In my wayward youth I did spend time carousing in pubs and in the rugby season my friends and I would head off to one of our favourite pubs and, once we had consumed an appropriate amount of alcoholic liquid, we would entertain ourselves, and many of the other patrons, with a variety of what were called “rugby songs”.
These were ribald rhymes which, depending on company, could be very ribald indeed.
One of these was a song called “After the Ball” telling the tale of the belle of the ball returning to her room well after midnight and slowly removing all the accoutrements she had used to improve her looks before heading off for the ball.
There were many versions but most of them began with:
After the ball was over, after the break of dawn, After the dancers' leaving, after the stars are gone; Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all; Many the hopes that have vanished, after the ball.
The verses that followed were varied with the name of the belle changing depending on the performers.
One example was:
After the ball was over, Bonnie took out her glass eye, Put her false teeth in water, Hung up her wig to dry Put her peg leg in the corner, Hung her tin ear on the wall Then what was left of poor Bonnie Crawled into bed - after the ball.
As in many rugby songs there were embellishments as each verse was sung and poor Bonnie would put more and more of her artificial adornments on hooks and dressing tables and in the corners and crannies of her bedroom.
I leave you to imagine how far down that road we rugby fans could go,
Yet this extremely bawdy, sexual parody was based on a 19th century song which made its way into films, including Showboat, and even onto a Bing Crosby album.
The point is that the Victorian ballad about lovers torn apart by a misunderstanding was not the true origin of the bawdy song we know and love today. That lies in the 18th century and its author was one of the greatest writers in history – Jonathan Swift (the creator of Lemuel Gulliver and the Lilliputians).
A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed
by Jonathan Swift
Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane, For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain; Never did Covent Garden boast So bright a batter'd strolling Toast; No drunken Rake to pick her up, No Cellar where on Tick to sup; Returning at the Midnight Hour; Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r; Then, seatred on a three-legg'd Chair, Takes off her artificial Hair: Now, picking out a Crystal Eye, She wipes it clean and lays it by. Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide, Stuck on with Art on either Side, Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em, Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em. Now dextrously her Plumpers draws, That serve to fill her hollow Jaws. Untwists a Wire, and from her Gums A Set of Teeth completely comes. Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop Her flabby Dugs and down they drop. Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice; Which by the Operator's Skill, Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill, Up goes her Hand, and off she slips The Bolsters that supply her Hips. With gentlest Touch, she next explores Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores, Effects of many a sad Disaster; And then to each applies a plaister. But must, before she goes to bed, Rub off the dawbs of white and red; And smooth the furrows in her front With greasy paper stuck upon't. She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; And then between two blankets creeps. With pains of love tormented lies; Or, if she chance to close her eyes, Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams, And feels the lash, and faintly screams; Or, by a faithless bully drawn, At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn; Or to Jamaica seems transported, Alone, and by no planter courted; Or, near Fleet-Ditch's oozy brinks, Surrounded with a hundred stinks, Belated, seems on watch to lie, And snap some cully passing by; Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs On watchmen, constables, and duns, From whom she meets with frequent rubs; But, never from religious clubs; Whose favour she is sure to find, Because she pays 'em all in kind. Corinna wakes, A dreadful sight! A wicked rat her plaster stole, Half eat, and dragged it to his hole. The crystal eye, alas was missed; And puss had on her plumpers pissed. A pigeon picked her issue-peas; And Shock her tresses filled with fleas. The nymph, tho' in this mangled plight, Must every morn her limbs unite. But how shall I describe her arts To recollect the scattered parts? Or shew the anguish, toil, and pain Of gath'ring up herself again? The bashful muse will never bear In such a scene to interfere. Corinna in the morning dizened, Who sees, will spew, who smells, be poison'd.
Robin's Nest 