THE GIFT OF THE GAB.

A LECTURE ON ELOCUTION.

OU have read how Demosthenes walk'd

on the beach,

With his mouth full of pebbles, rehears

ing a speech

Till the shell-fish and sea-gulls pro

nounced him a bore,

And the sea met his gravest remarks

with a roar.

In fact, if you ever learnt Greek, you'll confess

That it's hardly the right kind of tongue to impress

An intelligent lobster or well-inform'd crab,

With the deepest respect for the Gift of the Gab.

Still Eloquence gives men a wonderful power,
And it often strikes me, after sitting an hour
At a lecture on something I don't understand,
That the Gift of the Gab is decidedly grand.
Indeed, I am frequently heard to declare,

If the Queen of the Fairies would answer my prayer,
I should instantly drop on my knees to Queen Mab,
Crying, Grant me, oh grant me, the Gift of the Gab.

If you'd hear the true summit of Eloquence reach'd
Go to church when a charity-sermon is preach'd;
Where, with hands in his pockets and tears in his eyes,
Ev'ry soft-hearted sinner contributes and cries.

I think, if you look in the plate, you'll opine
That the sermon you heard was uncommonly fine,
And that ev'ry Oxonian and ev'ry Cantab
Ought to cultivate early the Gift of the Gab.

But it's after a dinner at Freemasons' Hall

That the orator's talent shines brightest of all;

When his eye becomes glazed and his voice becomes thick,

And he's had so much hock he can only say hic!
So the company leave him to slumber and snore
Till he's put in a hat and convey'd to the door;

And he finds, upon reaching his home in a cab,
That his wife rather shines in the Gift of the Gab.

Then there's Gab in the senate and Gab at the bar,
But I fear their description would lead me too far ;
And (last but not least) there is Gab on the stage,
Which I couldn't exhaust if I sang for an age.

But, if there are matters that puzzle you still,

You may take up an Enfield and go through a drill,

Which will teach you much more than a hurried confab

With regard to that art call'd the Gift of the Gab.

BEHIND THE SCENES.

LONG

ONG, long ago I had an aunt
Who took me to the play:

An act of kindness that I shan't

Forget for many a day.

I was a youngster at the time,
Just verging on my teens,

And fancied that it must be "prime"
To go behind the scenes.

I ventured to express the same
In quite a candid way,

And shock'd my aunt-a sober dame,

Though partial to the play.

'Twas just the moment when Macbeth (Whose voice resembled Kean's) Had finished planning Duncan's death, And rushed behind the scenes.

I recollect that evening yet,

And how my aunt was grieved;

And, oh! I never shall forget
The lecture I received.

It threw a light upon the class
Of knowledge that one gleans

By being privileged to pass

His time behind the scenes.

The Heroine I worshipp'd then
Was fifty, I should think;
My Lord the commonest of men,
My Lover fond of drink.

The Fairies I believed so fair

Were not by any means

The kind of people one would care

To meet behind the scenes.