You may boast of your Georgian birds of song
And say that never was stuff so strong,
That its note of genius simply mocks
At yester-century's feeble crocks,
And floods the Musical Comedy stage
With the dazzling art of a peerless age.
But for delicate grace and dainty wit,
For words and melody closely knit,
Your best purveyors of mirth and joy
Were never in sight of the old Savoy;
They never began to compete, poor dears,
With Gilbert-and-Sullivan's Gondoliers.
For me, as an out-of-date Victorian,
Prehistoric and dinosaurian,
I hardly feel that I dare reflect
On the art of the day with disrespect;
But if anyone asks me, "Who'll survive—
The living dead, or the dead alive?
Which of the two will be last to go—
The Gondoliers or the latest show?"
I wouldn't give much for the latter's chance;
That is the view that I advance,
Trusting the public to bear me out
(The good from the bad they're quick to sever);
"Of this I nurse no manner of doubt,
No probable, possible shadow of doubt,
No possible doubt whatever."—O. S.