When she found that he was fickle, Was that great oak tree, She was in a pretty pickle, As she well might be— But his gallantries were mickle, For Death followed with his sickle, And her tears began to trickle For her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree! Said she, “He loved me never, Did that great oak tree, But I’m neither rich nor clever, And so why should he? But though fate our fortunes sever, To be constant I’ll endeavour, Ay, for ever and for ever, To my great oak tree!” Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree! KING GOODHEART THERE lived a King, as I’ve been told In the wonder-working days of old, When hearts were twice as good as gold, And twenty times as mellow. Good temper triumphed in his face, And in his heart he found a place For all the erring human race And every wretched fellow. When he had Rhenish wine to drink It made him very sad to think That some, at junket or at jink, Must be content with toddy: He wished all men as rich as he (And he was rich as rich could be), So to the top of every tree Promoted everybody. Ambassadors cropped up like hay, Prime Ministers and such as they Grew like asparagus in May, And Dukes were three a penny: Lord Chancellors were cheap as sprats, And Bishops in their shovel hats Were plentiful as tabby cats— If possible, too many. On every side Field-Marshals gleamed, Small beer were Lords-Lieutenants deemed, With Admirals the ocean teemed, All round his wide dominions; And Party Leaders you might meet In twos and threes in every street Maintaining, with no little heat, Their various opinions. That King, although no one denies, His heart was of abnormal size, Yet he’d have acted otherwise If he had been acuter. The end is easily foretold, When every blessed thing you hold Is made of silver, or of gold, You long for simple pewter. When you have nothing else to wear But cloth of gold and satins rare, For cloth of gold you cease to care— Up goes the price of shoddy: In short, whoever you may be, To this conclusion you’ll agree, When every one is somebody, Then no one’s anybody! SLEEP ON!