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.” Actors’ vanity! Yes, you’re right! Though I’d rather you called it artists’ pride-- It’s the battle of life in the mimic fight On the boards where so many have fought and died-- On the world’s great stage, where they’re players all, And they feel the pains that we only mock; To a favoured few must the “star” “ads.” fall, The rest are only “Beneath the Clock.” The Girl of Forty-seven. Fond lover, when you come to woo, And whisper nothings tender, And try to span, as lovers do, A waist that once was slender, Be not upset if curt rebuff Your amorous joy should leaven; That sort of thing is apt to huff The girl of forty-seven. 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 “Coutts” or “Barclay Bevan;” Gold-tipped must be the Blind God’s dart For girls of forty-seven. Don’t think by gazing in her eyes With simulated rapture, Don’t think by sentimental sighs 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 forty-seven. Conventional Malgré Lui. 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 be on Convention’s head!) Two sweethearts--youth and maiden--ere They were conventionally wed. Then came my vaccination, and, Convention though I cannot brook, I’m given now to understand It quite conventionally “took.” I cut my teeth--convention! Bah! A tear stood in my baby eye; Oh, why did I not learn from ma 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. And then I came to man’s estate; You see that I no 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’s slave To dull convention bowed the knee; And in return the maiden gave Her love (conventional) to me.