 The Reminiscences of Mr John Dobbs by George R. Sims Read Philiprovox.org by Elaine Conway, England Written by himself with a spelling corrected The grammar looked to and the language touched up by a literary friend My name is John Dobbs. In the year 58 I was born in a street which I fear was fifth rate. My father was a gent who had had a reverse and my ma took in other folks his babies to nurse. Thus early my life-long acquaintance began with the folks who are first in society's van. In the cradle next mine slept the son of a peer, had gone to the dogs all through skittles and beer. At six I developed a beautiful voice which made the fond hearts of my parents rejoice. I was sent out to sing with a man in the street, but I applied my vocation among the elite. We sang in the squares, but proud nobles reside, and often a duchess's face I aspired. As she peered o'er the blind at the little artist, thus I grew to mind, duchess is not in the least. I pass o'er my youth, merely pausing to state, that I met many folks who were famous and great, and it frequently happened. My sub-item, who the tip-top celebrities has made all come, I was just in the 20th year of my age, when I made my debut on the musical stage, and was there that I soon made a very big name, and earned all my subsequent fortune and fame. I just sung with a chorus of jammy jam jam, that was sung from south end to syringa pad tam, and often when singing my song at the halls, I've seen lords and marquesses smile in stalls. Lord Beckinsfield once I'd the honour to meet, his lordship was walking up Parliament Street, by the mirrors of chances I trod on his dough, and his lordship looked up and remarked to me, Oh, conversations like these I have frequently had, with the rich and the great, and the good and the bad, and I once had the pleasure and honour to dine, with Prince, who's a very great patron of mine, the banquet I own, was a public affair at which his Royal Highness had taken the chair, and I paid for my ticket, but still I've a right to say with the Prince I had dinner that night, and now as folks' memories seem all the go, I thought that the public might perhaps like to know all about the great people of whom I can speak, with a candor becoming a lion-comic. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Pick Pocket Poems by George R. Sims, read for LibriVox.org by Emma Charlotte. One. The way was long, the wind was cold. The minstrel was in firm and old. Of two byonks I robbed the bard, for which I got three months with hard. Two. She wore a wreath of roses the night that first we met. I went to call her carriage near that night can I forget. I held the door a moment, and as she stepped inside, I sneaked her lovely bracelet and round the corner guide. The next time that I met her, it was in the busy strand. She wore a hat and feathers, and her purse was in her hand. I saw it in a moment, and me thinks I see her now, as I snatched her purse and hooked it. Ears she timed to make a row. Yet once again I saw her, it was in the witness box. Fashionable bonnet adorned her golden locks. She looked at me a moment, then said what she'd to say, and that is why they sent me to gloomy hollerway. Three. It was night in the month of October, and the stars were a light in the sky. When a gent as I thought wasn't sober, the corner I stood at passed by. I saw that his chain was a gold one. I guessed that his watch was the same, and so as the gent was an old one I thought him legitimate game. I'd got his gold chain in my fingers, and was going to give it a tug. When whack came a couple of stingers, two beauties and right on my lug, then I'd one that struck stars from my peeper, and another that shifted my jaw, a regular sendier to sleeper, and that is the last that I saw. The last that I saw till a peeler, to fill sorrow's cup to the brim, put my carcass inside a four-wheeler, and said, what a flat to try him. Who is he, I groaned as in torture. I nervously felt for my face, and he said, while you tackled a scorcher, that elderly jamp was gem mace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Cigarette by George R. Sims. Read for liberfox.org by Chad Horner. Young England twixed its idle lips, a tiny twirl of backy grips, and puffs a lazy cloud of blue, and rests between a draught or two. Our youth alas have grown aflate, so languid and effeminate. They've dropped cigars in heavy wet, for lemon squash and cigarette. The vulgar pipe is rarely seen, there dainty lipsing lips between. The dude would scorn a big cigar, his trout ensemble a weed would more, and so he rolls to paper toys. We used to smoke as little boys, and all the dressed up mashing set affect the foreign cigarette. But now they tremble anglopale, the doctors tell at dreadful tale, a wretched fellow writes to say, they'd better throw such weeds away. Their faultless shirt fronts wake with fear, and crease and tumble when they hear. They in their breasts a viper pet, there's poison in the cigarette. Go, let the foreign fellow puff, his tissue paper Turkish stuff, and let young England scorn its yoke, amongst more like a Britain smoke, between his lips a good cigar, whose bright red glue one sees afar. He'll fail a man and soon forget the poisoned foreign cigarette. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. THE EARLY MILK CART Desires to settle straight away, a nervous mortal's hash. Through weary hours I lie awake and toss from side to side, a genuine jekyll tortured by a much too real hide. And when at last my drooping lids have shut that hide away, the early milk cart rattles by and bids the demons stay. You little wreck you noisy thing as, neath the fading stars, you jump and jolt in every jerk on some poor toilet jars. You little wreck as merrily your cans together bang. You've roused a serpent in my breast, which has a poisoned fang. All heedless of the web that fate has spun to hold me fast. Sometimes I sail or summer seas where near a shadow's cast, and youth and hope are mine again, and life's a sweet green isle that sleeps upon the ocean's breast and basks in heaven's smile. My lazy bark floats placidly towards that haven fair. The sunny slopes grow nearer still, one moment and I'm there, one little leap from deck to shore. I awake with quite a start. The milk cans dance a carmanole upon that early cart. Yet sometimes have I caused to bless the awful noise they make, till when from some infernal dream their crashing bits me wake, when on my breast a demon sits whose mark to me for his prey, I'm glad that milk carts go about so early in the day. Pass on, disturber of my rest, pass on thy way unseen. You little know how very near to murder you have been. Your reckless driver never dreams how great has been his share in making me the wreck I am, and perhaps he doesn't care. Yet when I dream the dreamless sleep in that great silent town, when nearer a cart of any kind goes rattling up and down, the coroner who sat on me may possibly suggest that diet of too much early milk would suit my tombstone best. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Collaborators by George R. Sims Read PhilippraVox.org by Elaine Conway, England Once on a time, towards the freak of fate, that fidget and wins should collaborate, so they sat them down on a mid-summer day, to think of a plot and to write a play. They both shook hands ere the task began, adopting the prize king's general plan, and said, if each other we chance to kill, it isn't a murder. With right goodwill, they buried their heads in their hands while, till fidget looked up with a sickly smile, and timidly stammered at first rough plot, which Wims immediately said was wrought. They buried their heads in their hands again, till a notion fluttered in Wims' brain. He got to the middle, and there he stuck, for fidget declared the plot was muck. They argued the point, till it came to blows, and Wims hit fidget upon the nose, then fidget the ink stand ceased, and threw at Wims' head, which it split into. Then each in sorrow resumed his seat, to their hands they wrung, and their bosoms beat, and presently fidget his cheeks aflame, with pride declared he'd the hero's name. It wasn't a name that Wims would keep, and he argued till fidget began to weep, so Wims suggested a name instead, and that to another discussion led. They fluid each other like angry cats, they tore their shirts, and they crushed their hats, they smashed the table, and broke the chairs, and kicked each other right down the stairs. They banged each other against the wall, but made it up in the entrance hall. They said they would go for a quiet walk, and begin again with a general talk. They talked so loudly in Bedford Square, that the people about all stopped to stare, and a poor little child from a window fell, in terror at hearing Wims' yell. They called each other such dreadful names, that they shopped a couple of aided dames, who called a bobby to stop the din. He tried, and couldn't, so ran them in. They explained to the sitting magistrate, that they'd only tried to collaborate, but the magistrate said such scenes must cease, so he bound them over to keep the peace. They promised they would, and they got it still, for up to the present the peace is nil, but see it finished, perhaps we shall, when they both come out of the hospital. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Mr Smith, you're very worried, and your face looks very sad, by the glads tonight's you're floored. Their behaviour is so bad, and your liver is affected, and your bilious as well, but you need not be dejected. You'll be sound, sir, as a bell. If you switch back, if you switch back, if you switch back, sir, forthwith, it's a patented health giver, it will act upon your liver, if you switch back, Mr Smith. Mr Smith replies, Mr D, I'm gay and jolly, and my fingers I can snap, at the opposition folly, and the panellites who yelp, I can view the situation, with a calm, contented smile, and what air, the aggravation, keep my temper all the while, for I've switched back, for I've switched back, for I've switched back, Mr D, and that patented health giver has, in acting on my liver, made another man of me, to a judge. Henry Hawkins, people mutter, that dyspectic pain at times, is the cause of words you utter, when a sitting upon crimes, when your liver's wrong, your fury, can no murderer withstand, and you sum up to the jury, with a black cap in your hand, you should switch back, you should switch back, please Sir Henry, don't say fudge, for the switch back, it will shake you, stir your liver up, and make you, quite a nice, agreeable judge. Sir Henry replies, Mr D, no more dyspectic, I am called a kindly man, of a prisoner's worth no sceptic, I defend him all I can, my delight and my endeavour, is the jury to restrain, and to restore a corporate clever, to his loving friends again, for I've switched back, for I've switched back, yes I've switched back, Mr D, and that patented health giver, has in acting on my liver, made another judge of me. End of poem, this recording, is in the public domain, The New Born Babe, by George R. Sims, read PhilippraVox.org, by Elaine Conway, England. There was once a newborn infant, at the moment of its birth, it became the greatest villain, that was ever known on earth, for there wasn't any item, in the catalogue of crime, which that babe had not committed, in the briefest space of time. When its little pupils opened, to their primal ray of light, they'd a look of dissipation, and of being out all night, and before a score of seconds, at a past or its infant head, it had in a fit of passion, kitty's mother out of bed, at a weaker scheme of murder, floated through its baby brain, for the monthly nurse, and wisely, had displayed her watch and chain. So he slew her, and he stole them, with an infantile ha-ha, had he managed that suspicion, should be cast upon his paw. Then he crowed till he was purple, at his back they had to pat, when the famous Mr. Berry, made his paw a new cravat, and when nobody was looking, and the owl was nice and still, he secured his father's papers, and he tampered with the will. He bequeathed himself the mansion, the carriages and plate, and all the landed property, and personal estate, and the law his father had buried, with a sly satanic mirth. He antedated twenty years, his difficult to birth. Then at once he took possession, and he told his ma to go, and because she's made objections, pushed her out into the snow. She was taken to the workhouse, where her widowed heart soon broke, for she couldn't stand the skilly, and she turned against the toke. Then this wretched newborn infant, knowing not a parent's care, began to blew the property, to which he was the heir. Through keeping shady company, he went from bad to worse. He was not the sort of baby, that a decent girl could nurse. At law and at morality, that wicked baby mocked. He was such a thorough villain, that society was shocked, and it was not much astonished when, before completing three, he had wrecked his constitution, and it suffered from D.T. At the age of four, a bloated, shattered martyr to the gout. He asked him so inconsciously, the office found him out. To escape a prosecution, he committed suicide, and the world has been much better, since that little darling died. End of poem, this recording, is in the public domain. He put out his finger to do the deed, but a minister cried, We are not agreed, that the country stands in such desperate need of a touch of that awful button. The tunnel's a big commercial speck. Just think of the property we shall wreck. There are plenty of ways, the foe, to check. Let's try them before the button. And then there arose a big debate, and the cabinet sat till rather late, before they could settle the final fate of Sir Edward Watkins' button. They argued con, and they argued pro, till a message came to let them know the commander-in-chief was down below, in a fury about the button. And while the statesmen were still in doubt, the panting duke, he was rather stout, rushed in with his brawly, blown inside out, and yelled, You fools, the button! Invane did Sir Watkin weep and say, Oh, think of the widows and orphans, pray, the finger of fate, unless you stay, their shares won't be worth a button. What are the shares, fierce Cambridge cried, to the fall of Britain, the ocean's pride? He pushed Sir Watkin, who reeled aside, and placed his thumb on the button. But alas for the schemes of men and mice, he pressed it once and he pressed it twice, but his heart stood still, and his blood was ice. There was something wrong with the button. The tricolor floats from St. Paul's today, for led by the General Boulanger, the French have come, and they mean to stay, now they've passed the dangerous button. When out of order it proved to be, the whole French army came through with glee that wonderful tunnel beneath the sea. And so much for Sir Watkin's button. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A façon de baler by George R. Sims Read Philip Revox.org by Elaine Conway, England. Sir Charles Russell, when you said that jockeys are such D.D. thieves, what did you mean, the Duke of Portland? It was merely a façon de baler. When I say that a race is an infamous ramp, when I say that a man is a terrible scam, these expressions are not of the genuine stamp, but merely a façon de baler. If my overwrought feelings find vent and relief, in calling a fellow a thundering thief, you mustn't conclude that I speak my belief. It's merely a façon de baler. If I write to a friend on a matter that's grave, and denounce so-and-so as a rastly knave, you mustn't regard it as anything safe, what is known as a façon de baler, and the use of a word which I need not repeat in no way refers to plutonian heat. It is always accepted among the elite as merely a façon de baler. And of poem, this recording is in the public domain. He is not a dunce, we'll remember could be in two places at once, but the bird of Sir Boyle must now take a back seat, while we sing of John Jackson's more wonderful feat. John Jackson has written his commonplace name in the boldest of hands on the parchment of fame, a convict. He played with his warder at Spoof, then brained him and made his escape through the roof, walked boldly away in a broad arrow-suit, and nobody seems to have noticed his route. None saw him depart but, as if to atone, he has never gone anywhere since and unknown. All over the kingdom in less than a week, he has swaggered a bout with most marvellous cheek, appearing no worse for his terrible crime, in Hampstead and Hull at the very same time. He's been traced to Pencance, with a trump for his pal at Thursow, when seen he was treating a gal at Epsom, he passed a flashnote in the ring, backed airshower, and then was again on the wing, flying north, flying south, if we rumours believe, reaching Brighton and Glasgow, the very same eve. He's been seen on the switchback all over the time, at Ebbing, he knocked many coconuts down, he has mixed with the persons at Exeter Hall, and he'll doubtless be seen at Her Majesty's Ball, and he came up to London on purpose to see, the princess's drama, the something my tree, so Jackson, the murderer, roams over the land, one day in the highlands, the next in the strand, men, women and children can see at a glance, he's the chap who has led the police such a dance, but they swore to betray him by gesture or look, and are mum till the murderer's taken his hook. Oh please dear detectives, you're still on the track, we know that no skill, no devotion you lack, we know that you're bound the first moment you can, to colour this wicked and wonderful man, but it's better to let him go free for six months, than to take him in twenty-five places at once. And the fullness recording is in the public domain. The window was many a foot from the ground, the people came running and gathered around. They asked me to jump, but I smiled and I said, the pavement is rather too hard for my head. My plans soon assuming a definite shape, I said I would wait while they fetched the escape. They went off to find it, but came back to shout, that it wasn't the time for escapes to be out. I am burning, I cried, I'm stifled with smoke, if you don't get me out I shall certainly choke. Go tell the brave fellows who guard us from fire, to bring the escape or I'm bound to expire. They went off again and each man did his best, they scoured the east and they scoured the west. But wherever they went the result was the same, I was left to the mercy of smoke and of flame. They borrowed long ladders and a blanket and sheet, then they asked me to jump about fifty-two feet. But objecting to dash out my brains on the stone, I could only reply with a shriek and a groan. The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room, and I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom. One last look I gave, but escape saw I none. The men were off duty, their work being done. My senders together they carefully swept, the press were indignant, my relatives wept. But I, who have passed to a sphere far away, am able to blame at the right door to lay. No blame must attach to the gallant brigade, overworked, and I'm sorry to say underpaid. And I failed to discover a weakness or flaw, in the rules as laid down by our brave captain Shaw. No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire, but the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire, which chose to break out to its shame, be it said, at a time when the firemen had gone home to bed. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. After the Act by George R. Sims read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachuk The act of Sir John had been passed by the state, and the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered, eight. The desolate streets were denuded of light, and only the gin-paras gas jets were bright. The widow whose poor little shop was her all, a tear on the shroud she was making, let fall. One daughter upstairs in the garret lay dead, and another was dying, the doctor had said. Ah, bitter the doom that the widow foresaw, she was ruined and crushed by the merciful law. Her trade was all done with the people you see, who only at seven or eight are set free. So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came. She was called on to close in humanity's name, for in England the land where dear liberty reigns. If you sell after eight, you are fined for your pains. No matter that she by herself did the trade, and had neither shopman nor shop girl to aid, the law of the Lubbock had settled her fate. A widow made work for herself after eight, to the butcher in debt, to the baker as well. How the rent would be met, the poor soul couldn't tell. And she thought with a feeling of terror and dread, of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead. Not a coin in the tail, and tomorrow, oh God, to be laid with her darling at rest, neath the sod, to have passed from a land where the phonetics rave and free Britons load, with the chains of the slave. Ah, a customer comes with her purse in her hand. She wants this, she wants that, but the law of the land forbids the poor widow to sell. It's too late, the curfew has told. It's a minute past eight. But the silver is there, in the hand that's held out. The poor widow weeps, the police are about. But the silver would save her. She knows it's a crime, but she sells half a crown's worth of goods, after time. She sells them, and clutches the silver with joy. When a bobby pops in, a mere bit of a boy, and exclaims, all right, missus, I've cupped you at last. I've been watching the place for a week or two past. She is summoned and fined. Oh, just think of her sins. She had sold a young woman a packet of pins, some paper, some envelopes, and oh, the crime. A Bible and prayer book, and all after time. The widow is ruined. Her stock seized for debt. She is sent to the workhouse. The shop is too late. Let all honest widows be warned by her fate. How dared she do work at a minute past eight. Oh, Lubbock, when moving your merciless bill, you exclaimed in a voice that made Westminster thrill. What crimes are committed in liberty's name, in humanity's, surely you meant to exclaim. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Rigidoon by George R. Sims. Read for LibriVox.org by Michael Knowles. The sweetest joy for him on earth was not the minute's maddened mirth. For him no subtle joyance hid, the blood-feast of the basserid. But when unto the village green the strefins came with modest mean, and bashful clois there with steel, he gaily danced a highland reel. The manor's lord he knew not why, his cards bore only plain surgyre. Nor had he ere been known to claim, in peace or war, another name. Of noble blood and ancient race, of lism limb and floored face, he scorned his rent roll, though twas big, and reveled in the Irish jig. Of Irish blood and scotch descent, knew grace to jig and reel he lent. But, being British to the core, he would not England's dance ignore. So, when his tenants flocked around, to see him nimbly twist and bound, before he blessed them and withdrew, he always danced a hornpipe too. From youth to manhood, day by day, surgyre would dance the years away, beloved by all he lived among, the grave and gay, the old and young, performing for the common wheel, the jig, the hornpipe, and the reel, and these he might be dancing yet, had he not made a foolish bet. It happened thus to Arkady, there came one day a young MP, who sneered when flushed with beer and wine, at all things human and divine. He joined the crowd upon the green, assumed a supercilious mean, and when surgyre had done, he said, a kid could lick him on his head. The crowd drew back in sudden awe, which, when the sneering stranger saw, he flung his glove upon the ground, and cried, surgyre a thousand pound, I'll bet you that you cannot dance, a little thing I saw in France, its English names the rigadoon, surgyre replied, good afternoon. The tenants eyed their lord scants, there was a step he could not dance, for jigs and reels they did not care, and said the hornpipe they could spare. Surgyre exclaimed, while tears he wept, the situation I accept, I'll win that thousand of the loon, and you shall have your rigadoon. With saddened face and humbled head, to foreign shores the dancer fled, and haunted France's village greens, and gay gongets and lowly scenes, he learned Sa'ira how to troll, he learned the curious Carmignol, he found the can-can very soon, but could not find the rigadoon. A wanderer from a foreign strand, one summer reached his native land, he sought the green of days gone by, but no one recognized surgyre. A crowd came up, he gave a bound, cried, see me win the thousand pound, behold my friends this afternoon, your lord will dance a rigadoon. He danced his dance with pride and glee, but silence fell on Arcadie, the tenants frowned and looked a scant, they called it an improper dance, and begged he would at once desist, as Mr. Burns, the socialist, required the ground that afternoon, they did not want no rigadoon. The young MP had run in dent, was broke and could not pay his bet, the natives jeered the twists and turns, and spurned their squire for Mr. Burns. This proves how mad we are to Rome, in search of steps too far from home, prize British dances as a boon, and leave the French their rigadoon. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. How to Write a Novel The Old-Fashioned Way by George R. Sims Read for LibriVac Star Talk You start with a murder, and somebody is killed, for the public still dearly delighted to be thrilled. You make it a mystery, nobody knows, who gave John Treganith those terrible blows, since jealousy is always a motive for crime, your heroines loved by two men at a time. Poor John, who has gone where the good niggers go, when Big Ethelbert Brown, who was always his foe. It is Ethelbert Brown, who is charged with the deed. There's a flaw in the evidence, Ethelbert's freed. Then he parts with his sweetheart a heart-trending scene, for she vows that John's body, the love lies between, and never till it's proven to the world, far and wide, who committed the deed, will sweet grace be a bride. So heavenward Ethelbert rises his eyes, and swears he will prove it, and then claim his prize. Now Ethelbert's mother has views of her own, for she once found Miss Grace and Treganith alone. They were both much excited, discussion ran high, but the good dame dissembled, not wishing to bribe. Yet when Ethelbert goes, his mama stayed behind, one awful, one dreadful idea in her mind, by her boys' honour-fiances she thinks John was slain, but she dare and tell her darling, it would cause him such pain. From a half-witted servant the sun gets a clue, the half-witted servant is known as Mad Hugh, but the story tells Blanche's Ethelbert's hair, on the night of the murder his mother was there. It seems she suspected his sweetheart and John, in the words of Mad Hugh, were carrying on, in her anger maternal she picked up a knife, and her boys' hated drive all departed this life. In the mansion paternal Grace lives with her dad, but her face once so sunny grows solo and sad, for she thinks it immoral from facts which transpire, John did fall a victim to Ethelbert's ire. So now you've the mother suspecting Miss G, and the sun half-persuaded was old Mrs B, while Miss G feels convinced that the claret was split by her lover who some day must swing for his guilt. You pile up the agony, now, to the end, and you three loving bosoms with anguish to round, if skillfully handled your plot will mislead, till in turn the folly reader thinks each deed the deed. Then, when you have given your hurrying scope, you bring the brave hero right under the rope, but just as his lordship assumes the black cap, you've come to a startling denouement, curse-lark. The half-witted servant comes in with a rush, there's the hub of in court, then a hum, then a hush, and the idiot explains and gives proof that he's right. There he did the murder himself out of spite. Now you wind up your story with wedding and glee, and the young married couple hug old Mrs B, then you put in three stars to show time has flown past, and you drop in some babies in chapter, the last. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The German Jim by George R. Simms. Read for LibriVox.org by Cornel Nemes in Reno, Nevada. We've been married ten years today, dear. Ah, me, how the time has flown since I whispered in church one morning I will in an undertone. You've changed a little, my darling. Your figure is not so slim as it was when you won the medal that knight at the German Jim. Your stouter and threads of silver now shine in the curly locks that were black as the wing of raven the knight that I saw you box. I can see you now with gloves on in the pride of your strength and limb as you fought your man to his corner that night at the German Jim. I noticed your socks of scarlet and your jersey of dainty cream, and I said to myself how handsome, and I fell in a blissful dream. But, oh, when your nose was bleeding, my eyes with the tears grew dim, and I hated the man who punched you that night at the German Jim. And when as the fight grew fiercer, he gave you a bad black eye, and the hard-hearted people cheered him, I felt I should have to cry. But pulling yourself together, you hammered away at him till he reeled like a drunken Gabby that night at the German Jim. And, oh, when the nice kind judges declared you had won the fight, and the people rose up and shouted I trembled with wild delight. I felt so proud of my lover that my eyes began to swim. I never knew how I loved you till that night at the German Jim. And now we've been ten years married, and Johnny, our boy, is eight. His dad is too stout for boxing, and has doubled his fighting weight. But I hope that in years to come, dear, it is only a mother's whim, our Johnny will put the gloves on and box at the German Jim. I should like to sit there with you, dear, the night that our boy competes, and see him upholding bravely the fame of his father's feats. It will carry us back in fancy to the past that no time can dim. When his dad was the champion boxer of the dear old German Jim. The end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Sunshine falling on her golden bonnet fair. Brice-ass angel from the skies. Were her dark blue martin pies? In my east and west, Dan Cupid, shot a shaft and left it there. She's a gradient, I suppose, and of Hempstead heed to rolls. In her sunny sound that glistens, like two pretty strings of pearls, dull upon my bread and cheese, did I drop a murmur, please? Be my stall, men's drive, dear Thorty. All you darlings of girls. Then a bow wow by her side, who till then has stood and tried, a journey lead to banish, which was on his turn as well. Given hydrophobic bark, she cried, what a no-arcs-arg. And right through my random ridges, did my crib-ish page herself, her who would dock at his dock. She had caused ginger-pop, who said, what the Henry Neville? Do you think you are doing there, and ahead, as of a slung? Why the fellow's jamber's trunk, and the water-dice was Thorty's, with the golden-bonnet fare? And of a poem, this recording is in public domain. A Welchman in London by George R. Sims. Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson. He came with his harp from the mountain of Wales, the spirit of poetry flowed in his blood, declining the engine that runs on the rails, he tremp'd to the fortified city of Lund. For him had the universe paused in its course, for him had all progress been nipped in the bud. He came as a bard, haughty, hoary, and hoarse, to sing in the fortified city of Lund. He sought for a mountain to sit on its brow, and give off his lay after chewing the cud. And he found after searching the mount that is now Snow Hill, in the fortified city of Lund. He called on the Britons who gathered to jeer, to list to a lay which would curdle their blood. But a bobby came up and said, none of that here. Strange in the fortified city of Lund. He saw no policeman, such things could not be, but the words of invective came forth in a flood, and so the policeman, O-9-2-C, ran him in in the fortified city of Lund. With his harp he was placed in the dock the next day, when the magistrate brought down his fist with a thud, and told him tin shillings he'd have to pay for obstructing the road in the city of Lund. The bard has gone back to his mountain in Wales, with his national vanity dragged through the mud, and his faith rudely shaken in taffy-tolled tales of the ancient and fortified city of Lund. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Magistrate by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson By Elunatic Laureate Galey the Constable kissed the book, and said with a smile as his oath he took. It's only the facts as I mean to state, I believe you, my boy, said the magistrate. Then the Constable told the strangest tale, how the chap in the dock was the Prince of Wales, and he'd seen him begging at Albert Gate. I believe you, my boy, said the Magistrate. He watched the Prince till he saw him try the pockets of ladies walking by, and pass the swag to a swell mob mate. I believe you, my boy, said the Magistrate. Then the Constable added he'd seen the Queen, who said what a handful her boy had been, and she guessed that the gallows would be his fate. I believe you, my boy, said the Magistrate. Then the Constable said, when he ran Wales in, he swore and struggled and kicked his shin, and bit off his ear and a portion ate. I believe you, my boy, said the Magistrate. The Prince he called for his royal mama, and into the box went Victoria. She proved in alibi full of weight, you're not on your oath, yelled the Magistrate. The case has proved to the Prince, said he. You deserve six months, but I'll give you three. I'll write to the times, cried the Prince I rate. Take him away, shrieked the Magistrate. The Queen went out of the court in tears, as the bench indulged in some parting sneers. And skilly and toke was the Prince's fate. It'll do him good, said the Magistrate. But Parliament took up the Prince's case, and the young P.C., with a scared white face, read out to his pal the big debate. It's awfully hot, said the Magistrate. Then the Constable said, It's the blooming press, as has settled our nice little games, I guess. We'd better resign, as the row's so great. I believe you, my boy, said the Magistrate. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Imperial Institute by George R. Sims Recorded for LibriVox.org by Miles Lawrence at FormulaFreak.com Hail, O Imperial Institute! Strike the tabber and play the lute. This is South Kensington's latest fruit. Hail, O Imperial Institute! Rise and thy might and make and be mute. Slanderous sneer and snarl refute. Slap the face of the bellowing, brute, noble Imperial Institute. Our Prince, he promised that koot-koot-koot, he'd find us a brand new sight to suit, and leave the click and its ill repute outside the Imperial Institute. So hail, Imperial Institute! India, colonies, kiles of butte, lands of Britain by every root, Heligoland too far to root. Into our laps your treasure shoot, for you'll guess if you're only slightly cute, that there'll always be plenty of room for lute. In the Noble Imperial Institute. End of poem. This recording is part of the public domain. The Plan of Campaign by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp The heart of the nation is throbbing with grief At the tales that are told of the winter distress We are longing to hear of some scheme of relief That will make London's birthing of misery less But what we are to do, or how best to commence There's nobody able, it seems to explain Oh, isn't there someone with courage and sense To draw up a workable plan of campaign The work of the nation is all in arrears We tinker the laws that need thorough repair We potter about between commons and peers And fools in the senate their eloquence ere To rout the obstruction that stands in the way And wields a long tongue and gives battle to brain Is there none who can marshal a force for the fray And act on a sensible plan of campaign There are women of England who toil for their bread Poor, hardworking sisters and mothers and wives Whose years are a slavery, dreary and dread Who drag out their cruel and colourless lives Can nothing be done that may better their state Shall the white women slaves in their bondage remain Oh, manhood of Britain, think, think of their fate And start the new year with some plan of campaign End of poem, this recording is in the public domain The People's Palace by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp Sing of the People's Palace, a tale of Arabian Nights A place where the tolling masses could feast on all true delights It was opened with morning lectures and closed with an evening hymn And the bishop of London whispered it was just the place for hymn It was open for recreation from nine until six p.m. Which times said the working classes were specially fixed for them It was closed for the day on Sunday and on Saturday afternoon So the very select declared it a perfectly priceless boon To cater for men and women who toil for their daily bread The beer of their hearts was vetoed and sherbet was sold instead And they made it a coffee palace with scones and a plate of thick With counters for almond hard-bake and licorice in the stick The pictures were all improving, the moral of all was grand And at intervals there were concerts by the Blue Ribbon Army Band With exhibits in big glass cases of terrible temperance facts And the entrance fee included a bundle of stirring tracks It was built at the lavish outlay of a dozen of million pounds Which included the church and chapel and the mission hall in the grounds But as nobody wanted sermons and sherbet and ginger beer It was sold at a great reduction to a philanthropic peer And in less than a twelve month after the palace had reared its head On the top of it proudly floated a banner of vulgar red And General Booth was shouting and having a grand all night In our latest gigantic failure the palace of no delight End of poem this recording is in the public domain A charade by George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org by Campbell Shelp He wore three hats upon his head and called a loud old clothe It would not be correct to say his Christian name was Moe His home was in a lane that used some time ago to bear The anglicized French name we give a garment ladies wear You've seen him as the comic man and plays at Drury Lane And Mr. Irving showed him once a prey to grief and pain In all the tales our authors write he's painted at his worst I'll have a go at him myself and here he stands my first It was a young and noble Earl an impecunious sinner He'd won a lovely yanky girl and gave a little dinner The restaurant a tip-top one was in the town that airy Who once with Cook the trip has done insists on calling Perry The bride-elect and all her friends the noble Earl invited They said he don't mind what he spent And all were much delighted But when the splendid spread was o'er the guests about departing The landlord came and locked the door this piece of news imparting His lordships had me twice on toast So now as you are going I'd like to ask exclaimed my host who will pay me what is o'ing Not one of you shall pass the door the key is in my pocket And not till someone's paid the score will this ear-child unlock it I've not enough gasped out the Earl without his host he'd reckoned The friends of that proud yanky girl went shares and paid my second I stood at Eve and I stood at the door I stood at Eve as the sun went down by the side of a flowing river That runs through the east of London town and I turned me away with a shiver I have smelt some smells in thy streets cologne I have seen some filthy fluids But nothing like this has the wide world known since the days of the ancient druids Let the essence of all the stinks be stirred and then you may fancy you smell my third Where the flag of Britain floats proudly on the breeze In this our home of freedom and in lands beyond the seas In India's wondrous cities on wild Australian tracks In vast Canadian forests and among the conquered blacks As far as sword and bayonet extend our freedom's goal Next year as per arrangement they'll celebrate my whole End of poem this recording is in the public domain A true story by George R. Sims Read for LibreVox.org by Larry Wilson A moral poem for children The waves were high on Conway Bay The wind it blew agale Five visitors that very day had ventured on a sail The tide ran high the little boat unmanageable grew And scarce could it be kept afloat by its unskillful crew Some fisher folk upon the beach all in the hurricane Put off that little boat to reach and bring it back again And when the gale was at its height Those Conway boatmen brave went off It was a glorious sight the drowning ones to save They risked their lives but fate was kind They reached the boat at last Its occupants to death resigned thought every hope was past Their thanks to heaven they freely gave And when they reached the beach They to those Conway boatmen brave presented sixpence each End of poem this recording is in the public domain The pirate bus by George R. Sims Read for LibreVox.org by Betty B It was a pirate omnibus that plied its evil trade Along the London thoroughfares and oh the games it played It ran a stout old lady down who wanted Temple Bar And when they reached the marble arch The cad cried here you are But ere you step ashore old gal Your ransom you must pay He charged a shilling slammed the door and then he sailed away While driver and conductor yelled No use to make a fuss We snap our fingers at the law We are a pirate bus The grand old man one autumn day was walking Acts in hand along that busy thoroughfare The gay and crowded strand He held a passing bus and said Are you a hamstead please At once they seized and flung him in Right on a lady's knees They bore away the g.o.m. And set him down at bow And when he said the veil of health That's where I want to go The bus conductor said Get out you are a queer old cuss I'll trouble you for four and six This here's a pirate bus A colored bishop Just arrived in town from Timbuktu Who wanted shortage church They took and left him at the zoo He walked about and round and round The wilds of Regent's Park And in the inner circle strayed And lost himself at dark In vain he looked for shortage church He wandered round and round Until from rage and giddiness He tumbled on the ground And when he heard the lion's roar He funked was taken woos And lost his wits and now he's mad All through that pirate bus Young Mr. Lawson heard the tale And went about the town And found fresh victims here and there All scattered up and down He found a gray-haired gentleman Who left his home at bow As near as he could recollect A dozen years ago But who, through pirates on the road Had traveled here and there And paid his income all away To meet the pirate fare But could not get to bow again Said Lawson, is it thus That all away to Parliament And bore the pirate bus? No more above the driver's seat The black flag sweeps the seas No more the skull and bones Across flants out upon the breeze The buccaneering bus's bust Conductor Kidd is done Paul Jones, the driver's game is up His pirate race has run And o'er the parlor fire at home The country folks today Tell wondering babes of those old days When they were born away To desert isle and lonely spot And yielded watch and puss To pay the ransom and escape The roving pirate bus End of poem This recording is in the public domain The War Cry By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Betty B. Oh, it's down with the German sausage Away with the German yeast And never shall Turkey rhubarb Come after an English feast Oh, it's death to the onion Spanish And death to the Brussels sprout And will scatter the Persian sherbert In the general foreign route Let plaster of Paris vanish And down with the old Dutch clock No ship of old England's commerce Shall strike on French almond rock A fig for the choice of Anna And down with the black Japan And never a Turkish towel Shall dry a true Englishman No more shall the Roman candle At the palace of crystal rise And the famed Italian iron Shall the laundry maid despise No more shall the Russian leather Envelop an English book No more shall a French bean simmer Meet the eyes of an English cook Which is the cry of the bankrupt trader That floats upon every breeze French rolls they have bussed the baker And the cheesemonger hates Dutch cheese Oh, buy but the goods of Britain By the hands of the natives made And if they should charge you double All the better for English trade End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Lancet by George R. Sims I knew some jolly people All as happy as could be Always eager for their dinner Always ready for their tea Jigs had they forever rosy Eyes that glistened and were bright They could eat a hearty supper And sleep calmly through the night They had neither pain nor aching And as none of them were ill They had never taken physics And they paid no doctor's bill Oh, in all the British islands None were healthier, Iween Or were more happy and contented Than the browns of Walham Green But one day inside a carriage On the smoky underground Coming homeward from the city Pa, a bulky journal, found To us, a Lancet That some reader had forgotten And had left So Pa put it in his pocket Which, of course, was not a theft If it was upon the railway I've committed many crimes For I've often in this manner Seized and taken home the times Oh, better, far better Had that Lancet never been On the seat in the compartment Where sat brown a Walham Green Mr. Brown, he glanced it over While partaking of his tea Did you ever? Well, I never Every moment buttered he As he left his tea untasted And he put his muffin down And his manner altogether Was so queer That Mrs. Brown rose and screamed Good gracious, Thomas! What's the matter? Tell me true! You are going white and yellow And your lips are turning blue And for answer out he read them all The awful things he'd seen In the Lancet And a panic seized the browns Of Walham Green For they knew the germs Of fever were around them everywhere They were told how very fatal Was the family armchair They were told that every morning When the slavey shook the mat Germs of death were scattered Broadcast And they shivered as they sat They were told that death was lurking In the teapot and the tank In the milk and in the water And in everything they drank In their terror against each other All the family did lean Peace of mind had gone forever From the browns of Walham Green From that day on They took the Lancet Every week they read it through And their faces changed from rosy To sickly yellow hue And they could not eat their dinner And they could not sleep at night For with every Friday's Lancet Came a new and awful fright Germs of all the fell diseases That lied lurking for mankind Were, according to the Lancet, Blown on every passing wind How on earth from all these dangers Can our carcasses we scream Cried in throes of hourly anguish All the browns of Walham Green They were happy when they knew not Of the germs that lie in wait In the cottage of the lowly In the castles of the great In the street and in the parlor In the train and in the bus Round the corner germs are waiting On watch to spring on us There are germs in clothes and customs Ah, the Lancet's eye is keen It has even pierced the dustbin Of the browns of Walham Green There it told them germs in thousands Lay in waiting night and day So they went and threw Carbolic in a wildly slavish way Then it warned them in a leader That they'd better all look out For a dreadful epidemic They came down the waterspout Up they went upon the housetop And poured quarts of condy down Which they carried up in buckets Mr., Miss, and Mrs. Brown And the neighbor stood and wondered What the dickens it could mean At the gathering on the housetop Of the browns of Walham Green Every week came other terrors Every week their fears grew worse Till they felt their lives a-birthing Till they felt their home a-curse And they sat around the table With a look of nervous dread So upset by fears of dying That they wished they were dead And when they were all turning To mere bags of skin and bone And all the sound they uttered Was a deep, separical groan Up rose young Tom, the Elvis A youth of seventeen And seized and flung the lancet Right out on Walham Green Get out, you horrid bogey You terrifying pest Exclaimed young Tom in anger As he flung it east and west Then Pa rose up And lifting his hand to heaven's dome Swore that nevermore the lancet Should come into the home And from that hour There vanished their look of cared woe And all of them grew happy As in the long ago At germs they snapped their fingers And now with joyous mean They live in calm contentment The browns of Walham Green Moral There is ignorance and comfort There is folly to be wise In mercy lies the future concealed For mortal lies The thousand hidden dangers For man that lie in wait If known would lead him surely To share the madman's fate Life were not worth the living Were we to dread the germs The lancet serves up weakly In scientific terms So snap your fingers at them The germs, of course, I mean And take to heart the story Of the browns of Walham Green End of poem This recording is in the public domain A Tale of a Tub By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Betty B It was the wife of Mr. G The Irish grand old man A little ditty Carol Chee And thus the did he ran I hear him in his dressing room My willy dear, my hub He little heeds his coming doom He warbles in his tub When he is sad I hear no sound Except the water splash A solemn silence rains around When thoughts my willy flash But now the joyous sound of song Accompanies each rub Things can't have gone so very wrong He warbles in his tub Although the country's cut him dead And given him the sack He warbles while he wets his head And while he scrubs his back I'm sure my willy sees his way The Tory gang to drub And that is why he's blithe and gay And warbles in his tub He does not care for telegraph Or morning post or times He reads therein with many a laugh The record of his crimes He knows his fingers he can snap At all ye street of grub They haven't riled the dear old chap He warbles in his tub There's hope he thinks for Ireland yet The old hand isn't done With masses against classes set There's sure to be some fun He'll hold his own in spite of groan And jest in jeer and snub And that is why with spirits high He warbles in his tub Moral? Oh, Aaron, yet shall burst for thee The sunshine through the gloom Take heart from all this melody In Gladstone's dressing room Plank down your dollars, Yankee boys And tell each doubting sub No fear the grand one's faith alloys He warbles in his tub End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Comic King By George R. Sims Read for LibriVox.org By Betty B I'm going to sing you a simple song To show that a king can do no wrong A lay that is laden in every line With the grand old creed of the right divine The merriest monarch of modern times Is the romping wrecks of these rambling rhymes The beamishest boy of the bold bad batch The crack-crowned Kaiser of Colony Hatch For many a year he played his pranks He borrowed the balance of all the banks To build him a palace in every town And when they were up, he pulled them down He sat on the throne on days of state With a coffee pot jammed on his regal pate And he showed his court he could kiss his toes While he balanced his scepter upon his nose He danced a jig in the House of Peers And offered to toss the lot for beers And whenever a cabinet council set He would make dirt pies in the Premier's hat When the neighboring monarchs came to call He would butter the steps in the marble hall And when his visitors broke their legs He'd sit and he'd pelt them with hard-boiled eggs He dressed his army in drawers and frocks And little pink shoes and short white socks And whenever he had a grand review He rode on a donkey painted blue His coachman signed all the royal decrees And he joined his footmen in nightly sprees He addressed his cook as my dear old chap And in church he sat in his housemaid's lap And now that I finished my simple song If you say what whoppers, you'll just be wrong As this isn't a lunatic laureate's lay For the king was the king of Bavariae End of poem This recording is in the public domain End of Dagonette Diddies by George R. Sims