Ernest Charles Jones

A Fine Young Foreign Gentleman

     A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE.

I'll sing you a song of the modern time—when
      honesty grows rare,
Of the fine young foreign gentleman, with his
      long and curly hair;
He lives in a garret up six pair—with table,
      bed, and chair,
And a bit of glass in the window-pane, to comb
      his curly hair.
But if you want to call on him, you'll never
      find out where.
Oh, the fine young foreign gentleman, with his
      long and curly hair.

He's an old box filled with sand and stones,
      which he calls his portmanteau,
And a shirt that's sometimes meant for use,
      and another meant for show;
And a hat that's good, for that he stole at an
      evening-rout you know.
A chain and ring, and brooch and pin, and
      watch that dos'nt go;
A coat, that never gets the worse, and waist-
      coat rich and rare.
Oh! the fine young foreign gentleman, with
      his long and curly hair.

'Tis true he speaks no English word, but he
      ogles, sighs, and sings,
Eats an enormous dinner too, but he utters
      nameless things.
He glides about all noiselessly, and such sweet
      nonsense flings,
Like an angel hovering round about, with
      whiskers for his wings;
And eyes that have the faculty to spy you
      everywhere,
Like a fine young foreign gentleman, with his
      long and curly hair.

And when you find him making love to your
      wife or daughter fair,
And just by way of a gentle hint you kick him
      down the stairs,
And you think he's gone away for good, to hide
      the Lord knows where,
On some fine day of spring at last, if you happen
      to be there,
You'll find him in your drawing-room, upon
      your easy chair,
Oh! the fine young foreign gentleman, with
      his long and curly hair.