THE SONG OF THE EXHIBITOR. 



AIR " The Fine Old English Gentleman." 



OH, give me air, and syringe me with waters of Cologne ! 

 Dry as a Hortus siccus, run to seed, and overblown, 

 I try to keep my head up, but down it goes again, 

 Just like those drooping, stooping flowers, well named the 

 sickly men. 



I'm a poor, used-up exhibitor, 



Knocked out of present time. 



I've been to all the flower shows, north, south, and east, and 



west, 

 By rails and roads, with huge van loads of plants I love the 



best ; 

 From dusk to dawn, through night to morn, I've dozed 'mid 



clank and din, 

 And woke, with cramp in both my legs, and bristles on my 



chin. 



I'm a poor, used-up exhibitor, 

 Knocked out of present time. 



Oh, my orchids look most awk'ardly stove plants are stoved-in 



quite 

 Like my Melon, cut up by the judge, a melancholy sight ! 



