THE CHINESE LANTERN

THE CHINESE LANTERN
A PLAY BY LAURENCE HOUSMAN

LONDON: F. SIDGWICK
47 GREAT RUSSELL STREET
1908

NOTE

This play has been publicly performed in England, and entered at the Library of Congress, Washington, U.S.A. All rights reserved.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ACT I

A Chinese Studio with windowed walls of woodwork and oil-paper. At back of centre a dais, and behind that a picture showing an interior opening into a garden. In the foreground of the picture appears a hanging lantern, and below it a mandoline and a jar holding a spray of plum-blossom. To the right of the stage a sliding door opens into street: to the left stairs lead upward to interior, forward of that a door also to interior. It is morning: six or seven students squat painting. Between every two of them is a small stand for paint-pots, brushes, etc. All are very lazy and desultory at their work: the only industrious one is Tikipu, who, in shabby menial attire, grinds colours with weary persistence. The students yawn, stretch, and whine; and resume work in a perfunctory way at intervals upon shop-signs, lanterns, etc. On the dais sits Yunglangtsi, a mountain of indolent fat: sunk in profound slumber he squats before his easel. Street-criers are heard without calling their wares.

1st Crier. Only ten sen! Only ten sen! Any buy?

2nd Crier. Ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-eh!

1st Crier. [Nearer.] Only ten sen! Any buy?

Hiti. The next person who asks me if I’ll buy—I’ll murder!

1st Crier. [Intruding head.] Any buy?

Hiti. Get out—Mosquito!... Oh, Tikipu, you stagnant fool, do keep them out!

[Tikipu goes to shut door.

Nau. If honourable Shivering-fit has that door shut, long-suffering Foresight will go mad.

Hiti. Judging from its present whereabouts, Foresight will not have to go far.

Nau. Oh, brilliant, scintillating wit! What repartee!

Han. O Firebrands of genius, don’t make it any hotter than it is!

1st Crier. Only ten sen! Any buy?

[Hiti gives long-drawn sigh of exasperation:
Tee-Pee pats his back soothingly.

Tee. There, there, Hiti, cheer up! It will soon be over. The Feast of Lanterns begins at noon. Then, on the auspicious stroke, we shut up shop. Mr. Yunglangtsi, how does your august Serenity bear the inconsiderateness of this piffling heat?

Lil. Hush! Don’t speak to him! He’s inspired!

Tee. I see—as usual! This inspiration is becoming permanent!

Lil. It is the incubation of the Event, Tee-Pee!

Hiti.

Trust what the starry Oracles foretell:

Wait till the chicken taps upon the shell.

[He taps Yunglangtsi’s head with his fan.
Yunglangtsi snores softly.

Nau. O starry Oracles! Did you hear that?

[Yunglangtsi snores again.

New. Ugh! When are the sanguinary Event and the starry Oracle going to pay us our back wages, that’s what I want to know?

Hiti. Look not to Heaven to make or mar

Your fortunes, ye that toil!

Who hung his pot upon a star,

His broth forgot to boil.

[He gets up and begins to roam round.

Nau. Oh, poetry!

New. Ah! It’s all very well for fancy-price first-footers like you to talk! You think it’s all a subliminal joke. Still balancing yourselves on the giddy curriculum, you are: so fed up with the fat of your own fancies that you haven’t found out what a tip-top, ship-shape take-in you’ve tumbled to!

[Hiti leans over and fans him soothingly.

New. [Continuing.] Ah! To you it’s only a joke! But when’s the value of our antediluvian premiums coming back to us? What are we doing here now? Stuffing up our ears with stale old lectures we all know by heart,—just because you’ve come in on the giddy make-believe? Talk of the Event! Here, you Hippopotamus, take that!

[Slaps Yunglangtsi on the back.

Tee. Really! You might have woken him.

New. That would be an Event, that would!

Han. Well, anyhow, the Event won’t pay us. Starvation-point, nought-nought-recurring—can’t afford to wait for it.

Hiti. What grovelling Curiosity can’t make out is why they should be marrying him to her.

Han. Why not?

Hiti. Consider what she was—a little Korean slave-girl who couldn’t even speak the language! And what is she now?—future bride of the incomparable Mr. Yunglangtsi, who sits there awaiting the fulfilment of his starry destiny—the Oracle which announces that he is to become the greatest of living artists.

Lil. Ugh! Olangtsi will have to be dead by then.

Hiti. Oh no! Tiring of his exalted capacities he will hand them on to Yunglangtsi. It will be the occasion for a fresh lecture, as thus: ‘Gentlemen-pupils, apprentices, and paid workmen....’

New. Unpaid workmen, you mean.

Hiti. Sh! ‘Your immediate and polite attention.—’ (At the word ‘attention’ you will lay down your brushes, fold your hands submissively, and wait.) ‘In the instruction which it has been my honourable privilege to bestow all these years on your stubbornly benighted intelligences—’ (At these words you bow your heads) [hits fellow-student over head with a mahl-stick] (as an acknowledgment of what unprofitable Stick-in-the-muds you all are.)... ‘I have endeavoured to set before you the traditions of Wiowani, the greatest of all the ancient Masters, whose only surviving representative and follower I am—’ (At the word ‘am’ the complete Kow-tow is necessary), ‘and whose last and greatest masterpiece, entitled “The Threshold of the Muses,” here hangs before you for your instruction.’ (At these words you all turn and look at the great masterpiece as though you had never seen it before.)

[General derisive applause. Hiti in hitting at Nau-Tee knocks over paint-pot.

Nau. There! that was your fault!

Hiti. And your paint-pot.

Nau. Pah! Here, Swab, come and mop this foolish mess up!

[Tikipu obeys.

New. What meek Interrogation wants to know is—when are we going to strike for our pay?

Tee. To-day, if we could catch him. He always keeps an honourable alibi when Mrs. Back-of-the-House is out.

Lil. [To Tee-Pee.] Oh, I wish you wouldn’t go putting your blue brush into my red, you purple idiot!

Tee. [To Tikipu, pushing him.] There, clumsy, clumsy!

[Tikipu stumbles.

New. Don’t spread yourself over me, you larded swine!

Nau. Get out, Goose-fat!

Han. Oh! empty him away somewhere! Empty him away!

[They all beat and pelt Tikipu back to his corner with pellets of bread, balls of paper, mahl-sticks, etc. Pee-Ah-Bee throws a shoe at him. Tikipu returns to his grinding with meek, dogged indifference. Enter behind, meanwhile, Mee-Mee carrying a water lily on a stand, which with obeisance she sets on the dais in front of Yunglangtsi. She is retiring again when one of the students catches sight of her.

Tee. Oh, Mee-Mee!

[Beckons to her.

Mee. [Turning with a curtsey.] Ah!—say?

Tee. Come and sing to us!

Lil. Bring us some tea!

Mee. Plesently: my merciful and mighty Mistless, hon’ble Mrs. Back-of-de-House, not gone out yet!

Students. [Aghast]. Oh!

[Exit Mee-Mee.

Pee. [Who has not spoken before.] H’m! You all thought she’d gone; I didn’t. Tikipu, you had better submissively behave yourself. Bring me that shoe!

[Tikipu brings it. Pee-Ah-Bee hits him with it and puts it on. Hiti-Titi while roaming round the room picks up a sign-board with a hole in it, and considers it for a while with his back to the others.

Hiti. Hanky ... Hanky-panky.... Does the honourable Mr. Han-Kin not hear?

Han. Belated Politeness, did you speak?

Hiti. Humbleness begs to inquire what Hoki-poki at the tea-shop said, when you took him his sign-board a month behind time?

Han. He was out.

Hiti. And so with honourable caution, to secure payment, we brought it back again?

Han. No ... we left it.

Hiti. And he, putting his favourable foot into it, has returned it.... Allow me to present you with the signed article:—The Hocus-pocus of Hanky-panky by Hoki-poki. [Presents sign-board.] That’s art-criticism!

Han. [Indifferently.] My usual fate: too good for the public taste.

Pee. Yes—so Mrs. Back-of-the-House thought. It was she who put her foot through it.

Han. Elephant! Grey-mare elephant!

[Attempts to preserve his look of high disdain.

Voice. [Without.] Anything to shell to-day?

Enter Josi-Mosi.

Josi. Any bits, chips, scraps, rag, bone, old clothes? Not any? Mr. Olangtsi seems not at home.

New. Well, if he is you can’t see him. You take your judicious hook!

Josi. Don’t want to see him.... Shay! no honourable gentleman got nothing to—er—to—eh? Not got any old oil-skins, any old frames, any old lanterns, any old pictures not quite de fashion? ... any old ...

Han. Here! What will indigent Avarice give me for that?

[Offers damaged sign-board.

Josi. Well, if you wash to throw in a pair of old shoes to pay me for my trouble.... Yesh.... I’d take it.

Han. Humble but conscious Merit is much obliged. If it means no business, exalted Abasement had better clear out. There’s work going on here—see?

Josi. Work?

Han. Yes, work, unpaid, and over-time!

Josi. Huh! Shuppose it wash you, den, sittin’ up here at work wid a light all last night? eh? and till de morning—and de night before dat too, ugh?

[Tikipu stops guiltily, raises his head, and listens.

Tee. Working all last ni——? Not in here?

Josi. It wash in here!

Tee. Tikipu, don’t you still sleep here? Who was that?

Tiki. [With confusion.] That was Mr. Olangtsi. He’s very busy getting his new picture finished.

Lil. At night!

Tiki. Yes!—but—but he doesn’t want any one to know.... O honourable young Masters, he would be very angry were you to say I told you!

Tee. Does Mare’s-nest-Invention mean to tell me that superannuated Capacity goes painting at night?

Tiki. Oh, yes ... I know it.... Broken-slumber is kept awake by it.

Josi. And all dat trouble over putting a bit of paint and paper togedder!

Tee. Painting is a wonderful art, Mr. Josi-Mosi.

Josi. Ish it?

Tee. A picture is a very wonderful thing.

Josi. Ish it?

Tee. Yes ... sometimes.... That picture illustriously behind you now,—you know the story about that?

Josi. I knew dere wash a story: I never knew dat anybody believed it—except to keep up de price.

Tee. Ah! you should get Tikipu to tell it you! He believes it ... don’t you, Tiki?

Tiki. The Master himself tells it.

Hiti. The Master himself owns the picture, stupid! But go on!—I always like to hear it again.

Josi. Yesh, go on!

Tiki. You see, it was very long ago. It is easy not to believe what happened three hundred years ago.

Josi. Yesh—very eashy: I’ve found dat out. Go on!

Tiki. Wiowani, the great painter, when he painted that picture, was old and tired of life, and he longed for rest.... So he painted a little porch, and a garden; and in the porch just one spray of blossom in an old blue jar to remind him of youth, an instrument of music to remind him of song, and overhead a lantern to give light when it grew dark.... And when the picture was done the Emperor himself came to look at it.... And, as he looked, he said: ‘Oh, Wiowani, in there, it seems to me, is rest! Would that you and I could go and live in a place like that for ever!’

And while he spoke the lantern began to glow.

Softly shedding its light on the floor below.

And the garden beyond grew dim, form within form,

But all the porch was brimming and bright and warm,—

A home with its doors thrown wide for a well-loved guest.

And out of the dusk of the garden a wind came, blest

With the scent of flowers, all cool from the rising dew;

And lo,—in its depth at last,—there, born anew,

The picture passed, and was changed to a world of rest!

Tee. [Derisively.] Oh, go on, Tikipu, go on, go on!

Tiki.

Then, all at once, Wiowani reached a hand:

‘Come,’ he said, ‘come with me! for this is the land

You seek, and thither I go!’

And into the picture he stept, and turning slow

Watched to see

Whether the Emperor would follow, or no.

Follow? Not he!—Not having the soul

Of a painter, how could he reach the goal?

So Wiowani went in by the door,

Stood, and beckoned, then turned about

And vanished away!

And the light of the lantern faded out

As fades a star at the dawn of day;

And the picture was only a picture once more!

Josi. Ugh!... It’s a very intereshting shtory; but I don’t happen to want to buy de picture—even with Mr. Wiowani thrown in.

Han. That’s a stupid story, you know. What business has a picture with any perspective? You might as well talk of walking into a piece of music as walking into a picture!

Hiti. Ah! you are an old-fashioned purist, Han-Kin.

Han. I’m not: I am simply a scientist. Latest science says that you can’t tell whether a thing is flat or round at twenty feet distance from the eye. Stereoscopic sight is a mere accident, and only means that you have got too close to an object to treat it artistically. Paint your foregrounds as if they were twenty feet away, and keep your distances as flat as the palm of your hand,—and there you have art and science rolled into one!

Tee. Ah, Han-Kin has been reading the old legend—the oldest of all—and he calls himself a scientist!

Han. What old legend?

Tee. How the gods of the first creation made everything flat, and put it into a picture-book which they called the Book of Life, so that they could just turn over the leaves and amuse themselves without any trouble.

Lil. Yes,—and then one day they left it out in the rain, and it got wet and began to push out of bounds, and grow and swell in all directions. And so we got the world as it is—full of ups and downs, and behinds and befores, and corners that you can’t see round. Horrible, untidy, disgusting!

New. Well, but what can an artist do? He must copy it!

Lil. Copy it! Where does Repeating-pattern find art in that? Mere pig on pork I call it. What art has to do is—put things back into shape as the gods originally intended. Make your picture submissively flat—and there you’ve got religious art. A picture that looks as if you could walk into it makes me sick. Who wants to walk into it? Wiowani was an exalted ass to my thinking.

Hiti. Any way he wasn’t an impressionist, that’s one comfort.

Han. And how does comforted Ignorance define an impressionist?

Hiti. Any blinkered fool who can’t see an outline, and couldn’t draw it if he did.

[Grins through damaged sign-board.

Han. If presumptuous Incapacity imagines that innuendo can prevent art from following science—

Tee. Oh, it’s no use quarrelling about theories. We all paint either what we think will tell, or what we think will sell:—those are the only two schools I know of. If you are a naturalist, you paint pink flesh and green trees.

New. Naturally!

Tee. If a luminist,—blue flesh and pink trees.

Han. Certainly!

Tee. If a symbolist,—green flesh and brown trees. If you are a vibrantist you see spots, if a chiaroscurist you see blots, if you are academic you use hard outlines and polished surfaces and call it ‘finish.’

Lil. No, I don’t!

Hiti. Yes, he does!

Tee. If an impressionist you avoid outlines, leave an accidental surface, and call it ‘quality.’ But you all really see exactly alike——

All. We don’t!

Tee. The thing is sometimes to avoid seeing. Pee-Ah-Bee does it by screwing his nose into his canvas and painting by his sense of touch.

Hiti. Don’t be touchy, Pee-Ah-Bee; your nose was there,—there’s paint on it.

Tee. Hanky-panky does it at arm’s length with his eyes shut,—finding his accidental effects so much better than his scientific ones. New-Lyn does it on sea-air and pilchards,—wears a tarpaulin, and paints with a catspaw in a south-west wind.

New. I do it on my own, anyhow!

Pee. While Tee-Pee’s art consists in always starting brilliantly on some new sort of paper, putting his initials on it and then dropping it for another sort.

Josi. And Mrs. Back-of-de-House does like Mr. Wiowani: as soon as a picture is finished she walks into it.

[General laughter.

Lil. Sh-h-h!

[Within the house Mrs. Olangtsi’s voice is heard raised in anger, loud and voluble. All slink back to their places. Josi-Mosi shuffles off with his pickings to a corner. Enter Mrs. Olangtsi, followed by Olangtsi. Mrs. Olangtsi threads her way through obsequiously shifted easels towards Tikipu, and fetches him a box on the ear.

Mrs. O. Take that!

[Tikipu winces, but goes on grinding, glancing round apprehensively as she retires. Olangtsi follows at her heels, showing himself a careful understudy of all her masterful ways.

Olang. Yes, that!

[Boxes Tikipu as though the initiative were his own.

Mrs. O. [To Students.] So you pretend you’ve all been hard at work, do you?

Olang. Ay: you may pretend, but you don’t deceive me!

Tee. [Ignoring Olangtsi.] August Lady, we were only correcting Tikipu for his persistent indolence. The commotion which you heard just now was caused by his resistance. We now perceive that correction on our part was superfluous.

Olang. Superfluous? Of course! I can chastise Tikipu for myself—as much as I think necessary:—that is, with assistance from the right quarter. Gentlemen, your immediate and polite attention.

Mrs. O. [To Han-Kin, who endeavours to conceal sign-board.] Yes—you’d better put it out of sight! Any more things like that, and out of this shop you go.

Olang. Yes: anything more of that kind, and you leave my studio instantly.

Mrs. O. Shop, I said.

Olang. Studio is more correct.

Mrs. O. Shop!

Olang. Shop, as far as you are concerned, my dear; and—of course—shop as far as he is concerned. Understand:—

Out of this shop

Neck and crop!

That’s a rhyme, my dear.... I don’t know any rhyme to studio.

Mrs. O. Nor I. You’d better begin your lecture instead of wasting time arguing with me.

[Mrs. Olangtsi begins labelling a row of lanterns.

Olang. Yes, yes—as I was about to remark,—Gentlemen, pupils, and—and others, your immediate and polite attention. The instruction it has so long been my assiduous effort to bestow on your—ah—slowly dawning intelligences, is to-day relaxed when at the stroke of noon we start to celebrate the Feast of Lanterns—the Feast of those lanterns which are so largely supplied from this emporium of the arts.

Mrs. O. Shop.

Olang. Yes—as I was saying—shop. But before we turn to scenes of distraction and relaxation I am here once more to remind you of your high and privileged calling in the traditions of Wiowani, the greatest of all the ancient Masters, whose only surviving follower and representative I am, and whose last and greatest masterpiece here stands before you for your instruction.

[Students turn: Nau-Tee knocks over Hiti’s
paint-pot.

Hiti. Propinquitous idiot!

Olang. This august picture, as you all know——

Yung. [Awaking.] I want my tea, I’m waiting for my tea. Tea—Tea—Tea!

Mrs. O. [Going to inner door.] Mee-Mee, bring in the tea! [To Josi.] Oh, you are there, are you? Here, take that rubbish away! [Gives him sign-board.] When’s that money-lender man of yours coming? [Aside.]

Josi. Preshently. He’s going to see de public executions first: den he’ll come.

Yung. Executions? When are the executions, Josi-Mosi?

Josi. Twelve o’clock, of course, before de Feasht commenshes. You’ll see ’em: dey come dish way.

Yung. Phwit! Ha—ha! [Slaps his knee.

Olang. Ach! you low fellow! That wakes you, does it? That amuses you! Oh, what’s the use of trying to make an artist of you?

Yung. [Sulkily.] I didn’t want to be an artist. I wanted to be a grocer. I was a grocer once. I am still.

Olang. How dare you say so? How dare you?

Yung. The certificate says so: I’ve got the certificate. See! That says——[He produces certificate.

Olang. It says nothing! [Snatching it.] Your name is not on it.

Yung. Because you painted it out!

Olang. It no longer concerns you! In future you will please to let it alone. [Pockets it.

Yung. You always disliked me, father!

Olang. I didn’t always dislike you! How dare you say that? I dislike your manners—who wouldn’t? I dislike your appearance, I dislike your tastes, and I dislike your character.... More than that I—I—don’t say.

Yung. [Whimpering.] He’s taken my certificate!

Mrs. O. What have you taken his certificate for? Let him have it, if it amuses him!

Yung. [Whimpering still.] It was red: it had white letters on it, and it said——

Olang. My dear, do you not know that in this country for a grocer to be also an artist is illegal? and can you not see that if you allow him always to go fancying himself a grocer he will never become a painter?

Yung. [Sobbing.] It said——

Mrs. O. No, I can’t; there’s no sense in it! You are always saying what Art wants is imagination. Well—let him practise imagining himself a grocer.

Enter Mee-Mee from house.

Yung. [Weeping.] It said I was to be a grocer, not an artist!

Mrs. O. [To Josi.] Here, you can go! Tell him—as soon after twelve as he can.

Josi. I’ll bring him.

[Exit Josi-Mosi.

Mee. Will any of yo’ Condescensions tea? Have some? [To Yunglangtsi, who on taking it stops weeping.] t’ank!... Have some?... t’ank! [She goes round offering to all in turn in the same words.] Have some?... t’ank!

Mrs. O. [Aside to Olangtsi.] See that they are all gone before he comes!

Olang. Gone? Gone? I shan’t be able to get them to go—not till I have paid them!

Mrs. O. Yes, you will—there’s the execution. Say you’ll pay them to-night.

Olang. I’ve said that sometimes before.

Mrs. O. Say it again! If they don’t believe you, you can shout it; if they still don’t believe you—whisper it.

[Mee-Mee, coming behind, waits for Mrs. Olangtsi’s attention.

Olang. Will that——?

Mrs. O. Yes, if you do it properly.

Mee. High hon’ble Mrs. Back-of-de-House not have any?

Mrs. O. No! Take it away!

Mee. Not any next nice new order? No? T’ank!

[Crosses to Tikipu. He shakes his head apprehensively.

Mrs. O. What are you doing there?

Mee. Mos’ hon’ble! only to make it go de whole way roun’—not to waste it.

Mrs. O. Take it away! Go and get my shoes ready, and my big sunshade, so that I can get out before the shops shut. [Exit Mee-Mee.] Tikipu, as soon as you’ve done what you are at, take round those lanterns; the labels are all on them. Don’t leave them at the wrong doors; and mind, whatever they say, you’re to wait for the money.

Olang. Yes, recollect you are to wait for the money.

Mrs. O. Now, Olangtsi, you can get on with your lecture, and be done with it before I come back.

[Exit into house.

[Signal passes between apprentices and craftsmen: they fold up their easels.

Olang. Gentlemen, your immediate and polite attention.... Where was I? What had I got to?

New. ‘Wait for the money’ was Eloquence’s last hopeful remark. It is what we are all doing now.

Olang. Silence!

Lil. Mr. Olangtsi, we do not want your lecture! We want our wages: those wages which, Apology begs to point out, are in honourable arrears.

Olang. Of course, of course! Well, you shall have your money. [They extend their palms.] Do you think that I am not going to pay you?

[The two students, Hiti-Titi and Nau-Tee, look on grinning.

Han. No ... on the contrary—we think that you are!

Olang. You shall be paid to-night.

Tee. It will then be the Feast, during which, as Affluence is no doubt honourably aware, no legal debt is recoverable. Mr. Olangtsi, labour itself is pleasing to us, but the needful is also necessary. How can we feast if our pockets be empty?

Olang. [Shouts.] I tell you—you shall be paid to-night.

Pee. By to-night Mrs. Back-of-the-House will have returned. Considerate Master, it makes a difference: before you we can uplift the voice of complaint which at the blast of her nostrils becomes dumb.

Olang. [Whispering.] I tell you, you shall be paid to-night.

Han. [After gathering the approval of the others.] We accept. But as an honourable precaution—since in the meanwhile Mrs. Back-of-the-House may have returned—we will save Scrub-and-run-errands the trouble of delivering those lanterns. We will deliver them ourselves—and collect the money!

Olang. Indeed you will do no such thing! Tikipu, take in those lanterns!

[Tikipu is set upon. He holds the lanterns over his head. His arm is dragged down.

Olang. But, gentlemen, this will be very awkward for me! I consider it a most—a most ungentlemanly proceeding! When my wife hears of it she will——

Re-enter Mrs. Olangtsi. They all collapse back into their places.

Mrs. O. Tikipu, bring on those lanterns and call a coolie. I’ll see to them myself. [Exit Tikipu with lanterns.] Oh, so the lecture’s finished, is it? Well, then, you’d better all get on with your work; and you, Olangtsi, you come with me!... You can all go at twelve.

[Meekly followed by Olangtsi, she sallies forth into street.

Tee. Well, really!

Han. If that green Elephant thinks that she can trample upon me!

Hiti. Dear Hanky-pancake—she has done it!

Lil. Oh, don’t talk about it, it’s too consecutively sickening!

Enter Mee-Mee. She clears away cups, looking
inquiringly at each student as she does so.

Mee. H’m! Me t’ink you all velly sad to-day?

Tee. [Lugubriously.] It’s the Feast of Lanterns, Mee-Mee.

Mee. H’m! Dat not sad.

New. Yes it is, if you’ve no money to spend on it.

Re-enter Tikipu. He goes back to his work, ignoring Mee-Mee.

Mee. What for you want to spend money? You talk, you walk, you run about and you play, you sing and you dance. Dat evellyt’ing to make you happy—in de worl’.

Lil. How can one sing if one has nothing to sing about?

Mee. You sing about yo’self. All de worl’ sing about itself: how nice to be oneself. Dat not true? I sing—I show you! [She prepares centre of stage for dance and song.] Dis goin’ to be velly beautiful, but it cost not’ing! Dere’s a river; dere’s a lily; an’ dis is me—and dere is you all lookin’ like ducks on de water. Yes.... Now!

[Takes guitar and sings.

‘Will you have a sing-song, a lill’-song, a long-song?’

Cly de ducks aquacking on de Ying-Kai banks.

Any song dat you sing—sho’ to be de wrong song?

‘S’all I no sing you any song?’—No, t’anks!

Lill’ golden lily, dat is lying in de water,

Golden lily willy-nilly holding to de banks;

Lift up yo’ head an’ see de Chi’man’s daughter;

Tip-toe she go—just so. No, t’anks!

Lill’ golden lily, wid yo’ open eye a-winking,

All de while you wonder why de worl’ so ill at ease!

What has you been hopin’ fo’? What has you been t’inking?

What you say you want? Pick-me-quick? Yes, please!