Angelina, my chickabiddy! I calls upon Angelina! Angelina! A bobby hears, and says “Move on!” His comic voice repeats the name around, And with “Angelina” all the streets resound! _Air._ A damsel there dwells in a court down in Stepney, In disgraceful apparel she ever is drest, This fair one I lov’d and I asked her to have me, Oh! have me sweet gender, and I shall be blest! Ah! nay, courteous masculine, the dear one replied, “This virgin don’t mean to be not no man’s bride.” So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for consumption, nor the victim of love. Yet stay, scrumptious maid, like a beautiful Queen, You shall dress in fine calico, silks, laces and shawls, You shall ever wear the _thingamys_ and your dear crinoline Shall be three times as big as the dome of Saint Pauls; “Ah! nay, simple Simon, she answered so cool, I’d rather keep single than amalgamate with a fool, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure for dislocation of the vertebræ, nor the victim of love. Angelina! said I, “put an end to my woes, My buzzum’s a busting, nay, cut me not short,” But all that she did was to turn up her nose, And wagging her tail she then waltz’d down the court. Like a blighted young flower expire I shall, For I’d cast my infections on that there young gal, So I’m the victim of love, I’m the victim of love, There’s no cure but extinction for the victim of love. Written expressly for Mackney, the comic singer, by G. W. Hunt, and published by J. Bath, Berners Street, London. ―――― THE SONG OF THE SEEDY COMMON-COUNCILLOR AFTER A WEEK’S FESTIVITIES. A Doctor who dwells in my neighbourhood crossed me, As, seedy and queer, to my office I pressed; The able man paused on his way to accost me, And proffered advice that would give me some rest. “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.” “Yet tarry, my friend, till this sad attack passes; I’ll send you some pills to relieve your aching head. The juice of the grape must not flow in your glasses, And rush fast away from the most tempting spread.” “Ah no, courteous Doctor, though weary I be, No rest till Vacation, for the seedy C. C. For the seedy C. C., for the seedy C. C., No rest till Vacation for the seedy C. C.” _Punch._ July 3, 1886. ―――― PADDY FLINN! _Recitative._