The Humours of  Harrogate

Whenever I stay at Harrogate,
The Humours of the place
Appeal to me, I laugh with glee,
The tears run down my face
The curious " cures " who try the cure,
They do amuse me so,
They come as wrecks (yes, either sex)
Get sulphur water down their necks,
And then, away they go.

I put up at the Hydro, and I often give some digs,
The old ladies, dear, they look so queer,
Though wearing lovely wigs
Some are thin and some are fat,
And some are just between,
They'll smirk and smile, and air their style,
And show their ankles once in a while,
I know, for I'm not green.

The Men in great variety
And every shape and size,
They'd fill a book, they're worth a look,
They'd give you some surprise;
The sulphur they drink in duty bound,
And make out that it's grand,
Although I know (they've told me so)
The drink for which in Town they go
Is "Johnny Walker" brand.

Fine–looking men in Harrogate
You meet around the place,
Complexions fair, though some grow hair
All round their funny face;
The opposite sex will please the eye,
They're all so finely bred,
They've creamy skin, it seems a sin,
But people say that Art steps in
Where Nature fears to tread.

In conclusion – Oh, the clothes they wear at Harrogate,
Men in all varieties of hats,
You'll come across a " Knut " with bags of Oxford cut,
And other fellows wearing tweeds and spats,
And the ladies, deary me, are a lovely sight to see,
Most of them are rather finely built,
Their skirts are very short, and I really think they ought
To subdue their silly passion for appearing in the fashion,
Why, they might as well wear sporran and a kilt.