DOBBS IN PARIS
 
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Allow me dear friends to introduce Dobbs,
Who's friendly with all the most fashionable Nobs;
I crossed o'er to Paris, I call it Paree,
Determined that I'd have a tray bong long spree:
My wife said she'd go but said I, "Not for Joe."
'Twould hurt you my dear, the journey's too far,
I was glad, for by Jove, I fell madly in love,
With a Swiss girl who sang and play'd on a guitar.

Chorus: Tru la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.
Tra la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la.

In the Boys de Bologne outside a Cafe,
Like our English Pubs this Swiss damsel would play;
There's no flies about it she was tray jollee,
In English that means very handsome was she;
I'm no Frang say scholar but still I can foller,
And understand what is said to me so far:
But I understood this, that the lovely young Swiss
Had made me in love with her voice and guitar.

Chorus:

To speak to this damsel, thought I, I will try,
Commong voo portee voo Madmoiselle, said I,
Jay no wish to complimong voo 'pon my word;
But voo sing and play bonger than any I've heard,
Ah! mersee Mossoo jay no compronivoo,
The translation of which to our vernacular
Means that she could not see my meaning, so she
Continued to sing and play on her guitar.

Chorus:

I gave this young damsel a couple of francs,
She curtsied so neatly expressing her thanks;
I knew that my French she could not understand,
So in Pantomime offer'd my heart and my hand,
I then snatched a kiss from the lovely young Swiss:
But she seem'd to think I was going too far,
For this sturdy young wench she swore at me in French!,
And knock'd me down flat with her lovely guitar.

Spoken - And walked off to the next Cafe, singing, —

Chorus:

'Tis strange but I ne'er saw La Belle Suisse again,
I search'd over Paree, alas! 'twas in vain;
A stitch in my side now I constantly feel,
In case she's been sent to la horrid Bastille;
My wife says at night, I start up in affright,
That I laugh, talk, and mumble of country's afar,
First I'm hot, then I'm cool, then I act like a fool,
And fancy I'm playing upon a guitar.

Spoken - and singing...

Chorus:

 
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Written and composed by Arthur Lloyd - 1873
Performed by Arthur Lloyd (1840-1904)
From monologues.co.uk Music Hall Lyrics Collection
 
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