(An Actor’S Song.)

[“For the remainder of cast see Under the Clock.”--Theatrical advertisement.]

“Under the Clock,” with the rank and file, That’s where you have to look for me; That is the End of the Century style-- Vide the “ads.” in the great D. T. Well, I suppose we can’t all be starred, So the special “ad.” ’s for the finer flock, And the common sheep, though it’s rather hard, Are huddled together “Beneath the Clock.”

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.

And now I have some girls and boys Who grow, and play, and go to school; Conventional are all my joys-- I’m just like any other fool. I give off Ibsen to my wife, And quote the notes of W. A.; But still I lead a common life-- Convention won’t be kept at bay.

The end, of course, will come at last. Oh, may I, like Elijah, rise In something safe upon the blast, And living pass beyond the skies! When quitting earth I’d keep my breath-- I hope sincerely that I shall-- I loathe the bare idea of death, It is so damn’d conventional.

Home, Sweet Home.