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Today’s movie DVDs usually feature, among their bonus extras, deleted scenes. So, in keeping with that tradition,
this note includes two songs that were cut from the original score of Iolanthe. Considering Sullivan’s comments
in his opening night diary about Act 2 dragging, you will not be surprised to find that both songs come from
that Act. The first was sung (according to a New York review) or recited (according to London review) by Lord
Mountararat, in conversation with Phyllis after the Fairy Queen’s solo. She asks how one becomes a peer, and,
for an example, he sings about a genius who had to become a millionaire in order to be recognized for his other
talents. After the song, Lord Tolloler entered. With the song deleted, both now enter together. The music to the
number has been lost.
The other song was a recitative and solo by Strephon when he entered after the Chancellor-Mountararat-Tolloler
comedy trio. He sings about the fine line circumstances can draw between being an influential Lord or being a
wretched pauper. Some reviewers found the song too serious for its context: Gilbert was trying to play Charles
Dickens. They were probably right. The last time we did Iolanthe we included most of the number - and decided
the team made the correct decision to cut it. So, although the music does exist, we are not doing it this time.
Below, you can check out the lyrics (an interesting exercise when you don’t know the tune that goes with them)
and see what you think.
MOUNTARARAT’S SONG ABOUT TALENT
AND THE HOUSE OF LORDS
De Belville was regarded as the Crichton of his age:
His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage:
His poems held a noble rank - although it’s very true
That, being very proper, they were read by very few.
He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the Line,
And even Mister Ruskin came and worshipped at his shrine:
But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high -
The kind of Art men rave about but very seldom buy.
And everybody said, “How can he be repaid -
This very great - this very good - this very gifted man?”
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,
A plan for making everybody’s fortune but his own;
For in business an Inventor’s little better than a fool,
And my highly gifted friend was no exception to the rule.
His poems - people read ’em in the sixpenny Reviews;
His pictures - they engraved ’em in the Illustrated News;
His inventions - they perhaps might have enriched him by degrees,
But all his little income went in Patent Office fees!
So everybody said, “How can he be repaid -
This very great - this very good - this very gifted man?”
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
At last the point was given up in absolute despair,
When a distant cousin died, and he became a millionaire!
With a county seat in Parliament, a moor or two of grouse,
And a taste for making inconvenient speeches in the House.
Then, Government conferred on him the highest of rewards -
They took him from the Commons and they put him in the Lords!
And who so fit to sit in it, deny it if you can,
As this very great - this very good - this very gifted man?
Though I’m more than half afraid that it sometimes may be said
That we never should have revelled in that proper source of pride -
However great his merits - if his cousin hadn’t died!
STREPHON’S SONG ABOUT CLASS
DISTINCTION
My bill has now been read a second time:
His ready vote no Member now refuses;
In verity I wield a power sublime,
And one that I can turn to mighty uses!
What joy to carry, in the very teeth,
Of Ministry, Cross-Bench, and Opposition,
Some rather urgent measures - quite beneath
The ken of patriot and politician.
Fold your flapping wings, soaring Legislature!
Stoop to little things - stoop to Human Nature!
Never need to roam, members patriotic,
Let’s begin at home - crime is no exotic!
Bitter is your bane - terrible your trials -
Dingy Drury Lane! Soapless Seven Dials!
Take a tipsy lout gathered from the gutter -
Hustle him about - strap him to a shutter:
What am I but he, washed at hours stated -
Fed on filagree - clothed and educated?
He’s a mark of scorn - I might be another,
If I had been born of a tipsy mother!
Take a wretched thief through the city sneaking,
Pocket handkerchief ever, ever seeking:
What is he but I robbed of all my chances -
Picking pockets by force of circumstances?
I might be as bad - as unlucky, rather -
If I’d only had Fagin for a father!
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