Prologue to the Old Vic Pantomime

Of old, when mummers mummed on Christmas Day,
Men did not fear to mix the grave and gay.
When pious tales were played for simple folk,
The Devil danced and Judas was a joke.
We do not dare, in days grown dull and mild,
To be so childish near the Holy Child—
Lest jokes that in the Age of Faith went down
Shock all the unbelievers in the town.
The Devil has too many friends to-day
For us to mock him in the ancient way:
Judas is barred; the Censorship's provisions
Forbid reflections upon politicians.
Should Herod rant, our jest might seem to strike—
—Well, anyone you like—or do not like;
Secular things have more solemnity
Than things held sacred in the days gone by:
And new scribes wait to watch the holiest die
Who cannot mock, but only crucify.

But pardon us if, joining faith and laughter,
We put the wisdom first, the folly after.
And taking hymn and dance one at a time,
Have first the play and then the pantomime.
You have seen how men, poor folk that march and fight,
Saw the desire of Nations in the night.
Peace of the fighters and of simple men.

But they too mocked and jested even then.
The more shame ours, if life call us in vain
To smile at pleasure as they smiled at pain:
And in the peace that should their dreams fulfil
Dullness destroys what danger could not kill;
Deep in the dug-outs, loud in doggerel rhyme,
The soul of our most ancient Pantomime.
Then smile and pardon me, if I appear
Between these two divided dramas here
To save your minds from too abrupt a jog,
At once a prologue and an epilogue—
To end the last and introduce the next—
Which has Jack Horner and a Pie for text.

Jack Horner was a worthy youth; for so
He himself stated and he ought to know.
If you think Jack, in the mere plum's removal
Had insufficient grounds for self-approval
Think you how many of the wise and great
Counted most worthy, pillars of the state
Have for all credit, claim and aim in sum
To make a corner and to take the plum—
Enough! Our theme has tumbled from the sky,
But let tumblers tumble. For the Pie
(And as Prince Hamlet said, the Pie's the thing)
Is open; and the birds begin to sing.
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