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Dagonet Ditties

Dagonet Ditties
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Title: Dagonet Ditties
Release Date: 2018-11-07
Type book: Text
Copyright Status: Public domain in the USA.
Date added: 27 March 2019
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DAGONET DITTIES

WORKS BY GEORGE R. SIMS.

Post 8vo., illustrated boards, 2s. each; cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each.

ROGUES AND VAGABONDS.

THE RING O’ BELLS.

MARY JANE’S MEMOIRS.

MARY JANE MARRIED.

TALES OF TO-DAY.

DRAMAS OF LIFE. With 60 Illustrations.

TINKLETOP’S CRIME. With a Frontispiece by Maurice Greiffenhagen.

Crown 8vo., picture cover, 1s. each; cloth, 1s. 6d. each.

HOW THE POOR LIVE; and HORRIBLE LONDON.

THE DAGONET RECITER AND READER: being Readings and Recitations inProse and Verse, selected from his own Works by George R. Sims.

THE CASE OF GEORGE CANDLEMAS.

London: CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, Piccadilly, W.

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DAGONET DITTIES

[FROM ‘THE REFEREE’]

BY
G E O R G E   R.   S I M S
AUTHOR OF ‘HOW THE POOR LIVE,’ ‘ROGUES AND VAGABONDS,’ ETC.

SECOND EDITION
London
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1891

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C O N T E N T S.

 PAGE
LONDON DAY BY DAY1
FOR E’ER AND HAIR3
A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY7
THE PICK-ME-UP9
AD COR MEUM11
ICHABOD12
A DERBY DITTY14
SHALL WE REMEMBER?15
PARADISE AND THE SINNER16
THE INCOME TAX19
NONSENSE20
LE MARDI GRAS23
TWO SUNDAYS24
THE MAILS ABOARD25
AT THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S27
IN GAY JAPAN29
THE BALACLAVA HEROES{vi}31
A CHILD’S IDEA32
SANITATION AT SEA34
GUIGNOL35
THE ENGLISH SUMMER35
A PERFECT PARADISE36
THAT BREEZE38
BALLAD OF OLD-TIME FOGS39
UNDER THE CLOCK40
THE GIRL OF FORTY-SEVEN41
CONVENTIONAL MALGRÉ LUI42
HOME, SWEET HOME44
IN PORTLAND PLACE45
THE SHIRT BUTTONS46
THE LONDONER TO HIS LOVE48
THE EIFFEL BONNET49
TO A FAIR MUSICIAN51
A WORD FOR THE POLICE52
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS53
MY AMBITION55
A WISH56
THE SONG OF HEREDITY57
SCOTCH’D, NOT KILT58
THE LAST RESOURCE59
YE BARS AND GATES60
PORTRAIT OF A PRINCE61
THE STRONG MEN63
A BALLAD OF SOAP{vii}65
THE JOKELETEER67
BILL SIKES’S PROTEST68
THE CLARINET69
NO EVENING DRESS70
ALONE IN LONDON70
THE VOLUNTEER71
THOSE BOOTS73
A SUNDAY SONG74
UP THE RIGI75
A PLEA FOR MERCY77
IF YOU WERE HERE78
LE BRAV’ GÉNÉRAL80
THE PARIS EXHIBITION81
THE NEW LEGEND82
A MILD DECEMBER84
THE LAST DUKE86
TO THE FOG88
THE REMINISCENCES OF MR. JOHN DOBBS89
PICKPOCKET POEMS91
THE CIGARETTE94
THE EARLY MILK-CART95
THE COLLABORATORS98
THE WEN CURE101
THAT NEW-BORN BABE103
THE BUTTON106
A FAÇON DE PARLER109
JACKSON{viii}110
ANOTHER DANGER112
AFTER THE ACT114
THE RIGADOON117
HOW TO WRITE A NOVEL121
THE GERMAN GYM124
TOTTIE126
THE WELSHMAN IN LONDON127
THE MAGISTRATE129
THE IMPERIAL INSTITUTE131
THE PLAN OF CAMPAIGN132
THE PEOPLE’S PALACE133
A CHARADE135
A TRUE STORY137
THE PIRATE ’BUS138
THE WAR-CRY141
THE “LANCET”143
A TALE OF A TUB148
THE COMIC KING150

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Dagonet Ditties.

London Day by Day.

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 fashion’s 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 leathern lung,
In London day by day.{2}
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 Right’s sad eyes with tears are red,
And sluggard Justice lies abed,
In London day by day.
The liar triumphs, and the knave
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, though 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
O’er London day by day.
{3}

For E’er and Hair.

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, “Poppet,”
As she came to the top of the stair,
“If you see a cab 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,
Upbraiding myself for complaining
Like a selfish and bad-tempered man.
But when midnight rang out from the steeple
I ventured to whisper a prayer,
And she answered, “I hate surly people;
You must let me finish my hair!{4}
I paid for the cab and dismissed it,
I took off my coat and my hat,
I held her fair hand and I kissed it,
And I curled myself up on the mat.
And when I awoke on the morrow,
I cried, “Oh, where art thou, my fair?”
And she answered, “Oh, run out and borrow
A hairpin or two for my hair.”
The summers have faded to winters,
The winters have melted to springs;
My patience is shivered to splinters,
And still, as she “puts on her things,”
My sweet, though I’m weary of waiting,
And groan 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!”
{5}

The Artist’s Dilemma.

THE artist was out on the stormy seas,
When his vessel turned upside down,
And his body was blown by the autumn breeze
To the shores of a seaside town.
The fisher-folk spied him miles away,
And, raising a hearty cheer,
They rowed the lifeboat across the bay,
And shouted that help was near.
The artist had sunk for the second time,
He’d a shark on his starboard tack,
But he looked on the boat with a look sublime,
And he told them to take it back.
“My bones may bleach in the mermaid’s cave,
But to art will I e’er be true,
And never a man my life shall save
In a boat of that vulgar blue.”
They found his body at break of day,
It lay on the briny beach,
But he soon got better and stole away
To the house of a local leech.{6}
He took a draught, and he went to bed
In a garret that was to spare;
And when he awoke his host had fled,
For the place had begun to flare.
He was up in a garret against the sky,
And a fire had broken out,
The flames about him were broad and high,
And he heard the people shout.
“Oh, come to the window!” the people cried,
As they bellowed a mighty cheer;
“You’d better come down before you’re fried,
For the fire-escape is here.”
He opened the casement wide, and reeled
Back through the flame and smoke—
For the fire-escape the light revealed—
And then to the crowd he spoke:
“I’ll leap in the jaws of the flames that gape,
For I’d rather be picked up dead
Than save my life in a fire-escape
That is painted a vulgar red.”
They gathered him up with a broom and pan
From the pavement where he fell,
And they sent for the undertaker’s man,
And they toll’d him a passing bell.
They gave him a funeral plain but good,
And out of the local purse
They bought him a coffin of polished wood,
Which they put in a pair-horse hearse.{7}
But the artist-spirit in death was strong,
And it lifted the coffin-lid
While the horses lazily jogged along,
And out of the hearse it slid.
It raised its body and yelled a curse,
And it shouted and cried “Alack!
I’m blest if I ride in a beastly hearse
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