"It seems the fashion to assume so here, at any rate," said _Mr. Punch_, not without a hazy recollection of having heard very similar sentiments in Music Halls much nearer home than Seriocomix. "The young woman is probably an authority on the subject. Are you off already?"
"Yes," said TIME, as he made for the exit. "I think she is going to sing again presently. Come along!"
At the next Music Hall they were just in time to hear the announcement of a new Patriotic Song, and old TIME, who had in his day seen great and noble deeds accomplished by men who loved and were proud of their Fatherland, was disposed to congratulate both himself and the audience on the choice of topic.
Only, as the song went on, he seemed dissatisfied somehow, as if he had expected some loftier and more exalted strain. And yet it was a high-spirited song, too, and told the Seriocomicans what fine fellows they were, and how naturally superior to the inhabitants of all other planets, while the chorus ran as follows:--
"Yes, we never stand a foreigner's dictation! No matter if we're wrong or if we're right; We're a breed of good old bulldogs as a nation, And we never stop to bark before we bite!"
And then the singer, a fat-necked man, in a kind of military uniform, drew a sword and struck an attitude, amidst red fire, which aroused vociferous enthusiasm.
TIME seemed to be getting restless again, so they moved on once. more, and presently entered a hall where they found a stout lady with a powdered face and extremely short skirts, about to sing a pathetic song, which had been expressly written to suit her talents.
She began in a quavering treble that was instinct with intense feeling:--
"Under the dysies to rest I have lyed him; My little cock-sparrer so fythful and tyme! And the duckweed he loved so is blooming besoide him, But I clean out his cyge every d'y just the syme! For it brings him before me so sorcy and sproightly, As with seed and fresh water his glorsis I fill: Though the poor little tyle which he waggled so lytely Loys under the dysies all stiffened and still!"
--And then, to a subdued _obbligato_ upon a bird-whistle, came the touching refrain:
"Yes, I hear him singing 'Tweet,' so melodious and sweet! Till his shadder comes and flits about the room. 'Tweet-tweet-tweet!' All my sorrer I forget. For I have the forncy yet, That he twitters while he's loyin' in his tomb--'Tweet-tweet!' Yes, he twitters to me softly from his tomb!"