I KNOW a sheaf of splendid songs by heart
Which stir the blood or move the soul to tears,
Of death or honour or of love's sweet smart,
The runes and legends of a thousand years;
And some of them go plaintively and slow,
And some are jolly like the earth in May —
But this is really the best song I know:
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.

I sang it in a house-boat on the Dart
To several members of the House of Peers.
The Editor of the Exchange and Mart
(A man of taste) stood up and led the cheers.
I carolled it at Christmas in the snow,
I hummed it on my summer holiday —
Doh-ray-me-fah-sol-la-fah-me-ray-doh —
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.

It made a gathering of Fabians start
And put their fingers in their outraged ears.
They did not understand my subtle art,
But though they only gave me scoffs and jeers,
I sang my ditty high, I sang it low,
I sang it every known (and unknown) way —
Crescendo, forte, pianissimo —
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.

L'Envoi

Prince, if by some amazing fluke you go
To heaven, you'll hear the shawms and citherns play,
And all the trumpets of the angels blow
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay.