Absurd Ditties. Farrow George Edward

      Yes, I love you, dear Matilda,

      But you may not be my bride,

      And the obstacles are many

      Which have caused me to decide.

      Firstly, what is most annoying,

      And I'm not above confessing,

      Is, that I think you indolent,

      And over-fond of dressing.

      I've known you spend an hour or two

      In a-sitting on a chair,

      And a-fussing and attending

      To your toilet or your hair.

      There's another little matter —

      You may say a simple thing —

      Yet, Matilda, I must own it,

      I object to hear you sing.

      For the sounds you make in singing

      Are so very much like squalling,

      That the only term appropriate

      To them is caterwauling.

      Indeed, I've never heard such horrid

      Noises in my life,

      And I'd certainly not tolerate

      Such singing in a wife.

      And, Matilda dear, your language!

      It is really very bad;

      The expressions which you use at times,

      They make me feel quite sad.

      It is very, very shocking,

      But I do not mind declaring

      That I've heard some sounds proceeding

      From your lips so much like swearing,

      That I've had to raise a finger,

      And to close at least one ear,

      For I couldn't feel quite certain

      What bad words I mightn't hear.

      But worse than this, Matilda:

      I hear, with pious grief,

      Many rumours that Matilda

      Is no better than a thief

      And I'm shocked to find my darling

      So entirely lost to feeling,

      As to go and give her mind up

      Unto picking and a-stealing.

      Oh, Matilda! pray take warning,

      For a prison cell doth yearn

      For a person that appropriates

      And takes what isn't her'n.

      And the culminating blow is this:

      You stay out late at night.

      Now, Matilda dear, you must confess

      To do this is not right.

      Where you go to, dear, or what you do,

      There really is no telling,

      And with rage and indignation

      My fond foolish heart is swelling.

      Yet the faults which I've enumera-

      Ted can't be wondered at,

      When one realises clearly

      That "Matilda" – is a cat.

      In the South Pacific Ocean

      In an oiland called Koodoo,

      An' the monarch ov thot oiland

      Iz King Hulla-bulla-loo.

      Oi wuz docthor to thot monarch

      Wonct. Me name iz Pat O'Dooley.

      Yis, you're roight. Oi come from Oirland,

      From the County Ballyhooly.

      An' Oi'll tell yez how Oi came to be

      A docthor in Koodoo;

      May the Divil burn the ind ov me,

      If ivery word's not thrue.

      Oi wuz sailin' to Ameriky,

      Aboard the "Hilly Haully,"

      Which wuz drounded in the ocean,

      For the toime ov year wuz squally.

      An' Oi floated on a raft, sor,

      For some twinty days or more,

      Till Oi cum to Koodoo Island,

      Phwich Oi'd niver seen before.

      But the natives ov thot counthry,

      Sure, would take a lot ov batin',

      For a foine young sthrappin' feller

      They think moighty pleasint atin'.

      An' they wint an' told the King, sor,

      Him called Hulla-bulla-loo.

      "Ye come from Oirland, sor?" sez he.

      "Bedad!" sez Oi, "thot's true."

      Thin he whispered to the cook, sor;

      An' the cook he giv me warnin':

      "It's Oirish stew you'll be," sez he,

      "To-morrow, come the marnin'."

      But to-morrow, be the Powers, sor,

      The King wuz moighty bad,

      Wid most odjus pains insoide him,

      An' they nearly drove him mad;

      So he sint a little note, sor,

      By the cook, apologoizin'

      For not cooking me that day, sor,

      Wid politeness most surprisin'!

      An' Oi wrote him back a letther,

      Jist expressin' my regret,

      Thot Oi shouldn't hiv the honor,

      Sor, ov bein' cooked an' et;

      An' Oi indid up the letther

      Wid a midical expresshin,

      As would lead him to imagine

      Oi belonged to the professhin.

      Och! he sint for me at wonct, sor.

      "If ye'll only save me loife,"

      Sez he, "Oi'll give yez money,

      An' a most attractive woife,

      An'