 | "The Birds" of Aristophanes |  |
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Scene First.
—An Apex of a Woody Mountain.Enter Chorus.
Chorus.
From ancient Athens, upon Fancy's wing,
To modern Babylon these scenes we bring;
Their import, merely guessed at in the Greek,
We venture in our vulgar tongue to speak,
With sundry variations, I acknowledge,
Which may astonish men just fresh from college,
But to the million prove less caviare
Than if we stuck to Bekker, Brunck, or Carey;
In fine, we hope by mimic means, and choral,
To draw from ancient saws a modern moral,
The truth of which may serve our piece to save,
E'en if for Easter thought a shade too grave;
Not that with gravity we mean to teaze you,
Our birds have merry thoughts we hope will please you.
The centre of their gravity is mirth,
Which if they lose they tumble flat to earth;
With cheerful song they'd while an hour away—
I act the nightingale, I beg to say,
Behind the scenes; but when before your faces,
I venture out to speak the parabasis.
I come as now, in propria persona,
A sight, the author swears, worth all the money;
For bless the men, they can be so gallant
When a poor woman's services they want;
And thus much he entreated me to say,
By way of introduction to his play:
From Fairy-land awhile he has flown off, and he's
Trying to catch the Birds of Aristophanes
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In putting Attic salt upon their tails,
He knows against him will be turned the laugh,
For you are not birds to be caught with chaff;
So hear him patiently before you frown,
Nor let his first shot bring the “Big Bird” down.
Air—“Should he upbraid.”
Do not upbraid, kind friends, though I should fail
To sing as sweetly as the nightingale;
Critics be mute—nor scare the birds you view,
Or I shall have a crow to pluck with you.
Say some must frown—I hope the mass will smile,
Nor, for foul play, our playful fowl revile.
Enter Jackanoxides and Tomostyleseron following a Raven and a Magpie.
To sing as sweetly as the nightingale;
Critics be mute—nor scare the birds you view,
Or I shall have a crow to pluck with you.
Say some must frown—I hope the mass will smile,
Nor, for foul play, our playful fowl revile.
Now to begin—two citizens are these
Of—we'll say—any town, in short, you please,
Who, being discontented with their station,
As people may be found in every nation,
Seek from the sovereign of the birds to know
Where, for the better, they had best to go.
The rest, in their own words, they will make plain,
If not, the birds I'll cut, and come again!
(Exit Chorus)
Quartette—“Gavotte de Vestris.”
Jackanoxides, Tomostyleseron, a Magpie and a Raven.
Mag.
There, there, there!
Jack.
What is't this cursed magpie chatters?
Rav.
Here, here, here!
Tom.
This cannot be the way.
Mag.
There, there, there!
Jack.
'Tis not the way to mend our matters.
Rav.
Here, here, here!
Tom.
Is't here you'd have us stay?
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A mighty pleasant ramble!
Tom.
Through bush, and brier, and bramble;
Jack.
Up such a rock to scramble.
Tom.
This unexpected gambol—
Both.
Is to our act a sweet preamble.
Mag.
Here, here, here!
(Together)
Rav.
There, there, there!
(Together)
Jack., Tom.
Where, where, where?
(Together)
Tom.
Two precious fools we were to leave the town,
With guides like these to wander up and down,
In search of the wise King of all the Birds!
This comes of taking people at their words.
The rogue from whom we bought these gabbling guides,
In selling them, sold us, I think, besides.
Jack.
There is no truth in man! Else, wherefore, pray,
Have we resolved no more 'mongst men to stay?
But seek out some blest corner of the earth,
Where folks are not weighed by what gold they're worth.
Where there's no care, no fraud, no toil, no strife,
And we may settle down in peace for life.
If there be such a land, it must be known
To the Bird King, who round the world has flown.
If, in his flight, he never saw the spot,
Why then I give it up—but till then not!
Tom.
Look, Jack, both birds have settled on yon rock.
The King, perchance, lives there.
Jack.
Suppose you knock.
Quartette—(continued.)
All.
Rap, rap, rap!
Tom.
Come open quick thy marble dome here.
All.
Rap, rap, rap!
Jack.
Knock louder, man, I say.
All.
Rap, rap, rap!
Tom.
Hollo! Is anyone at home here?
All.
Rap, rap, rap!
Jack.
Methought the rock gave way.
(rock opens—King of the Birds appears in centre)
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Yes; behold, oh, wonder!
Jack.
The granite splits asunder.
Tom.
And see, what bird is yonder?
Jack.
An eagle or a condor!
Tom.
By Jove! he looks as black as thunder.
Both.
Back, back, back!
King.
How now! who wakes me from my sweet repose?
Ah! two vile fowlers! ye shall feed the crows.
Jack.
We are no fowlers, mighty King, I swear;
Behold, we carry neither gun nor snare.
King.
But ye are men, and therefore full of guile.
Creatures that smile, and murder while they smile.
Foes to the feathered tribes, o'er which I reign,
Thousands of whom ye for your sport have slain;
Or pent in cages all their sad lives long,
To cheer their cruel captors with their song.
Tom.
'Tis true we've the misfortune men to be,
But are quite sick of men's society.
And hither come in hope that you would tell us
Where we might live untroubled by our fellows.
King.
Untroubled! nowhere, if within their reach;
The mountain summit, and the wild sea beach
No longer limit their audacious strides,
Their steamboats set at naught the winds and tides,
And in balloons they scale the azure sky,
Not doubting they will rule there by-and-bye.
Jack.
But are states all alike? all men enrolled
Slaves of ambition—worshippers of gold?
Is there no city now, for instance, where
To eat, and drink, and sleep, is all men's care?
Where those who have, to those who have not, give
Unlaboured for, the means, at least, to live?
Where there's no pandering to wealth or station,
No war, no politics, no litigation;
No bitterness between the great and small?
King.
I never saw one, and I've seen them all.
Tom.
One question answer in the fewest words:
What sort of life is it amongst the birds?
King.
Why much like that which you desire to lead;
They neither pay for water nor for seed;
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With politics have never plagued their heads;
With fashionable tailors run no scores;
Have no tax-gatherers knocking at their doors;
Bet on no races—dabble in no stocks;
Need not a carriage nor an opera-box;
Stake not a fortune upon cards or dice;
Keep no late hours, scarce practise any vice.
Sometimes a rival in a passion flies out,
And pecks, occasionally, a friend's eyes out.
But barring little accidents like those,
Nothing can be more peaceful, heaven knows!
Tom.
Charming! I wish I were a bird—don't you?
Jack.
Well, really, now you mention it, I do.
On pinions light to follow Pleasure's call,—
But that's impossible!
King.
Oh, not at all!
If you're sincere in such a wish, my power
Can make birds of you both in half-an-hour.
Tom.
You don't say so? I've a great mind, by Jove!
Jack.
But must we live and die then in a grove?
King.
Why you abused the city just this minute.
Jack.
No, pardon me, 'twas but the people in it;
The rogues who wouldn't let us live at ease;
But houses are much better sure than trees
To live in.
King.
What, for birds?
Jack.
So I should guess.
Just ask the pigeons, they'll, I'm sure, say yes;
And oh! a bright idea, one that shall place
The birds above the haughty human race,
Who have long held them at most shameful odds.
Nay, give them power equal to the gods!
King.
Indeed! out with it!
Jack.
Just cast up your eyes,
And tell me what you see.
King.
Naught but the skies.
Jack.
Well, are not they the wingèd tribe's dominions?
King.
On that point there cannot be two opinions.
Jack.
To build on trees then is it not a pity,
When you might found a splendid airy city
Midway 'twixt earth and heaven, so that admission
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Both gods and men you thus would check with ease,
And make with either any terms you please.
King.
Oh, exquisite design! Oh, rare device!
I'll summon all the birds here in a trice.
You shall explain your plan; if they approve,
We'll build the city and forsake the grove.
What ho! my Nightingale! with thy sweet song,
Call a full meeting of the feathered throng;
Bid them, from woods and marshes, dells and brakes,
Fly hither in a brace of your best shakes.
(flageolet behind scenes)
Trio—Nightingale, Jackanoxides, and Tomostyleseron “Mocking Bird.”
Night.
(behind scenes)
Tio, tio, tio; jug, jug, jug, &c.
Jack.
Pretty warbler, soft and clear,
Pretty Nightingale, thy voice I hear,
Filling all the vale with its descant dear,
Enter Chorus.
Air—Chorus—“Little wot ye wha's coming.”
All the birds are here coming!
All the birds are here coming!
All the birds are here coming!
Land and sea birds all coming.
Storks are coming, cranes are coming,
Crows are coming, finches coming,
Larks are coming, linnets coming,
Ruffs and reeves and all coming.
All the birds, &c.
All the birds are here coming!
All the birds are here coming!
Land and sea birds all coming.
Storks are coming, cranes are coming,
Crows are coming, finches coming,
Larks are coming, linnets coming,
Ruffs and reeves and all coming.
All the birds, &c.
The bird o' paradise is coming,
The heron and the quail are coming,
The parrot and the lory's coming,
And all the fine macaws coming.
Hark, how the bittern's crying,
See how the kites are flying;
Kingfisher and cassowary,
Yellowhammer and canary!
All the birds, &c.
The heron and the quail are coming,
The parrot and the lory's coming,
And all the fine macaws coming.
Hark, how the bittern's crying,
See how the kites are flying;
Kingfisher and cassowary,
Yellowhammer and canary!
All the birds, &c.
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The pelican was sore oppressed, sir,
Talked of water on the chest, sir,
The owl would fain have been let off, sir,
Swore he'd got the whooping cough, sir,
But whip-poor-will, the whipper-in, sir,
Said he didn't care a pin, sir,
Of the whole House 'twas a call, sir,
So they're coming—one and all, sir.
All the birds, &c.
Chorus of Birds in the air.
Talked of water on the chest, sir,
The owl would fain have been let off, sir,
Swore he'd got the whooping cough, sir,
But whip-poor-will, the whipper-in, sir,
Said he didn't care a pin, sir,
Of the whole House 'twas a call, sir,
So they're coming—one and all, sir.
All the birds, &c.
Toro, toro, toro, tinx,
Kickabau, kickabau,
Toro, toro, toro, loli, lolink.
Kickabau, kickabau,
Toro, toro, toro, loli, lolink.
All the Birds enter at a scream of the wind instruments.
King.
Stay, and fear not! Hold, feathered subjects all,
Nor on your friends and champions madly fall;
These learned men have hit upon a plan
To free us from our vassalage to man,
And make us equal to the gods in might!
Speak, friend. (to Jack)
Jack.
But will they undertand me?
King.
Quite
As well as men, and men of some pretence;
And many parrots speak much better sense.
Jack.
Most potent, grave, and reverend owls and widgeons,
My very noble and approved good pigeons,
Gulls, peacocks, parrots, pelicans, and plovers,
Whom I would fain call countrymen and lovers,
Though very little of an ornithologist,
It seems I am to be my own apologist
For this intrusion! Hear me, kites and daws;
Hear me, ye rooks, for I espouse your cause!
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A nobler theme is mine, “Wings and the bird!”
The bird! a being before man created,
And in the world far higher elevated!
Parrot.
Hear, hear!
Jack.
The honourable bird may cheer,
But I will make my case as noon-day clear.
Born before man, I say 'tis my opinion,
By eldership, you claim o'er him dominion.
Still shall the plumeless biped crow o'er you,
Cock of the walk—
Birds.
Hear!
Cock.
Cock-a-doodle doo!
Jack.
Sir, I am not to be put down by clamour,
Nor knocked down by a factious yellowhammer,
Whom I should blush to call my learned friend.
Birds.
Chair!—order, order!—name!
Jack.
Sir, I contend
I am in order.
Birds.
No, no!
Tom.
Yes, you are.
King.
Order! order, there below the bar!
King.
Order! order, there below the bar!
Jack.
Were ye not kings before the human race?
Why on their standards do they eagles place?
Doves on their sceptres? Are ye not ashamed
To be by these barbarians killed or tamed?
Like slaves or madmen do the villains treat ye,
Shoot ye, if on the open moors they meet ye;
Lime twigs, beat bushes, hunt through brakes and briers,
Lay snares, gins, meshes, traps, and traitorous wires,
Sell you in shops and markets, strung by scores;
Hawk you about in carts, at tavern doors;
Alive—in cages coop, on perches post you;
Dead—pluck and skewer, and lard, and stuff, and roast you!
Birds.
Hear, hear!
King.
These facts are known to every grouse;
There is no motion yet before the House.
Jack.
I'm ready, sir, before the House to bring it,
But 'stead of saying, I prefer to sing it.
But 'stead of saying, I prefer to sing it.
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Man long has the birds held, I say it with shame,
But as marks for him to pop away at;
Of some he makes captives, of others makes game,
But he'll find 'tis a game two can play at.
Turn about is but fair; who on earth, pray, is he,
That all goods upon earth thus he gathers?
Deprived of his tailor, the dandy would be
But a poor stupid fowl without feathers.
But as marks for him to pop away at;
Of some he makes captives, of others makes game,
But he'll find 'tis a game two can play at.
Turn about is but fair; who on earth, pray, is he,
That all goods upon earth thus he gathers?
Deprived of his tailor, the dandy would be
But a poor stupid fowl without feathers.
My plan is, a city to build for the birds,
Out of reach of man's vile fowling-pieces;
Put boards up directly, upon them these words,
“This sky to let on building leases.”
Soon covered 'twill be with streets, crescents, and squares,
Though the houses a breath down could shake 'em;
Just see how the builders on earth run up theirs,
And yet gulls they find plenty to take them.
Out of reach of man's vile fowling-pieces;
Put boards up directly, upon them these words,
“This sky to let on building leases.”
Soon covered 'twill be with streets, crescents, and squares,
Though the houses a breath down could shake 'em;
Just see how the builders on earth run up theirs,
And yet gulls they find plenty to take them.
A palace, of course, you must have for your king,
Nothing easier is 'neath the sun done;
Only if you would build him the right sort of thing,
Don't look for the model in London.
Of parliament houses you'll want a fine pair,
Though your funds by them may be diminished;
But if run in debt for, you needn't much care,
For you never will see them both finished!
Nothing easier is 'neath the sun done;
Only if you would build him the right sort of thing,
Don't look for the model in London.
Of parliament houses you'll want a fine pair,
Though your funds by them may be diminished;
But if run in debt for, you needn't much care,
For you never will see them both finished!
With walls you must circle the city about,
And if after some suburban beauty,
Sly Jove should come sneaking a permit without,
By Jove, he shall pay transit duty!
If Fate any mortal would raise to the stars,
She must take out a passport, by Jingo!
No monarch on earth shall pass our Temple Bars
Without leave from the Lord Mayor Flamingo!
And if after some suburban beauty,
Sly Jove should come sneaking a permit without,
By Jove, he shall pay transit duty!
If Fate any mortal would raise to the stars,
She must take out a passport, by Jingo!
No monarch on earth shall pass our Temple Bars
Without leave from the Lord Mayor Flamingo!
Then man, if his crimes he would have us o'erlook,
For the past must make full reparation;
He shall alter the game-laws to suit the birds' book,
And to pheasants give true preservation;
No pie make of partridge, of pigeon, or grouse,
No soup make of birds'-nests at Canton.
He shall pull down “the Poultry,” and burn the “Red House,”
And abolish the name of “Joe Manton.”
For the past must make full reparation;
He shall alter the game-laws to suit the birds' book,
And to pheasants give true preservation;
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No soup make of birds'-nests at Canton.
He shall pull down “the Poultry,” and burn the “Red House,”
And abolish the name of “Joe Manton.”
(Great cheering from the Birds on all sides of the House)
King.
Hark to those notes of joy and exultation!
Your scheme has met with perfect approbation.
Jack.
About the building then without delay.
King.
Storks, martins, swallows, to the work away;
You've carrier pigeons will materials bring,
And cranes enough to hoist up anything;
By woodpeckers the timber shall be found.
And yellowhammers make the floors around.
The pelicans will bring up pails of water,
Spoon-bills and horn-bills help to mix the mortar.
'Twere hard, indeed, if birds could not compare,
With men, in building castles in the air.
Air—King and Chorus—“Bartlemy Fair, O.”
Come, bustle, small and big,
Take your leaves and hop the twig;
Cut your sticks and plume your crests,
Leave off feathering your nests;
Build a city in the sky,
Which with any one shall vie,
London, Paris, Rome, Vienna, or Grand Cairo;
Go to work—rival Smirke—
Make a dash, à la Nash—
Something try at, worthy Wyatt—
Plans out carry, great as Barry—
With a hey down, ho down, derry, derry down,
'Tis so easy to build castles in the air, O!
(Exeunt all the Birds)
King.
Meanwhile, if still you feel the inclination,
We will to birds effect your transformation.
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Stop; just one moment; must I have a bill?
King.
Of course.
Jack.
And lose my speech?
King.
You may speak still,
As parrots, magpies, daws, or starlings do.
Jack.
No better! why not speak as well as you?
King.
Oh, I'm a genius, whom the birds for king
Elected. That's another sort of thing.
Tom.
But we are geniuses, in our way.
King.
Then, as you are, why not contented stay?
Jack.
Because our talent's not appreciated
By the vile herd with whom we were located.
Tom.
A bill! the thought with fear my bosom fills.
We left the city to get rid of bills.
King.
Call it a beak.
Jack.
That's worse almost—Heaven knows
The Beaks have always been our deadly foes.
Tom.
Can't we have wings, and be as gay as larks,
Yet keep the form of men?
King.
You're pretty sparks!
No: either men in every point remain,
Or be as birds should be.
Jack.
Let's think again,
Ere we decide.
King.
Well, by the time the town
Is built, make up your minds, and call me down.
Tom.
Stop; I'm for wings and feathers, come what may.
King.
And what bird will you be—a popinjay!
Tom.
No, no, they pop at him. (to Jackanoxides)
What kind would you be?
King.
(aside)
The bird you're most akin to is a booby.
Jack.
For fear of accidents some fowl I'd be,
That folks don't shoot or eat.
Tom.
Humph! let me see;
There may be one I never heard the name of.
King.
(aside)
You can't be anything they won't make game of.
Tom.
I have it! yes, the very thing! 'Twill do!
Jack.
What have you fixed upon?
Tom.
A cockatoo!
King.
Bravo! walk in; I'll fit you in a trice.
Jack.
Before I settle, I'll at least think twice.
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“Here's a Health to all Good Lasses.”
Who can doubt of wings the uses,
When with one quill from a goose's,
People born in lowest station,
Have risen up to rule a nation—
Let the praise of wings resound.
Hey for pinions!
Who'd not bear 'em?
Fortune's minions
Always wear 'em.
Time has wings, and Love, and Pleasure—
Life itself's a fleeting treasure;
All our joys with wings are found.
Enter Chorus.
Parabasis.
Chorus.
Good, sensible folks, if there be any here,
Inclined at these classical fancies to sneer,
Be just, if not generous. First look at home,
Without going either to Greece or to Rome.
Could not projects as airy, and visions as vain,
Be proved to have sprung from an Englishman's brain?
Have no speculations, as monstrous almost,
Been seen advertised in the Times or the Post?
Has no Jackanoxides, deemed to have nous,
Ever championed a scheme as absurd in the “House?”
Nay, are there none present, who've given support
To a bubble as empty, blown through Capel Court?
Now to take t'other side up, with questions as leading,
And shew I'm a dab at what's called special pleading:
What in men turned to birds, is too strange to be funny,
When they make every day ducks and drakes of their money?
Why should not the fowls in the air build a palace,
When there's hope of a submarine railway to Calais?
In the days of Queen Bess, did our forefathers dream
Of the glories of gas, and the marvels of steam?
And if an Utopia man could secure,
In Harmony birds would beat Owen, I'm sure!
Having seen what we've seen; seeing still what we see,
Who can venture to swear such things yet may not be?
Air—“An alteration, a wonderful alteration.”
Inclined at these classical fancies to sneer,
Be just, if not generous. First look at home,
Without going either to Greece or to Rome.
Could not projects as airy, and visions as vain,
Be proved to have sprung from an Englishman's brain?
Have no speculations, as monstrous almost,
Been seen advertised in the Times or the Post?
Has no Jackanoxides, deemed to have nous,
Ever championed a scheme as absurd in the “House?”
Nay, are there none present, who've given support
To a bubble as empty, blown through Capel Court?
Now to take t'other side up, with questions as leading,
And shew I'm a dab at what's called special pleading:
What in men turned to birds, is too strange to be funny,
When they make every day ducks and drakes of their money?
Why should not the fowls in the air build a palace,
When there's hope of a submarine railway to Calais?
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Of the glories of gas, and the marvels of steam?
And if an Utopia man could secure,
In Harmony birds would beat Owen, I'm sure!
Having seen what we've seen; seeing still what we see,
Who can venture to swear such things yet may not be?
And so I come to tell you that the wondrous work's begun,
The airy city from the earth will soon block out the sun.
The birds have sent to Jupiter himself, a supersedeas,
And messengers to man to say, they now are gods “in medias.”
Henceforth in common parlance, when expressing fears or wishes,
Folks must say “Gods and little birds,” not “Gods and little fishes!”
For there's an alteration, an alteration,
A wonderful alteration!
The airy city from the earth will soon block out the sun.
The birds have sent to Jupiter himself, a supersedeas,
And messengers to man to say, they now are gods “in medias.”
Henceforth in common parlance, when expressing fears or wishes,
Folks must say “Gods and little birds,” not “Gods and little fishes!”
For there's an alteration, an alteration,
A wonderful alteration!
No longer offering sacrifice, to Venus or to Love,
The amorous youth's divinity will be the turtle dove;
The eagle, 'stead of Jove himself, will wield the awful thunder;
The magpie lead, for Mercury, the sons of trade or plunder;
The game-cock be the soldier's idol, “vice Mars dismiss'd;”
The owl preside for Pallas over all the learned list.
Though that's not much of an alteration,
Not much of an alteration.
The amorous youth's divinity will be the turtle dove;
The eagle, 'stead of Jove himself, will wield the awful thunder;
The magpie lead, for Mercury, the sons of trade or plunder;
The game-cock be the soldier's idol, “vice Mars dismiss'd;”
The owl preside for Pallas over all the learned list.
Though that's not much of an alteration,
Not much of an alteration.
Nor need we wonder living birds such power should possess,
When even dead their influence o'er man is scarcely less.
A box of grouse has had its weight, when justice idly pleaded,
Where wisdom's voice had urged in vain, a good fat goose succeeded;
A Christmas turkey hearts may move, when Christian feelings fail,
The feathers of a woodcock even serve to turn the scale!
And make an alteration, an alteration,
A wonderful alteration.
When even dead their influence o'er man is scarcely less.
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Where wisdom's voice had urged in vain, a good fat goose succeeded;
A Christmas turkey hearts may move, when Christian feelings fail,
The feathers of a woodcock even serve to turn the scale!
And make an alteration, an alteration,
A wonderful alteration.
Enter Jackanoxides.
Jack.
By Jupiter, the work goes bravely on;
A luckier day for mortal never shone.
The birds have sent me, with a grateful ditty,
In a gold egg the freedom of their city;
And more my services to set a mark on,
Have made me of their new-form'd state the Archon.
Archon!—a pretty title to begin with;
And the first thread, a golden web to spin with.
If Tomostyleseron begins to grumble,
I'll make him eat, of all pies, the most humble.
As to the King, as some low birds adore him,
He may be king, but I'll be viceroy o'er him.
Enter Chorus.
Chorus.
Hail, Archon of the birds, whose glorious name,
Stands foremost on the new-made list of fame;
Not only 'mongst the feather'd race, but those
Who have so long been found their cruel foes.
On 'Change, no sooner was your project known,
Than every other scheme aside was thrown.
The bulls and bears on pinions forth would sally,
The lamest duck is worshipped in the alley!
All are agog for wings; the stags in herds
Have taken flight—quite crazy to be birds!
Jack.
Into our state 'twere madness to admit them.
Chorus.
I question if we've wings enough to fit them;
For half the nation upon flying bent is.
Jack.
Here comes one, looking scarcely compos mentis.
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Who may you be?
Poet.
“You are, and do not know it!”
As Shakespeare has it—Sir, I am a poet.
Jack.
A poet! Well, suppose you are, what then?
Poet.
Like you, disgusted, from the haunts of men
I fly;—and hearing of your airy scheme—
Jack.
How heard you of it?
Poet.
In a poet's dream.
For lack of more substantial gifts, consoling,
“The poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling,
Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven!”
As Shakespeare has it—one so often driven
To live on air, in air may surely claim
“A local habitation and a name,”
As Shakespeare—
Jack.
Pray a truce with your quotation;
What offering bring you for our acceptation?
Poet.
My deathless songs, in which I'll celebrate
The new bird-city and its founder great.
Jack.
Songs to the birds? Why, my good friend, that's bringing
Coals to Newcastle. Who that heard their singing
Could fancy yours?
Poet.
Their melody—but birds
Seldom sing words.
Jack.
Words! What's the use of words?
Who ever hears the words when people sing?
The music, sir—the music is the thing!
Poet.
But poetry—
Jack.
Pooh! poetry! what stuff!
For music any words are good enough.
If you doubt me, sir, go and ask the trade
How much for poetry they've lately paid?
Poet.
But without music, sir, I'll sing your praise,
In ode Pindaric: or what's more, in plays.
Jack.
In plays!
Poet.
Yes; I'm a dramatist.
Jack.
Indeed!
I thought there was an end of all that breed.
102
Oh, pardon me, there you're mistaken quite;
A piece of mine was—damned the other night.
Jack.
Come, there's some hope, then, of the stage at last!
Poet.
Sir!
Jack.
No offence—I know that in times past,
There was a public, and we had a pit
That fired at poetry and warmed at wit;
But I have heard so many people say,
“Oh, dear! we never now go to the play,”
That I was really quite rejoiced to find
There was an audience left of any kind.
Poet.
A base, an ignorant, malicious set;
But I'll be even with the rascals yet!
Of course you'll build a theatre—and there
I'll satirize them all.
Jack.
Apply elsewhere.
I build a theatre above—no, no!
There are too many to be let below.
(Exit Poet)
Air—Chorus—“Lucy Neal.”
In dust, at Covent Garden,
The mourning Muses sit,
Misfortune floored the management,
And Jullien floored the pit.
The Northern Wizard conjures,
And reckless maskers reel,
On boards so oft by Kemble trod,
By Siddons, and O'Neill.
Kemble, Young, and Kean,
Siddons and O'Neill!
If now ye graced the Drama's side,
How happy she would feel.
Enter an Architect.
Jack.
Here comes another. Pray, sir, what are you?
Arch.
An architect.
Jack.
And what come here to do?
103
Offer my service to erect your city,
On a new plan, approved by the committee
For the embellishment of the metropolis.
I've measured every inch of the Acropolis;
Been up the Pyramids, and what is more,
Reached actually in one day, the fifth floor
Of a new mansion, near the Albert Gate.
Jack.
Impossible!
Arch.
Sir, had it not been late,
I should have mounted to the attic story!
Jack.
That story would have covered you with glory.
You would have gained by every one's concession,
The very greatest height in your profession.
Arch.
Sir, I have always had a wish to rise,
And therefore seek employment in the skies.
Jack.
But surely such a rising man as you,
Might find on earth enough of work to do.
Arch.
I could, of course; but to reveal a fact,
My quarrel is with the new Building Act:
I feel my genius cramp'd, sir, upon land.
They stipulate that houses now should stand!
A fallacy exploded long ago,
As ruinous to architects, you know;
For if your dwellings are to last for ages,
The half of us will not get workmen's wages.
Jack.
Sir, to be frank with you, I think a swallow,
Would beat the best half of your builders hollow.
To talk of architecture is a joke,
Till you can build a chimney that won't smoke!
Arch.
Then you won't call me in at any price?
Jack.
No, but I'll give you this piece of advice:
To take so high a flight as you expect,
Don't build your own wings, Mr. Architect,
Or take my word for't, the first windy weather,
You and your wings will all come down together.
(Exit Architect)
104
Of building they'll never tire,
Each end of the town's run wild;
And the rents, like the houses, grow higher,
Which are mortgaged before they are tiled!
But though tenants they get for all,
The knowing ones wink their eye;
For they fancy the rents must fall
With the houses themselves by-and-bye.
Of building they'll never tire,
Each end of the town's run wild;
And the rents, like the houses, grow higher,
Which are mortgaged before they are tiled!
Yes, mortgaged—
Yes, mortgaged—
Mortgaged before they are tiled.
Enter Legislator.
Each end of the town's run wild;
And the rents, like the houses, grow higher,
Which are mortgaged before they are tiled!
But though tenants they get for all,
The knowing ones wink their eye;
For they fancy the rents must fall
With the houses themselves by-and-bye.
Of building they'll never tire,
Each end of the town's run wild;
And the rents, like the houses, grow higher,
Which are mortgaged before they are tiled!
Yes, mortgaged—
Yes, mortgaged—
Mortgaged before they are tiled.
A third—Your business?
Legis.
I'm a politician.
Jack.
A politician! Then there's no admission
For you here. I'm of politics a hater!
Legis.
But I'm a senator—a legislator!
One who can mend or make a constitution.
And as below they hint a dissolution,
I have pair'd off, and come these laws so new
To offer to the birds.
Jack.
The deuce you do?
What are your politics, my learned brother?
Tory or Whig?
Legis.
Sometimes one, sometimes 'tother;
In short, 'tis rather difficult to say
What any one exactly is to-day.
But if in your new senate you'll admit
Me, as a bird, for any place to sit,
My vote for any measure—
Jack.
Hence, sir, hop!
Or take your seat the senate-house a-top
There, as a bird of tin, and not of feather,
Turn as the wind blows—vary with the weather.
(Exit Legislator)
105
As the wind blows,
So the vote goes,
In hopes of a place so merry,
When the place drops,
In the man pops,
And laughs and sings hey down derry!
Jack.
I shall be plagued to death by all these bores,
Yonder I see them coming now by scores.
You, madam, whosoever you may be—
For really that's a mystery to me—
But as you seem to have some power about here,
Can't you prevent these rogues from flocking out here?
Chorus.
I fear not; you have set the folks the fashion,
Ornithomania now is quite the fashion.
I tell you half the world is on the wing,
And taking bird's-eye views of everything;
For restless man the mail train now too slow flies;
From point to point he'd travel as the crow flies.
None in their own sphere will contented stay,
All would be birds, de la plus haute volée!
All who are dunned for debts, or sick of troubles;
All who have blown, or been blown up by bubbles,
Are hastening hither. This one, pluck'd at college,
Would plume himself upon superior knowledge;
That, tired of flying kites, would be a kite,
To take up his own bill, for once, at sight.
The pluralist, Boyle Roche's bird—for he,
In two places at once contrives to be.
Then there are all those who are forced to fly,
Poor souls—so recently in feather high!
Two hundred joint-stock company projectors,
And twenty thousand new railroad directors.
Jack.
O, monstrous! Such excessive emigration
Would drain to death the most plethoric nation!
King of the Birds, fly hither to my aid!
Give me a pair of pinions ready made,
That I may take my flight before they come—
You, madam, please to say I'm not at home.
106
As any translation of the above might weaken the force and beauty of the original, it has been thought advisable to request the Chorus to sing it in Greek, particularly as any language in which a chorus is sung behind the scenes must be equally incomprehensible to the audience.
Robert Owen, the philanthropist. He established a settlement at New Harmony, in America, in 1824. He died in 1858, aged 90.
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