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The Lord Chancellor's Song -- W S Gilbert

       
(Poem #1887) The Lord Chancellor's Song
    Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest:
    Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers:
    Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest,
    And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!

 When you're lying awake with a dismal headache,
   and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
 I conceive you may use any language you choose
   to indulge in, without impropriety;
 For your brain is on fire -- the bedclothes conspire
   of usual slumber to plunder you:
 First your counterpane goes, and uncovers your toes,
   and your sheet slips demurely from under you;

 Then the blanketing tickles -- you feel like mixed pickles --
   so terribly sharp is the pricking,
 And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss
   till there's nothing --twixt you and the ticking.
 Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap,
   and you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
 Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!

 Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze,
   with hot eye-balls and head ever aching.
 But your slumbering teems with such horrible dreams
   that you'd very much better be waking;
 For you dream you are crossing the Channel, and tossing
   about in a steamer from Harwich --
 Which is something between a large bathing machine
   and a very small second-class carriage --

 And you're giving a treat (penny ice and cold meat)
   to a party of friends and relations --
 They're a ravenous horde -- and they all came on board
   at Sloane Square and South Kensington Stations.
 And bound on that journey you find your attorney
   (who started that morning from Devon);
 He's a bit undersized, and you don't feel surprised
   when he tells you he's only eleven.

 Well, you're driving like mad with this singular lad
   (by the by, the ship's now a four-wheeler),
 And you're playing round games, and he calls you bad names
   when you tell him that "ties pay the dealer";
 But this you can't stand, so you throw up your hand,
   and you find you're as cold as an icicle,
 In your shirt and your socks (the black silk with gold clocks),
   crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle:

 And he and the crew are on bicycles too --
   which they've somehow or other invested in --
 And he's telling the tars all the particulars
   of a company he's interested in --
 It's a scheme of devices, to get at low prices
   all goods from cough mixtures to cables
 (Which tickled the sailors), by treating retailers
   as though they were all vegetables --

 You get a good spadesman to plant a small tradesman
   (first take off his boots with a boot-tree),
 And his legs will take root, and his fingers will shoot,
   and they'll blossom and bud like a fruit-tree --
 From the greengrocer tree you get grapes and green pea,
   cauliflower, pineapple, and cranberries,
 While the pastrycook plant cherry brandy will grant,
   apple puffs, and three corners, and Banburys --

 The shares are a penny, and ever so many
   are taken by Rothschild and Baring,
 And just as a few are allotted to you,
   you awake with a shudder despairing --

 You're a regular wreck, with a crick in your neck, and no wonder you snore,
 for your head's on the floor, and you've needles and pins from your soles
 to your shins, and your flesh is a-creep, for your left leg's asleep, and
 you've cramp in your toes, and a fly on your nose, and some fluff in your
 lung, and a feverish tongue, and a thirst that's intense, and a general
 sense that you haven't been sleeping in clover;

 But the darkness has passed, and it's daylight at last, and the night has
 been long -- ditto, ditto my song -- and thank goodness they're both of
 them over!

 [Lord Chancellor falls exhausted on a seat.]
-- W S Gilbert
Note: From Iolanthe. I've split the (long!) lines into two; you can see the
song in its original formatting here:
  http://math.boisestate.edu/GaS/iolanthe/web_op/iol20.html

No canon of patter songs would be complete without this masterpiece of
Gilbert and Sullivan's, one of the most widely recognised of the genre, and,
to my mind, one of the finest. Gilbert was, of course, a master of carefully
crafted and logically worked out nonsense; here, he takes the license
afforded by a dreamscape and abandons even the semblance of plausibility,
shifting into a surreal (but oddly coherent) stream-of-consciousness song
that, like many of the duo's best pieces, transcends the operetta within
which it occurs.

What I really like about this song is the nigh-perfect way in which it
conveys a sense of stumbling headlong through the shifting narrative of the
dream, culminating in the breathless, helter-skelter rush of the last two
passages. This is already evident in the lyrics, but it attains its full
effect when married to Sullivan's music; the final product is both instantly
captivating and utterly memorable.

martin

[Links]

Everything Iolanthe: http://math.boisestate.edu/GaS/iolanthe/html/index.html

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