Over there, above the jetty, stands the mansion of the Vardens,
With a tennis ground and terrace, and a flagstaff in the gardens:
They are gentlemen and ladies, theyve been toffs for generations,
But old Vardens been unlucky, lost a lot in speculations.
Troubles gathered fast upon him when the mining bubble busted,
Then the bank suspended payment, where his little all he trusted;
And the butcher and the baker sent their bills in when they read it,
Even John, the Chow that served him, has refused to give him cledit.
And the daughters of the Vardens, they are beautiful as Graces,
But the balconys deserted, and they rarely show their faces;
And the swells of their acquaintance never seem to venture near them,
And the bailiff says they seldom have a cup of tea to cheer them.
They were butterflies, I always was a common caterpillar,
But Im sorry for the ladies over there in Tony Villa,
Shut up there in Tony Villa with the bailiff and their trouble;
And the dried-up reservoir, where my tears were seems to bubble.
Mrs. Rooney thinks it nothing when she sends a brat to borry
Just a pinch of tea and sugar till the grocer comes temorry;
But its difrent with the Vardens, they would starve to death as soon as
Knuckle down. You know, they werent raised exactly like the Rooneys!
There is gossip in the boxes and the drawing-rooms and gardens,
Have you heard of Vardens failure? Have you heard about the Vardens?
And no doubt each toney mother on the Point across the waters
Mighty glad about the downfall of the rivals of her daughters.
(Tho the poets and the writers say that man to mans inhuman,
Im inclined to think its nothing to what woman is to woman,
More especially, the ladies, save perhaps a fellows mother;
And I think that men are better, they are kinder to each other.)
Theres a youngster by the jetty gathering cinders from the ashes,
He was known as Master Varden ere the great financial crashes.
And his manner shows the difrence twixt the nursry and gutter,
But Ive seen him at the grocers buying half a pound of butter.
And his mother fights her trouble in the house across the water,
She is just as proud as Varden, though she was a cockys daughter;
And at times I think I see her with the flickring firelight oer her,
Sitting pale and straight and quiet, gazing vacantly before her.
Theres a slight and girlish figure, Vardens youngest daughter, Nettie,
On the terrace after sunset, when the boat is near the jetty;
She is good and pure and pretty, and her rivals dont deny it,
Though they say that Nettie Varden takes in sewing on the quiet.
(How her sister graced the circle, all unconscious of a lover
In the seedy god who watched her from the gallery above her!
Shade of Poverty was on him, and the light of Wealth upon her,
But perhaps he loved her better than the swells attending on her.)
Theres a white mans heart in Varden, spite of all the blue blood in him,
There are working men who wouldnt stand and hear a word agin him;
But his name was never printed by the side of his donations,
Save on hearts that have, in this world, very humble circulations.
He was never stiff or hoggish, he was affable and jolly,
And hed always say Good morning to the deck hand on the Polly;
He would barrack with the newsboys on the Quay across the ferry,
And hed very often tip em coming home a trifle merry.
But his chin is getting higher, and his features daily harden
(He will not give up possession, theres a lot of fight in Varden);
And the way he steps the gangway! oh, you couldnt but admire it!
Just as proud as ever hero walked the plank aboard a pirate!
He will think about the hardships that his girls were never useter,
And it must be mighty heavy on the thoroughbred old rooster;
But hell never strike his colours, and I tell a lying tale if
Vardens pride dont kill him sooner than the bankers or the bailiff.
You remember when we often had to go without our dinners,
In the days when Pride and Hunger fought a finish out within us;
And how Pride would come up groggy, Hunger whooping loud and louder,
And the swells are proud as we are; they are just as proud, and prouder.
Yes, the toffs have grit, in spite of all our sneering and our scorning,
Whats the crowd? Whats that? God help us!, Varden shot himself this morning! . . . .
Therell be gossip in the circle, in the drawing-rooms and gardens;
But Im sorry for the family; yes, Im sorry for the Vardens.