 London Day by Day by George R. Sims Red4Libervox.org The smoke in vaster volumes rolls The fever fiend takes larger tolls And sin a fiercer grip of souls In London Day by Day Still buggins builds on swampy site And Eiffel houses block the light And make a town of dreadful night Of London Day by Day In fashions long and busy street The outcast foreign harlots meet While Robert smiles upon his beat In London Day by Day Still modest maidens' cheeks are stung With foulest words from wanton's tongue And oaths yelled out with leather lung In London Day by Day Wealth riots in a mad excess While thousands poor and penniless Starve in the mighty wilderness Of London Day by Day Wrong proudly rears its wicked head While rites sad eyes with tears are red And sluggard justice lies a bed In London Day by Day The lyre triumphs and the nave Rides buoyant on the rolling wave And liberty makes many a slave In London Day by Day Yet hope and trust and faith and love And God's fair dowers from above Still find a branch like Noah's dove In London Day by Day And onward still through slow the pace Press pilgrims of our grand old race Who seek the right with firm-set face And shed truth's light By God's good grace Or London Day by Day End of poem This recording is in the public domain For Heir and Hare by George R. Sims Read PhilippiVox.org by Alan Lawley I said to my sweet in the morning We must start on our journey at ten She was up in her bedroom adorning She'd been there a goodish time then And she answered me tenderly, pop it As she came to the top of the stair If you see a cat pass you can stop it For I've only to finish my hair It was ten by the clock of St. Stephen's As I sat and looked glum in the hall And I offered to wager her evens She would never be ready at all I counted the half and the quarters At eleven I ventured to swear Then she answered like one of Eve's daughters All right, dear, I must do my hair I waited till daylight was waning I waited till darkness began Up braiding myself for complaining Like a selfish and bad tempered man But when midnight ran out from the steeple I ventured to whisper a prayer And she answered I hate surely people You must let me finish my hair I paid for the cabin dismissed it I took off my coat and my hat I hailed her fair hand and I kissed it And I curled myself upon the mat And when I awoke on the morrow I cried oh where art thou my fair And she answered I'll run out and borrow A hairpin or two for my hair The summers have faded to winters The winters have melted to springs My patient has shivered to splinters And still as she puts on her things My sweet though I'm weary of waiting And grown in my bitter despair Contents herself simply by stating She's just got to finish her hair If she's here when the world's at its finish And lists to the last crack of doom She will watch our poor planet diminish From the window upstairs in her room And when the last trumpet is blowing And the angel says hurry up there She will answer all right sir I'm going But you must let me finish my hair End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Domestic Tragedy by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org A Domestic Tragedy She was a housemaid, tall and slim A well conducted modest girl Her dress was always neat and true She never sported fringe or curl She did her work and kept her mind Intent upon her household cares When fault alone there was defined She left her dustpan on the stairs She loved her mistress very much She held her master in respect Her grief the hardest heart would touch When they'd occasioned to correct But still in spite of all they said In spite of scolding and of prayers Harm me to what at last it led She left her dustpan on the stairs One morning while breakfasting below And glancing at the morning post She heard a wild and sudden Oh, that made her drop her buttered toast She heard the heavy fall and groans The master taken unaware Had slipped and broken several bones She'd left the dustpan on the stairs They sent for doctors by the school They fetched in haste Sir Andrew Clarke But masters suffering soon were over That night is set in Sharon's bar Now in a cell at Cornie Hatch A jivering housemaid groans and glares And tries with trembling hands to snatch A ghost of dustpan from the stairs Moral Your housemaid to this tale may read Remember, backs are hard to mend And injured nose freely bleed And falls may cause untimely end Your masters are but mortal men A neck once broken, not repairs Your housemaids when you leave the dustpans On the stairs End of poem This recording is in the public domain When life begins to flicker And your soul grows slowly sicker And you feel a bucket kicker As a painting picked me up It was near the Yorkshire single That in modern London lingo With a face like a flamingo Said a friend of mine by jingle What a rich wreck you are I replied, I'm melancholic I'm a painter diabolic I who once was frisk and frolic Now I'm glum and vitriolic Every nerve is on the jar That was sardonic Beamed about his brow bironic And he said, this is masonic But I think you want a tonic Try the famous something wine And he further said with unction That I need have no compunction In obeying his injunction To renew each vital function And just soot a case like mine I have drunk and am a giant Quite refreshed and groan defiant All my limbs are free and pliant And now neither man nor baron Can supply a match to me Now my pen again grows graphic And my verse is strictly sapphic And my tricycle and traffic I can ride with smile sarafic From all nervous tremors free I can laugh at punch and duty And enjoy a book from midi I am spic and span and duty And I freely spend my skiddy And I feel that I could fly I've a bearing that is regal And all my acts are strictly legal And I'll wager that an eagle Could be taken mother-seagull Couldn't show as clear an eye So in marketplace or forum If you're dull my corgallorum Never heed the censor morum But just breathe yourself a jorum In a beaker or a cup of this stimulating liquor Which when life begins to ticker And your soul grows slowly sicker And you feel a bucket kicker Is a patent, pick me up In the poem this recording is in the public domain Oh heart, my heart that faintly flutters And sinks within my coward breast At every sound a demon utters The demon of a wild unrest What poison is it in you lurking That taints the rich red stream of life And leaves your trembling owner shirking The storm and stress of daily strife The skies are black as night's dark daughters The havens far and fierce the sea Ill omen birds above the waters Fly low and shriek with evil glee Oh sinking heart, to hope a traitor If through the storms the peace we prize Bid me sail on, the risk is greater for him Who here at anchor lies Beat heart again with brave endeavor Beat heart with faith in God's right hand Stretch out to those who ask it ever To lead them to the promised land Mine eyes to earth no more inclining I watch the storm that clears the sky Who'd see the sun in splendor shining Must boldly fix his gaze on high In the poem this recording is in the public domain Ichabod by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wesson Write it up with faltering fingers Write it with a blush of shame Since no ray of glory lingers At the temples of our fame Or a Christian church blaspheming Which has dragged the name of God Through the mire of party scheming Write the legend Ichabod Write it where our peers assemble Dollars decked in solemn state Though their sires made Europe tremble In the days when we were great Peers today the land encumber Lazy lords no spur can prod Or the house where now they slumber Write the legend Ichabod Shrined in history's grandest pages Are the deeds of those who bent tyrant kings And kingly rages to the will of parliament Now but placement, bores and traitors Tread the halls that Hampton trod Or the house of idol-praters Write the legend Ichabod Once old England's pride and glory Was that all her sons were free Ah, today how changed the story Where is now our liberty? Cranks and fattice forge our fetters Every day we feel the rod Grandma Ma, in sampler letters Works or England Ichabod End of poem, this recording Is in the public domain A Derby Diddy By George R. Sims Read for Libbervox.org Mud in my eyes And mud on my cheek My hat that drips And my boots that leak And a voice so hoarse That I scarce can speak That's how I went to the Derby A fight with a man At the station gate Apoplexy through being late A score in a carriage That seated eight That's how I went to the Derby Never a cab for love or oof The dye running out of my waterproof Through shock and water I pad the hoof That's how I got to the Derby Smashed and crushed in a crowded pen Bruised and battered by bustling men A lamb in a roaring lion's den That's how I saw the Derby The favorites beat the millions cry The next umbrella extracts my eye And I've laid two thousand to one with fry That's how I liked the Derby I've lost my temper I've lost my tin Where is my watch? My chain, my pin And my boots are letting the water in That's how I left the Derby A couple of doctors by my bed A block of ice on my burning head And somehow I wished that I was dead That's what came of the Derby The brokers in on a bill of sale Pills and potions of no avail A jerry-built tomb with a rusty rail That's what came of the Derby R.I.P. on a suit-grimed stone And under my name these words alone The biggest juggins that ever was known Has gone where's there no more Derby? End of poem This recording is in the public domain Shall we remember? By George R. Sims Read for Libervox.org Ah, love, my love As hand in hand This glorious autumn weather We stroll along the golden strand And watch the ships together We murmur vows we mean to keep But by next year's September How many made beside the deep Shall we remember? Old love is dead New love awakes And hearts are playthings ever Though change may mar Tis change that makes Time every link can sever Though dull loves fire To glowing gold We fan the dying ember Yet in new love Of old shall we remember? The race of life is too strong The pace grows fast and faster The leader takes the field along And brings the weak disaster The prize is won Yet what is fame? A rush light in November In twelve short months The victor's name Shall we remember? End of poem This recording is in the public domain Paradise and the sinner One mourn a sinner at the gate Of Eden stood disconsolate And as he pondered on the things And life he'd done, his wild out-sewing He felt the pang that conscience brings And both his cheeks, with shame, were glowing He thought of all the vows he'd broken He thought of falsehoods, lightly told The hasty words he'd spoken And all the tricks he'd played for gold Ah, me, he cried, I own my sin So pity Angel let me in The angel heard the sinner's tale He blushed not, neither turned he pale But thank you then, and wrath he cried For crimes like these to pass inside Your life's not been so badly spent You must do something worse by far Come back with something to repent And then I'll raise the crystal bar The sinner he flew from the spot sublime Away to the earth below I wonder, he thought, what kind of crime Is reckoned the worst, in hout? He picked a pocket and stole a purse He plotted against the crown He changed two babies put out to nurse And he left a dog to drown Good, said the angel as he heard a list Of the sinner's sins, but this is only About a third of the crime that entrance wins Your record, Eitro, must be blacker far Before I can raise the crystal bar The sinner flew back to the earth once more And he steeped his hands in his brother's gore He poisoned his wife by slow degrees And hanged his twins on a couple of trees And then with a broken and rusty saw He cut off the head of his mother-in-law And he cried as a shuddering world turned sick If the chaplain's right, I have done the trick Once more he stood before the gate And told his tale and asked his fate The angel smiled, said, right you are And swiftly raised the crystal bar But oh, when the sinner was once inside There is some mistake he in terror cried As down in the bottomless pit he fell And found he had knocked at the gate of hell It was your mistake, the angel said To think that because your hands were red You could pass at once to the realms above The beautiful realms of peace and love The clerical gents may tell you so But this is the place to which murderers go End of poem This recording is in the public domain It makes a Christian man say, hang the income tax Poor Job, he had to bear some very nasty smacks But nothing to compare with this infernal tax Not all his pains and aches could put him in a wax But he'd have shouted snakes if asked for income tax Oh, take the curse away, the cruel curse that racks Why should free Britons pay the most un-British tax? For years has raged the fight, be yours the cry of Pax And Britons wrongs to write, remove the income tax On earth that deed shall dwell till all creation cracks And fame's last trumpet tell how Goshen killed the tax Do this and you will forge a deathless battle axe For England's New St. George, who slew the income tax End of poem This recording is in the public domain Nonsense By John R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org Nonsense This trend was in a dreadful state And so was Mary Anne They'd gone and raised the postal rate Twisted her young man She might have sent by parcels post Her lovers' Christmas card Her gaze were raging round the coast And it was freezing hard What was a poor distracted maid to do in such a case When only half the odds were laid an hour before the race She had a right to see the rules according to the law But as the staff were mostly forced The time was all she saw So losing heart she gave a groom And taking off her socks She dropped them, they were not her own Inside the pillow pot Her socks, as you may surely guess Were stockings truth to tell For as today young ladies dress Socks would not look so well She left her boots to mark the place And went to Drury Lane But there was that in Gus's face Which filled her heart with pain He would not pass her to the pit She said, I'm on the press She thought he would have had a fit And burst his evening dress If you are on the press, he cried You ought to wear your shoes But as there is room for one inside I cannot wear a fuse He put her in a private box Which hid her to the knees And sent for a lyre For some frocks and whispered Shoes from knees She chose a page's trunks and hose A fairy skirt of garse And while she dressed a gistis rose And left her made a plas Then back she went A fairy queen into the GPO She passed the rows of clerks Between and all were bowing low There weighed her card With smirk and smile The stamps with care in post The postage was a pound a mile Because the ends were closed But in her fairy garment She did not She did look so sweet her gar Oh, HMS was But by the postmaster general And near her card Her lover unclosed Another knot was tied The PMG himself proposed And now she hears his pride Mora If information you would ask When P.O. Clare suppressed You find his asium in your task If you go nicely dressed End of poem This recording is in the public's domain Le Mardi Gras By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Campbell Shelp The feast of folly is spread Let us eat and drink and be merry While the fountains are running red With the juice of the glorious berry Let us carry the forts of joy With a series of madcap dashes Air the feast of flesh, my boy Gives way to the fast of ashes We have but a breath of life A whiff of the world's wide pleasure A year of its strain and strife For a day of its dancing measure So hay for the fatted calf While the carnival music crashes At the feast of flesh we laugh Air we weep at the fast of ashes O sage with the grim grey face With our quips is their cause to quarrel We know air we run our race We shall master the Mardi's moral We shall be as the monks who scourge Their skins with a hundred lashes Youth's feast of the flesh we must purge With our manhoods fast of ashes End of poem. This recording is in the public domain Two Sundays By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Charles Conover Two Sundays The bigot with his narrow mind Can ill in every pleasure find He makes his god a god of gloom The pulsing world a living tomb A curse in every blessing sees And thinking heaven to appease He cuts religion is his knife The blossom from the tree of life From thogs that give that bigot birth Far off in many a land of mirth Hearts full of faith in god above Look on him as a god of love A god who bids his children play And smiles to see his loved ones gay As earthly fathers smile to see Their children sing and dance with glee O British Sabbath bigot bread Our youths despair our childhoods dread God does not scowl in solemn state Behind a gloomy prison gate He smiles enthroned in sunny skies Where only joyous songs arise To make god's day then, twer as well Seem more like heaven and less like hell End of poem. This recording is in the public domain The males aboard by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp The captain of the cuckoo took His glasses from the starboard hook He gazed across the raging main Then put his glasses back again The cuckoo's mate remarked, I guess you saw a signal of distress I did, but it must be ignored You see, we've got the males aboard This was the captain's curt reply The first mate heard it with a sigh But all the cuckoo's captain said Was steady then, full steam ahead He crossed the sinking vessel's boughs As close a seamen ship allows Can't stop he threw his trumpet roared Because I have the males aboard The passengers and all the crew Replied, oh please to save us do And plunging in the raging sea Declined the captain's R.I.P They followed in the cuckoo's wake Till swimming made their stomachs ache Their lot the captain much deplored But waved them off with males aboard The storm to fiercest tempest grew But straight ahead the cuckoo flew Till once again the captain took His glasses from the starboard hook Hello, he cried, if I am not Mistaken, there's the royal yacht A hidden rock her side has bored She signals answer, males aboard The yacht replied with haughty mean Stop by the order of the queen Who, braving equinoxial gales Now in the sinking vessel sails Alas, the cuckoo's captain cried To save my queen would be my pride Here he saluted with his sword But tell her I've the males aboard Ha! cried the queen For this I will Cut off his head on Tower Hill The nave shall see the house of gelf Respected still can make itself She sent a man to every gun And just to stop the captain's fun Into his ship a broadside port Although he had the males aboard The cuckoo's captain cried the deuce And straight ran up a flag of truce And then he sent a boat to save His sovereign from a watery grave The queen stepped nimbly on the deck And left the royal yacht a wreck But flung, though mercy he implored The cuckoo's captain overboard When he recovered from the shock And lay upon a lonely rock And their ship's captains as they pass Survey him sternly through the glass And by Victoria's orders scoff Let all his cries of cake me off And say, by us your fates deplored But we can't stop, we've males aboard End of poem, this recording is in the public domain At the Photographers by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Leknarth They coaxed me up a hundred stairs They lured me to their den They laid their artful snares Those photographing men They dragged me to a room of glass Beneath a blazing sun I thought I should have died, alas I'm nearly fourteen stone They saw their victim pant and blow They heard him cry, I melt But narrow one for all my woe One grain of pity felt I pierced my head and screwed it round And fixed it in a vice And simpered when they had me bound That pose is very nice Look up, look up, and wear a smile Look pleasant, if you please You must keep still awhile Just straighten up your knees Tis thus they jeer and jive at me As faint and hot I try an inch Before my nose to see With sunstroke in my eye I think of all the bitter wrongs My later life has known I writhe beneath fates cruel thongs I knit my brow and groan And still with many a smile and smirk The artist trips about And gives my chin a little jerk And sticks my elbows out Ye gods, am I a grinning ape To pose and posture thus? Am I a man in human shape Or turkey that they trust? My head is free With fiendish mirth I raise a vengeful hand And dash the camera to earth And fell the iron stand I take the artist by the throat And pin him to the wall And jerk his chin and tear his coat And hold his head and thrall I bid the trembling victim's smile I cry, be gay, and laugh And in the very latest style I'll take your photograph I twisted till I broke his neck I baked him in the sun I left the room an awful wreck And then the deed was done They held an inquest on the bits Ye photographing crew Before you the writer sits Just read that inquest through End of poem This recording is in the public domain Engage Japan By George R. Sims Read for Libervox.org By Sir Edwin Arnold Mr. Lawson, if you please Just a little line to say I'm a taking of my ease In a Japanese way Here I write by lands and seas For your London day by day Neath the blossom-laden trees Of Japan, the glad and gay Here I watch the pretty she's As they don't their night array And they ask me to their tease And they sing to me and play Tiss mid-pleasures such as these That I hope you'll let me stay Tiss a climate that agrees With your faithful Edwin A. Now no more I have to seize Editorial pen to flay Home rule freaks of Mr. G's Or to keep the rads at bay Mona's marriage, the box bees Mr. Stanley, Tati Faye Water rates and school board fees On my mind no longer pray Glad Japan, my spirit frees From its tenement of clay And my notebook on my knees With the muses I can stray So, dear Lawson, if you please I will stop here if I may Sending over lands and seas From Japan, the glad and gay End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Balaclava Heroes By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Charles Conover The Balaclava Heroes Open the workhouse doors today To the men who fought in that fearful fray Weary and worn and scant of breath Are the men who rode through the valley of death Clad in the popper's garb of shame They are getting the mead of their deathless fame These are the heroes our poets sang When over the world their story rang These are the heroes gnarled and bent With the tale of whose deeds the skies were rent These are the heroes whose fame's writ large On the glorious page of that deathless charge Open the workhouse doors today To the penniless heroes old and grey In each wrinkled face is a soldier's pride They have won the garden so long denied And we honour their deeds with, what do you think? A benefit at the skating rink End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Child's Idea by George R. Sims Lightly holding her mother's hand A little girl tripped o'er her father's land Squire of all acres he, as far as the little one's eyes could see And his wife and his daughter, his baby Mae Were seeing the folks this Christmas day Six years old was the baby girl And her brain was all in a dreamy whirl With the puddings and pies and Christmas trees The bells and carols, and if you pleased the night before Had St. Nicholas been with the loveliest dolly That ever was seen How good of the St. Mamma to leave such beautiful things Upon Christmas Eve! She had cried as against her baby breast She hushed her dear little doll to rest And then the wonders of Christmas day Had almost taken her breath away And now through the village she galley trips As the greeting comes from a score of lips A merry Christmas and a bright new year And the air is heavy with Christmas cheer Goose and pudding and beef galore And the fires glow bright through each open door There's a happy smile upon every face The village is quite a fairy place And in every cottage at which they call The green and holly are on the wall And all the family gathered there Are seated around the Christmas fair How happy they are, says baby Mae As she looks at the feast and the feasters gay And then there comes to her childish mind A scene or two of a different kind Of weeping women and frowning men And nobody seems so happy then She had grasped the fact in her childish way That the poor had troubles and rents to pay That children ailed and that some men's wives Were nearly worried out of their lives She had heard the gossip as children do And today it came back to her mind and knew She thought of the village of then and now And there came a cloud on her baby brow She knew there was sorrow where now there was mirth And she whispered, Mamaha, when he made the earth What a pity it was that God did not say Let it always be Christmas Day End of poem This recording is in the public domain Sanitation at Sea by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Steven Nuzzo I have sailed over the ocean to spots far away I've also done margate and back in the day I have spent the long nights upon deck in a storm And stood by the funnel to keep myself warm And when I've been poorly as poorly can be I have sighed for some slight sanitation at sea I have been in the cabin where sufferers lay And an atmosphere fitted a nigger to slay I have slept in a bunk where the air was so foul That I woke in the morn with an agonized howl And I've staggered upstairs crying, Oh, dearie me Why will they ignore sanitation at sea By the smell of the engine, the dirt on the deck By the stairs you descend at the risk of your neck By the cabin whose odor is stuffy and stale By the dirty old tub, which is known as the mail By the horrors from which scarce a vessel is free We'd welcome the least sanitation at sea End of poem This recording is in the public domain Ignola by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Wayne Cook I pay to soothe and take my chair Among the little girls and boys The nurses to the heads and stifle Puppet shells are children's joys And yet, though time has hit me hard And life I am given to revile From every joy I have not debarred For, Gignola still can make me smile Dear Gignola of my golden youth How often these Elysian fields I've listened to his words of truth And watched the baton that he wields And still, in autumn's pleasant glow I'm happy our way I've wired And with the babies see the show For Gignola still can make me smile End of poem This recording is in the public domain The English Summer by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp On Monday the weather was fine and bright Three fine days and a thunderstorm On Tuesday the floods had reached their height And a hurricane blew on Wednesday night And the land was a swamp and a dismal sight Three fine days and a thunderstorm On Thursday the dogs all panting lay Three fine days and a thunderstorm And sunstroke settled two boys at play On Friday the winter had come to stay Three fine days and a thunderstorm On Saturday snow was a good foot high Three fine days and a thunderstorm On Sunday there fell from the jet black sky A deluge that covered the mountains high And today in a tropical sun we fry Three fine days and a thunderstorm End of poem This recording is in the public domain A perfect paradise by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp Vire Pelican, affidavits The quiet of the woodland way Bird broken is by night and day But near a songbird trills its lay In Gerard Street, Soho No breeze here bears the babel roar Life's ocean, tidalus evermore Lies dead upon the silent shore Of Gerard Street, Soho The hermit seeking holy calm May soothe his soul with Gilead balm Beneath the desert's one green palm In Gerard Street, Soho But twuzz, oh, twuzz not always thus Men flying from life's fume and fuss An herb found a peaceful rust In Gerard Street, Soho There was a time when shout and shriek And song and oath and drunken freak Made matters lively all the week In Gerard Street, Soho Then too alas the Sabbath eve Herbed sounds to make the pious grieve And quiet tenants thought they'd leave In Gerard Street, Soho When came the change from noise to peace When did the clattering handsome cease When rose the value of a lease In Gerard Street, Soho When came that sense of perfect rest Which makes the region doubly blessed Twuzz when, as members oaths attest The pelicans first built their nest In Gerard Street, Soho End of poem This recording is in the public domain That breeze by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp The poets who write in the magazines Have pitched their tents amid Silvian scenes Treading with joy in their lazy lay The primrose path of the woodland way They always stop on the road to sing Of the balmy breeze of Awakening Spring I know that breeze of the lilting line That breeze is a very old friend of mine That it takes bards in need cause no surprise For at throwing dust into people's eyes Facile princeps and also king Is the balmy breeze of Awakening Spring It's the poet that's balmy And not the breeze When he sings in praise of our English buys The wind that blows neath the cold grey sky That stabs the chest and inflames the eye It is death that hovers with sable wing On the balmy breeze of Awakening Spring I'd sing the song that this breeze deserves But alas I've liver and also nerves Sciatica racks me day and night And I haven't a bronchial tube that's right And the fiend that all these woes doth bring Is the balmy breeze of Awakening Spring And of poem this recording is in the public domain Ballad of Old Time Fox by George R. Sims Read for leapivox.org by Alan Lawley The sky above my head is fair Not dark as once it used to be And joy and life are in the air And green is every budding tree That windswept makes is buff to me And all the world is glad and gay Which makes me cry when this I see Where are the fox of yesterday My heart is light and void of care Though this year's months are yet but three I miss the midday gas lamps glare I meet the folks who used to flee To southern France and Italy In London now they gladly stay In London spend their pound shillings spent Where are the fox of yesterday One shirt till Eve I now can wear Once was quite a rarity And even folks in Breadford Square An erstwhile blackest Bloomsbury Can from their windows gaze with glee And nod to friends across the way And Auguste says to Stephen G. Where are the fox of yesterday Prince, since of them at last were free And London escapes their cruel sway Why need we care a single day Where are the fox of yesterday End of poem This recording is in the public domain Under the Clock by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk An actor's song For the remainder of cast see Under the Clock theatrical advertisement Under the Clock with the rank and file That's where you have to look for me That is the end of the century's style Vidy the ads in the great D.T. Well I suppose we can't all be starred So the special ads for the finer flock And the common sheep, though it's rather hard Are huddled together beneath the clock I do my best in my humble way When I'm cast for a part that is known as small For the minor parts in a high class play May help in its making after all And so when I'm placed below the salt It gives my pride just a passing shock And I own some day I should like to vault Up to the stars from beneath the clock Actor's vanity Yes you're right, though I'd rather you called it Artist's pride It's a battle of life in the mimic fight On the boards where so many have fought And died on the world's great stage Where their players all and they feel The pains that we only mock To a favored few must the star ads fall The rest are only beneath the clock End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Girl of 47 by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Charles Conover The Girl of 47 Fond lover when you come to woo And whisper nothing's tender And try to span as lovers do A waste that once was slender Be not upset if Kurt rebuff Your amorous joy should leaven That sort of thing is apt to huff The Girl of 47 That girl who's up to every game Knows more than you can teach her With Cupid's bow it's vain to aim His arrows rarely reach her The only words to touch her heart Are Coots and Barclay Bevan Gold tipped must be the blind God's dart For girls of 47 Don't think by gazing in her eyes With simulated rapture Don't think by sentimental size Her seasoned heart to capture Just show your banker's book, my son, And if the will of heaven Has blessed your balance, you have won The Girl of 47 End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Conventional, Mile Gros-Louis by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Emma Baker Convention is a thing I hate Convention is a thing I scorn And yet, alas, I grieve to state I was conventionally born My father and my mother were A curse beyond convention's head Two sweethearts, youth and maiden-er They were conventionally wed Then came my vaccination and Convention though I cannot brook I'm given now to understand What quite conventionally took I cut my teeth convention bar A tear stood in my baby eye How why did I not learn from mar That teething babies always cry I was an infant then a child And then a boy and then a youth Ah, even now it makes me wild But I must tell the bitter truth When I came to man's estate You see that I know single jot Did from convention deviate And yet I think convention rot I fell in love, ah, he who sits In judgment on the modern stage And tears the common play to bits Will understand my frenzied rage I fell in love, convention slave To dull convention bowed the knee And in return the maiden gave Her love conventional to me And now I have some girls and boys Who grow and play and go to school Conventional are all my joys I'm just like any other fool I give off Ibsen to my wife And quote the notes of W.A. But still I lead a common life Convention won't be kept at bay The end of course will come at last Oh, may I like Elijah rise In something safe upon the blast And living past beyond the skies When quitting earth I'd keep my breath I hope sincerely that I shall I love the bare idea of death It is so damned conventional End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Home, sweet home A winter's tale By John R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org Home, sweet home Through every chink there they've rose the blast My stark of cause is falling fast I have a call that's come to last I'm booked until the blizzards pass For a home, sweet home The fog has filled the house with gloom The blacks lie thick in every room Dim through the mist, the gas jets loom An autumn-like living-time is home, sweet home To death I'lls blue, I fall of prey And sit and think of a live-long day Of happier times, and I will escape In winter eatings far away from home, sweet home A prisoner I, in climbs accursed Where fog and frost are at their worst Hello, what's that? The pipes have burst A plumber quick but save me fast From home, sweet home Fling wide the door and bring a light High carement is an awful night Put down the glass and I'll sit tied But drive me from the dreadful sight To home, sweet home Poor horse, poor horse, I'll spare the lash His quivering carcass sees to thrash He's down, the cab has come to smash The snow falls fast, I'll make a dash For home, sweet home End of poem This recording is in the public's domain In Portland Place By George R. Sims Read for leapivox.org By Alan Lawley The world and wife are out of town The blast sweeps down the empty street The bobby in a sturdy brown Things off the sea upon his beat The cab horsedoses on the rank The empty buses sees to race The hungry cat roams Lean and lank The blinds are down in Portland Place The birds still sing in Regent's Park The ducks emit their bronchial quack But all day long from dawn to dark The crossing sweeper's trade is slack The Langham Porter's wandering eye Encounters near a human face No smoke goes upward to the sky The blinds are down in Portland Place The thoroughfare is broad and wide The vestry keeps the roadway clean And I can walk on either side Or against its separate lamppost lean I'm king of all that I survey As sad as Selkirk's in my case Oh, soon to save my reason may The blinds go up in Portland Place End of poem This recording is in the public domain And she of the sweet white kiss band Is the one whom I chose to wed Off the two pearl white buttons And yet it is laid out there To return as it were to our muttons The shirt I'm going to wear I list to the bell's sweet chiming In the still of the Sabbath morn And I ask myself in rhyming Why a buttonless shirt is worn Shall I put myself in a passion And curse the unwifely act Which isn't a poet's fashion behave With a little tact? Shall I show her the shirt and scold her My scourchly, a month-wed wife Or wait till our union's older With the frown and the wordy strife Ah, soul of my soul, my darling No buttonless shirt shall rise To set the old Adam snarling At his eave in their paradise Or we tween made one to wrangle That the wifely way's unlearned That a shirt has gone wrong in the mangle Or a handkerchief's badly burnt No, never shall wrath be blighting The beautiful blistered butts And I'll fasten your love requiting My buttonless shirt with studs End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Londoner to His Love by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Emma Charlotte Song and Dance NB This American song and dance Can only be performed on the production Of a certificate of lunacy Signed by three members Of the London County Council Oh, come, my love, where the fog lies thick Down in the shadow where the microbes grow We shall catch none on her if we're only quick Down in the shadow where the microbes grow For our bower is built on London clay Where the grey mist hangs from the dawn of day And the gay young germs of neuralgia play Down in the shadow where the microbes grow Oh, come, my love, where the sun nears max Down in the shadow where the microbes grow To the wild wet waste where consumption lacks Down in the shadow where the microbes grow Where the cough makes music And the bronchial wheeze Replies to the echo of the sniff and sneeze And asthma flirts with the cut-froat breeze Down in the shadow where the microbes grow Oh, come, my love, and abide with me Down in the shadow where the microbes grow Where the weathercock always points Ne Down in the shadow where the microbes grow Where the damp drips dank down the dismal wall And the fungi flourish in the mildewed hall And the undertaker is the lord of all Down in the shadow where the microbes grow End of poem. This recording is in the public domain The Eiffel Bonnet by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Wayne Cook Behind an Eiffel Bonnet I sat when Matinee and Oh, the feathers on it completely hid the play Because that Eiffel Bonnet kept bobbing in my way That awful Eiffel Bonnet it blotted out the scene And all the people in it just like a giant screen It was the sort of Bonnet you couldn't see between The wearer of that Bonnet between two friends she sat And swayed and hence the sonnet now this way and now that And bent her head into Bonnet with either side to chat To left she moved to Bonnet I bent my head to right at the stage to look upon it But ere I had a sight back came that Eiffel Bonnet and blotted out the light Oh, awful Eiffel Bonnet the towers to the sky If ladies still will don it it will happen by and by Down with that Eiffel Bonnet Oh, playgoers will cry To see a swinging Bonnet we don't go to the play Tis not to gaze upon it our ten and six we pay So damn the Eiffel Bonnet that damns the Matinee End of poem This poem is in the public domain Two of Fair Musician by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Wayne Cook Oh, lady next door could your glance on me fall There are times when my lot you would pity And shut the piano that stands by the wall And spare me your favorite ditty That music hath charms I'm the last to deny But music from A to 11 is apt the weak nerves Of a poet to try and to hasten his journey to heaven In vain in my study on work I've in hand I endeavor to fix my attention That moment you sit yourself down to your grand And I use a nice word I won't mention Oh, lady I know you are gentle and fair And I grant that you play very nicely But if you are anxious my reason to spare Don't start ma'am at eight so precisely I wait for that moment each nerve on the strain I tremble with wild agitation A thousand sharp needles seem prickling my brain And I'm bathed in a cold perspiration For I know you will commence at the last stroke Of eight to perform all the morceaux that you know From Dorothy, Doris and Faust up to date From Mendelssohn, Mozart and Guno Oh, lady next door Could your glance but once fall on the eye In which madness is lurking You would move your piano away from the wall And you'd play when the bard wasn't working End of poem This poem is in the public domain The soldiers of our city guard Through winter snows and summer heats From all the soldiers joys debarred Keep watch and ward in London streets For them no marshal trumpets sound For them their weights no victors' bay But on the lonely midnight round Unarmed they face the fiercest fray Alone they brave the brawlers' blows The burglar's shot the ruffian's knife Undaunted dare a hundred foes And risk unflinching limb and life What heroes then have more than they To London's love and honourite These quiet guardians of the day These lonely soldiers of the night End of poem This recording is in the public domain The old clock on the stairs By George R. Sinis Read for LibriVox.org The old clock on the stairs There stand it in my entrance hall A green grandfather's clock That holds my innermost heart in thought And gives it many a shock It has a cruel cunning face And two long hands that glide Like demon-fates who run a race Forever by my side So day by day and year by year It strikes the ceaseless snow For all that too my heart was dear For all I loved so well It calls for youth and love and trust For joys and pleasures fled For dreams long gathered to the dust For hopes long cold and dead In mournful beats it digs away The silence of my span And makes me when I would be gay A miserable man No other sound the silence breaks Save one with hollow boom It sounds support for our voice awakes The echoes of the tone It shall not tick my life away It's raven croak no more Shall tell me that I am old and grey My fist is through its glowy face I wring its iron neck Thus thus I smash its heartless case And dance upon the wreck Hurrah hurrah for hopes returns The mocking voices still Within my breasts ambition burns And all my bosses thrill That badeful tongue thank God I miss I know not how time flies And oh where ignorance is blissed Is folly to be wise End of poem, this recording is in the public domain My Ambition by George Arsons Read for livervox.org By Samuel Green The hedges are green with the spring The sun is on meadow and lee The little birds merely sing And the blossom is sweet on the tree I've wandered for many a mile All around is feast for the eye So I'll put a little stick on this style And I'll grin as the girls go by I am far from the turmoil of town Here is rest in the Stevenshire Lane Here is rest from the world's cruel frown Here is rest from the passions and pain Here forgetting my wolves for a while I'll sit and eat the blue southern sky And put a little stick on this style And grin as the girls go by Sing on, little bird on the tree Little sunbeam dance on and be gay Oh the future's nothing to me And memory please go and play Here with nothing my temper to rile I'd like to remain till I die And a little stick on this style And grin as the girls go by End of poem This recording's in the public domain I wish by George Arsons Read for livervox.org By Chad Horner from Bolly Clare When London's wrapped in filthy fogs When ceased are my unmuscled dogs When full and fierce the east winds blow I wish myself in Jericho When all night long the howling cad Disturbs my sleep and drives me mad And milk carts rattle to info I wish myself in Jericho When snow and slush block up the street And slides send skyward both my feet I'm bang upon my back I go I wish myself in Jericho When county council cranks disgust When schemes that drew my coin go bust When bigots harass every show I wish myself in Jericho When frost gives way to sudden thaw And all my pipes I've got a flaw And through my house the waters flow I wish myself in Jericho When for Nick Sunday's referee I have to do my M&C While in dyspepsia's diarist through I wish myself in Jericho End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The Song of Heredity By George R. Sims Reb for livervox.org By Chad Horner from Bolly Clare In County Hunter, Northern Ireland Situated in the north east of the Ireland of Ireland The Song of Heredity My father was a madman, do you wonder? I'm insane. My mother wasn't pretty, do you wonder? I am plain. My father was consumptive And my hollow cheeks you see Can you wonder? I'm a drunkard When my mother had DT Science speaks I pretty plainly On hereditary taint And the sinner breeds a sinner As the saint, they get a saint They might call me Ananias And reproach me since for sith My papa was such a liar that I cannot tell the truth When his ancestors for ages By their own mad acts have died A fellow has a taste for suicide When a nose for generations Is the feature of a race And you know a fellow surname just By glancing at his face When this modern law of nature Throughout all creation runs And its odds on rowing racers Having only rowing sons Do you think that Ananias You should double luckless youth Whose papa was such a liar That he cannot tell the truth End of poem this recording is in the public domain Not Kilt by George R. Sims Read for LibberVox.org by Chad Horner From Ballycler and County Hunter, Northern Ireland Situated in the north-east of the island Scotched, not Kilt, the Kaiser song Er, I wanna gang back to my mommy again I wanna gang back to y'all busy again I'll never gang back to y'all busy again I have held by his coat tails This ought months and ten But I'll never gang back to y'all busy again I've held by his coat tails etc Taperby came down I The glimming to woo He'd look at say bunny And honest and true Oh come away Well I never let busy kin And I made young Capri be the best of my men Oh come away Well I etc He told me whatever I would I might do And pressed him his words With a smile on his me So I fell on his bosom And said he may reign For ablance You leave me a will of my own So I fell on his bosom etc For many like months Since I came to the crown All busy's been Hacked and then hardened me down I've held by his coat tails This ought months and ten But I'll never gang back to y'all busy again I've held by his coat tails This ought months and ten But I'll never gang back To y'all busy again I've held by his coat tails etc End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Last Resource By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org The Last Resource At forty three in broken health The heal of fatals crushed my pride No joy I find in work or wealth There's nothing left but suicide The wind blows ever from the east It's madness now my trike to ride My pony's lane, poor little beast There's nothing left but suicide My hair is thin, my face is fat My waist is spreading far and wide Last week I lost my favourite clap There's nothing left but suicide I'm not starred on any bills The critics or my work deride I'm sick of taking drops and pills There's nothing left but suicide I am too sad to make a joke The girl I love's another bride The doctors will not let me smoke There's nothing left but suicide My house I find is built on clay In vain to let it, I have tried The income tax is due today There's nothing left but suicide What's this? A box of chocolates With pale pink ribbon neatly tied The sweets of life again o' fate I taste and laugh at suicide End of poem This recording is in the public domain Ye Bars and Gates By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk Ye Bars and Gates of Bloomsbury How can ye stand so silent there? How can ye, knowing ye are doomed For some small signs of grief for bear He'll break his heart Will Bedford's duke, whose grandeur County Council's spurn As he bemoans his feudal rights Departed never to return Ye Bars and Gates are coming dune No more ye'll block the freeman's path And make the traveller lose his train Or rouse the British cabman's wrath We light some heart, we root ye up And leave the streets of London free And theirs but one will mourn your loss And that's his grace, the duke of bee End of poem This recording is in the public domain Portrait of a Prince By a Society Gossiper By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Lola Janney Of Northern Virginia, August 2019 He's the dropsy, he's the gout And he's looking like pegging out And he's sobbing and he's sighing All the day, all the day He's haggard, he is pale And his limbs begin to fail And his whiskers and his mustache Are going gray, going gray He's but a bag of bones And he lies awake and groans When he's carried by his valet Up to bed, up to bed He's hollow-cheeked and eyed And though everything is tried He never sleeps a moment For a neuralgia in the head In the head, bitter tears are in his eyes Night and morning as he cries Oh, my health is slowly breaking I'm so ill, I'm so ill I shall soon be on the shelf For I'm going like a gelf Please oblige me with my mixture And appeal, and appeal By himself Which I simply answer rocked For Wales hasn't gone to pot Pleased to contradict the rumors That arrive, that arrive Now he's had a little rest Wales can go it with the best And he never felt so jolly in his life In his life! This LibriVox recording is in the public domain The Strong Men Titled by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Lola Genie Of Northern Virginia, August 2019 They lined the quays on every shore They fought for ships to take them on They filled those ships from stern to stem And still there was no end of them They came by river, road, and rail By every continental mail By wide-star Inman and Coonard And sent the managers a card With iron bars and chains of steel A mixture of the sham and reel With mighty weights and cannonballs They sought the London Music Hall From every land beneath the sun And each of them the strongest one They all performed the self-same feats And still they played to big receipts Still fiercely grew the Strong Man boom And still for more the shows made room For since so much one Strong Man drew What wealth might there not be in two The halls were crowded night and day To see Strong Men with dumbbells play The playhouse saw its public lost And all but Strong Man was a frost They put a Strong Man in the play The first in London day by day Then Willow cried to Joan, a plan Put Sandow in the middleman Ah, me, Pinheiro, said too late We might have saved the profligate No Tosca and no Bernard Beer Had we but had a Samson here Still the houses and the halls They crammed the boxes and the stalls Wherever a Strong Man did a show They had to add an extra row The men of strength were Britain's pride Adored, exalted, defied Till suddenly John Bull awoke And rubbed his eyes and saw the joke Good Lord he cried and danced with rage Have I gone daft in my old age? These chaps I've seen I do declare At every common country fair A hundred pounds a week for this Here, hang it, let me hiss The chap at fair Who did all that collect the coppers in his hat The Strong Man, finding all is over Had wisely sought another shower But though they search from sea to sea They'll never find such fools as we This recording is in the public domain A Ballad of Soap By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Anita Sloma Martinez A Ballad of Soap After Andrew Lang The hours are passing slow To see my watch I dread Till ten o'clock I know And yet I lie in bed With dull and aching head That pint of fizz with joe That big cigar with Fred Have wrought a dispeptic woe No more with friends I'll taupe Ho, Phyllis, ho! Hot water and Sims soap I see the feet of crow Around my lids of lead My pallid face also With yellow hues o'er spread My eyes are very red What good is growling so? I'll wash myself instead What means this healthy glow? What means this newborn hope? Why, Rosie, do I grow? I'm using Samson's soap My thoughts resume their flow My garb of sloth is fled I'm waltzing to and fro And feel no longer dead My gloomy hour has sped A dashing, mashing bow My yellow hue has fled I'm game to ride or row I envy not the pope I'm full of life and go Thanks be to Samson's soap Envoy Prince whose pet name is Ted When you are feeling low And wake at dawn and mope And tumble out of bed And wash from top to toe Use only Samson's soap End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Joke Latire By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Bruce Kachuk Over the subs of mourners Over the cry of pain Where men gather with bloodless faces To search for the mangled slain The sound of my mocking laughter In the silence is loud and clear What do I care for corpses Since I am a Joke Latire While the heart of the nation pulses In sympathy with woe While the living claim their dead ones Who lie in a ghastly row Into the weeping faces With a pitiless glance I peer As I merrily crack my weezes For I am a Joke Latire While strong men reel and sicken And their eyes grow dim and red My poor little brains I cudgel For a joke about the dead I've adjust for a man's last moments A pun for his open beer And a jape for the day of judgment For I am a Joke Latire End of poem This recording is in the public domain Bill Sykes's protest By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Bruce Gachuk Oh England, can you hear it Without a blush of shame Our lay, they mean to queer it And stop our little game It's right down mean and sneaking They're going to give the blues To stop their boots from creaking New India rubber shoes It makes a Britain shirty And sets his hair on end To think too tricks so dirty The law should condescend That in the land of freedom And honourable views The slops, even though they need them Should walk in silent hues Fair play, they say, a duel There is honour among thieves But this new dodge is cruel For look how it deceives Our mayor should call a meeting His lordship can't refuse Denouncing law, competing With crime in silent hues It's hard enough at present For us to earn our bread Always most unpleasant To hear the pealers tread But we between starvation And honesty must choose If once the British nation Allows these blasted shoes End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When all the sunshine lies behind And all the dusk before When friends have turned to foes unkind And love is love no more When life is but a cruel ache And living but a threat Tis then poor heart The time to take your good old clarinet When wife and child have passed away And health has broken down When you are growing old and grey And fortune wears a frown When to your heart's despairing cry No answer you can get Tis then, if you are wise You'll try your good old clarinet Go, victim of life's battle Go, and heedless of your scars Find solace here for all your woe In half a dozen bars Twell reconcile us to our stay Here where our task is set To hear life's million victims play The good old clarinet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The church believes God will not bless A crowd that comes in evening-dress Of worldliness the antidote Our arch proclaims the morning coat What folly, since God's only care Is what we are, not what we wear. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Alone in London By George R. Sims Read for Libervox.org The dust blows through the empty street The low skies gather grim and grey The raindrops on the windows beat This cold and cheerless August day And all my friends are far away Across the moors or by the sea But I must linger, woe is me. Since cruel fortune, so doth choose then Friends who read the referee Forgive me if I get the blues. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Volunteer by George R. Sims Read for Libervox.org The volunteer. It was a gallant volunteer. He woke one wintry night, the long-expected sound to hear, The foe is now in sight. He let from out his cosy bed He kissed his frightened wife Then put his helmet on his head To fight for home and life. He gaily donned his uniform Such portions as he had, And then went out into the storm The night was very bad. The snowflakes fell as large as eggs The blast his bosom smoked He had no trousers on his legs He had no overcoat. His heart was full of brave intent He started at a trot But, oh, he shivered as he went In neve, pa, de boat Ten thousandth strong in legs all bare And only in their socks Our fellows made the Frenchmen stare Yet stood their ground like rocks But when the Frenchmen saw the foe Our noble volunteers They laughed ha-ha And yelled ho-ho And greeted them with snares. C'est drôle, they cried. C'est bien drôle. C'est armée, sang, gulute And alfonsie yelled, To, anatole, il n'eut pas, de boat. The British blushed with bitter shame Their feelings were acute And though they were extremely game They felt too pained to shoot. Their wail was born upon the breeze The foe are army mocks But still the cold benummed their knees The snow soaked through their sogs And so because they weren't equipped As volunteers should be The well-clad Frenchmen by them skipped And it was all you pay. Oh, Britons, for your country's sake And all you hold most dear A lesson from this story-take And clothe the volunteer For trousers boots and overcoats The Lord Mayor Whitehead had A check or bank of England notes And save your native land. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Those boots, by George R. Sims. Read for LibriVox.org By Jesse Jupiter Yellen Recorded at Hobo Castle, 2019 Our prince a little change would seek To town a short adieu he bids And Paris spends his wit-sun week And takes the misses and the kids At Dover, on the deck he stands See Ad, the shortest of sea routes And highsome oar at the Calais sands In Taurus tweed and untanned boots The cares of state no longer vex From fashions whirl he steps aside And takes a trip, our future rex And with him goes the silver bride They take their boys and girls to sea The show no-septored hand salutes And starts from princely trammels free In Taurus tweeds and untanned boots Prince standing in the blazing light That beats upon the modern throne Tis not in royal robes and bedite I wean your happiest hours are known The white stones on your road of life Mark where you pluck sweet leisure's fruits And with your boys and girls and wife Go trips and tweeds and untanned boots End of poem, this recording is in the public domain A Sunday Song by George R. Sims Read for LibreVox.org by Jesse Jupiter Yellen Recorded at Hobel Castle, 2019 I stood and I shivered last Sunday night Till I bade them set the fire alight Then I sat with my feet on the fender bar And I told them to bring me the whiskey jar I filled me a glass and I held it high As I glared at the gray and the gloomy sky And I sang to a sad funeral tune The doleful dirge of an English tune Oh gruesome Herald of Whitsun week I cried as I gazed on the prospect bleak The blazing heats of our one hot day Has fried us up and has passed away And the weary summer of blights and chills Has come to us big with its thousand ills And the lips of the lovers are blue who spoon In Regent's Park in our English June A red nose pressed to the window pane The swirling dust in the threatening rain A blue-black blight in the raw rough air A cutthroat climate and dull despair A tear for the days that will come no more A dose of physics at twelve and four And that is my Sunday afternoon In the Arctic arms of an English June End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Up The Reggae by George R. Sims Read for LibreVox.org By Jesse Jupiter Yellen Recorded at Hobel Castle 2019 Riding up the mountain in an open car Engine puffing bravely Oh how high we are Higher we are climbing to the clouds we sail All the worlds beneath us on the riggy rail Past the slopes of Purdue Gay with golden white Past the crags and fishers up the giddy height Torrents down below us dashing through the veil Snow-clad peaks above us on the riggy rail Up, still up to Cloudland While the world below shrinks to Datsun pygmies Higher as we go all around the gross barren Timid girls grow pale As the snow surrounds us on the riggy rail Up, at last the summit puffing Billy Gaines And the sight that greets us pays for all our pains Alp on alp far stretching Lake and plain in veil Spread in glory round us on the riggy rail Nerves with joy or thrilling in that wondrous air Nair did eyes enchanted see a sight so fair Nair till memory falters and my senses fail Shall I forget that journey upon the riggy rail End of poem This recording is in the public domain A plea for mercy by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Jesse Jupiter Yellen Recorded at Hobo Castle, 2019 Oh, do not flog the brutal rough Who jumps upon his wife Or in a little drunken huff Prods children with a knife Oh, do not flog the brute who takes The old man by the throat Makes him while the search he makes Of trousers, vest, and coat Oh, do not flog the coward cur Who pulps a woman's face It cannot do much good to her And think of his disgrace Oh, think of all the smart in pain If his poor hide be thin The cat, you know, must leave a stain On mind as well as skin Oh, do not flog the prowling wretch Who bashes us for pelf But some nice kind old parson fetch Or talk to him yourself Present him with a kindly tract Or pray with him awhile Explain that skulls should not be cracked In such a shocking style And when you've turned his wrath away And shown him he was wrong Then teach him if you've time to say Some sweet salvation song Far better let ten thousand such Go free to bash again Than one should know the cat's vile touch Or feel a moment's pain Oh, do not flog in mercy spare The burglar's tender hide Through murder's rife What need we care The scriptures on our side Come then, ye bashing burglar crew Put up your sweet mouths so And let the cranks who plead for you Return you kiss for blow End of poem This recording is in the public domain If you were here By George R. Sims Read for liverwux.org If you were here Any husband to any wife With apologies to Alfred Austin If you were here If you were here My butcher's bill would be more clear The lifeguards out for exercise Would not so often raise their eyes To where the housemaids smile and smuck And play the hours away at work If you were here My morning tea For chance would slightly stronger be My evenings now so long and long Might know the solace of a song I would not feel inclined to shriek When chairs and tables groan and creak My midnight ghosts I should not fear If you were here If you were here It is sad to be alone, but still There is some sugar round the pill I master now and have my way There's no one here to say me nay Though all is silent as a tomb I smoke my pipe in every room When out on a train I rush to catch My key goes baldy in the latch Lest I disturb your sleep On tiptoe up the stairs I creep Nor do I hurt to scratch my paid The thing what kept me out so late And that I'd off to do, my dear When you were here When you were here End of poem This recording is in the public domain Les Braves Generales By George R. Seims Read for LibriVox.org By Cornel Nemes In Reno, Nevada It costs some cash to catch the goals And placard all the Paris walls But his big balance never falls Who finds the money? He travels like a little king And cuts a dash and does the thing And spares no cost to have his fling Who finds the money? He's no estate, he's lost his pay Yet thousand go from day to day In working France For Boulanger Who finds the money? In London he has settled down He means to have his fling in town A little king without a crown Who finds the money? When kings and princes meet at tea When statesmen, other statesmen see They jerk their thumbs at General B And whisper on the strict QT Who finds the money? End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Paris Exhibition by George R. Seims Read for LibreVox.org by Anita Sloma-Martinez The Paris Exhibition Within, without, abroad at home The all appears a billiard's chrome With May shuffly, dyspeptic throes And life assume a tint of rose For France, the gay and debonair Will ask us to her fancy fare The exhibition Then east and west and south Will pour their choicest treasures forth And all the world will hide away Upon a pleasant holiday While Frenchmen cry and chink the cash Were glad Boulanger did not smash the exhibition And you, mami, of years ago Who with me wandered to and fro Through all the aisles Of wonders set like gems In some vast coronet How sweet you were, Mamzelle, to me Will you be there this time to see the exhibition? Or both our heads the years have rolled And I am stout and growing old And you are married, I dare say And no a mother's cares today Maybe our chairs, bath chairs, I mean May pass some day ere we've quite seen The exhibition End of poem This recording is in the public domain The New Legend by George R. Seims Read for Librevox.org by Anita Sloma Martinez The New Legend When my liver's out of order And my nerves are all awry And I want to sit in corners And to tear my hair and cry When a demon stands behind me With a razor or a knife And suggests the use of either As a shortcut out of life When the gloom outside my window Is the gloom inside my heart And all these sounds about Make me shake and make me start Then I walk about my dwelling But my sorrows do not flee When I find my goods and chattels All were made in Germany The globes upon my gas lamps Bare that exquisite device It is worked upon my carpets And the trap that catches mice It is stamped upon my dusters And imprinted on my hat And I half expect to find it On the collar of my cat And in Germany is the motto On my knocker and my bell And the scraper and the doormat Have it written large as well From the basement to the attic All around those words I see And in my patent chimney pots Were made in Germany Then I wander forth for shelter From this legend but in vain For it polks in flaming letters Through my agitated brain It is stamped on all the lampposts And the flagstones at my feet And on the helmets of the Barbies On the street give me respite From this legend in my agony I cry And my gentle Albert Edward Says to comfort me he'll try But while weeping on his bosom There is no relief for me For like everything about me He was made in Germany End of poem This recording is in the public domain A mild December By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Gachuk A balmy breeze or London plays The summer sun is shining The weather's clerk has scandal says Undoubtedly been dining Old fogies sit about the parks And dear can you remember Old Darby to old Joan remarks Such mildness in December When Master Sanford takes his walks Abroad with Master Merton He says, Oh, ain't I hot? Oh, locks with my thick flannel shirt on My pupils will take notice, please Exclaims the Reverend Barlow It's warmer here by seven degrees Than tears in Monte Carlo For garden seats the public run To shulbreds and to maples It's five degrees more in the sun In London than in Naples I shut my eyes and dream a dream About our winter season That does not seem to have a gleam Of common sense or reason I dream that from the southern land The foreigners are flocking They promenade along the strand The Thames embankment blocking The train deluxe from every part Brings foreigners to London The Riviera breaks its heart Algeria is undone In search of sun from southern Spain The Andalusian wonders The Roman lulls in Drury Lane The Turk in Hallborn ponders The world this mild December flocks To our delightful climate Rich Russian against rich German knocks And princeling jostles primate The great hotels are packed and jammed And all the trades are booming The theatres and cafes crammed And summer roses blooming I dream a dream of London made A winter spot delightful I wake from sleep and start Dismayed to find the weather frightful No balmy breeze or London plays No summer sun is shining Tis not the clerk, so Skyndall says But I who have been dining End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE LAST DUKE by George R. Sins Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson They had taken the brightest, the nicest of the best. They had carefully sorted and sampled the rest. America's daughters no quarter had shown But one Duke of Britain was blooming alone. Belgraveian mothers in frenzy despair Tore out by the roots their luxuriant hair And the maidens of Albion shattered inside And but for their eyes would have certainly cried. Every prize of the season had gone to the States. The American girls had the best of the weights. The piles of the paws, and their personal charms All proved in the battle all conquering arms. And now but one Duke there remained to be had. He was fat, he was fifty, and said to be mad. But the bells of Great Britain to rescue him swore From the sirens who held from Columbia's shore. Then the bells of Columbia picked up the glove And encouraged his grace to make desperate love. They crowded conarders and waited white stars Ended on London in drawing room cars. But the maidens who flirted beneath the Union Jack At the Yankee invasion weren't taken aback. Though it must be confessed there were exquisite types Of feminine flirts beneath the stars and the stripes. The Duke stood aghast, twix the double array But endeavored to all some attention to pay. First he smiled at Britain, then ogled a Yank, Then bolted and hailed the first cab on the rank. Then went to the station and catching the train He sailed o'er the stormy and murderous Main. He landed at Calais and fell at the feet Of the first pretty French girl he met in the street. He asked her for her hand and the maiden replied, Avec plaisir, monsieur. Here's a church, step inside. And they were married at once, and next day they set sail By the London and Chatham's first outgoing male. Algernon Borthwick, who edits the post, Had received the first news from the opposite coast, And the maids of our Isles and the maids of the States In special editions were told of their fates. Peace with honour at once was proclaimed, Twix the Fair, as neither had won What did either set care. And the Duke was much praised on both sides By the press, and the little French Duchess Is quite a success. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. To the Fog, by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson A thousand welcomes let us sing To that dear old November Fog, Which harbingers the days that bring The early gas, the flaming log. Ah, well we know, sweet Fog, When first you wrap the town in your embrace The winter from its shell has burst And come to bless the human race. I love the merry winter when the day Is darker than the night, For then, contented in my den, I sit beside the fire and write. I love the Fog that wraps and gloom My second-class suburban square, For then within my dingy room I light the gas and let it flare. I hate the dreary days of love, The nights that shut the black world out, And so I prize all things above The Fog that puts the day to route. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.