Come gather round, ye ladies fair, And gentlemen of breeding, I'll tell ye of a dreadful scrape That hath me sorely grieving. For one ill-chosen word at cards, One slight, one glass too many, I've earned a date at break of dawn— And I would not go for any! [Verse 1 — Jaunty fiddle, bass, restrained concertina. Dignified outwardly, nervous within.] 'Twas at the Duke of Bellamont's, A most distinguished ball, I told Lord Ashcombe to his face His brains were rather small. He called me out before the guests, Declared me base and craven, And challenged me to meet him where The sun first gilds the haven. I laughed, of course, and bowed my head, As gentlemen are wont to, Then spent the night in cold, cold sweat, And wishing I were born anew. [Chorus — Full acoustic ensemble, lively waltz, warm harmonies. Cheerful defiance masking panic.] Oh, what shall a gentleman do When honour comes a-calling? When pistols wait at break of day And pride demands his falling? I'll face the dawn, I'll stand my ground, I'll meet him brave and steady— Provided there's a sound excuse For why I'm not quite ready! [Verse 2 — Skipping fiddle and pizzicato bass. Conspiratorial, fussily polite.] Perhaps I'll feign a sudden gout, A fever most alarming, A chill contracted in the night, A cough that's quite disarming. I'll send a note in elegant script, With apologies most tender: "My lord, I would be pleased to shoot, But first, a small surrender— My breakfast disagrees with me, My constitution's frail, And should I perish on your lawn, My mother would turn pale." [Verse 3 — Quieter accompaniment, plucked strings and low concertina. Dry comic delivery, building into alarm.] Could I contrive a foreign trip? A voyage to Havana? A summons from the Prince himself? A most urgent cabana? Perhaps I'll claim I have become A Quaker, sworn to peace, Or join a monastery where Such foolish feuds must cease. But Ashcombe knows my every trick, He's seen me bluff at whist— He'll likely have me dragged from bed And shot before I've pissed! [Chorus — Stronger fiddle, stomping rhythm, fuller harmonies. Composure failing.] Oh, what shall a gentleman do When honour comes a-calling? When pistols wait at break of day And pride demands his falling? I'll face the dawn, I'll stand my ground, I'll meet him brave and steady— Provided there's a sound excuse For why I'm not quite ready! [Verse 4 — Waltzing strings accelerate. Flustered patter, theatrical pauses.] I might confess I spoke in jest, That all was miscommunication, That "small of brain" referred, in fact, To his hat's poor ventilation. I'll say his lordship's wit is keen, His manners most refined, That I was drunk, beset by grief, And temporarily blind. I'll praise his horse, his waistcoat too, His pedigree and station— But will a compliment suffice To halt an expiration? [Bridge — Instruments fall away to lone fiddle. Vulnerable, almost spoken, sincere beneath comedy.] For I am not a coward, sir— At least, not in the drawing room. I face a bill, a bailiff's threat, A spider with a broom. I've stared down creditors at noon, I've danced with ladies thrice— But standing still whilst someone shoots? That seems a trifle less than nice. And if I flee, the clubs will sneer, The papers will deride me; But if I stay, and meet his ball, There'll be no one left beside me. [Verse 5 — Bright flourish, quickening fiddle, renewed confidence turning nervous.] A thought! A thought! A splendid thought! I'll bring my trusted second. And should Lord Ashcombe miss his shot, I'll say the matter's reckoned. Then fire my pistol in the air, And claim the feud concluded— Though should he ask me to fire twice, I fear I'll be deluded. Or better yet, I'll load with wax, And pray he does the same, Then both may boast of gallant hearts And neither bear the blame! [Final Chorus — Grand, rollicking ensemble, lively concertina, rich harmonies. Triumphantly ridiculous.] Oh, what shall a gentleman do When honour comes a-calling? When pistols wait at break of day And pride demands his falling? I'll face the dawn, I'll stand my ground, My courage tried and tested— Provided that the surgeon's near, The coffin's been suggested! Oh, what shall a gentleman do? I'll tell you, friends, sincerely: I'll fight for honour, should I must— But preferably... not nearly! [Outro — Music slows to delicate waltz. Fiddle and guitar only. Prim, trembling whisper.] So if you hear a shot at dawn, And find me gone from sight, Pray tell the world I fought with grace— And took the better flight. For honour is a precious thing, And reputation dear... But neither is of much account When death is standing near. And should you meet Lord Ashcombe, friends, Do tell him I was here. I was here... I was here... [Spoken, in sudden terror, as the fiddle stops] Oh, God, he's here.
