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No. 7 - Quartette and Chorus - "The Lay of the Merry Ha! Ha!"

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Snodgrass: Some years ago a little bird
As censor posed on men.
Arabella: When anything absurd occurred
Its laughter sounded then.
Polly: With mocking melody 'twas fraught
When ridicule was needed.
Pickwick: The echo of its laugh we've caught,
And use it just as he did.
Ah! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Polly: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Snod.: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Arabella: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Pickwick: And ev'ry pose and peculiarity
Will find it's greeted with hilarity;
Chorus: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
   
Polly: That lay is sung to boasters
Who their wond'rous deeds relate.
Snod.: And people who by boring you
Your feelings irritate.
Pickwick: I must say that is great.
Arabella: When proud young fathers rave about
Their ever-lasting baby,
Pickwick: This little song will help you out,
By now you've learned it, may be.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Polly: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Snod.: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Arabella: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Pickwick: When the laugh's on us we're loud in abusing it,
But in our turn we're very fond of using it.
Chorus: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
   
Arabella: The lady with the worn-out voice
Who'll stand for hours and chant,
Snod. The kindest of us will rejoice
When she catches cold and can't.
Polly: Your sweetheart's little brothers too,
Who watch you both like weasels.
Pickwick: You sing this song, I know you do,
When they get mumps or measles.
Ah! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Polly: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Snod.: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Arabella: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Pickwick: In a case like this with unanimity
Men throw away their magnanimity.
Chorus: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
   
Polly: The parvenu who goes abroad,
Whom ev'rybody hates,
Snod.: Who says his father is a lord,
And talks of dukes and mates.
Pickwick: And brags of his estates.
Arabella: How quickly his pretensions drop
When some one says: "How silly!"
Pickwick: Your father keeps a tailor's shop
In Bond Street, Piccadilly.
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Polly: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Snod.: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Arabella: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.
Pickwick: I've always given him the preference,
So call on me when in need of a reference.
Chorus: Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

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