A lobby card from the 1947 Hollywood adaptation of An Ideal Husband, artist unknown.
An Ideal Crony
Sir Robert Chiltern, Bart – A plummy, chummy, bleeding heart, Who made some loot insider trading – Suddenly his star is fading When extorted by a high-class tart.
What ho !, his chums in high-up places Shall protect him from disgraces – Don’t let on, don’t make a fuss, For don’t you know he’s one of us ? So stiffen up the lips on both his faces.
So what, a sacred trust was sold ? We’d do the same for thirty gold ! So call the playwrite with the sharp wit, Sweep it all beneath the carpet – No need that the voting oiks be told…
Take a reflecting telescope And point it anywhere up in the sky And what do you see with your all-seeing eye ? Cogs and drums and springs and rope, And the ticking of ellipsoid gears, By distance squared, by lighted years.
But can you find between the lights The constant-heavens’ clockwork soul That’s somewhere in the blackest hole ? We all are squinting through the sights – From omega to omicron, We seek the great automaton.
Alas, as mirrors have got clearer, So the wheels we saw have blurred As though the constant tick has slurred. And just as we were getting nearer, We misplaced our guiding stars Amongst the lost canals of Mars.
A Market Stall by Candlelight by Petrus van Schendel
Fresh Pantoums, Only a Shilling !
Oranges, lemons, and citrons and limes, Cockles and mussels and oysters alive, Tatler, Spectator, the Post and the Times, Parsley and sage and sweet basil and chive !
Cockles and mussels and oysters alive, Burgundy, claret, madeira and sack, Parsley and sage and sweet basil and chive, Cottons and calicos – red, white and black !
Burgundy, claret, madeira and sack, Currants and raisins, sultanas and prunes, Cottons and calicos, red, white and black, Ballads and broadsides and tuppenny tunes !
Currants and raisins, sultanas and prunes, Mercury powder to kill all your nits, Ballads and broadsides and tuppenny tunes, Coffee for merchants and lawyers and wits !
Mercury powder to kill all your nits, Books for the scholar and books for the squire, Coffee for merchants and lawyers and wits, Labourers, porters and servants for hire !
Books for the scholar and books for the squire, Scrag-end and brisket and trotters and bones, Labourers, porters and servants for hire, Heather for good-luck and Gypsy-charmed stones !
Scrag-end and brisket and trotters and bones, News of the morning and news of the wars, Heather for good-luck and Gypsy-charmed stones, Come see my wares from the far-distant shores !
News of the morning and news of the wars, Tatler, Spectator, the Post and the Times, Come see my wares from the far-distant shores: Oranges, lemons, and citrons and limes !
“Granville Sharp the abolitionist and Lord Mansfield of the King’s Bench are well known, but the eponymous defendant is more of a mystery.”
The Sunday Items
He ran from the court To the door of his champion, Slaved no more, And he knocked on the door of his champion To show he was free – He ran from the court and he ran from our history.
Did James and Granville then Shake hands like proper gentlemen ? Did they embrace, perhaps, In a quite un-English way ? We cannot say, For James is never heard agen.
Did he and Granville, As they bid goodbye, Look in one-another’s eye And share a smile and knowing nod That seemed to subtly imply “We’ve started something here, by God !”
Maybe he died that very day, Or lived another three long score, Maybe rich, maybe poor – He went about his way. The last we see of James Is at that door.
Obey in All Things your Masters According to the Flesh
When even Jesus shrugs his shoulders, Utters not a word ag’enst, And Paul is rooting with the holders Over people bought and fenced – All these chattels in their fetters Must submit unto their betters. God had cursed the sons of Ham – So help yourself – he just don’t give a damn.
And thus were Haitians much maligned By France, the Pope, and even God, (Who spat upon their Negro kind And swore to keep them ’neath His rod.) Till after ev’ry prayer had failed, They struck a pact which countervailed – It’s such a sorry state of works When Satan saves and idle Jesus shirks.
“Ever since Robert Newton played Long John Silver in 1950, pirates have all spoken with the same accent.”
– The Dorchester Echo
Curse ye, Robbie Newton ! Curse yer lily-lubbered hide ! For thanks to ye, all pirates be The yokels o’ the crimson sea ! We used-a hail from Luton, Or Nidderdale, or Morningside – But now it’s said we’re born an’ bred In Lynmouth, Lyme an’ Lizard Head.
From the Needle to the Scilly, Round the Bill and up Goonhilly, Fowey to Zoyland, thar we blow From Durdle Door to Westward Ho !
Ye scurvy-livered, timber-shivered blaggard, Robbie Newton ! Ye turned us to a joke, to a’ the folk that we be lootin’ ! Ye’d have us be a parody o’ bushy-bearded mutiny, A pantomime upon the sea, jus’ pussycats freebootin’ – We should be briny soldiers, but who could fear our bands Wi’ these parrots on our shoulders and these hooks upon our hands ? Ye’ve decked us in a strange disguise, wi’ peggy-leg an’ lock-o’-dread, An’ always wi’ the patchy-eyes fore’er a-lookin’ ’skance. We used-a be the buccaneers o’ Buckin’ham an’ Birkenhead, But now we’re jus’ the poxy-pillaged pirates o’ Penzance.
From Portishead to Plymouth Hoe, We’ll drag yer name to ten below. From Brizzle Dock to Davey Jones, We curse your skull an’ cross your bones !
One man drifts upon a door – Too far from home, too far from shore, Without supplies, without an oar. Or so I’ve heard it told. Both he and raft, three days ago, Were languishing upon the deck – Now all the rest are ten below, Yet he by chance has fled the wreck. Instead, he gets to starve and stare At water, water ev’rywhere ! Beneath the fierce, unflinching skies, He waits his death and hungry flies – When shadows cross his salt-caked eyes… A figurehead in gold !
So weigh the anchor, hitch the stay, We’ll blow you back to yesterday – We’re all adrift and outwards bound, An island’s waiting to be found. So dance with the carambola, By the fair isola of the giorno prima, Ev’ry newborn gleamer.
One man drifts below a prow Too far from home – but safer now, If he can only climb somehow… And so our yarn sets sail. Up top, he finds no sign of life, Yet down below are cages crammed With birds, and beasts, and flowers rife: As live as he, and just as damned. A hold here to behold ! All brought From out the land he sees to port. But where are they who stocked this store ? If only he could swim ashore, To the island of the day before… Ah, therein hangs a tale…
So drop the anchor, be becalmed, We’re porpoised, parroted and palmed In paradise, in distant climes A long long way from Greenwich times. So dance with the mola mola, By the lost isola of the giorno prima, Ev’ry shipworn dreamer.
This is based on the opening of Umberto Eco’s novel.
They’re coming ! Raise the alarm on the dockside ! They’re swarming, and pushing us out of the sea ! Their billowing sails, from Pembroke to Leigh, Are storming our beaches, invading our sands ! Their cargo is toxic, their ballast monoxide – These by-the-wind sailors, these rafts of medusa. Mohican’d above, while their dreadlocks hang looser – All laces and ruffles, and hooks ’stead of hands ! On the hottest of days, when the skies are clear blue, And the southerlies breeze off the sea to the shore, This deadly armada with venomous crew Are planting their colonies right at our door… These silent bluejackets are coming for you – These unthinking killers, these seamen o’ war.
I almost feel bad in how I’ve deliberately conflated the Spanish Armada with its neighbour (with whom Britain has had a continuous peace treaty since 1386), but good puns must be seized with both hands (unlike the creatures themselves, of course).
Incidentally, according to Wiktionary the nationality of the metaphorical warship remains consistent through most European languages: portugisisk örlogsman (Swedish), żeglarz portugalski (Polish), portugál gálya (Hungarian), and even caravela-portuguesa (Portugese).
All the stages came through Hounslow, All the coaches heading West: Driving on to Staines and Windsor, Bristol, Plymouth, and the rest. All the coaches came through Hounslow, From each Western vale and down, Stretching legs and changing horses For the final push to town.
They all knew Hounslow then: The drovers, grooms and highwaymen. But nothing stays the same – And so one day the railway came.
Only three miles north of Hounslow, Yet those three miles meant a lot: Steaming on to Slough and Reading, Faster than a horse can trot. All the West once came through Hounslow, Then the bypass passed you by – And little mark is left to show From when this High Street lived so high.
We all know Hounslow now – A long way from a horse or cow, Beneath where aircraft fly – And like the trains, they pass you by.
Once a time, horses were ev’rywhere: Carrying knights on their scoutings and charges, Galloping messengers, lancers in battle, Winding our winches and towing our barges, Trekking our caravans, herding our cattle, Ploughing our fields and pulling our drays, Hauling our minecarts, waggons and hearses, The Hansom and omnibus, stagecoach and chaise Were drawn with a mixture of carrots and curses. Chestnuts and roans and brindles and bays, Black beauties, piebalds and fleabitten greys. Rocking our children and hobbying fairs, Stuffing our cushions and gluing our chairs.
So where are they now ? They all got replaced by machines in the end, That can do their jobs better and do their jobs faster – They’re cheaper to build and are quicker to mend, And don’t need reminding just who is their master. The horses can only be worked to the bone, They try hard, but haven’t the means. They’ve all been replaced, through no fault of their own – For who can compete with machines ? In hindsight, of course, it is always the case: When a horse must compete with the new iron horse, Then it’s always a one-horse race.
These day, humans are ev’rywhere – Building our furniture, stitching our clothes, Driving our buses and stacking our shelves. Doing the jobs the majority loathes, For who else could do it for us but ourselves ? Builders and farmers and doctors and tutors – Of course they need humans ! Whyever d’you ask ? You can’t leave the it down to machines and computers – It’s not like there’s robots for every task. We’ll be here for donkey’s years, my dears, Despite such market forces – So close up the stable door once more, We’re all safe as horses !
Rhyming Couplets 