When Ada Stew was seventeen
No shyer girl was ever seen;
Her diffidence, her bashful mien,
Astonished each beholder.
As waitress at a Corner-House,
Demure and timid as a mouse,
She served the drumstick of a grouse,
The mutton's leg or shoulder,
With such an air of coy reserve
The gayest patrons lost their nerve.

Her skin was white as driven snow,
Yet, when she blushed, her cheeks would grow
Incarnadined, her gills would glow
As rosy as the mullet.
If spoken to a trifle sharp,
Her mouth she'd open like a carp,
While sounds as of some Hebrew harp
Would issue from her gullet,
Till customers exclaimed: " Poor fish! "
And left a tip beneath the dish.

Into that Corner-House, one day,
Two strangers from the USA
Were led by Providence to stray,
In search of food and solace.
Their tempers were distinctly sour,
For they had wasted half an hour
Viewing The Abbey and The Tow'r,
The Mint, The Tate, The Wallace,
And, wearied out, they wandered in
And called for clams and terrapin.

The latter was, alas! a word
That Ada Stew had never heard;
She wondered, was it beast or bird
For which they were applying?
But with a recollection dim
Of reading in some psalm or hymn
Of terrapin and seraphim
Continually crying,
She dropped her tray of Lager beers
And burst into a flood of tears.

Said Gus P. Sckunk: " This burg is bum!
Its food is punk, its dames are dumb! "
" I'll tell the world! " said Al K. Sckum,
His fellow film producer;
Then, to the Nippy at his side
Whose tears were flowing like the tide,
" Say, baby, what's your name? " he cried.
She answered: " Ada Stew, sir! "
She wept as though her heart would break.
The Corner-House became a lake.

Al looked at Gus, and Gus at Al.
" We've searched the earth to find a gal
Sufficiently ee-mo-tion- al
To suit our noo production,
And see what Fate hands out to us!
I guess this pop-eyed Jane, " said Gus,
" Has got a goldarned ge-ni-us
For lachrymal effluxion! "
" I'll tell the world! " said Al K. Sckum,
Then turned to Ada and said: " Come! "

They whisked her off to Hollywood
Where, as may well be understood,
Her sobstuff qualities made good
And as a " star " she glittered.
The tears she spouted like a tap
Washed all her rivals off the map,
And movie-fans were forced to clap
(While only groundlings tittered)
When Ada Stew was billed, one day,
As " Adelina Fricassee. "

Then " Talkies " took the world by storm;
No longer would the public swarm
To gaze at simple grace of form
Or mere expressive features.
But when poor Adelina spoke,
Her voice the harshest echoes woke,
She seemed (if you'll excuse a joke)
The meanest of God's screechers!
She cracked the discs of gramophones
That sought to reproduce her tones.

Said Gus P. Sckunk to Al K. Sckum,
Seizing a wad of chewing-gum
Between his forefinger and thumb,
And parking it discreetly:
" By Heck! We've spilt the beans! We're sunk!
We gotta scrap this vocal junk!
Say, Adelina, " added Sckunk,
Addressing Ada sweetly,
" You've been rechristened Adenoid!
You'd best go join the Unemployed! "

Last summer, just by chance, I went
To a cathedral town in Kent,
And sought (on light refreshment bent)
" Ye Cosy Corner Tea-shoppe " ;
And there — ah, could it be her ghost? —
I saw a well-known form engrossed
In serving tepid buttered toast
To a Colonial Bishop.
Was this the Fricassee I knew,
Once more, alas! reduced to Stew?

How sad is glory in eclipse!
A question trembled on my lips,
And though a notice said " No Tips "
(The tea-shop was Victorian),
I passed a silver coin across:
" Tell me about Los Angelos, "
I asked. She gave her head a toss
While, like a true Gregorian,
The Bishop cried: " Excuse me, please!
Non Angelos sed Angeles! "

Moral

Though hard indeed may be the choice
'Twixt beauty and a lovely voice,
Each Cockney maiden must rejoice
To read my tragic story,
To learn that there are gifts more rare
Than grace of form or features fair,
And though, maybe, her shingled hair
Is woman's crowning glory,
Her chances can be much improved
By having adenoids removed!