AH! the days are past when we clomb the mast and sat on the peerless peak, And laughed aloud at the topping lift and jeered at the garboard streak! Yet the wayward windlass is blithe and gay, there's brass in the County Bank, There is ale to drink as we sit and think, and knots in the oaken plank: But the fretful foam of the summer sea, the scent of the seething tar, Alas and alack they ever bring back, the fate of the Capstan Bar!
(_"O, Bravo!" shout those who pretended they knew the poem. The Vicar nods his head approvingly. "How sweet!" says a gushing young Lady of uncertain age who contributes to "Poet's Corner" in the "Sniggerton Sentinel." The C. P. thinks he has made an impression, and, putting on an air of intense pain, he proceeds._)
O! we toil and moil and we moil and toil for the scanty wage we earn, As the mud may spatter the hansom-cab and freckle the fitful fern: But never again in the wreathing rain, a-roll on the raucous rink, Do we clasp the hand of the German band and swim in the sable ink! While the pallid hencoop may pass away and the juggëd hare may jar, With a gruesome groan as he sits alone and stares at the Capstan Bar!
(_Two old Ladies shed tears, the Poetess tells her friend that she has "quite a lump in her throat" and the Landlord of the "Jocund Jellyfish," thinking the "Bar" is something convivial, vows he will ask the Recitor what he will please to take directly the performance is over. The C. P. changes his tone to one of hearty joviality and proceeds merrily._)
But our hearts beat high for the Strasbourg pie, for two-pronged forks are keen, And our knives are sharp as we twang the harp and batter the old tureen! While the limpets laugh and the winkle wails and the hermit-crab is sore, And the pensive puffin tries hard to learn the Song of the Steve_dore_; For the gleesome gull flaps his white, white wings and longs for a mild cigar, As the simple lads smoke Intimidads and sigh for the Capstan Bar!
(_Hearty applause from the umbrella of the principal tobacconist. The Vicar shakes his head, and fears the poem is getting a little too convivial. The C. P. only wishes he knew how it was going to end. But, putting on the expression of a bland Bishop on a bicycle, in a sweet voice, tinged with sorrow, he continues._)