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The World’s Wit and Humor: An Encyclopedia in 15 Volumes. 1906.

William Schwenck Gilbert (1836–1911)

Lorenzo de Lardy

From “Bab Ballads”


An officer, late of the Guards,

Lorenzo de Lardy, a lord,

A personal friend of the bards.

Dalilah de Dardy was fat,

Dalilah de Dardy was old

(No doubt in the world about that),

But Dalilah de Dardy had gold.

Lorenzo de Lardy was tall,

The flower of maidenly pets;

Young ladies would love at his call,

But Lorenzo de Lardy had debts.

His money-position was queer,

And one of his favourite freaks

Was to hide himself three times a year

In Paris, for several weeks.

Many days didn’t pass him before

He fanned himself into a flame,

For a beautiful “Damsel Compterore,”

And this was her singular name:

Alice Eulalie Coraline

Euphrosine Colombina Thérèse

Juliette Stephanie Célestine

Charlotte Russe de la Sauce Mayonnaise.

She booked all the orders and tin,

Accoutred in showy fal-lal,

At a two-fifty restaurant, in

The glittering Palais Royal.

He’d gaze in her orbit of blue,

Her hand he would tenderly squeeze,

But the words of her tongue that he knew

Were limited strictly to these:

“Coraline Célestine Eulalie,

Houp-là! Je vous aime, oui, mossoo,

Combien donnez-moi aujourd’hui

Bonjour, mademoiselle, parlez-voo.”

Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise

Was a witty and beautiful miss,

Extremely correct in her ways,

But her English consisted of this:

“Oh, my! pretty man, if you please,

Blom boodin, biftek, currie lamb,

Bouldogue, two franc half, quite ze cheese,

Rosbif, me speak Angleesh, godam.”

He’d gaze in her eyes all the day,

Admiring their sparkle and dance,

And list while she rattled away

In the musical accents of France.

A waiter, for seasons before,

Had basked in her beautiful gaze,

And burnt to dismember Milor,

He loved De la Sauce Mayonnaise.

He said to her: “Méchante Thérèse,

Avec dèsespoir tu m’accables,

Penses-tu, De la Sauce Mayonnaise,

Ses intentions sont honorables?

“Flirte toujours, ma belle, si tu oses.

Je me vengerai ainsi, ma chère:

Je lui dirai de quoi on compose

Vol au vent à la Financère!”

Lord Lardy knew nothing of this—

The waiter’s devotion ignored,

But he gazed on the beautiful miss,

And he never seemed weary or bored.

The waiter would screw up his nerve,

His fingers he’d snap and he’d dance,

And Lord Lardy would smile and observe:

“How strange are the customs of France!”

Well, after delaying a space,

His tradesmen no longer would wait;

Returning to England apace,

He yielded himself to his fate.

Lord Lardy espoused, with a groan,

Miss Dardy’s developing charms.

And agreed to tag on to his own,

Her name and her newly found arms.

The waiter he knelt at the toes

Of an ugly and thin coryphée,

Who danced in the hindermost rows

At the Théâtre des Variétés.

Mademoiselle de la Sauce Mayonnaise

Didn’t yield to a gnawing despair,

But married a soldier, and plays

As a pretty and pert vivandière.