they could;And behaved, indeed, exactly,As at sales all ladies should.Till with heavy parcels laden,Breathless, but with keen delight,They beheld the remnant counter("Second turning to the right.")And (alas! how small a matterMay entirely change life's view)Both in the self-same instantSaw a remnant – Navy blue.They each reached out to take it."'Tis mine!" they both did cry."I saw it first, my dearest love.""No, darling, it was I.""My remnant, and I'll buy it!""Indeed? I think you won't!""Pooh! madame, I will have it!""I'll see, ma'am, that you don't!"And thus, and thus – oh, woesome sight —They quarrelled, nor would stopUntil the shopwalker he cameAnd turned them from the shop.* * *They never made the quarrel up,And now, with icy stare,They pass each other in the streetWith noses in the air.

XLV

THAT OF A DECEASED FLY

(A Ballade.)

A little busy buzzy flyBefore my window oft would go,I daily saw him sailing byAnd thought that I would like to knowMore of that little fly, and oh!I raised my hat, and bowed, and said,"How do!" The fly replied, "So, so!"(Alas! that little fly is dead.)We grew quite friendly, he and I,He'd come when called – I called him Joe. —He was a most amusing fly.At evening, when the sun was low,Or, by the firelight's ruddy glowHe'd hopscotch on my buttered breadOr o'er my jam, with nimble toe.(Alas! that little fly is dead.)I saved him once, when none was by;From out the milk jug's fatal flowI fished him out, and let him dry.His gratitude he tried to showIn many ways I know, I know;But– when upon my bald, bald headHe gamboled, could I stand it? No!Alas! that little fly is dead!EnvoyPrince. Pity, not your blame, bestow.Remember all the tears I've shed.What could I do? It tickled so.Alas! That little fly is dead.

EPILOGUE

There, – having sung in dulcet tonesOf Brown, and Robinson, and Jones,Of poets, cannibals, and kings,Of burglars, dukes, and such like things —May kindly Fate our fortunes mend.We wish you joy. This isTHE END

1

Frenchmen could never make these two words rhyme – but Englishmen can.

I've heard 'em. G. E. F.

2

A factlet is nearly a fact.

3

Cockney pronunciation please.