The hours are passing slow, To see my watch I dread, ’Tis 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 dyspeptic woe. No more with friends I’ll tope. It’s twelve! Ho, Phyllis, ho! Hot water and some soap! I see the feet of crow Around my lids of lead; My pallid face also With yellow hues o’erspread. My eyes are very red! What good is growling so? I’ll wash myself instead. * * * * * What means this healthy glow? What means this new-born hope? Why rosy 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 beau; 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! The Jokeleteer. Over the sobs 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 Jokeleteer? 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 wheezes, For I am a Jokeleteer. 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 a jest for a man’s last moments, A pun for his open bier, And a jape for the Day of Judgment, For I am a Jokeleteer. Bill Sikes’s Protest. O 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 indiarubber shoes. It makes a Briton shirty, And sets his hair on end, To think to tricks so dirty The law should condescend,-- That in the land of freedom And honourable views, The slops, e’en though they need ’em, Should walk in silent shoes.