If You Were Here. (ANY HUSBAND TO ANY WIFE, WITH APOLOGIES TO ALFRED AUSTIN.) If you were here, if you were here, My butcher’s bill would be more clear, The Life Guards out for exercise Would not so often raise their eyes To where the housemaids smile and smirk, And play the hours away at work. If you were here my morning tea Perchance would slightly stronger be, My evenings, now so lone and long, Might know the solace of a song; I should not feel inclined to shriek When chairs and tables groan and creak. My midnight ghosts I should not fear If you were here, if you were here. ’Tis sad to be alone; but still There is some sugar round the pill. I’m master now, and have my way-- There’s no one here to say me nay. Though all is silent as the tomb, I smoke my pipe in ev’ry room. When out no train I rush to catch-- My key goes boldly in the latch. No more, lest I disturb your sleep, On tiptoe up the stairs I creep. Nor do I have to scratch my pate To think what kept me out so late. And that I’d oft to do, my dear, When you were here, when you were here. Le Brav’ General It costs some cash to catch the Gauls, And placard all the Paris walls, But his big balance never falls. Who finds the money? He travels like a little king, And “cuts a dash” and “does the thing,” And spares no cost to have his fling. Who finds the money? He’s no estate, he’s lost his pay, Yet thousands go from day to day In working France for Boulanger. Who finds the money? In London he has settled down; He means to have his fling in town-- A little king without a crown. Who finds the money? When kings and princes meet at tea, When statesmen other statesmen see, They jerk their thumbs at General B---- And whisper on the strict q.t., Who finds the money? The Paris Exhibition. Within, without, abroad, at home, Though all appears a bilious chrome, With May shall flee dyspeptic throes And life assume a tint of rose-- For France, the gay and debonair, Will ask us to her fancy fair, The Exhibition. Then East and West and South and North Will pour their choicest treasures forth, And all the world will hie away Upon a pleasant holiday; While Frenchmen cry, and chink the cash, “We’re glad Boulanger did not smash The Exhibition!” And you, ma mie, of years ago, Who with me wandered to and fro Through all the aisles of wonder set Like gems in some vast coronet-- How sweet you were, ma’mselle, to me!-- Will you be there this time to see The Exhibition?