  A Back-Street Ballad. Air—"Margarita." I passed along a dim back-street, Margarina! In search of something good to eat, Margarina! O pallid tripe! O "faggots" queer! Was ever such strange human cheer? And O my heart, I loathed thee so, There on show, there on show, Margarina! I saw thee in a sallow dab, Margarina! Upon the grubby marble slab, Margarina! O sickening stodge! O greasy shine! O "Dairy Produce" miscalled "Fine"! O haunt of all blue-flies that blow, There on show, there on show, Margarina! I fled along that gloomy street, Margarina! Disgusted, sickened, sad, dead-beat, Margarina! Yet still I see that dingy slab, That oleaginous pale, pale dab. And thou art still on sale I know, Where soot-flakes all, and blue-flies blow, Margarina! But every night at my snug tea, Margarina! Over my toast I muse on thee, Margarina! I sniff that smell, I see that dab, That greasy, grimy, marble slab. And thou art still the same I know, The slum's strange love, the slum's strange love. The poor man's "Butter," there on show! Margarina! Mrs. Ram, who had been listening to a conversation among golf-players, and now flatters herself on knowing something about the game, observed—"I suppose, in the Season, instead of Five-o'clock Teas, the fashion at Hurlingham and those places will be to have Golf Teas." She didn't know that it was spelt 'Tees.' |
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