I have out of action for the past four months, so I have only just come across the new forum and I welcome it.
I cannot find this piece on the site, so here is contribution from a long-time member of the old forum.
The Bath-Chairman (Frank Wood and Charles Winter)
“If I could sing, which I know I can’t, So I own up fair and square,
But if I could I’d sing a song in praise of the old bath-chair.
When instead of motor cars they used our chairs as a matter of course,
With a man instead of that noble h’animal namely the ‘orse.
We pulled the weight jest like a ‘orse, we stood the ‘eat and fatigue,
We ought to be life members of the Dumb Friends bloomin’ league.
Ah, they were the days when titled swells and nobs of every kind,
Would set behind me while I pulled, yuss, not in front - behind.
I’ve knowed the time when round the square we stood in rows and rows,
Or jazzed along on a ten-bob job for a Dook with gouty toes.
But now there ‘ave been times I’ve thought my chair I’d ‘ave to porn,
I’m like ‘Old Fellow’ in the play - my occupation’s gorn.
They go out now in motor cars with shovers dressed in red,
And send their little fancy dorgs to take their place instead.
I don’t mind tellin’ yer I’m glad dorgs only bark and squeak,
For it’s nothing less than Providence that little dorgs can’t speak.
So now I don’t ‘ave Duchesses dressed in their finest togs,
I’m like a man wot’s down and out - ‘Gorn to the bloomin’ dorgs’.
“There’s one I ‘ave, ‘is name is Pat, I often take ‘im out,
‘Is Missis used to come ‘erself, but now she’s got too stout.
An’ so she puts ‘im in my care - she’d trust me in the dark,
She says, “Now take the little darlin’ mite for an airin’ in the Park.”
An’ then she gives a lovin’ kiss (to the dog I mean, not me),
An’ off I goes with a promise to bring ‘im back by three.
Well, fust I pull ‘im gentle, till I’m fifty yards away,
An’ then I finds myself by chance outside the “Load Of ‘Ay.”
This pub’s a ‘andy little place, an’ quite unknown to ‘er,
It’s like a h’imitation seal-skin coat - ‘cos it ain’t fur.
I goes inside and takes old Pat an’ drops ‘im on the floor,
Or anchors ‘im to a spittoon, or I ties ‘im to the door.
An’ then I sits an’ ‘as a smoke an’ jaw to all my pals,
About old times, when I took out fine ladies, gents and gals.
I gives old Pat a taste of beer - ‘e knows wot’s good ‘e does,
‘E laps it up like mother’s milk an’ ‘is brain begins to buzz.
‘E ‘ops about, an’ scrumps around for bits of cheese and rhine,
We sit an’ roar at all ‘is tricks - it’s like a pantomime.
‘E ‘ears our conversations as ‘e’s ‘eard it every week,
An’ I don’t arf thank Providence that little dorgs can’t speak.
‘E gets no draughts o’ sweet fresh air from the Park or Rotten Row,
The draught ‘e gets is off the draught beer in the cellar down below.
Then, just before they chuck us out. I stand ‘im in the ‘earth,
An’ then perform my master stroke - The Order Of The Bath.
I take a can o’ water an’ I empts it over ‘im,
An’ says, “Now Pat, my bonny boy, you’ve ‘ad a lovely swim.”
Then, while ‘e’s damp and curly-like, I sets ‘im on the chair,
An’ delivers ‘im all safe at the ‘ouse in Berkley Square.
‘Is Missis goes near mad with joy - ‘e is so fresh and free,
“’E always is the same,” I says, When ‘e goes out with me.”
I don’t let on ‘e’s broke the pledge, no, that ‘ud not be fair,
I sez, “It’s ‘ere you want it, Mum, and Pat ‘as got it there.
‘E loves the sunshine, that ‘e do, an’ trees an’ grass an’ that,
Besides ‘e’s ‘ad a lovely little swim, now, ain’t you Pat?”
Then she pays up, I says “Good Day, I’ll call for ‘im next week.”
An’ then I murmurs, “Struth what luck that little dorgs can’t speak.”