The Bay and Padie Book

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Title: The Bay and Padie Book
Kiddie Songs
Author: Furnley Maurice
Illustrator: Vera Hamilton
Cyril Dobbs
Release Date: June 20, 2007 [EBook #21874]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
0. START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BAY
AND PADIE BOOK ***
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"Do you like ours 'n' father's new book, Bay?"
"Aw, there's not any picture of the Santa-cart written in it!"
Oh!
What a lot of lots of things
For little boys to like!
[Illustration: So Bay doesn't stay in the stars any more]

THE BAY AND PADIE BOOK
The Writer wishes to thank the Editor of "The Bulletin," Sydney, for
permission to reprint "Nonsense Immortal," and the Editor of "The
Triad," Sydney, for a similar courtesy regarding "Kitchen Lullaby" and
"Little Boys."
The
BAY AND PADIE
BOOK
KIDDIE SONGS
By
FURNLEY MAURICE
Illustrations by
VERA HAMILTON
and
CYRIL DOBBS
Commonwealth of Australia
Sydney J. Endacott
Melbourne
1917
[Illustration: Signature: Sydney J. Endacott]
First Edition November 1917 Second Edition February 1918
Wholly set up and printed in Australia at the Galleon Press,
Norris-street, Surrey Hills, Vic., for Sydney J. Endacott, 14
Cumming-street, Moonee Vale, Vic.
THE SHADOW SHOW
Trains with wheels and clouds of smoke,
Funny crowds of dodging
folk,
Trams that run along with sparks,
Sofa games and pillow larks,

Grubs and ponies, worms and tigers,
Sparrows on the tree,
Oh!

What a lot of lots of things
For little boys to see!
Aeroplanes and paper darts,
Woodmen driving broken carts,

Minahs on the chimney tops,
Swallows dodging near the shops,

Barking pups that make the postman
Fall down off his bike;
Oh!

What a lot of lots of things
For little boys to like!

Great big pictures in big books,
Pastry from the pastrycook's,

Circuses and Mentone sand,
Musics of the soldier band,
Chocolates
wrapped in silver paper
So they won't get wet;
Oh!
What a lot of
lots of things
For little boys to get!
THE SOLDIER BAND
My mother and my father are both having tea to drink;
Inside the
pastry shop they saw me last.
They don't know where I've got to, for
I've runned from where they think; I heard the soldier band go
marching past.
Oh, tiddley--om--ti--pomp they go! Stamp soldier, stamp!
A
cab-horse jumped into the air and bumped against a lamp.
Ta--rah--ra--rah, the trumpets go telling the boys to come, And always
and all the time, bang goes the drum.
Look at their lovely leather legs! The big brass things they blow! I don't
care where I walk or who I meet,
I'm following the band away to
where the musics grow,
I'm hitting my boots heavy on the street.
For I must find the music man that lets them play so loud, And find the
funny place where soldiers go
To fill their trumpets with the noise
they blow among the crowd-- It's not a tea and pastry shop I know.
Oh, I must find the music place, and stamp along the track, And try to
let no trams run over me;
If I'm a long, long way from home, the band
will play me back, That's if I'm good and never spill my tea.
When I grow up a soldier man, I'll buy a pole to wag,
With silver top
and tassels red and blue;
I'll tell my little brother to be carrying the
flag,
While I call out and tell him how to do.
I don't know where my father is, I've left him in a shop, And if I'm lost
there's bound to be a noise;
If fathers want their children, they should
make the policeman stop The music of the bands that steal the boys.

Oh, tiddley--om--ti--pomp they go! Stamp, soldier, stamp! A captain
with a silver sword is marching them to camp.
Ta--rah--ra--rah, the
trumpets go, telling the boys to come, And always and all the time,
bang goes the drum.
INVALID
Raid, raid, go away,
Dote cub back udtil I say,
That wote be for
beddy a day.
Ad wot's the good of sudlight, dow?
When I ab kept id bed,
Ad
rubbed ad poultised for to cure
The cold that's id be head?
I've beed out od the kitched lawd,
With dothig od be feet,
Ad
subthig's coffig id be deck
Ad all be head's a heat.
Tell Bay to dot bake such a doise;
Dote rud the cart so hard!
For
tissudt fair, just wud of us
To rud arowd the yard.
Ad wed I try to say a tale,
Or sig a little sog,
The coffig cubs idtoo
be deck
Ad tickles dredful strog.
Ad wed is father cubbig obe?
He'd dot be log he said--
If this is jist
a cold it