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If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: Parodies of the Works of English and American Authors, Vol I - -Author: Various - -Release Date: June 14, 2020 [EBook #62396] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARODIES *** - - - - -Produced by Chris Curnow, Jane Robins and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - PARODIES - - OF THE WORKS OF - - ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS, - - COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY - - WALTER HAMILTON, - - _Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies; - Author of "A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs," "A - Memoir of George Cruikshank;" "The Poets Laureate of England;" "The - Æsthetic Movement in England," etc._ - - "We maintain that, far from converting virtue into a parodox, - and degrading truth by ridicule, PARODY will only strike at what - is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much - as a critical exposition. What do we parody but the absurdities - of writers, who frequently make their heroes act against nature, - common-sense, and truth? After all, it is the public, not we, who - are the authors of these PARODIES." - - * * * * * - - D'ISRAELI'S Curiosities of Literature. - - * * * * * - - VOLUME I, - - CONTAINING PARODIES OF THE POEMS OF - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, - HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, - BRET HARTE, THOMAS HOOD, - AND THE - REVEREND C. WOLFE. - - * * * * * - - REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C. - - * * * * * - - 1884. - - -_"Le sujet que l'on entreprend de parodier doit toujours être un ouvrage -connu, célèbre, estimé. La critique d'une pièce médiocre ne peut jamais -devenir intéressante, ni piquer la curiosité. Il faut que l'imitation soit -fidèle, que les plaisantéries naissent du fond des choses, et paraissent -s'être présentées d'elles-mêmes, sans avoir coûté aucune peine."_ - -_Mémoire sur l'origine de la Parodie, etc. Par M. l' Abbé Sallier_, 1733. - -_"It was because Homer was the most popular poet, that he was most -susceptible of the playful honours of the Greek parodist; unless the -prototype is familiar to us, a parody is nothing!"_ - - ISAAC D'ISRAELI. - - -THOBURN & CO., St. Bride's Steam Press, 136, Salisbury Square, Fleet -Street, London, E.C. - - - - -PREFACE. - - -[Illustration] - - When this Collection was originally projected, it seemed so unlikely - to receive much support from the general public that it was intended - to publish a few only of the best Parodies of each author. - - After the issue of the first few numbers, however, it became evident - that "a hit--a palpable hit--" had been made, the sale rapidly - increased, and subscribers not only expressed their desire that the - collection should be made as nearly complete as possible, but by the - loans of scarce books, and copies of Parodies, helped to make it so. - - This involved an alteration in the original arrangement, and as it - would have been monotonous to fill a whole number of sixteen pages - with parodies of one short poem, such as those on "Excelsior," - or Wolfe's Ode, it became necessary to spread them over several - numbers. In the Index, which has been carefully compiled, references - will be found, under the titles of the original Poems, to all the - parodies mentioned. In all cases, where it has been possible to do - so, full titles and descriptions of the works quoted from, have been - given; any omission to do this has been unintentional, and will be - at once rectified on the necessary information being supplied. - - To the following gentlemen I am much indebted for assistance in - the formation of this collection, either by granting permission to - quote from their works, or by their original contributions:--Messrs. - Lewis Carroll (author of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"), G. - P. Beckley, James Gordon, John Lane, J. W. Morris, Walter Parke - (author of "The Lays of the Saintly"), H. Cholmondeley Pennell - (author of "Puck on Pegasus"), Major-General Rigaud, Edward Simpson, - G. R. Sims, Basil H. Soulsby, Edward Walford, M.A. (Editor of "The - Antiquarian Magazine"), J. W. Gleeson White, W. H. K. Wright, Public - Library, Plymouth, and John Whyte, Public Library, Inverness. A - great deal of bibliographical information was sent me by my late - lamented friend, the learned and genial Mr. William Bates, Editor of - "The Maclise Portrait Gallery;" his brother, Mr. A. H. Bates; the - Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin; and Miss Orton, have also given me - valuable assistance. - - In a few cases where parodies are to be found in easily accessible - works, extracts only have been quoted, or references given; but - it is intended in future, wherever permission can be obtained, - to give each parody in full, as they are found to be useful for - public entertainments, and recitations. When the older masters of - our Literature are reached, a great deal of curious and amusing - information will be given, and it is intended to conclude with - a complete bibliographical account of PARODY, with extracts and - translations from all the principal works on the topic. Whilst - arranging the present volume, I have been gathering materials for - those to come, which will illustrate the works of those old writers - whose names are familiar in our mouths as household words. Much that - is not only quaint and amusing will thus be collected, whilst many - illustrations of our literature, both in prose and verse, which are - valuable to the student, will for the first time be methodically - arranged, annotated, and published in a cheap and accessible form. - - WALTER HAMILTON. - - 64, BROMFELDE ROAD, CLAPHAM, LONDON, S.W. - _December_, 1884. - - - - -INDEX. - -The authors of the original poems are arranged in alphabetical order; the -titles of the original poems are printed in small capitals, followed by -the Parodies. - - - Charles S. Calverley. - - Notice of 62 - - - Thomas Campbell. - - HOHENLINDEN-- - "In London, when the Queen was Low," 1882 12 - - - William Cowper. - - JOHN GILPIN-- - John Bulljohn, 1882 12 - - - Bret Harte. - - PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 135 - The Heathen Pass-ee 135 - A Kiss in the Dark 136 - That Germany Jew, 1874 137 - St. Denys of France, 1882 137 - That Infidel Earl, 1882 138 - Truthful James's Song of the Shirt 139 - FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 138 - Remarks about Othello, 1876 139 - The Bloomin' Flower of Rorty Gulch 140 - - - Thomas Hood. - - THE SONG OF THE SHIRT-- - Trials and Troubles of a Tourist 114 - The Song of the Spurt, 1865 114 - The Song of the Sheet, 1865 115 - The Song of the Street, 1865 115 - The Song of the Stump, 1868 116 - The Song of the Flirt, 1872 116 - The Song of the Wire, 1874 117 - The Song of Love, 1874 117 - The Song of the Cram, 1876 118 - The Slave of the Pen, 1875 118 - The Song of the Sword 118 - The Song of a Sot 119 - The Song of "The Case," 1875 119 - The Song of the Turk in 1877 120 - The Song of the Flirt, 1880 120 - The Janitor's Song 121 - The Song of the Shirk, 1882 121 - The Brood on the Beard 122 - The Song of the Dirt, 1884 123 - The Wail of a Proof-reader, 1884 123 - The Bitter Cry, 1884 124 - The Song of the Lines, 1873 129 - The Song of the Drunkard 129 - The Song of the "Prickly Heat," 1859 129 - The Song of the Clerk 130 - The Song of the Horse, 1844 190 - The Lament of Ashland 190 - The Song of the Post, 1877 191 - The Song of the Dance, 1877 191 - The Song of the Soldier's Shirt, 1879 192 - The Song of the Pen 192 - - I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER-- - Nursery Reminiscences 124 - Parody from "Notes and Queries," 1871 124 - Parodies from "The Figaro," 1874 125 - Parody from "Idylls of the Rink," 1876 125 - Parody from "The Man in the Moon" 130 - - THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS-- - "One more unfortunate, Ploughed for degree," 125 - The Hair of the Dead, 1875 126 - "Take him up tendahly, Lift him with caah" 126 - The Rink of Sighs, 1876 127 - The Last Appeal for Place, 1878 127 - "One more Unfortunate Author in debt," 1883 128 - Boots of Size 128 - - THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM-- - The Fall of the Eminent I. (on Henry Irving) 130 - On "The Iron Chest" at the Lyceum Theatre, - 1879, "'Twas in the Strand, a great demand" 131 - "The sky was clear; no ripple marked" 131 - "'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit" 132 - - MISS KILMANSEGG-- - The Thread of Life 132 - "Young Ben, he was a nice young man," 1845 133 - "By different names were poets called," 1859 133 - "A world of whim I wandered in of late," 1878 134 - - - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. - - A PSALM OF LIFE-- - A Psalm of Life Assurance, 1869 63 - A Psalm of Fiction 63 - Miss M. to Mr. Green 63 - Bachelor's Life, 1872 64 - The Maiden's Dream of Life 64 - On Campbell's "Lives of the Chancellors" 64 - A Noble Ambition, 1873 66 - The Liberal Psalm of Life, 1875 66 - A Psalm of Life at Sixty, 1879 66 - "Lives of wealthy men remind us" 67 - To my Scout at Breakfast 67 - "Wives of great men all remind us" 67 - - BEWARE! - Take Care 67 - Beware! (of the Rink), 1876 67 - Beware! (of Lord Salisbury), 1882 68 - - SONG OF THE SILENT LAND-- - Song of the Irish Land, 1881 91 - Song of the Oyster Land, 1882 91 - - THE NORMAN BARON-- - The Repentant Baron, 1871 91 - - THE SKELETON IN ARMOUR-- - Calverley's Ode to Tobacco 92 - THE SONG OF HIAWATHA-- - Hiawatha, a Parody 71 - The Song of Drop o' Wather, 1856 72 - Song of In-the-Water 75 - Song of Lower-Water 75 - The Wallflowers, 1872 75 - The Song of Nicotine, 1874 76 - The Bump Supper, 1874 76 - The Legend of Ken-e-li, 1875 77 - The Song of the Beetle 77 - The Hunting of Cetewayo, 1879 78 - Hiawatha's Photographing, 1883 78 - The Lawn-Tennis Party at Pepperhanger, 1883 79 - The Song of Hiawatha, by Shirley Brooks 80 - Howlawaya, the Quack Doctor, 1853 80 - Milk-and-Watha 80 - Princess Toto 80 - Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection, 1877 80 - The Song of Big Ben, 1877 95 - The Song of Pahtahquahong, 1881 98 - Piamater, by Alfred Longcove 98 - - THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH-- - Shortfellow sums up Longfellow 80 - - EVANGELINE-- - The Wagner Festival 80 - Picnic-aline, 1855 80, 102 - Nauvoo 94 - Town and Gown, 1865 102 - A Voice from the Far West, 1859 103 - Sister Beatrice, 1882 103 - - THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH-- - The Village Blacksmith as he is, 1873 68 - The Night Policeman, 1875 68 - The Village Grog Shop, 1878 69 - The English Judge, 1879 69 - The Village Beauty, 1880 69 - The British M.P., 1883 70 - The Village Pax 70 - The Village Woodman, 1884 70 - - EXCELSIOR-- - Excelsior in "Pidgin English"--"Topside Galah" 81 - "Your name and college," 1863 81 - XX--oh lor! 82 - The Theatre. "Ugh! Turn him out," 1874 82 - "The price of meat was rising fast," 1876 83 - "Clean Your Door-step, Marm!" 83 - "Egg-shell she o'er," 1876 83 - Those Horrid Schools, 1861 84 - That Thirty-four, 1880 84 - Tobacco Smoke, 1864 84 - Obstructionists 85 - Endymion (by Lord Beaconsfield), 1880 85 - A "Common" Grievance--"The Heath is ours!" 85 - "And felt so sore" 86 - Sapolio 86 - 13, Cross Cheaping 87 - Pilosagine 87 - The Imperceptible 87 - Ozokerit, 1870 87 - A Plumber, 1883 99 - Dyspepsia, 1868 100 - The Bicycle, 1880 101 - Upidee, Upida 101 - Exitium, 1884 101 - "Don't bother us!" 1884 101 - - CURFEW-- - The Close of the Season 88 - The End, 1880 88 - - THE BRIDGE-- - The Bridge (by Longus Socius), 1866 89 - The Rink, 1876 89 - The Whitefriargate Bridge, 1872 89 - Sunset, 1873 90 - "I stood in the Quad at Midnight" 98 - What is in an aim, 1865 102 - - THE SLAVE'S DREAM-- - The Swell's Dream, 1883 90 - - THE SAGA OF KING OLAF-- - Queen Sigrid, the Haughty 92 - The Saga of the Skaterman, 1884 93 - A Modern Saga, 1879 93 - The Poets on the Marriage with a Deceased Wife's - Sister Bill (Parodies of Longfellow and - Swinburne) 100 - The Derby Week, 1878 92 - - - William Morris. - - The Monthly Parodies 65 - - - Bayard Taylor. - - DIVERSIONS OF THE ECHO CLUB 93 - Sir Eggnogg 45 - Nauvoo 94 - The Sewing Machine 94 - Eustace Green 181 - - - Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Poet Laureate). - - Tennyson's Early Career 3 - Tennyson's Lineage 28 - Tennyson as Poet Laureate 33 - Tennyson's Plagiarisms 181 - TIMBUCTOO, The Cambridge Prize Poem, 1829, - Thackeray's Parody on 3 - - LILIAN-- - Caroline 5 - - MARIANA-- - Mariana at the Railway Station 4 - The Wedding Dress 5 - The Bow Street Grange 17 - Behind Time 48 - The Clerk, 1842 57 - The Baggage Man 58 - On a Dull old Five-Act Play, 1848 142 - The Exiled Londoner, 1848 142 - Lord Tomnoddy in the Final Schools, 1868 143 - "They lifted him with kindly care" 144 - The M.P. on the Railway Committee, 1845 145 - The Squatter's 'Baccy Famine, 1880 178 - - RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN NIGHTS-- - Recollections of the Stock Exchange 186 - - A CHARACTER-- - A Character (M. Jullien) 24 - - THE POET-- - The Poet of the Period 6 - - THE BALLAD OF ORIANA-- - "Oriana" at the Globe Theatre 4 - The Ballad of Boreäna 17 - - CIRCUMSTANCE-- - Tit for Tat 56 - Circumstance, 1848 145 - - THE MERMAN-- - The Laureate 5 - - THE MERMAID-- - The Mermaid at the Aquarium 6 - - MARGARET-- - Mary Ann 9 - - THE TWO VOICES-- - The Three Voices 50 - The Two Voices, as heard by Jones 186 - - ŒNONE-- - The New Œnone 16 - - THE SISTERS-- - Matrimonial Expediency 7 - - THE PALACE OF ART-- - "I built myself a high-art pleasure-house." 18 - "I built my _Cole_ a lordly pleasure-house," 1862 145 - "I built myself a lordly picture-place," 1877 146 - - LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE-- - Lady Clara V. de V. 7 - Baron Alfred Vere de Vere 27 - Baron Alfred, T. de T. 49 - Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square 56 - The Premier's Lament 56 - Captain Falcon of the Guards, 1848 148 - The Russian Czar, 1854 148 - Rustic Admiration of Lady Clara, 1868 149 - Lady Clara in the South, 1870 149 - The Vicar's Surplice, 1875 149 - Rhyme for Rogers, 1884 166 - A Parody Advertisement of Velveteen 185 - - THE MAY QUEEN-- - The Biter Bit 9 - The May Queen Corrected, 1879 10 - A Farewell Ode to the Brompton Boilers 10 - The "May" of the Queen (Judge May) 11 - The Play King (Henry Irving) 11 - The Opening of the New Law Courts 12 - The Queen of the Fête 19 - Election's Eve 20 - "I'm to be One of the Peers, Vicky" 36 - August the Twelfth, 1869 144 - A May Dream of the Female Examination 149 - The Dray Queen 150 - The May Queen in the Existing Climate 151 - The Sight-Seeing Emperor, 1877 152 - The Welsher's Lament, 1878 152 - The Modern May Queen, 1881 152 - The Penge Mystery Trial, 1877 152 - The May Exam. (By A. Pennysong) 153 - The Premier's Lament, 1884 154 - The New Lord Mayor, 1881 154 - The Lord Mayor to the Lady Mayoress, 1884 154 - The Last Lord Mayor to his Favourite Beadle 155 - The Eve of the General Election, 1884 155 - A Tory Lord on the Franchise Bill, 1884 155 - On a Debate on the Franchise Bill, 1884 155 - The Premier to Mrs. Gladstone, 1884 156 - The Promise of May, 1882 156 - The May Queen of 1879 162 - "Awake I must, and early," 1861 186 - Baron Honour, 1884 186 - - THE LOTUS EATERS-- - The Whitebait Eaters 8 - The Ministers at Greenwich 61 - - A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN-- - "I read, before I fell into a doze" 8 - "Long time I fed my eyes on that strange scene" 20 - A Dream of Queer Women 54 - A Dream of Fair Women, and others 55 - - A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN-- - "Dreaming, methought I heard the Laureate's Song" 55 - A Dream of Great Players (Lawn Tennis) 160 - The Dream of Unfair Women 181 - - "YOU ASK ME WHY, THO' ILL AT EASE"-- - The Laureate in Parliament 54 - The New Umbrella, 1882 162 - - "OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS"-- - "Not Old, Stood Pam Upon the Heights," 1861 163 - - TITHONUS-- - Parody from "The World," 1879 60 - Tithonus in Oxford 60 - Lord Beaconsfield as Tithonus, 1879 163 - - LOCKSLEY HALL-- - "Cousins, leave me here a little, in Lawn Tennis you excel" 15 - Bacchanalian Dreamings 15 - The Lay of the Lovelorn 21 - Vauxhall 23 - Sir Rupert, the Red 24 - Cousin Amy's View, 1878 50 - Locksley Hall, before he passed his "Smalls" 163 - Battue shooting, 1884 164 - Granny's House, 1854 177 - Codgers' Hall, 1876 185 - - GODIVA-- - The Modern Lady Godiva 13 - Madame Warton as "Godiva," 1848 164 - - THE LORD OF BURLEIGH-- - Unfortunate Miss Bailey 47 - Parody in "Figaro" 61 - The Lord Burghley, 1884 160 - The Faithless Peeler, 1848 161 - The Lord of Burleigh to the Land Bill, 1881 161 - A Burlington House Ballad, 1884 162 - - THE VOYAGE-- - The Excursion Train 61 - Parody from "Kottabos," 1875 165 - - A FAREWELL-- - "_Flow down, cold Rivulet, to the Sea_"-- - "Bite on, thou Pertinacious Flea" 30 - "Rise up, cold Reverend, to a See" 30 - Ode to Aldgate Pump 30 - "Flow down, false Rivulet, to the Sea" 30 - - THE BEGGAR MAID-- - The Undergrad 30 - - BREAK, BREAK, BREAK-- - To my Scout 14 - The Bather's Dirge 15 - The Musical Pitch 15 - Tennyson at Billingsgate in 1882 15 - Parody from "Snatches of Song" 24 - Parody from "Punch's Almanac," 1884 24 - The Unsuccessful Stock Exchange Speculator 60 - Hot, Hot, Hot 165 - Pelt, Pelt, Pelt 165 - Wake, Wake, Wake, 1884 166 - To Professor O. C. Marsh, U.S. 181 - - ENOCH ARDEN-- - Enoch Arden, continued, 1866 166 - Enoch's "Hard 'Un" 167 - - THE BROOK-- - The Tinker 30 - The Rinker 31 - Song of the Irwell 57 - Keeping Term after Commemoration 168 - The Maiden's Lament, 1874 168 - "Flow down, old River, to the Sea" 169 - Our River (Old Father Thames), 1884 169 - The (North) Brook 169 - The Plumber and Builder 178 - On Mr. Gladstone's Visit to Scotland (Liberal Lyrics, - 1854) 179 - The Train 179 - The Mill, 1884 179 - - THE PRINCESS-- - The Princess Ida 52 - - "HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR, DEAD"-- - "Home they brought her Lap-dog Dead" 29 - "Home they brought her Sailor Son" 29 - "Home they brought Montmorres, dead" 29 - "Home they brought the Gallant Red" 57 - "Home they brought the news with dread" 58 - "Lay the stern old warrior down," 1865 170 - "Home they brought her husband, 'tight'" 170 - "Home the 'Worrier' comes! We read" 170 - - TEARS, IDLE TEARS-- - Peers, Idle Peers, 1868 170 - Tears, Idle Tears, 1866 181 - (To the Right Hon. Spencer Walpole). - - "ASK ME NO MORE." - To an Importunate Host 170 - - THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE-- - Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade 31 - "The Two Hundred" Mechanical Engineers in Dublin, 1865 37 - The Half Hundred (of Coals) 37 - The Doctor's Heavy Brigade 38 - The Charge of the Black Brigade, 1865 38 - At the Magdalen Ground 39 - Charge of the Fair Brigade 39 - The Charge of the "Bustle" 40 - On the Six Hundredth Representation of "Our - Boys" at the Vaudeville Theatre 40 - The Vote of Six Millions 41 - The Charge of the "Rad" Brigade 41 - A Lay of the Law Courts 41 - The Latest Charge (against Mr. Biggar, M. P., - for Breach of Promise of Marriage) 41 - The Charge of the Gownsmen at the Anti-Tobacco Lecture 52 - The Charge of the Light Ballet 53 - Tragic Episode in an Omnibus 53 - Michael Drayton on the Battle of Agincourt 171 - The "Light" Cavalier's Charge 171 - The Charge of the Court Brigade, 1874 171 - The Battle of Bartlemy's, 1875 172 - Charge of the Light Brigade at the Alexandra Palace - Banquet, 1875 72 - On the Rink, 1876 173 - "Half a Duck! Half a Duck!" 173 - "Half a League!" (Tea Advertisement) 185 - - A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA-- - Britannia's Welcome to the Illustrious Stranger, - Ismail Pasha, 1869 35 - On a Statue to the late John Brown 35 - A Welcome to Alexandra (Palace) 61 - On the Opening of the Alexandra Palace, May, 1875 173 - - THE GRANDMOTHER-- - Hard Times 58 - Parody in "Snatches of Song" 59 - "And Willy with Franchise Horn," 1884 168 - - IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON-- - In the Schools at Oxford 32 - - THE VICTIM-- - The Victim 46 - The Prophet Enoch, 1860 47 - - THE HIGHER PANTHEISM-- - The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell 51 - - THE VOICE AND THE PEAK-- - The Voice and the Pique, 1874 178 - - "FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL"-- - "Terrier in my Granny's Hall" 174 - - IN MEMORIAM-- - Richmond, 1856 25 - In Immemoriam 29 - In Memoriam, £. s. d., Baden-Baden 48 - Punch to Salisbury 48 - The Rinker's Solace 48 - The Lawyer's Soliloquy 61 - "I Hold this Truth with one who sings" 61 - Ozokerit 174 - In Memoriam Technicam, 1865 174 - In Memoriam; a Collie Dog, 1884 186 - - "RING OUT WILD BELLS TO THE WILD SKY." - "Wring out the Clouds," 1872 174 - "Ring out, Glad Bells," 1876 175 - "Ring out Fool's Bells," 1881 175 - - "COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD." - "Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now" 7 - Maud in the Garden 25 - Anti-Maud 25 - The Poet's Birth, a Mystery, 1859 175 - "Chirrup, chirp, chirp, chirp twitter" 176 - Midsummer Madness.--"I am a Hearthrug" 176 - "Birds in St. Stephen's Garden" 176 - Song by Burne-Jones, "Come into my Studio, Maud," 1878 179 - Come into "The Garden," Maud (Covent Garden) 1882 180 - - THE IDYLLS OF THE KING-- - Voyage de Guillaume (Sept. 1883) 13 - The Last Peer, December, 1883 27 - Parody of the _Morte d'Arthur_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell 32 - The Coming K---- 35 - Vilien 34 - Goanveer 34 - The Very Last Idyll 44 - Sir Tray; an Arthurian Idyll 44 - Sir Eggnogg 45 - The Players; a Lawn Tennisonian Idyll 45 - An Idyll of Phatte and Leene, 1873 181 - Eustace Green, or the Medicine Bottle 181 - The Passing of M'Arthur, 1881 182 - Garnet. (An Idyll of the Queen), 1882 182 - Jack Sprat. 1884 182 - The Quest of the Holy Poker, 1870 183 - Willie and Minnie, 1876 183 - The Latest Tournament, 1872 183 - The Princes' Noses, 1880 183 - On the Hill; a Fragment, 1882 183 - Tory Revels, 1882 183 - London to Leicester; a Bicycling Idyll, 1882 183 - The Lost Tennisiad, 1883 183 - The Lay of the Seventh Tournament, 1883 56, 183 - - "LATE, LATE, SO LATE," (Guinevere)-- - Mala-Fide Travellers, 1872 144 - - THE WAR ("RIFLEMEN FORM")-- - "Into them, Gown!" 1861 147 - - 1865-1866--"I STOOD ON A TOWER IN THE WET"-- - 1867-1868--"I sat in a 'Bus in the Wet" 46 - "Tennyson Stood in the Wet" 46 - "I Stood by a River in the Wet," 1868 180 - - ON A SPITEFUL LETTER-- - The Spiteful Letter, 1874 59 - From Algernon C. Swinburne 60 - From Walt Whitman 60 - - HANDS ALL ROUND-- - Slops all Round 43 - Drinks all Round 43, 186 - Northampton's Freemen 43 - Pots all Round 186 - Tennysonian Toryism 186 - Cheers all Round 186 - Howls all Round 186 - - RIZPAH-- - Rizpah, 1883 184 - - THE REVENGE, A BALLAD OF THE FLEET-- - Retribution, a Ballad of the Sloe 42 - - DE PROFUNDIS-- - "Awfully Deep, my Boy, Awfully Deep" 52 - - "THOSE THAT OF LATE HAD FLEETED FAR AND FAST," - _Prefatory Sonnet to the "Nineteenth Century."_ - - The Last Hat Left. - "Those low-born cubs who sneaked away so fast" 183 - - MONTENEGRO-- - The City Montenegro, 1880 183 - - ACHILLES OVER THE TRENCH-- - A Parody on 47 - - DESPAIR; A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE, 1881-- - Disgust; a Dramatic Monologue, 1881 184 - - THE POETASTERS, A DRAMATIC CANTATA, 1884 86 - - THE PROMISE OF MAY-- - Reprint of the Play-bill, dated November, 1882 157 - Parodies on the Play-bill 159 - The Marquis of Queensberry on "The Promise of May" 158 - - - Miscellaneous Parodies on Tennyson. - - A Laureate's Log. September, 1883 49 - Papa's Theory 57 - "The Bugle calls in Bayreuth's Halls" 57 - The Amiable Dun, a Fragment 61 - Early Spring, in an American Paper 62 - "In Hungerford, did some wise man," 1844 145 - Mrs. Henry Fawcett on the Education of Women 150 - (_Apropos_ of a Parody on the Collegiate Examinations of - Female Students.) - "British Birds," by Mortimer Collins 186 - - - Reverend Charles Wolfe. - - THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 105 - "_Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note._" - - The disputed origin of the Poem 105 - "Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funèbre" 106 - "Not a _sous_ had he got, not a guinea or note" 107 - "Not a trap was heard, or a Charley's note" 108 - Ode on the Death and Burial of the Constitution, 1832-- - "Not a moan was heard--not a funeral note" 108 - On the threatened Death of John O'Connell 108 - "He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note," 1864 109 - "Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note," 109 - The Flight of O'Neill, the Invader of Canada 109 - Running him in, by a Good Templar 110 - "Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell," 1875 110 - The Burial of the Title "Queen," 1876 110 - On the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, 1880 111 - "Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note" 111 - "Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell" 111 - The Burial of the Masher, 1883 112 - "He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat" 112 - "Not a mute one word at the funeral spoke" 113 - A Moonlight Flit 140 - The Burial of Pantomime, 1846-7 141 - The Burial of Philip Van Artevelde (Princess's Theatre) 141 - The Burial of the Bills, 1850 141 - A Tale of a Tub 141 - The Death of the "Childerses," 1884 187 - The Burial of "The Season," 1884 187 - The Burial of my Fellow Lodger's Banjo 187 - The Fate of General Gordon, 1884 187 - One more Victim at Monte Carlo 187 - The Burial of the Duke of Wellington 188 - The Burial of the Bachelor 188 - The Marriage of Sir F. Boore 188 - Working Men at the Health Exhibition 188 - The Removal of the House of Lords 188 - The Spinster Householder Martyr 188 - The Murder of a Beethoven Sonata 189 - The Burial of the Pauper 189 - The Fate of the Franchise Bill, 1884 189 - The Defeated Cricket Eleven 190 - The Marriage of Sir John Smith, 1854 190 - - [Illustration] - - - - - - PARODIES - - OF - THE WORKS OF - - ENGLISH & AMERICAN AUTHORS, - - COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY - WALTER HAMILTON, - - _Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies; - Author of "The Æsthetic Movement in England," "The Poets Laureate - of England," - "A Memoir of George Cruikshank," etc._ - - - - -INTRODUCTION. - - -I have, for many years past, been collecting Parodies of the works of the -most celebrated British and American Authors. This I have done, _not_ -because I entirely approve of the custom of turning high-class work into -ridicule, but because many of the parodies are in themselves works of -considerable literary merit. Moreover, as "imitation is the sincerest -form of flattery," so does a parody show that its original has acquired a -certain celebrity, for no author would waste his time, or his talent, in -composing a burlesque of an unknown, or obscure work. - -Numerous articles on parodies are to be found scattered up and down in odd -corners of old magazines and reviews, a few small books have been written -on the topic; but, until now, no attempt has been made to give, in a -connected form, a history of parody with examples and explanatory notes. - -This, then, is what I propose to do in the following articles, and those -who desire to possess a complete set of parodies on any favourite author, -would do well to preserve these papers for future reference. - -PARODY is a form of composition of a somewhat ungracious description, -as it owes its very existence to the work it caricatures; but it has -some beneficial results in drawing our attention to the defects of -some authors, whose stilted language and grandiloquent phrases have -veiled their poverty of ideas, their sham sentiment, and their mawkish -affectations. - -The first attribute of a parody is that it should present a sharp contrast -to the original either in subject, or treatment of the subject; that if -the original subject should be some lofty theme, the parody may reduce it -to a prosaic matter-of-fact narrative. If, on the other hand, the topic -selected be one of every day life, it may be made exceedingly amusing -if described in high-flown mock heroic diction. If the original errs in -sentimental affectation, so much the better for the parodist. Thus many -of Tom Moore's best known songs are mere windy platitudes in very musical -verse, which afford excellent and legitimate materials for ridicule. The -nearer the original diction is preserved, and the fewer the alterations -needed to produce a totally opposite meaning or ridiculous contrast, the -more complete is the antithesis, the more striking is the parody; take for -instance Pope's well-known lines:-- - - "Here shall the Spring its earliest _sweets_ bestow, - Here the first _roses_ of the year shall blow," - -which, by the alteration of two words only, were thus applied by Miss -Katherine Fanshawe to the Regent's Park when it was first opened to the -public:-- - - "Here shall the Spring its earliest _coughs_ bestow, - Here the first _noses_ of the year shall blow." - -In this happy parody we have that "union of remote ideas," which is said, -and said truly, to constitute the essence of wit. Even the most serious -and religious works have been parodied, and by authors of the highest -position. Thus Luther mimicked the language of the Bible, and both -Cavaliers and Puritans railed at each other in Scriptural phraseology. -The Church services and Litanies of both the Catholic, and Protestant -Churches, have served in turn as originals for many bitter satires and -lampoons, directed at one time against the Church and the priests, at -another time in equally bitter invective against their opponents. - -To undertake the composition of parodies, as the word is generally -comprehended--that is, to make a close imitation of some particular poem, -though it should be characteristic of the author--would be at times rather -a flat business. Even the Brothers Smith in "Rejected Addresses," and -Bon Gaultier in his "Ballads," admirable as they were, stuck almost too -closely to their selected models; and Phœbe Carey, who has written some -of the best American parodies, did the same thing. It is an evidence of a -poet's distinct individuality, when he can be amusingly imitated. We can -only make those the object of our imitations whose manner, or dialect, -stamps itself so deeply into our minds that a new cast can be taken. -But how could one imitate Robert Pollok's "Course of Time," or Young's -"Night Thoughts," or Blair's "Grave," or any other of those masses of -words, which are too ponderous for poetry, and much too respectable for -absurdity! Either extreme will do for a parody, excellence or imbecility; -but the original must at least have _a distinct, pronounced character_. - -Certain well known poems are so frequently selected as models for parodies -that it will only be possible to select a few from the best of them; -to re-publish every parody that has appeared on Tennyson's "Charge of -the Light Brigade," E. A. Poe's "The Raven," Hamlet's Soliloquy, or -Longfellow's "Excelsior," would be a tedious, and almost endless task. - -Prose parodies, though less numerous than those in verse, are often far -more amusing, and it will be found that Dr. Johnson's ponderous sentences, -Carlyle's rugged eloquence, and Dickens' playful humour and tender pathos, -lend themselves admirably to parody. - -The first portion of this work will be devoted to the parodies themselves, -accompanied by short notes sufficient to explain such allusions as may, -in time, appear obscure; the second will contain a full bibliographical -account of all the principal collections of Parodies and Works on the -subject, such as the "Probationary Odes," Hone's Trials, the "Rejected -Addresses," and the late M. Octave Delepierre's _Essai sur la Parodie_. -The latter work, which was published by Trübner & Co. in 1870, gave an -account of old Greek and Roman, and of modern French and English Parodies. -I had the pleasure of supplying M. Delepierre with the materials for -his chapter on English Parodies, but, owing to the limited space at his -command, he was only able to quote a verse or two of the best parody of -each description. My aim will be to give each parody intact, except in the -few cases where I have been unable to obtain the author's permission to do -so. - - WALTER HAMILTON. - - - - -Alfred Tennyson. - -_Poet Laureate._ - - -ALFRED TENNYSON, the third of seven brothers, was born August 5th, 1809, -at Somersby, a small village near Horncastle, in Lincolnshire. His -father, Dr. George Clayton Tennyson, was the rector of this parish, he -was a man remarkable for his strength, stature, and varied attainments -as poet, painter, musician and linguist. In 1827, Alfred Tennyson, with -his elder brother Charles, both then being scholars at the Louth Grammar -school, published a small volume entitled "Poems by Two Brothers." Shortly -afterwards, these two brothers removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, and -in 1829, Alfred Tennyson obtained the Chancellor's Gold Medal for his poem -on "Timbuctoo." His subsequent poetical works rapidly attracted attention, -and, on the death of William Wordsworth, he was created Poet Laureate, the -Warrant being dated the 19th November, 1850. As a poet he has achieved -almost the highest fame, but in his numerous efforts as a dramatist he has -been less successful. - -For the consideration of the Parodies of Tennyson's poems, they may -conveniently be divided into three periods, namely, his early Poems, poems -in connection with his appointment in 1850 to the office of Poet Laureate, -and Poems since that date. Although Tennyson has suppressed many of his -early works, yet he occasionally furbishes up, and re-issues as a new poem -some of his youthful compositions. - -Fastidious as he is known to be in his selection of what he thus -re-publishes, it is still a matter of some surprise that he should have -entirely suppressed his prize poem _Timbuctoo_, which would always be of -interest as a specimen of his early work, and is, besides, far removed -above the average of Prize Poems. - -The poems were sent in for competition in the month of April, 1829; and -on June 12, 1829, the _Cambridge Chronicle_ recorded that "On Saturday -last, the Chancellor's Gold Medal for the best English poem by a resident -undergraduate was adjudged to Alfred Tennyson, of Trinity College." -Shortly afterwards the poem was published, and was favourably reviewed in -_The Athenæum_, which speaking of Prize poems generally, stated, "These -productions have often been ingenious and elegant, but we have never -before seen one of them which indicated really first-rate poetical genius, -and which would have done honour to any man that ever wrote. _Such, we do -not hesitate to affirm, is the little work before us._" - -W. M. Thackeray was at Cambridge at the same time as Tennyson, and early -in 1829 he commenced the publication of a small paper entitled "THE -SNOB, a Literary and Scientific Journal, _not_ conducted by members of -the University." This was published by W. H. Smith, of Rose Crescent, -Cambridge, and ran for eleven weeks: its contents were humorous sketches -in prose and verse, and the most remarkable paper amongst them is the -following droll poem on _Timbuctoo_, which appeared on the 30th April, -1829, and has most unaccountably been omitted from recent editions of -Thackeray's works:-- - - -_To the Editor of the_ "SNOB." - - SIR,--Though your name be _Snob_, I trust you will not refuse - this tiny "Poem of a Gownsman," which was unluckily not finished - on the day appointed for delivery of the several copies of verses - on Timbuctoo. I thought, Sir, it would be a pity that such a poem - should be lost to the world; and conceiving "THE SNOB" to be the - most widely circulated periodical in Europe, I have taken the - liberty of submitting it for insertion or approbation.--I am, Sir, - yours, &c., &c. - - -TIMBUCTOO.--PART I. - -_The Situation._ - - In Africa (a quarter of the world), - Men's skins are black, their hair is crisp and curl'd, - And somewhere there, unknown to public view, - A mighty city lies, called Timbuctoo. - -_The Natural History._ - - There stalks the tiger,--there the lion roars, 5 - Who sometimes eats the luckless blackamoors; - All that he leaves of them the monster throws - To jackals, vultures, dogs, cats, kites and crows; - His hunger thus the forest monster gluts, - And then lies down 'neath trees called cocoa-nuts. 10 - -_The lion hunt._ - - Quick issue out, with musket, torch, and brand, - The sturdy blackamoors, a dusky band! - The beast is found--pop goes the musketoons-- - The lion falls covered with horrid wounds. - -_Their lives at home._ - - At home their lives in pleasure always flow, 15 - But many have a different lot to know! - -_Abroad._ - - They're often caught and sold as slaves, alas! - -_Reflections on the foregoing._ - - Thus men from highest joy to sorrow pass, - Yet though thy monarch and thy nobles boil - Rack and molasses in Jamaica's isle; 20 - Desolate Africa! thou art lovely yet!! - One heart yet beats which ne'er thee shall forget. - - What though thy maidens are a blackish brown, - Does virtue dwell in whiter breasts alone? - Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no! 25 - It shall not, must not, cannot, e'er be so. - The day shall come when Albion's self shall feel - Stern Afric's wrath, and writhe 'neath Afric's steel. - - I see her tribes the hill of glory mount, - And sell their sugars on their own account; 30 - While round her throne the prostrate nations come, - Sue for her rice, and barter for her rum! 32 - - NOTES.--Lines 1 and 2.--See _Guthrie's Geography_. The site of - Timbuctoo is doubtful; the author has neatly expressed this in the - poem, at the same time giving us some slight hints relative to its - situation. - - Line 5.--So Horace: _leonum arida nutrix_. - - Line 13.--"Pop goes the musketoons." A learned friend suggested - "Bang" as a stronger expression, but as African gunpowder is - notoriously bad, the author thought "Pop" the better word. - - Lines 15-18.--A concise but affecting description is here given of - the domestic habits of the people. The infamous manner in which they - are entrapped and sold as slaves is described, and the whole ends - with an appropriate moral sentiment. The enthusiasm the author feels - is beautifully expressed in lines 25 and 26. - -Although this poem is not actually a parody of Tennyson's _Timbuctoo_, it -is a clever burlesque of Prize poems in general, and derives interest as -being one of Thackeray's earliest writings. - -The first independent volume of poems which Tennyson published in 1830, -contained _Mariana_, _The Ballad of Oriana_, _Adeline_, _Lilian_, _The -Poet_, _The Merman_, and _the Mermaid_, all of which are so well known -that the following parodies require no introduction:-- - - -ORIANA. - -_A Tennyson-cum-Albery Ballad._ - - I went to see thee at the Globe, - _Oriana!_ - I tried thy mystery to probe, - _Oriana!_ - But Oh! long talk, bare limbs, rich robe, - Gems decking hand or pendant lobe, - _Oriana!_ - Would tire the patience out of Job, - _Oriana!_ - I saw the lime-light shadows flinging, - _Oriana!_ - I saw black boys, a mattress bringing, - _Oriana!_ - I saw thee to forlorn hope clinging, - I heard the bells of faërie ringing, - _Oriana;_ - And (out of tune) a chorus singing, - _Oriana!_ - I saw a high-priest sage and hoary, - _Oriana;_ - "Friend WAGGLES" struggling with a story, - _Oriana_. - A youth, in managerial glory, - Striving in vain, tho' _con amore_, - _Oriana_, - As (save the mark!) _primo tenore_, - _Oriana_, - I came! I saw! I mark'd each word, - _Oriana!_ - Ah, had my visit been deferr'd, - _Oriana_, - Some better things I might have heard; - But judging from what then occurr'd, - _Oriana_, - You seem'd a trifle too absurd, - _Oriana_. - - From _Fun_, February 26th, 1873. - -"Oriana," a romantic legend in three acts, by James Albery, music by F. -Clay, was first performed at the Globe Theatre, on Saturday, February -15th, 1873. The lessee and manager, Mr. H. J. Montague, performed the part -of King Raymond, that of Oriana being represented by Miss Rose Massey. -The plot was founded on a fairy tale, slightly resembling Mr. Gilbert's -"Palace of Truth," but, beyond the name, the play had nothing in common -with Tennyson's poem of "Oriana." - - * * * * * - - -MARIANA. - -(_At the Railway Station._) - - Her parcels, tied with many a knot, - Were thickly labelled, one and all; - And sitting down beside the lot, - She waited for the train to call. - The waiting-room looked sad and strange-- - Closed was the booking-office latch! - She watched the sleepy porter scratch - His head, or whistle as a change; - She only said, "The night is dreary-- - It cometh not," she said; - She said, "I am aweary, aweary-- - I would I were in bed." - - She sought the grim refreshment stall-- - The saucy barmaid long had slept; - O'er biscuit, bun, and sandwich small - The shining beetles slowly crept. - Hard by a signal post alway - Shot coloured beams into the dark. - She called the porter to remark, - In tones the opposite of gay: - "The hour is late, the night is dreary-- - It cometh not," she said; - Then mentally: "The man is beery-- - I would I were in bed." - - About the middle of the night - She heard the shrill steam-whistle blow, - And saw the signals gleaming bright; - And from dark pens the oxen's low - Came to her; but she watched with pain - A train with many a cattle van - Sweep past her, and the signal man - Reversed his lamps, and snoozed again. - She only said, "The night is dreary-- - It cometh not," she said; - She said, "I am aweary, aweary, - Of lamps, green, white, and red!" - - The tired officials kept aloof, - The telegraphic wires did sound - Their notes Æolian on the roof, - And goods trains shunting did confound - Her sense; yet still she waited on, - Until the porter came in sight-- - "There is no other train to-night; - The next will stop at early dawn." - She only said, "I am aweary; - It seems to me," she said, - "Your tables, like yourself, are beery-- - Go find me now a bed." - - * * * * * - - -THE WEDDING DRESS. - - In picturesque confusion lies - Her scattered finery on the floor, - And here and there her handmaid flies - With parcels to increase the store. - But dolefully she paced the room, - Although it was her wedding morn, - And often spoke in tones of scorn, - And brow of ever-deepening gloom. - - She only said, "The morn is dreary;" - "It cometh not," she said. - She said, "The milliner is weary, - Or stayed too late in bed." - - She hears the sound of pipe and drum, - And from the window looketh she: - Nodding their heads before her come - The merry Teuton minstrelsy, - Who wait to play "The Wedding March." - A member of the "force" stalks by, - And little urchins mocking cry, - "Oh, ain't he swallowed lots o' starch?" - - She laughed not, for she heard a chime: - "Eleven o'clock!" she said. - "I wonder if 'twill be in time? - I would that I were wed." - - How swiftly now the minutes pass. - With ribbons, laces, pins, and thread-- - With peeps into the looking-glass, - And tossings of the pretty head. - Full half an hour of anxious strife; - But still no wedding dress is there - To decorate the form so fair - Of her who would be made a wife. - - "Three quarters!" cried she weeping--weary. - "It cometh now!" they said. - The maiden looked no longer dreary, - But hastened to be wed. - - From _Funny Folks_. - - * * * * * - -In the _Bon Gaultier Ballads_ is a parody of Lilian entitled:-- - - -CAROLINE. - - Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, - Easy, breezy, Caroline! - With thy locks all raven-shaded, - From thy merry brow up-braided, - And thine eyes of laughter full, - Brightsome cousin mine! - Thou in chains of love hast bound me-- - Wherefore dost thou flit around me, - Laughter-loving Caroline! - - When I fain would go to sleep - In my easy chair, - Wherefore on my slumbers creep-- - Wherefore start me from repose, - Tickling of my hookèd nose, - Pulling of my hair? - Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, - So to words of anger move me, - Corking of this face of mine, - Tricksy cousin Caroline? - - * * * - - Would she only say she'd love me, - Winsome, tinsome, Caroline, - Unto such excess 'twould move me, - Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! - That she might the live-long day - Undermine the snuffer-tray, - Tickle still my hookèd nose, - Startle me from calm repose - With her pretty persecution; - Throw the tongs against my shins, - Run me through and through with pins, - Like a piercèd cushion; - Would she only say she'd love me, - Darning-needles should not move me; - But, reclining back I'd say, - "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; - Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine! - Cork me, cousin Caroline!" - - * * * * * - -I next give an extract from a capital parody of _The Merman_, taken from -_The Bon Gaultier Ballads_, in which the allusions to the Laureate's -office are happily introduced. - - -THE LAUREATE. - - Who would not be - The Laureate bold, - With his butt of sherry - To keep him merry, - And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? - 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! - When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, - I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, - With Her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. - I'd care not a pin for the waiting lord; - But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward - With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, - And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, - And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, - And watch the clouds that are listless as I, - Lazily, lazily! - And I'd pick the moss and daisies white, - And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; - And I'd let my fancies roam abroad - In search of a hint for a birthday ode, - Crazily, crazily! - - * * * * * - - Oh, would not that be a merry life, - Apart from care and apart from strife, - With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, - And no deductions at quarter-day! - Oh, that would be the post for me! - With plenty to get and nothing to do, - But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, - And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo, - And scribble of verses remarkably few, - And at evening empty a bottle or two! - Quaffingly, quaffingly! - - 'Tis I would be - The Laureate bold, - With my butt of sherry - To keep me merry, - And nothing to do but to pocket my gold! - - -THE MERMAID. - -(_By a disgusted Tar with a vague recollection of_ TENNYSON.) - -I. - - Who would be - A Mermaid dank. - Bobbing about - In a sort of tank, - For the crowd to see - At a shilling a head, - In doubt if it be - Alive or dead? - -II. - - _I_ would not be a Mermaid dank, - Flopping about in a Westminster tank, - Like a shabby sham at a country fair, - And by far the ugliest monster there; - Exposed to the Cockneys' vulgar chaff, - And the learned gush of the _Daily T._, - To be called a porpoise or ocean-calf, - Or a seven-foot slug from the deep blue sea. - _Me_ a Manatee? Dickens a bit! - The Mermaid of fiction was something fine, - A fish-tailed Siren given to sit - On a handy rock, 'midst the breezy brine, - Each golden curl with a comb of pearl - Arranging in many a taking twirl, - Like a free-and-easy nautical girl. - Taking a bath in a primitive style - Without any bother of dress or machine, - And likely the wandering tar to beguile, - If that Mariner chanced to be anyways green. - But your Modern Mermaid! good gracious me! - Who'd be inwiggled away from his tracks - Or driven to bung up his ears with wax - By the wiles and smiles of a Manatee? - A sort of shapeless squab sea-lubber, - A blundering bulk of leather and blubber, - Like an overgrown bottle of India-rubber; - The clumsiest, wobblingest, queerest of creatures, - With nothing but small gimlet-holes for features. - _This_ a Mermaid? Oh, don't tell me! - It's simply some sly scientifical spree, - And I mean to say it's a thundering shame - To bestow the Siren's respectable name, - Which savours of all that is rare and romantic, - On such a preposterous monster as this is, - Whose hideous phiz and ridiculous antic, - Would simply have frightened the mates of Ulysses. - Fancy the horror of blubberous kisses - From a mouth that's like a tarpaulin flap! - That Merman must be a most amorous chap - Who would sue her and woo her under the sea. - As TENNYSON sings--a nice treat it would be - Were a Mermaid merely a Manatee! - - From _Punch_, July 20th, 1878, in reference to the so-called - _Mermaid_ then being exhibited at the Westminster Aquarium. - - * * * * * - -Tennyson's--_The Poet_--was in fourteen verses of four lines each; it -commenced thus:-- - - "The poet in a golden clime was born, - With golden stars above; - Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, - The love of love." - - "He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, - He saw thro' his own soul. - The marvel of the everlasting will, - An open scroll," - - "Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded - The secretest walks of fame: - The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed - And wing'd with flame." - -The following parody, which appeared in _Punch_, was _apropos_ of the -poetry of the so-called "Fleshly School," and very closely follows the -diction of the original:-- - - -THE POET (OF THE PERIOD). - -_With Punch's apologies for the application of noble Stanzas to an ignoble -subject._ - - The Poet in a dismal clime was born, - With lurid stars above; - Dower'd with a taste for hate, a love for scorn, - A scorn for love. - - He glanced through life and death, through good and ill, - He glanced through his own soul; - And found all dead as a dishonoured bill, - Or emptied bowl. - - He thrummed his lay; with mincing feet he threaded - The walks of coterie fame: - On the dull arrows of his thought were threaded - _Concetti_ tame - - And pop-gun pellets from his lisping tongue, - Erratic in their flight, - From studio to drawing-room he flung, - Filling with light - - And mazèd phantasies each morbid mind, - Which, albeit lacking wit, - Like dandelion seeds blown by the wind, - In weak souls lit, - - Took shallow root, and springing up anew - Where'er they dropt, behold, - Like to the parent plant in semblance, grew - A weed as bold, - - And fitly furnished all abroad to fling - Fresh mockeries of truth, - And throng with poisonous blooms the verdant Spring - Of weak-kneed youth. - - Till many minds were lit with borrowed beams - Of an unwholesome fire; - And many fed their sick souls with hot dreams - Of vague desire. - - Thus trash was multiplied on trash; the world - Like a Gehenna glowed, - And through the clouds of Stygian dark upcurled, - Foul radiance flowed; - - And Licence lifted in that false sunrise - Her bold and brazen brow; - While Purity before her burning eyes - Melted like snow. - - There was red blood upon her trailing robes, - Lit by those lurid skies; - And round the hollow circles of the globes - Of her hot eyes, - - And on her robe's hem, "FOLLY" showed in flames - With "PHRENSY," names to shake - Coherency and sense--misleading names-- - And when she spake, - - Her words did gather fury as they ran, - And as mock lightning and stage thunder, - With firework flash and empty rataplan, - Make schoolboys wonder, - - So thrilled thro' fools her windy words. No sword - Of truth her right hand twirl'd, - But one bad Poet's scrawl, and with _his_ word - She bored the world. - - * * * * * - -In 1832 Tennyson published another small volume of poems which contained -that beautifully classical piece of blank verse _Œnone;_ _The Sisters_, -_The Palace of Art_, _Lady Clara Vere de Vere_, _The May Queen_, _The -Lotus-Eaters_, _The Dream of Fair Women_, and _Margaret_, all of which -have been so frequently parodied that selection is indeed difficult. - -The following parody of Tennyson's, _The Sisters_, was _apropos_ to a -division in the House of Commons, relative to the vexed question of -marriage with a deceased wife's sister, and appeared in _The Tomahawk_. - - -MATRIMONIAL EXPEDIENCY. - - They were two daughters of one race: - One dead, the other took her place; - Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee! - The _Noes_ were but one forty-four; - I'm backed by retrospective law; - Oh! the _Ayes_ were two forty-three! - - Who'd run a tilt 'gainst common sense? - I married for convenience; - Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee! - 'Tis wiser th' ills we _know_ to bear, - Than run the chance of worse elsewhere; - Oh! the _Ayes_ were two forty-three! - - Twice married--but I'm bound to state - Th' expediency of this is great; - Brotherly love? oh! fiddle-de-dee! - I'm now no worse off than before, - I only have _one_ mother-in-law, - And she's one too many for me! - - * * * * * - - A good many years ago a little volume, entitled "_Carols of - Cockayne_," written by the late Mr. Henry S. Leigh, (who died June, - 1883) had considerable success. It contained a number of Ballads - and Parodies, and amongst others two amusing imitations of Tennyson - (they can hardly be styled _parodies_), the first is in answer to - the Laureate's somewhat bitter attack on a lady entitled "Lady Clara - Vere de Vere:--" - - The Lady Clara V. de V. - Presents her very best regards - To that misguided Alfred T. - (With one of her enamell'd cards). - - Though uninclin'd to give offence, - The Lady Clara begs to hint - That Master Alfred's common sense - Deserts him utterly in print. - - The Lady Clara can but say - That always from the very first - She snubb'd in her decisive way - The hopes that silly Alfred nurs'd. - The fondest words that ever fell - From Lady Clara, when they met, - Were "How d'ye do? I hope you're well!" - Or else "The weather's very wet." - - To show a disregard for truth - By penning scurrilous attacks, - Appears to Lady C. in sooth - Like stabbing folks behind their backs. - The age of chivalry, she fears, - Is gone for good, since noble dames - Who irritate low sonneteers - Get pelted with improper names. - - The Lady Clara cannot think - What kind of pleasure can accrue - From wasting paper, pens, and ink, - On statements the reverse of true. - If Master Launcelot, one fine day, - (Urged on by madness or by malt,) - Destroy'd himself--can Alfred say - The Lady Clara was in fault? - - Her Ladyship needs no advice - How time and money should be spent, - And can't pursue at any price - The plan that Alfred T. has sent. - She does not in the least object - To let the "foolish yeoman" go, - But wishes--let him recollect-- - That he should move to Jericho. - -The other, a reply to a well known song, is scarcely so good, because it -does not follow its original so closely:-- - - -MAUD. - - Nay, I cannot come into the garden just now, - Tho' it vexes me much to refuse: - But I _must_ have the next set of waltzes, I vow, - With Lieutenant de Boots of the Blues. - - I am sure you'll be heartily pleas'd when you hear - That our ball has been quite a success. - As for _me_--I've been looking a monster, my dear, - In that old fashion'd guy of a dress. - - You had better at once hurry home, dear, to bed; - It is getting so dreadfully late. - You may catch the bronchitis or cold in the head - If you linger so long at our gate. - - Don't be obstinate Alfy; come, take my advice, - For I know you're in want of repose. - Take a basin of gruel (you'll find it _so_ nice), - And remember to tallow your nose. - - No, I tell you I can't and I shan't get away, - For De Boots has implor'd me to sing. - As to _you_--if you like it, of course you can stay; - You were always an obstinate thing. - - If you feel it a pleasure to talk to the flow'rs - About "babble and revel and wine," - When you might have been snoring for two or three hours, - Why, it's not the least business of mine. - -In 1879 the Editor of _The World_ offered a prize for the best parody -on Tennyson's _Lotus-Eaters_, the chosen subject being "Her Majesty's -Ministers at Greenwich." - -The prize was awarded to _C. J. Billson_, for the following parody, which -appeared in _The World_, for September 3rd, 1879:-- - - -THE WHITEBAIT-EATERS. - - "COURAGE!" they said, and pointed through the gloom; - "There is a haven in yon fishful clime." - At dinner-time they came into a room, - In which it seemèd all day dinner-time. - All in the midst the banquet rose sublime, - Whose _menu_ excellent no tongue might blame; - And round about the board, without their Prime, - Without their prime delight and chiefest fame, - The mild-eyed muddle-headed whitebait-eaters came. - - They sat them down upon the yellow chairs, - And feasted gaily as in days of yore; - And sweet it was to jest of late affairs, - Of Ward and Power and Cat; but evermore - Most weary seemed the Session almost o'er, - Weary Hibernian nights of barren seed. - Then some one said, "We shall come here no more!" - And all at once they cried, "No more, indeed! - The ballot shall release; we will no longer lead!" - - -CHORIC SONG. - - Why are we weighed upon with weariness, - With foreign crises and with home distress, - When all we do is mocked at by the Press? - All men like peace: why should we toil alone? - We always toil, and nevermore have rest; - But yield perpetual jest, - Still from one blunder to another thrown: - Nor ever pack our tricks, - And cease from politics; - Nor vote our last against the wild O'Connor; - Nor hearken what the moving spirit said, - "Let there be Peace with Honour!" - Why should we always toil, when England's trust is dead? - - Let us alone. What pleasure could we have - To war with Afghans? But the Chief said "Fight! - The times are perilous and the Jingoes rave, - Whate'er I do is right." - Yea, interests are hard to reconcile; - 'Tis hard to please yet help the little isle; - We have done neither quite. - Though we change the music ever, yet the people scorn our song; - O rest ye, brother Ministers, we shall not labour long. - - AUGUSTO MENSE POETA. - (_C. J. Billson._) - - * * * * * - -In the year 1868, when the mania for trapeze performances was at its -height, and men and women were nightly risking their lives to please the -thoughtless audiences at the music halls, _The Tomahawk_ had some powerful -cartoons (drawn by Matt Morgan) in condemnation of this senseless and -dangerous form of entertainment; it also published the following parody -of-- - - -A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. - - I read, before I fell into a doze, - Some book about old fashions--curious tales - Of bye-gone fancies--kirtles and trunk hose-- - Of hoops, and fardingales-- - - Of mediæval milliners, whose taste - Preluded our vile fashions of to day-- - Of how they moulded the ancestral waist - With steel-bound taffeta-- - - Of powdered heroes of the later days-- - Of Hamlets strutting in their full court suits, - Slouch-hatted villains of transpontine plays, - All belt and bucket boots-- - - So shape chased shape (as swiftly as, when knocks - Of angry tradesmen bluster at the door, - Turgid with envelopes my letter box - Boils over on the floor). - - Till fancy, running riot in my brain, - Elbowed the PAST from out the PRESENT'S way; - And opened in my dream, distinct and plain, - A vision of to-day. - - Methought that I was on what's called "a spree," - Yet sadly pensive in the motley throng. - Where thrills through clouds of smoke the melody - Of idiotic song; - - Where youth with tipsy rapture drowns in beer - All common sense, votes decency a bore, - But, to the shapely limbs and sensuous leer, - Yells out a loud "Encore--" - - Then flashed before me in the gaslights' glare - A form to make the boldest hold his breath, - She, who by reckless leapings in mid air, - Plays pitch and toss with Death. - - Shame on the gaping crowds who only know - Sensation in the chance of broken necks! - Shame on the manliness that cries "Bravo" - To such a scorn of sex! - - I saw that now, since License holds such sway, - The comic muse her false position feels, - And that her sister may not gain the day, - Has taken to her heels. - - And then methought I stood in fairy bowers, - Where Dulness hides behind the mask of Fun, - Where tin-foil and Dutch metal do for flowers, - And lime-light is the sun; - - Where Art groans under an unseemly ban, - And airy nothings pass for full attire, - The Stage appeals but to the baser man, - And th' only blush, Red Fire! - - * * * * * - - Then starting I awoke from my nightmare. - A nightmare? No! the truth came clear to me. - I'd dream'd the truth--bare facts (O much too bare!) - And stern reality. - - * * * * * - - -An Extract from the original MARGARET. - - O, SWEET pale Margaret, - O, rare pale Margaret, - What lit your eyes with tearful power, - Like moonlight on a falling shower? - Who lent you, love, your mortal dower - Of pensive thought and aspect pale, - Your melancholy sweet and frail - As perfume of the cuckoo-power? - - * * * * * - - What can it matter, Margaret, - What songs below the waning stars - The lion-heart, Plantagenet, - Sang, looking thro' his prison bars? - Exquisite Margaret, who can tell - The last wild thought of Chatelet, - Just ere the fallen axe did part - The burning brain from the true heart, - Even in her sight he loved so well? - - * * * * * - - -MARY ANN. - -_(After Mr. Tennyson's "Margaret.")_ - - O, slipshod Mary Ann, - O, draggled Mary Ann, - What gives your arms such fearful power - To raise the dust in blinding shower? - Who gave you strength, your mortal dower, - To beat the mats as with a flail. - To lift with ease that heavy pail? - - What can it matter, Mary Ann, - What songs the long-legged son of Mars-- - The butcher or the cat's meat man-- - Sings to you thro' the area bars? - O, red-armed Mary, you may tell - The milkman, when he fills our can, - You wonder how he has the heart - To let the pump play such a part - In milk for her he loves so well! - - You stand not in such attitudes, - You are not quite so plain, - Nor so sulky in your moods, - As your twin-sister, Mary Jane, - Your face is cleaner, and your nose - Not touched with such a grimy hue, - With cold ærially blue, - Or crimson as the damask rose! - - ALBANY CLARKE. - - From _The Weekly Dispatch_, 25th June, 1882. - - * * * * * - -It is in the strongly marked individuality of some of Tennyson's early -poems that we find, at once, the secret of much of his popularity, and the -excuse for the vast number of parodies of his works scattered about in -nearly all our humorous literature; and three of the early poems have been -especially chosen by parodists as models for imitation; these are the "May -Queen," "Locksley Hall," and the "Charge of the Light Brigade." - -In the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" by Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun, -will be found several parodies of Tennyson, also of Lord Macaulay, Tom -Moore, Bulwer Lytton, Mrs. Browning, and of Leigh Hunt, of whom parodies -are rare. - -Of the parodies of Tennyson, "Caroline" and "The Laureate" have already -been quoted; the others are "The Lay of the Lovelorn" and "The Dirge of -the Drinker," both in imitation of "Locksley Hall," "La Mort D'Arthur," -concerning Mechi's steel; and the "The Biter Bit." - -"The Biter Bit" is a kind of burlesque continuation of the "May Queen," -the tender pathos of the original being turned into cynical indifference, -whilst preserving a great similarity of style and versification. - - You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, - To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year, - Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest merriest day; - For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. - - * * * * * - - As I came up the valley whom think ye I should see, - But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? - He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,-- - But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. - - They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be: - They say his heart is breaking, mother--what is that to me? - There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day, - And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. - - * * * * * - - TENNYSON. - - * * * * * - - -THE BITER BIT. - - The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, - And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; - The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, - And happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! - - They are going to the church, mother,--I hear the marriage bell: - It booms along the upland, oh! it haunts me like a knell; - He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, - And closely by his side she clings,--she does, the demirep! - - They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, - The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; - And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, - Wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. - - He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, - By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed: - And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; - But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! - - He said that I was proud, mother,--that I looked for rank and gold; - He said I did not love him,--he said my words were cold; - He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-- - And it may be that I did, mother, but who hasn't done the same? - - I did not know my heart, mother,--I know it now too late; - I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; - But no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing. - And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. - - You may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore, - And mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; - And if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, - Draw me a pot of beer, mother,--and, mother, draw it mild! - - * * * * * - - -THE MAY QUEEN CORRECTED--May, 1879. - - They must wrap and cloak me warmly, cloak me warmly mother dear, - For to-morrow is the iciest day of all the sad new year. - Of all the sad new year, mother, the snowiest, blowiest day, - And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. - - _Punch._ - - * * * * * - - -CARTED AWAY. - -_A Farewell Ode to the Brompton Boilers._ - - You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, - There's a work I wouldn't miss for worlds, a sight my heart does cheer: - Well, I know you'll not believe, mother, a word of what I say; - But they're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the - boilers away. - - There's many a black eye, of course, a moral one I mean, - Has been exchanged about them, for many a fight they've seen; - But no more need of cavil now, the fact's as plain as day, - They're carting the boilers away, mother, they're carting the boilers - away. - - Good taste had slept so sound, mother, I thought t'would never wake. - But the Press, at last, has given it a most decided shake; - Yes, at length it's up and doing, oh! and isn't Brompton gay - While they re carting its boilers away, mother, they're carting its - boilers away! - - As I came up from Knightsbridge whom think ye I should see, - But, Mr. Cole, my ancient friend, best known as our C.B.! - He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday-- - And he carted the boilers away, mother, he carted the boilers away. - - You know it is his boast, mother, that in bricks all red and white, - He means to raise, on what appears an eligible ground site, - A palace for which Parliament will very gladly pay-- - When the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away. - - The turnstile and refreshment rooms, umbrella man, and charts, - The chimney pots, paints, plaster casts, and analysed jam tarts, - Yes, all are gone! No longer art her triumphs can display, - For they've carted her boilers away, mother, they've carted her - boilers away. - - The cabs they come and go, mother, the omnibuses pass, - The public scarce believe their eyes; they think the thing a farce, - They'd got resigned to Brompton, thought its boilers meant to stay! - Yet they're carting those boilers away, mother, they're carting those - boilers away. - - South Kensington no more, mother, need fear to be despised, - The three most ugly things on earth, man ever yet devised, - No longer shall scare fashion off, and keep the world at bay; - Yes, the boilers are carted away, mother, the boilers are carted away. - - So please call me very early--Oh! I mean it--mother dear, - For I wouldn't miss the sight for worlds, it's such a bright idea; - They're nearly done--a pole or two will go and then--hooray! - The boilers are carted away, mother, are carted for ever away! - - * * * * * - -The following appeared in _The Referee_, in 1882:-- - -"Chief Justice May has scandalously prejudged the Land League case, and -in common decency he should not be allowed to try it. A fair trial is -impossible after the partisanship which in the vilest possible taste this -person has displayed. It is not the practice even now in Ireland to hang -people first and try them afterwards, and May may congratulate himself -upon having done the very worst thing in his power for the Government -brief, which, sitting in judgment, he had the effrontery to flaunt in the -face of the accused." - - -THE MAY OF THE QUEEN. - -(_The Land League Boy to his Mother_). - - You must wake and call me early; call me early, mother dear; - To-morrow will be the saddest time of Ireland's sad new year. - Of all this threat'ning year, mother, the blackest, foulest, day, - For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May. - - There's many a black, black crime, mother, they charge against your - lad; - There's Boycotting and murder, and everything that's bad; - And I'm bound to be convicted, though innocent, they say-- - For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May. - - You know I wasn't there, mother, when all the row was made; - I never made a wicked speech, or led a Land League raid; - But the judge has made up his mind to put your boy away-- - For I'm to be tried by Judge May, mother, I'm to be tried by Judge May. - - So wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, - For at ten o'clock, before the Court, I'm summoned to appear. - There's little chance of justice, he's a partisan they say-- - This fierce and biassed judge, mother, this Lord Chief Justice May. - - * * * * * - - -THE PLAY KING. - -(_Not included in Mr. Tennyson's New Volume_). - - You may take and bill me early, bill me early, HENRY dear; - I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year; - Of all the coming year, HENRY, the safest spec to pay; - For _I'm_ going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a - play. - - There's lots of blank, blank verse, you know, but none so neat as mine; - There's GILBERT, and there's WILLS, and--well, some others in their - line; - But none of them are Laureates, though clever in their way; - So _I'm_ going to write you a play, HENRY, I'm going to write you a - play. - - 'Twill be all right at night, HENRY, on that my name I'll stake: - I've got a good Egyptian plot, that's safe, I'm told, to take. - You're poisoned in a temple, Miss TERRY dies at bay-- - I _am_ writing you such a play, HENRY, I am writing you such a play. - - As I came towards the theatre, whom think ye I should see, - But Messrs. HARE and KENDAL, looking sorrowful at me? - They were thinking of _The Falcon_ I wrote but yesterday, - And they didn't ask me for a play, HENRY, they didn't ask me for a - play. - - I know your ghost draws well, HENRY, but don't be in a fright, - My _forte_ isn't stage-effect: when I write plays, I _write_. - You'll have five pages at a time,--as much as you can say; - But a Poet is writing your play, HENRY, a Poet is writing your play. - - Some critics tell me that my place is not behind the scenes; - That if I must descend I might stop short at magazines. - But as _Queen Mary_ from the doors the money turned away, - You must long for another big play, HENRY, you must long for another - big play. - - For fads and fancies grow, HENRY, to wither like the grass,-- - The latest, _culture;_--and for that, my name doth current pass. - So that's why, though I can't construct, and you feel all astray, - You've asked me to write you a play, HENRY, you've asked me to write - you a play. - - So take and bill me early, bill me early HENRY, dear; - I'm going to make the biggest hit of all the coming year; - Of all the coming year, HENRY:--and if it shouldn't pay:-- - Still _I_ shall have written your play, HENRY, _I_ shall have written - your play! - - From _Punch_, December 4th, 1880. - - These verses had reference to the announcement that the Poet - Laureate was writing a tragedy to be produced at the Lyceum - Theatre.--_The Cup_ was indeed a greater success than most of Mr. - Tennyson's previous dramatic productions, but it owed its popularity - to splendid acting, and the magnificent _mise-en-scene_, far more - than to its merits as a _play_, beautiful as it was as a poem.--It - was produced on the 19th February, 1881. - -In _The Referee_ for December 2, 1882, the following parodies were -published. It will be noticed that the first part imitates Cowper's _John -Gilpin_, the second part Tennyson's _May Queen_, and the third part -Campbell's _Hohenlinden_. - - "I beg very humbly to submit a poem to the - Royal Family, the Bench, the Bar, and the - British public on the opening of the new Law - Courts." - - -A MEDLEY FOR MONDAY. - - John Bulljohn was a citizen - Of credit and renown, - Of Volunteers a captain he - Of famous London town. - - John Bulljohn's mother said, "My dear, - Though living here we've been - This goodness knows how long, yet we - Have never seen the Queen. - - "To-morrow to the new Law Courts - Our sovereign does repair;" - Says John, "Good gracious! so she does-- - Dear mother, we'll be there." - - And ere he went to bed, J. B. - His aged ma did kiss; - And, feeling like a boy again, - Did softly warble this: - - You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear-- - To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all this famous year; - Of all this famous year, mother, the grandest, jolliest day, - For look on our Queen we may, mother, look on our Queen we may. - - There's many a loyal heart, they say, but none so true as mine, - There's Sandy and there's Dougal, across the Border line; - But none so true as Johnny, not e'en by Alum Bay, - So look on my Queen I may, mother, look on my Queen I may. - - All the Strand, dear mother, 'll be gay with flag and green; - And they're selling seats in windows for gold to see the Queen; - O long shall Johnny remember the Law Courts' opening day, - When look on the Queen he may, mother, look on the Queen he may. - - In London when the Queen was low, - Too sad at heart about to go, - Or in our streets her face to show - Did loyalty fade rapidly. - - But London saw another sight - When she, our Liege, recovered quite, - Came, on a morning clear and bright, - Through arches, flags, and greenery. - - To where the new Law Courts were made, - Attended by a cavalcade. - O, how the English crowd hoorayed! - And all was joy and revelry. - - Then shook the sky with thunder riven, - For never heartier cheers were given, - As through the streets the Queen was driven, - Attended by her soldiery. - - * * * * * - -The longest and most important work (by many also considered the finest) -of Alfred Tennyson is the collection of Arthurian Idyls, known as the -_Idyls of the King_. These were originally published in detached parts, in -somewhat irregular order, but in recent editions the Author has striven to -arrange them in a consecutive and more connected form. - -The first to appear in order of date was the _Morte d'Arthur_, which was -published in the 1842 volume, in the later arrangement of the poems this -has been absorbed into the last Idyl, entitled "_The Passing of Arthur_." - -In the original it commenced thus:-- - - "So all day long the noise of battle roll'd - Among the mountains by the winter sea; - Until King Arthur's table, man by man, - Had fall'n in Lyonness about their Lord, - King Arthur; then because his wound was deep, - The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, - Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, - And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, - A broken chancel with a broken cross, - That stood on a dark strait of barren land. - On one side lay the Ocean, and on one - Lay a great water, and the moon was full. - - Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: - - "The sequel of to-day unsolders all - The goodliest fellowship of famous knights - Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep - They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we - Shall never more, at any future time, - Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, - Walking about the gardens and the halls - Of Camelot, as in the days that were. - I perish by this people which I made,-- - Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again - To rule once more--but let what will be, be, - I am so deeply smitten through the helm - That without help I cannot last till morn. - Thou, therefore, take my brand Excalibur, - Which was my pride: - - * * * * * - - take Excalibur, - And fling him far into the middle mere: - Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word." - -This mission was distasteful to Sir Bedivere, who exclaims:-- - - "And if indeed I cast the brand away, - Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, - Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, - Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. - What good should follow this, if this were done? - What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, - Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. - Were it well to obey then, if a king demand - An act unprofitable against himself? - The King is sick, and knows not what he does. - What record, or what relic of my lord - Should be to aftertime, but empty breath - And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, - Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, - Some one might show it at a joust of arms, - Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur.'" - -Thus much of the original must indeed be in one's thoughts ere the _Voyage -de Guillaume_ can be appreciated; it recounts the holiday trip of the -Prime Minister to the north in September, 1883. It will be remembered that -Mr. Gladstone was the guest of Sir Donald Currie, on board the _Pembroke -Castle_, and that Alfred Tennyson was also one of the party. - - -VOYAGE DE GUILLAUME.--A FRAGMENT. - -To the Editor of the _St. James's Gazette_. - -SIR,--I have received the following lines from North Britain. Evidently -it was not without reason that the Prime Minister was accompanied on his -cruise by the Poet Laureate.--I am, Sir, your obedient servant, - - H. H. - - * * * * * - - --So all the year the noise of talk had roared - Before the Speaker's chair at Westminster, - Until King Guillaume's council, man by man - Were tired to death, as also was their Chief, - King Guillaume. Then, observing he was bored, - The bold Sir Donald C. invited him - (Sir Donald C., the last of all his knights) - And bore him off to Barrow by the sea-- - Barrow-in-Furness, with a ruined church - That stood beside the melancholy waves. - - Then spoke King Guillaume to Sir Donald C.: - "Next session will most probably upset - The goodliest Ministry of virtuous men - Whereof this world holds record. Not for long - Shall we contrive our schemes of policy, - Meeting within the offices and halls - Of Downing Street, as in the days that were. - I perish by these voters which I make-- - Although Sir Andrew says that I may live - To rule once more; but let what will be, be. - He tells me that it is not good for me - To cut down oaks at Haw'rden, as before. - Thou, therefore, take my axe Exbrummagem, - Which was my pride--for thou rememberest how - The lustiest tree would fall beneath my strokes-- - But now delay not; take Exbrummagem, - And fling him overboard when out at sea." - - Then bold Sir Donald took Exbrummagem, - And went, and lighted his cigar, and thought: - "And if, indeed, I cast the axe away, - Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, - Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, - Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. - - The King is cross, and knows not what he says. - What record, or what relic of my lord, - Should be to aftertime, but empty breath - Condensed in Hansard's books? But were this kept, - Preserved in some Mechanics' Institute, - It might be brought out by some lecturer, - Saying, 'King Guillaume's axe, Exbrummagem, - With which he cut down trees at Hawarden!' - So might he illustrate a stupid speech - To all the people, winning reverence." - So spake he, thinking of constituents, - And kept Exbrummagem for future use. - - * * * * * - - Then came Sir Donald, gave the King his arm, - And brought him to the margin of the sea. - And at his call there hove a roomy barge, - Manned with a gallant crew from stem to stern; - And so they entered, and put off, and reached - The stately _Pembroke Castle_, and were ware - That all the decks were dense with manly forms - In naval caps and jackets, and with these - Three dames in yachting suits; and from them rose - A cheer of greeting, and they stretched their hands, - Took him on board, and laughed, and petted him. - - And so they sailed; and while the sea was calm - They talked, and sang, and feasted much, and had, - In Yankee parlance, "quite a high old time." - But when the wind blew, and the waves arose, - It sometimes happened that the grand old face - Was white and colourless, and cries of "Steward!" - Proceeded from the lips of eloquence. - And like a prostrate oak-tree lay the King - Wrapped in a shepherd's plaid and mackintosh: - Not like that Guillaume who, with collars high, - From brow to boot a meteor of debate, - Shot through the lists at Westminster, and charged - The serried ranks of bold Conservatives. - - _The St. James's Gazette_, Sept. 19, 1883. - - * * * * * - -In the same 1842 volume, appeared "Godiva," "Locksley Hall," "Break, -Break, Break," and "The Eagle," of each of which there are some excellent -parodies.--The old legend of Lady Godiva, so beautifully retold in -blank verse by the Laureate, has recently been sadly vulgarised by the -processions at Coventry, and the following poem describes, not unfairly, -the scene in which a somewhat prominent actress stooped to sustain the -part of the _Lady Godiva_. - - -THE MODERN LADY GODIVA. - - _I journeyed by the train to Coventry; - I pleased a groom with porter near the bridge, - And asked which way the pageant came; and then - I saw it pass--'twas passing strange--and this - Is what they've turned the City's legend to._ - - Not even were it to remove a tax - Could a Godiva ride abroad to-day - As she rode forth a thousand summers back: - Lord Campbell's Act, and Collette both forbid! - Still did the people clamour for a show; - So was it settled there should be forthwith - A pageant such as Coventry did love. - - Whence came it that, whilst yet the sunny moon - Of roses showed her crescent horn; the day - Fix'd for the pageant dawn'd on Coventry; - And Sanger--he of circus fame--arose - Betimes; for much was on his mind. Perchance - An elephant had shed its trunk; perchance - Some giant camel had "the hump" too much; - Or piebald horse had moulted all its spots. - Most feared he, though, lest she who had agreed - To act Godiva, having slept on it, - Should from her bargain flinch; so sought he her - With, "Well, and ride you through the town to-day?" - - And she--for eggs and toast had made her bold-- - "Ay, that will I!" Then he: "'Tis well!" and went - And whistled as he walked. - - She, left alone, - When the effect of eggs and toast had gone, - Did half repent her promise; then again - Thought of her fee, and so grew bold once more. - And as she sat, rejoicing that 'twas warm, - There came the sound of trumpet and of drum, - And driving past she saw the circus car, - And on it was a placard calling all - Good people to come forth and gaze at her. - - Then knew she that undressing time had come, - So sped her to the inner room, and there - Unhook'd the clinging bodice of her frock, - Hair-pinned on locks to show'r down to her knee, - Donned the rose "fleshings" that she was to wear; - Then throwing on a shawl she waited there - Till such time as they brought her palfrey, trapt - In purple, blazoned with armorial gold. - - So came at last the sound of pattering hoofs, - And up the stairs a voice, "The 'oss is come!" - And tripping to the door she found a steed, - Milk-white and bony, meek, and pink of eye, - And with a chair and Mr. Sanger's help - Clomb on his back, and then one bang'd a door - And shouted, "Right!" and so the charger past. - - Thus rode she forth, clothed on with scantiness, - And in the pageant duly took her place, - Along with camels and with elephants - And men-in-armour, weakest at the knee, - And Foresters with horns that wouldn't blow, - And clumsy bows, and Odd-fellows as well, - In fool regalia; and the Volunteers, - And Fire Brigade, and several brazen bands. - But chiefly 'twas on her all eyes were fix'd, - And women wondered what she could have got - For making of herself a show; and men - Opined that cotton wool she'd freely used; - And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, - Drawing a pin and rushing at her horse - Prick'd--but it was no good, the steed jogged on - As theretofore: and thanks to frequent bangs - And shouts of "Right" did reach the end at last - Of the day's progress, much to its delight. - And she was glad, and hastening to her room - She slipp'd her garments on, and issuing claim'd - Her fee, and took the earliest train to town, - And in the ballet, in the foremost row, - Danced with her fellows, winning great renown, - As one who rode through Coventry in "tights," - And built herself an evanescent name. - - -BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. - -Tennyson writes thus:-- - - "Break, break, break, - On thy cold gray stones, O sea! - And I would that my tongue could utter - The thoughts that arise in me." - - "O well for the fisherman's boy, - That he shouts with his sister at play! - O well for the sailor lad, - That he sings in his boat on the bay!" - - "And the stately ships go on - To their haven under the hill; - But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, - And the sound of a voice that is still!" - - "Break, break, break, - At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! - But the tender grace of a day that is dead - Will never come back to me." - -Of this he has had numerous imitators:-- - - -TO MY SCOUT. - -_After a smash (and Tennyson)._ - - Break, break, break! - Plate, decanter, and glass! - It's enough to worry a cherub, - And loosen the tongue of an ass. - - It's all very well to declare - That your "helbow" caught in the door, - And your "fut" must 'ave 'itched in a nail, - And you're very sorry, you're sure. - - And I'm very hard up just now, - Three troublesome duns to stop, - But I wish I'd only got half the coin - I've paid to that china-shop. - - Break, break, break! - You must order another new set. - It's good for trade; but I'd like to know - What is the commission you get? - - From _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872. - -Here is another in a similar vein:-- - - Break, break, break, - My cups and my saucers, O scout! - And I'm glad that my tongue can't utter - The oaths that my soul points out. - - It's well for the china-shop man, - Who gets a fresh order each day; - And deucedly well for yourself, - Who are in the said china-man's pay. - - And my stately vases go - To your uncle's, I ween, to be cashed; - But it's O for the light of my broken lamp, - And the tick of my clock that is smashed. - - Break, break, break! - At the foot of thy stairs in glee; - But the coin I have spent in glass that is smashed - Will never come back to me. - - From the "_Shotover Papers_," Oxford, 1875. - - * * * * * - - -THE BATHER'S DIRGE. - -_By Tennyson Minor._ - - Break, break, break, - On thy cold hard stones, O Sea! - And I hope that my tongue won't utter - The curses that rise in me. - - O well for the fisherman's boy, - If he likes to be soused with the spray! - O well for the sailor lad, - As he paddles about in the bay! - - And the ships swim happily on - To their haven under the hill: - But O for a clutch at that vanish'd hand, - And a kick--for I'm catching a chill! - - Break, break, break, - At my poor bare feet, O Sea! - _But the artful scamp who has collar'd my clothes - Will never come back to me._ - - From _Funny Folks_, 1879. - - * * * * * - -The two following are taken from _Punch:_-- - - -THE MUSICAL PITCH. - - Break, break, break, - O voice!--let me urge thy plea!-- - O lower the Pitch, lest utter - Despair be the end of me! - - 'Tis well for the fiddles to squeak, - The bassoon to grunt in its play: - 'Twere well had I lungs of brass, - Or that nothing but strings gave way! - - Break, break, break, - O voice! I must urge thy plea, - For the tender skin of my larynx is torn, - And I fail in my upper G! - - * * * * * - - -TENNYSON AT BILLINGSGATE IN 1882. - -(Apropos of the _Ring_ of Wholesale Fish Dealers.) - - Take! Take! Take! - Oh grabber of swag from the sea, - And I shouldn't quite like to utter - The thoughts that occur to me! - - Oh, ill for the fisherman poor - That he toils for a trifle all day, - And ill for the much-diddled public - That has through the nose to pay. - - And the swelling monopolist drives - To his villa at Haverstock Hill, - But it's O for the number of poor men's lives - Food-stinted to plump his till! - - Take! Take! Take! - Oh grabber of swag from the sea, - _But you'll render a reckoning one of these days - To the public and Mr. P._ - - * * * * * - -In June, 1882, the Editor of _The Weekly Dispatch_ awarded a prize of Two -Guineas to M. Percivale, for a parody on _Locksley Hall_. The somewhat -uncomplimentary allusions to a young Æsthetic poet are too obvious to -require any elucidation. - - Cousins, leave me here a little, in lawn tennis you excel; - Leave me here, you only bore me, I shall come at "luncheon bell!" - - 'Tis the place (but rather older)--I was in my eighteenth year, - When I first met utter Oscar, and I thought him such a dear! - - How about the beach I wandered, listening while that youth sublime - Spouted verses by the dozen, which he said he wrote for _Time_. - - But his form was somewhat fatter than should be for one so young, - And his round eyes spoke the language of his glib and oily tongue. - - In the spring the fleshly poet writes a sweet and soothing sonnet: - In the spring a wise young woman buys a more becoming bonnet. - - And he said, "Oh, have you anything in Consols or Per Cents.? - For my property's in Ireland, and I cannot get the rents?" - - Oh, my Oscar! Impecunious! Oh, intense!--if nothing worse-- - Oh, those too-too precious poems! Oh, that too-too empty purse! - - Then I said, "I've an allowance from an old maternal aunt, - Just enough for dress; but as to victuals--no, I really can't!" - - And he turned, his face was frightful, pale with anger for poor me; - Was it fancy that he muttered something like a big, big D--? - - * * * * * - - As my husband is, his wife is, rich, the envy of the town; - How a life in shabby lodgings would have dragged my spirit down! - - How my beauty would have faded, growing daily paler, thinner! - Making puddings, washing clothing, planning for the children's dinner. - - Comes the butler, "Lunch is ready, madam!" iced champagne, I know, - Mayonnaise and lobster salad; I am hungry and--I go. - - * * * * * - -Here is another, and an earlier, imitation of the same original:-- - - -BACCHANALIAN DREAMINGS. - - Cronies leave me in the bar-room, while as yet I've cash to spend, - Leave me here, and if I'm wanted, 'mum's' the word to every friend, - - 'Tis the place, I can assure you, if from funds you wish to part; - Yet for these you'll get a mixture, wisely stirred will warm the heart. - - This old house is situated in a street well-known as High; - Here the choicest spirits gather, when the moon is in the sky. - - Oft at night I've seen the taper seemingly to multiply - And assume these quaintish fashions so deceptive to the eye. - - Till in fancy I've been lifted high above this earthly ball; - And the lights, like stars have twinkled, in the mirrors on the wall. - - In the happiness that followed, I've forgot life's cankering care, - Yet from these Elysian dreamings I've waked to misery and despair. - - In this mood I've heard, with pleasure common mortals cannot know, - Grand debates, and songs and speeches, which from sparkling genius - flow. - - Then I've built aerial castles towering up to heights sublime, - And I've questioned in my fancy, if such blissfulness were mine. - - For the nonce, a powerful statesman, I have ruled with iron sway, - Millions of my fellow-creatures, who, of course, were rougher clay. - - Changing, then, to mighty warrior, at the head of armies bold, - I've crushed all who dared oppose me, just for glory, not for gold. - - Or, again, as learned historian, I've noted down the deeds of yore, - Woven in a graceful fashion, mines of thought from ancient lore. - - Burning passions, that consumed me, caused my throbbing heart to swell, - Or, when seized with poet's fancy, I've attempted oft to tell. - - But the finest of our fancies very quickly disappear, - If from thoughtfulness we're wakened by the foolish jest or jeer. - - White-sleeved waiters can't appreciate thoughts superior to red wine, - And that Act, by one Mackenzie, foeman is to Muses Nine. - - In my rev'rie I was shaken, by a hand, and gruffly told - That the hour had just departed, when with safety wine was sold. - - From _The Modern Athenian_, 18th March, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -THE NEW ŒNONE.--AN EPIC FRAGMENT. - -(_With Apologies to the Poet Laureate._) - - O British Public, many-fadded public, - Queer British Public, harken ere I die! - It was the bright forenoon: one silvery cloud - Had with soft sprinkle laid the gathered dust - Of Mayfair. To the studio they came. - Scant-robed they came before the camera. - - And at their feet was laid a carpet fair, - Lemon, and cinnamon, and ghostly grey, - Purple, and primrose. And the artist rose - And overhead the swift spring-curtains drew - This way and that in many a subtle shift - For fine effect of light and shade, and placed - Background of statuary and drooping boughs, - With cloud and curtain, tower and portico. - - O British Public harken ere I die! - I heard great Heré. She to Paris made - Proffer of popular power, public rule, - Unquestioned, an elastic revenue - Wherewith to buoy and back Imperial plans, - Honour (with Peace) she said, and tax and toll - From many a Place of Arms and haven large, - And Scientific Frontiers, and all else - That patriotic potency may crave; - To all most welcome, seeing men in power - Then only are like gods, having attained - Rest in "another place," and quiet seats - Above the tumult, safe from Dissolution, - In shelter of their great majority. - O British Public harken ere I die! - She ceased, and Paris held the golden fruit - Out at arm's length, so much the thought of power - Flattered his spirit; but Pallas where she stood - Somewhat apart, her straight and stately limbs - Uplifted, and her aspect high, if cold. - The while above her full and earnest eye - Over her firm set mouth and haughty cheek - Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply. - - "Unselfishness, high honour, justice clear, - These three alone give worth to sovereign power. - Yet not for power (power of itself - Is a base burden) but to hold as law - The fiat high, 'Be just and do not fear.' - And because right _is_ right to follow right, - With a serene contempt of consequence." - - * * * * * - - And Paris pondered, and I cried, "Oh! Paris, - Give it to Pallas!" But he heard me not, - Or hearing, would not heed me. Woe is me! - - O British Public, many-headed Public, - Crass British Public, harken ere I die! - Audacious Aphrodite, beautiful - Fresh as the purple hyacinth's rain-washed bells, - With soft seductive fingers backward drew - From her bold brow and bosom her long hair - Auricomous, and bared her shining throat - And shoulder; on the carpet her small feet - Shone lily-like, and on her rounded form, - Between the shadows of the studio blinds, - Shifted the cunning "high lights" as she moved. - - O British Public, harken ere I die! - She, with a subtle smile in her bold eyes, - The herald of her triumph, well assured, - Half whispered in his ear, "I promise thee - _The negative of my next photograph!_" - She spoke and laughed, I shut my eyes in fear, - And when I looked, Paris had not the apple. - And I beheld great Heré's angry eyes - As she withdrew from forth the studio door, - And I was left alone within the place! - - * * * * * - - From _Punch_, December, 1879. - -There still remain to be quoted a few amusing parodies of Tennyson's -early poems, the first in order being _Mariana_, which was thus closely -burlesqued in George Cruikshank's _Comic Almanack_ for 1846. - - -THE BOW STREET GRANGE. - -_By Alfred Tennyson._ - - With blackest mud, the locked-up sots - Were splashed and covered, one and all. - And rusty nails, and callous knots, - Stuck from the bench against the wall. - The wooden bed felt hard and strange; - Lost was the key that oped the latch; - To light his pipe he had no match, - Within the Bow Street station's range. - - He only said, "It's very dreary;" - "Bail will not come," he said; - He said, "I have been very beery, - I would I were a-bed!" - - The rain fell like a sluice that even; - His Clarence boots could not be dried, - But had been soaked since half-past seven-- - To get them off in vain he tried. - After the smashing of his hat, - Just as the new police came by, - And took him into custody, - He thought, I've been a precious flat, - - He only said, "The cell is dreary;" - "Bail cometh not," he said; - He said, "I must be very beery, - I wish I were in bed!" - - Upon the middle of the night, - Waking, he heard a stunning row; - Some jolly cocks sang out till light, - And would not keep still anyhow. - He wished to bribe, but had no change - Within his pockets, all forlorn, - And so he kept awake till morn - Within that lonely Bow Street grange. - - He only said, "The cell is dreary;" - "Bail cometh not," he said; - He said, "I must be very beery, - I'd rather be in bed!" - - All night within that gloomy cell - The keys within the padlock creaked; - The tipsy 'gents' bawled out as well, - And in the dungeons yelled and shrieked. - Policemen slyly prowled about; - Their faces glimmered through the door, - But brought not, though he did implore, - One humble glass of cold without. - - He only said, "The night is dreary;" - "Bail cometh not," he said; - He said, "I have been very beery, - I would I were in bed!" - - At morn, the noise of boys aloof, - Inspectors' orders, and the chaff - Of cads upon the busses' roof, - To Poplar bound, too much by half - Did prove; but most he loathed the hour - When Mr. Jardine chose to say - Five shillings he would have to pay, - Now he was in policeman's power. - - Then said he, "This is very dreary;" - "Bail will not come," he said; - He said, "I'll never more get beery, - But go straight home to bed!" - - * * * * * - -In 1855, Messrs. G. Routledge & Co., published a small volume, by Frank -E. Smedley and Edmund Hodgson Yates, entitled _Mirth and Metre_, which -contained several excellent parodies, one entitled Boreäna, after the _The -Ballad of Oriana;_ and another, called Vauxhall, which imitated _Locksley -Hall_. Most of the parodies in the book were written by Mr. Edmund H. -Yates, but he gave the credit of Boreäna to Mr. Frank Smedley, the author -of several well-known novels, who died in May, 1864. - - -THE BALLAD OF BOREÄNA. - - My brain is wearied with thy prate, - Boreäna, - I sit and curse my hapless fate, - Boreäna, - What time the rain pours down the gutter, - Still your platitudes you utter - Boreäna, - I unholy wishes mutter, - Boreäna. - - Ere the night-light's flame was fading, - Boreäna, - While the cats were serenading, - Boreäna, - Sheep were bleating, oxen lowing, - We heard the beasts to Smithfield going, - Boreäna, - You said the butcher's bill was owing, - Boreäna. - - At Cremorne, we two alone, - Boreäna, - Ere my wisdom teeth were grown, - Boreäna, - While the dancers gaily hopped, - And the brass-band never stopped, - Boreäna, - I to thee the question popped, - Boreäna. - - She stood behind the area gate, - Boreäna, - She did it just to aggravate, - Boreäna, - She saw me wink, she heard me swear, - She recognised the scoundrel there, - Boreäna, - She _knows_ a bailiff I can't bear, - Boreäna. - - The cursed writ he pushed it through, - Boreäna, - The area rails, and gave it you, - Boreäna, - The infernal summons me unnerved, - He from his duty never swerved, - Boreäna, - On thee, my bride, the writ he served, - Boreäna. - - Oh! narrow-minded county court, - Boreäna, - 'Tis death to me, to them 'tis sport, - Boreäna, - Oh! stab in my most tender place, - My pocket, oh! the deep disgrace, - Boreäna, - I fell down flat upon my face, - Boreäna. - - They fined me at the next court day, - Boreäna, - Locked up, how can I get away, - Boreäna? - I don't perceive of hope a ray, - 'Tis a true bill, but oh! I say, - Boreäna, - How without tin am I to pay, - Boreäna? - - * * * * * - - When turns the never-pausing mill, - Boreäna, - I tread, I do not dare stand still, - Boreäna: - At home, of beer thou drink'st thy fill, - I may not come to thee and swill, - Boreäna, - I hear the rolling of the mill, - Boreäna. - - * * * * * - -TENNYSON'S _The Palace of Art_, commences thus:-- - - I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, - Wherein at ease for aye to dwell, - I said, "O soul, make merry and carouse, - Dear soul, for all is well." - - * * * * * - - And "while the world runs round and round," I said, - "Reign thou apart, a quiet king, - Still as while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade - Sleeps on his luminous ring." - -The following skit ridiculing the furniture and decorations of an -artistically-arranged modern house, is taken from _Punch_ of the 15th -February, 1879. - - -THE PALACE OF ART. - - I BUILT myself a high-art pleasure-house - For my sick soul at peace therein to dwell. - I said, "I have the true æsthetic _nous_, - And can design it well." - - 'Twas dull red brick, with gables set galore, - And little light did through the windows pass, - For 'twas shut out by thick lead frames that bore - Quarrels of grey-green glass, - - The dadoed walls, in green were stained, no tint - Which common blue and yellow mingled make; - But a green y-wrought--of sepia without stint-- - With indigo and lake. - - Nor grainèd panel nor enamelled slate - Was there to jar on my artistic sight; - Plain ebon wood-work framed the open grate, - And over,--blue and white. - - Two lovely griffins, made of burnished brass, - I found, to guard the fireplace on each side. - With curling tails (though one was lost, alas!), - And mouths that gapèd wide. - - All round the rooms were shelves of black-dyed deal, - On which stood pots and plates of every hue; - Whilst far apart two lilièd angels kneel - In Robbia white and blue. - - One deep recess, serge-covered, like a lawn, - Held, on a brass-nailed shelf, its seat of state, - Apart from other pots and pans withdrawn, - An ancient kitchen-plate. - - "Hence whilst the world runs round and round," I said, - "I will send forth my wits to gather wool; - With task or toil I will not vex my head; - But on that plate feed full." - - So day and night upon that plate I gazed, - And strove to fix thereon what thought I had; - Until my sight grew dim, and my sense dazed, - And my digestion bad. - - My brain shrank like a nut adust and dried; - I felt that I was not at all myself, - And longed to lay my dwindled wits beside - That plate upon that shelf. - - That ancient plate of willow-pattern blue, - Which so absorbèd had my every thought, - I seemed to live thereon, and slowly grew - Confucian, clear of thought. - - One year I gazed upon that much-loved plate, - Till at the last the sight began to pall. - I said, "How know I 'tis of ancient date, - Or China-ware at all?" - - So when one year was wholly finishèd, - I put that willow-pattern plate away. - "Now rather bring me Satsuma!" I said, - "Or blue-green Cloisonnée. - - "For I am sick of this pervading hue, - Steepèd wherein this landscape, stream, and sky, - To my heart-weary question, 'Is all blue?' - 'Yea, all is blue,' reply. - - "Yet do not smash the plate I so admired, - When first my high æsthetic house I built; - I may come back to it, of Dresden tired, - And Sèvres gaily gilt." - - * * * * * - -Although taken from Cruikshank's _Comic Almanack_, for 1846, the following -parody of _The May Queen_ is so fresh and so funny that it might have been -written yesterday:-- - - -THE QUEEN OF THE FÊTE. - -_By Alfred Tennyson._ - - -I.--THE DAY BEFORE. - -[_To be read with liveliness._] - - If you're waking, call me early, mother, fine, or wet, or bleak; - To-morrow is the happiest day of all the Ascot week; - It is the Chiswick fête, mother, of flowers and people gay, - And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. - - There's many a bright _barege_, they say, but none so bright as mine, - And whiter gloves, that have been cleaned, and smell of turpentine; - But none so nice as mine, I know, and so they all will say; - And I'll be queen, if I may, mother, I'll be queen, if I may. - - I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, - If you do not shout at my bedside, and give me a good shake; - For I have got those gloves to trim with blonde and ribbons gay. - And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may. - - As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet, - But Harry--looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street; - He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae-- - But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may. - - They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be; - They say he's left off raking, mother--what is that to me? - I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day; - And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I may. - - The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass, - And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass; - The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day, - And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may. - - The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers." - The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers, - Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day; - And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may. - - So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest-- - The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best. - Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day; - And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may. - - -II.--THE DAY AFTER. - -[_Slow, and with sad expression._] - - If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear; - The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear; - I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me, - Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea. - - I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day, - When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away; - And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain: - I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again. - - I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now, - I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how - I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild; - He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child. - - Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret; - Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet; - Had it been fine--I cannot tell--he might have had my arm; - But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm. - - I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,-- - Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in; - But do not let her see it yet--she's not so very green, - And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been. - - So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn; - I dread to look at my _barege_--it must be so forlorn; - We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year; - So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. - -_Light Green_, a magazine published at Cambridge, in 1872, contained -another parody of the same original, it is called "The May Dream," by -Alfred Pennysong. - -The following appeared in _The Tomahawk_, of December 5th, 1868. - - -ELECTIONS' EVE! - -_A Song of the Future(?)._ - - You must wake and call me early, call me early mother dear, - Though November is the dullest month of any in the year, - Yet to-morrow I shall represent my country--oh! how droll! - For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll! - - There'll be many a black, black eye, mother (I hope one won't be mine), - But ten thousand voting virgins will be flocking to my sign, - Supported by my Coleridge--Mill, 'neath Becker's steadfast soul, - Shall I be the Queen of the Poll, mother! I, be the Queen of the Poll! - - The Benches soon shall welcome me, the Lobby be my haunt, - That spinster Speaker by her winks and frowns shall ne'er me daunt. - My rights are good as any, and my name is on the roll, - And I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll. - - I have been wild and wayward, but those days are past and gone, - The Valse is fled, the Kettledrum, the Croquet on the Lawn; - Another _Lawn_, clear-starched and white, rises before my eye, - The Speaker's risen to _orders_, why the Dickens shouldn't I? - - Pardon my slang, for auld _slang_ syne, I'm still a woman true, - And women's tongues were never made to say what they might rue; - But there's one thing on my mind, mother, to ask you I'd forgot, - Shall I repair to Parliament in petticoats or----not? - - Now, good night, good night, dear mother, ah! to-morrow'll be the day - When women's rights are settled, then won't we have our say; - And then 'midst England's patriots, my name shall I enrol, - For I'm the Queen of the Poll, mother! I'm the Queen of the Poll! - - * * * * * - - -A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. - -(From _The World_, July 23rd, 1879). - - Long time I fed my eyes on that strange scene, - Painted by Poynter, of the famous bay, - Wherein Phæacian maids surround their queen - Nausicaa in play. - - And clearer on my trancèd gaze there grew - The celebrated beauties of the town; - Leaping in front, I saw with wonder new - The sexless thing in brown. - - Meseemed that, as I gazed, my vision changed: - The loose-girt ladies on the pictured wall - I saw no more; but, fancy led, I ranged - The fair in Albert Hall. - - The hothouse blossoms of a sunless year, - And quaintest crewels, wrought in grays and greens, - Adorned the stalls--extravagantly dear, - For they were sold by queens. - - Foremost I saw, with overloaded stall - Beset from morn till eve with densest crowd, - A daughter of the Jews, divinely small, - And most divinely proud. - - With high-pitched tones in broken English she - Waved bystanders aside, and sold her wares - Only to scions of nobility, - With all her choicest airs. - - And passing on, not caring to pay dear - For portraits which in all shop-windows are, - I saw our novel Helen standing near, - Far-gleaming like a star. - - Softly she spake: 'I would that from my stall - Some favour you would buy, that I may gain - Tenfold in praise, and beat my rivals all - In making fools of men.' - - Outleapt my answer: 'Try me with thy wile: - A crown for that sweet rose!' With polished ease - She shook from haughty eyes a languid smile: - 'Not so; a guinea, please.' - - Lighter my purse, as onward, pacing slow, - I turned from right to left in idle quest, - Till on me flashed, fair as the sunset glow, - Mrs. Cornwallis West. - - Strangely my eyes their wonted functions changed; - I saw her once again, white-veiled, white-furred, - As oft by deft photographers arranged, - A photographic bird - - Prest to her lips 'mid counterfeited snow. - Full soon the fancy ceased. I heard a cry - Peal from the lips that men have worshipped so: - 'Pass quickly on, or buy!' - - A labyrinth of beauty, sweet to see! - The proud Guinness, the noted Wheeler--all - Our much-belauded London galaxy, - Protecting each a stall. - - Sweet forms, fair faces, everywhere the same; - And many a withered flower and trinket old - I purchased recklessly, till joy became - A solemn scorn of gold. - - The slow day faded in the evening sky - Ere all my petty cash was squandered free. - One joy remained. I bade my hansom fly - To visit Connie G. - - TERRÆ FILIUS. - -Those who have read _Locksley Hall_ will greatly appreciate _The Lay of -the Lovelorn_, a parody contained in the Bon Gaultier Ballads of Theodore -Martin and Professor Aytoun. - -Tennyson's original poem commences thus:-- - - Comrades leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn; - Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. - - 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the curlews' call, - Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; - - Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime - With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time. - - * * * * * - - Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; - Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. - - Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; - Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. - - Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, - And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. - - O my cousin, shallow hearted! O my Amy, mine no more, - O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! - - Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung, - Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! - - Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me--to decline - On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! - - Yet it shall be: thou shall lower to his level day by day, - What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise with clay. - - As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, - And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. - - He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, - Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. - - * * * * * - - Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! - Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! - - Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule. - Cursed be the gold that gilds the straightened forehead of the fool. - - * * * * * - - -THE LAY OF THE LOVELORN. - - Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair - I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. - - Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer, - Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer. - - * * * * * - - In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-- - Bless my heart, how very odd! Why, surely there's a brace of moons! - - See! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare; - Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to despair. - - Oh, my cousin, spider hearted! Oh, my Amy! No, confound it! - I must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat I've bound it. - - Falser than the Bank of Fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, - Puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! - - Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, could you ever? - Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? - - Happy! Damme! Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, - Changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. - - As the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; - And his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. - - When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then - Something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne. - - What is this? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret? Oh, no, no,-- - Bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so. - - Take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies; - He will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances? - - * * * * * - - Better thou wert dead before me--better, better, that I stood, - Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel Good! - - Better thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, - With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed. - - Cursed be the Bank of England's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! - Cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin! - - Cursed be the marriage contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! - Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! - - Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! - Cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern! - - * * * * * - - Oh, 'tis well that I should bluster,--much I'm like to make of that; - Better comfort have I found in singing "All around my Hat." - - But that song so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. - 'Twill not do to pine for ever,--I am getting up in years. - - Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, - And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness? - - Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn I knew - When my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two! - - When I smoked my independent pipe along the Quadrant wide - With the many larks of London flaring up on every side; - - When I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; - Coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; - - Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! - Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking hot at Evans'! - - Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, - Saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years, - - Saw Jack Sheppard, noble strippling, act his wondrous feats again, - Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. - - Might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, - Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, spite of law. - - In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, - And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted! - - Hark! my merry comrade's call me, bawling for another jorum; - They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before 'em. - - Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed - In the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. - - I'll to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields - Rarer robes and finer tissues than are sold at Spitalfields. - - Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, - I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; - - Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, - Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. - - Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main - Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaigne. - - There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; - Sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents! - - There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, - my cousin! - I will wed some savage woman--nay, I'll wed at least a dozen. - - There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared: - They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard-- - - Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, - Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon. - - I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, - Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. - - Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, - Startling from their noonday slumbers, iron-bound rhinoceroses. - - Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad, - For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad. - - I the swell--the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,-- - I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey-faces! - - I to wed with Coromantees! I who managed--very near-- - To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer! - - Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away, - Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may. - - * * * * * - - That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,-- - Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin Amy! - - BON GAULTIER BALLADS. - - -VAUXHALL. - - Cabman, stop thy jaded knacker; cabman, draw thy slackened rein; - Take this sixpence--do not grumble, swear not at Sir Richard Mayne! - - 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the cadger's bawl-- - Sparkling rockets, squibs and crackers, whizzing over gay Vauxhall. - - Gay Vauxhall! that in the summer all the youth of town attracts, - Glittering with its lamps and fireworks, and its flashing cataracts. - - Many a night in yonder gilded temple, ere I went to rest, - Did I look on great Von Joel, mimicking the feathered nest; - - Many a night I saw Hernandez in a tinsel garb arrayed, - With his odorif'rous ringlets tangled in a silver braid; - - Here about the paths I wandered, chaffing, laughing all the time, - Laughing at the piebald clown, or listening to the minstrel's rhyme; - - When beneath the business-counter linendraper's men reposed, - When in calm and peaceful slumber, sharp maternal eyes are closed; - - When I dipt into the pewter pot that held the foaming stout, - When I quaffed the burning punch, or wildly sipped the "cold without." - - In the spring a finer cambric's wrapped around the lordling's breast; - In the spring the gent at Redmayne's gets himself a Moses' "vest;" - - In the spring we make investment in a white or lilac glove; - In the spring my youthful fancy prompted me to fall in love. - - Then she danced through all the _ballet_, as a fairy blithe and young, - Stood a tiptoe on a flow'ret, or from clouds of pasteboard swung-- - - And I said, "Miss Julia Belmont, speak, and speak the truth to me, - Wilt thou from this fairy region with a heart congenial flee?" - - On her lovely cheek and forehead came a blushing through her paint, - And she sank upon my bosom in the semblance of a faint; - - Then she turned, her voice was broken (so, if I must tell the truth, - Was her English--all I pardoned in the generous warmth of youth), - - Saying, "Pray excuse my feelings, nothing wrong, indeed, is meant," - Saying, "Will you be my loveyer?" weeping, "you are quite the gent." - - Love took up the glass before me, filled it foaming to the brim, - Love changed every comic ballad to a sweet euphonious hymn! - - Many a morning in the railway did we run to Richmond, Kew, - And her hunger cleared my pockets oft of shillings not a few! - - Many an evening down at Greenwich did we eat the pleasant "bait," - Till I found my earnings going at a rather rapid rate. - - Oh! Miss Belmont, fickle-hearted! Oh, Miss Belmont known too late, - Oh, that horrid, horrid Richmond, oh, the cursed, cursed "bait." - - Falser far than Lola Montes, falser e'en than Alice Gray, - Scorner of a faithful press-man, sharer of a tumbler's pay!-- - - Is it well to wish thee happy? having once loved _me_--to wed - With a fool who gains his living by his heels, and not his head! - - As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown, - And pursuing his profession, he will strive to drag thee down. - - He will hold thee in the winter, when his fooleries begin, - Something better than his wig, a little dearer than his gin. - - What is this? his legs are bending! think'st thou he is weary, faint? - Go to him, it is thy duty; kiss him, how he tastes of paint! - - Am I mad, that I should cherish memories of the bygone time? - Think of loving one whose husband fools it in a pantomime! - - Never, though my mortal summers should be lengthened to the sum - Granted to the aged Parr, or more illustrious Widdicomb-- - - Comfort!--talk to me of comfort! What is comfort here below? - Lies it in iced drinks in summer, aquascutum coats in snow? - - Think not thou wilt know its meaning, wail of all his vows the proof, - Till the manager is sulky, and the rain pours through the roof. - - See, his life he acts in dreams, while thou art staring in his face, - Listen to his hollow laughter, mark his effort at grimace! - - Thou shalt hear "Hot Codlins" muttered in his vision-haunted sleep, - Thou shalt hear his feigned ecstatics, thou shalt hear his curses deep. - - Let them fall on gay Vauxhall, that scene to me of deepest woe, - But--the waiters are departing, and perhaps I'd better go!-- - - By EDMUND H. YATES, - - From _Mirth and Metre_, 1855. - - * * * * * - -Extract from _Sir Rupert the Red_, in imitation of Tennyson's _Locksley -Hall_. - - Very early in the morning would he, tumbling out of bed, - Mow his chin with wretched razor, mow and hack it till it bled; - - Then he'd curse the harmless cutler, heap upon him curses deep, - Curse him in his hour of waking, doubly curse him in his sleep-- - - Saying, "Mechi! O my Mechi! O my Mechi, mine no more, - Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore, - - Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall Street, quittedst it with many a qualm-- - Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm? - - Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my beard, - And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared; - - Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews, - When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in - their shoes. - - But, like mine, thy day is over--thou art blunt and I'm disgraced! - Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic paste.'" - - From _Mirth and Metre_. - - * * * * * - -The following imitation of "Break, Break, Break," is from _Snatches of -Song_, by F. B. Doveton, 1880, which volume also contains (page 127) a -long, but not very amusing, parody of _The Grandmother_, entitled _Hard -Times_. - - BREAK, break, break, - In thy pantry, costly maid! - And I bitterly rue the hour - When I took you from Mrs. Slade. - - 'Tis well for the lady fair - Whose glass is unshattered yet! - 'Tis well for the thrifty dame - Who has "an unbroken set!" - - And the clatter and crash goes on, - And Mary picks up the slain; - But oh! for that teacup of rarest Sèvres, - And that vase of porcelain! - - Break, break, break, - In thy pantry, Mary G----! - But that costly vase and that teacup rare - Will never come back to me! - -Here is another in a similar vein, from _Punch's Almanack_ for 1884:-- - - BREAK, break, break, - O slavey, my crock-e-ry! - And I would that my tongue dared utter - The wrath that's astir in me. - - O well for the labourer's wife, - Who can wash her own tea-things each day! - O well for the labourer's self, - Who has no servant's wages to pay! - - But the breakages here go on, - And I have to settle the bill; - And it's oh! for the shards of my vanished cups, - And my saucers dwindling still! - - Break! break! break! - A week from this you shall see, - But the dishes and plates you have smashed since you came, - Will never come back to me! - - * * * * * - -OUR MISCELLANY (_which ought to have come out, but didn't_), edited by -Edmund H. Yates and R. B. Brough, published by G. Routledge & Co., in -1857, contains a number of parodies, amongst them of Lord Macaulay, E. A. -Poe, Longfellow, and Charles Dickens. - -Of Tennyson there are two imitations of _Maud;_ one, nine verses in -length, of _In Memoriam_, and one entitled _A Character_, which is -a rather close parody of a poem having the same title, published in -Tennyson's 1830 volume. - -It will be remembered that at the time _Our Miscellany_ appeared, M. -Jullien's Promenade Concerts were in the full tide of their prosperity, -and that the little fopperies and vanities of the clever _Chef -d'orchestre_, and his importation of French military bands were then the -talk of the town. - - -A CHARACTER. - -(_Jullien._) - - With half a glance upon the house, - Each night he said "The gatherings - Of people underneath this roof - Teach me the paying sort of things, - And music, whence they'd stand aloof, - May in the ocean depths go souse." - - * * * * * - - He led a polka--round his skull - He waved the rhythm of the charm, - And stamped, and shook his dress-coat skirts, - With giant wavings of his arm; - And then--he went and changed his shirt! - And said the house was very full. - - And so he drove a thriving trade, - With symphonies in classic way; - With Drummers and with Zouaves' call - Himself upon himself did play, - Each season ending with a ball - Of masques, his fortune thus he made. - - * * * * * - -The _In Memoriam_ verses are scarcely so good, I will, therefore, only -quote the first and the last:-- - - -RICHMOND, 1856. - - I HOLD it truth, when I recall - Last London's season's joyous spell, - 'Tis better to have danced not well, - Than never to have danced at all. - - * * * * * - - The season's past; alone at Basle - I sit; but still, as truth I tell, - 'Tis better to have danced not well, - Than never to have danced at all. - - * * * * * - -The two imitations of _Maud_, at pages 80 and 179, are too long, and -scarcely sufficiently interesting, to quote at length. - -_The Shilling Book of Beauty_, by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853), has -also a parody of _Maud_, in ten verses, it is entitled:-- - - -MAUD IN THE GARDEN. - -_By Alfred Tennison, Esq._ - - She is coming, my own, my sweet; - She is coming, my life, my fate; - I hear the beat of her fairy feet, - As she trips to the garden gate; - As she comes to the garden gate, - In her glimmer of satin and pearl, - With her sunny head in a terrible state - And her ringlets out of curl. - - * * * * * - -In 1856 a little sixpenny pamphlet was published by J. Booth, of Regent -Street, entitled _Anti-Maud_, by a Poet of the People. Tennyson had been -accused of fanning the warlike spirit then rampant in the land, and his -_Maud_ contained--in exquisite poetry--many of the stock arguments in -favour of war and glory. The "Poet of the People," in his _Anti-Maud_, -adopted the other, and less popular view. Read in the light of subsequent -events, this scarce little pamphlet seems more correct in its deductions, -than the Laureate's war cry in _Maud_. The author asserts that _Anti-Maud_ -is not merely a _jeu d'esprit_, but something of a more earnest character, -and he disclaims any intention of depreciating the Laureate's poetry. I -can quote a few only of the best of the fifty odd stanzas it contains: - - -ANTI-MAUD. - - I hate the murky pool at the back of the stable yard, - For dear though it be to the ducks and geese, it has an - unpleasant smell; - If you gaze therein at your own sweet face, the reflection is - broken and marred, - And echo, there, if you ask how she is, replies, "I feel very - unwell." 1 - - * * * * * - - Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? Bloody war is - a holy thing. - The world is wicked, and base, and vile--shall I show you a - new kind of cure? - Smeared with blood and with parents' tears call for Moloch, - horrible king! - Let him trample to dust, with a brutal foot, whatever remains - of good or of pure! 11 - - For I trust, if the low-browed rogue with a ticket-of-leave - from the gaol, - Encountered the sergeant recruiting, in rainbow-like ribbons - arrayed, - He would clutch the Queen's shilling with glee, and draining the - dregs of his ale, - Declare that the sack of Odessa would be quite of a piece with - his trade. 12 - - Wanted a quarrel to set the world straight, and cure it by - letting of blood! - We are sick to the heart of ourselves I think, and so we are - sick of each other: - Rapine, and carnage, and rage would do us all manner of good; - Let Christian rise up against Christian, and brother take arms - against brother! 13 - - Under the shadow of peace something was done that was good, - We tore out a bloody page from the book of our ancient laws; - We struck off a bitter tax from the poor man's scanty food, - And justice bent down from her seat to give ear to the poor - man's cause. 21 - - Under the shadow of peace thickly began to arise - Many a home for the working poor, many a school and church, - Little it may be, but better than roasting our enemies eyes - With Captain Disney's patent, or sacking the town of Kertch. 22 - - Who clamours for war? Is it one who is ready to fight? - Is it one who will grasp the sword, and rush on the foe with - a shout? - Far from it; 'tis one of a musing mind, who merely intends to - write; - He sits at home by his own snug hearth, and hears the storm howl - without. 29 - - Who are the friends of the poor? The men who babble and prattle - About the Balance of Power, and the pomp and grandeur of war? - Thousands of miles away from the rush and the roar of battle, - Sipping their Seltzer and Hock, and smoking a mild cigar? 37 - - Who are the friends of the poor! The writers without a name, - Who scribble at so much a column, whatever the Editors please, - Working the many-mouthed bellows which blew up the war to a flame, - And pleading for rapine and blood, whilst they lounge in their - clubs at their ease! 38 - - Methinks we have done enough for that turbaned goat, the Turk, - Who spits when a Christian meets him, and would spit, if he dared, - in his face; - Methinks we have done enough, for 'tis but a thankless work - To rivet with care on a beautiful land, the clutch of a barbarous - race. 41 - - Whether they wag a saucy tongue, or stealthily work with the pen, - There is blood on the heads of those who are fanning the flames - of war; - Blood on their heads, and blood at their doors; the blood of our - own brave men, - The blood of the wretched serfs who fight for their Faith and - their Czar. 46 - -I have quoted so much of this parody because it was one of the first to -draw attention to the Laureate's love for the pride, pomp and circumstance -of glorious war, a bellicose spirit which breathes quite as fiercely in -his later writings, as in his early songs. In all cases, where he has -attempted any Patriotic poem, the main idea seems to be a bloodthirsty -hatred of some other nation; at one time, and for some years, it was -France, next it was Russia, and latterly some of his writings have been -well calculated to revive our long forgotten animosity to Spain. In so -doing Tennyson has narrowed the circle of his admirers, for war is far -from being the popular game it once was; and the poet, who would be loved -of all, should avoid controversial topics. The Laureate's patriotic muse -has certainly sung a few noble songs, but many which have been deservedly -ridiculed; in his official capacity he has written some of the most -exquisite lines in which adulation of Royalty has ever been expressed; -for whilst we know that his laurelled predecessors credited the Stuarts -and the Georges with precisely the same virtues which he has ascribed to -members of the present Royal Family, their _official_ poems were laughed -at at the time, and are now forgotten; whilst his have been greatly -admired, especially in high quarters, and the coronet which is to reward -his poetical loyalty confers on him, and the latest of his descendants, a -perpetual title to rule over the people of Great Britain. - -All honour to the Poet, _as Poet_, as a titled Legislator the choice -rather reminds one of the saying of Beaumarchais' hero;--"It fallait un -calculateur, ce fut un danseur qui l'obtint," a saying which I may perhaps -be allowed to parody thus:--"Il fallait un Legislateur, ce fut un chanteur -qui l'obtint" - - * * * * * - - -THE LAST PEER. - - * * * * * - - "Is not a poet better than a lord?" - - _Robert Buchanan._ - - * * * * * - - Alfred the Loved, the Laureate of the Court, - The poet of the people, he who sang - Of that great Order of the Table Round, - Had been a sailing; first into the North, - Then Southward, then toward the middle sea; - And with him went the Premier, journeying - Some said for health, and some, to hatch new schemes - With Kings and statesmen. Howsoe'r they came - To Denmark's Court, where princes gathered round - To hear our Alfred read his songs aloud. - And as they voyaged homeward to the shores - Of England, where the Isle our poet loved - Lay sparkling like a gem upon the sea, - They leaned athwart the bulwarks and spake low. - - "We are but Commoners, both you and I," - Said Gladstone; "no adornment to our names, - No sounding titles; simply Mister This - And Mister That. But yet, the other day, - You read your verse to Emperors and Kings; - Princesses smiled upon you. You were great - As they, except in title. It were well - The distance lessened somewhat; Poet, you, - The prince of all the poets of our time, - Be something more, be noble, be a lord." - Then Alfred sate him down, his good grey hairs - Blown o'er his shoulders by the summer wind, - His eyes all dreamy; and he hummed a song, - Like, and yet unlike, that which Enid sang.[1] - - "Turn, Gladstone, turn thy followers into lords, - Turn those who wealth has gathered into hoards; - Turn those, and whom thou wilt, but turn not me. - - Leave, Gladstone, leave the name I always bore, - One that, mayhap, may live for evermore; - 'Tis mine alone, and mine shall always be. - - Turn into lords the owners of broad lands, - Turn him who in the path of progress stands, - And he who doeth service to the State. - - Leave the name that all the people know. - A prouder title than thou canst bestow, - Made by myself, and not by station, great." - - Yet, notwithstanding what he murmured then, - The thought dwelt in his heart; and many a day - Thereafter, as he sat at Haslemere, - Revolving and resolving, till his mind - Could scarce distinguish his resolves from doubts, - He muttered, "Ah! and I might be a lord!" - And so the thought grew on him, and brake down, - And overcame him; and the grand old name - Which the world knows, and reverences, and loves, - Seemed plain and bare and niggard, far too poor - For him who sang of Arthur and his knights, - And Camelot, and that strange, haunted mere. - And one who knew the name, and honour'd it, - Went to him, pleaded, then spake hotly thus:-- - "Doubtest thou here so long?" Art thou the one - Whose tongue grew bitter only at the sound - Of titles, and whose satire never leaped - Forth from its hiding-place but when some claim - Of place and privilege provoked thy wrath? - Wherever travels our bold English speech-- - Across the broad Atlantic, 'mid the sands - Of scorching Africa, or in the bush - Of the young, strong, far-off Antipodes-- - Thy name is greater, more familiar, more - In all men's mouths than that of any lord. - - O fair, full name, o'er which I used to dream, - Not thinking; O imperial-spreading fame, - And glory never such as poet bore, - Until they came, a Kingdom's pride, with thee; - I cannot know thee if thou art a lord; - Be Alfred Tennyson until the last; - Not Bonchurch, nor another. Is there none - Can yet persuade thee, ere it be too late?" - But he, the poet, listened, and was dumb, - And yet resolved. Ah, he would be a lord, - And sink the name round which his glory grew. - And so there came a herald with a scroll, - One who makes ancestors and coats of arms, - And gives alike to poet or to peer - A pedigree as long as Piccadilly; - And he brought with him much emblazonry, - A quartered shield, with, on the dexter side, - The grand old gardener, Adam, and his wife, - A-smiling at the claims of long descent. - - From _The Echo_, Dec. 7, 1883. - - * * * * * - -Nothing yet written about this unpopular title (which jars on the ears of -the people), approaches the severity of the following caustic parody which -appeared in the _Pall Mall Gazette_, 12th December, 1883:-- - - -BARON ALFRED VERE DE VERE. - - BARON Alfred Vere de Vere, - Of me you win no new renown; - You thought to daze the country folk - And cockneys when you came to town. - See Wordsworth, Shelley, Cowper, Burns, - Withdraw in scorn, and sit retired! - The last of some six hundred Earls - Is not a place to be desired. - - Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, - We thought you proud to bear your name, - Your pride is yet no mate for ours, - Too proud to think a title fame. - We hail the genius--not the lord: - We love the poet's truer charms. - A simple singer with his dreams - Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. - - Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, - I see you march, I hear you say, - "Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes!" - Is all the burden of your lay. - We held you first without a peer, - And princely by your noble words words-- - The Senior Wrangler of our bards - Is now the Wooden Spoon of lords. - - Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, - You put strange memories in my head; - For just five decades now have flown - Since we all mourned young Arthur dead. - Oh, your wet eyes, your low replies! - Our tears have mingled with your tears: - To think that all such agony - Should end in making you a peer! - - Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, - Our England has had poets too: - They sang some grand old songs of yore, - But never reached such heights as you. - Will Shakespeare was a prince of bards, - Our Milton was a king to hear, - But had their manners that repose - Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere? - - Baron Alfred Vere de Vere, - Robe, now your bays are sere and spent: - The King of Snobs is at your door, - To trace your long (and deep) descent. - A man's a man for a' that, - And rich on forty pounds a year; - If rank be the true guinea-stamp - To win Parnassus--die a peer! - - Trust me, Baron Vere de Vere, - When nobles eat their noblest words, - The grand old gardener and his wife - Smile at the airs of poet-lords. - Howe'er it be, it seems to me, - 'Tis only noble to be good. - Plain souls are more than coronets, - And simple lives than Baronhood. - - I know you, Baron Vere de Vere: - You pine among your halls and bays: - The jaded light of your vain eyes - Is wearied with the flood of praise. - In glowing fame, with boundless wealth, - But sickening of a vague disease, - You are so dead to simple things, - You needs must play such pranks as these. - - Alfred, Alfred Vere de Vere, - If Time be heavy on your hands, - Are there no toilers in our streets, - Nor any poor in all these lands? - Oh! teach the weak to strive and hope, - Or teach the great to help the low, - Pray Heaven for a noble heart, - And let the foolish title go. - - * * * * * - -For the curious in such matters I give the following extract from the _St. -James's Gazette_ relating to Mr. Tennyson's lineage:--That Mr. Tennyson -comes of an ancient house is generally known; not every one perhaps -is aware of the number of princes, soldiers, and statesmen, famous in -British or European history, from whom he can claim descent. Without -pretending to give an exhaustive list of his royal and noble ancestors, -it may be interesting at the present moment to point out a few of the -more renowned among them. The Laureate's descent from John Savage, Earl -Rivers (from which stock came Johnson's friend), implies descent from -the Lady Anne, eldest sister of Edward IV., and so from sixteen English -kings--namely, the first three Edwards, Henry III., John, the first two -Henrys, William the Conqueror, Edmund Iron-side, Ethelred the Unready, -Edgar the Peaceable, Edmund I., Edward the Elder, Alfred, Ethelwulf, and -Egbert. But Edward III. was the son of Isabella, daughter of Philip the -Fair, King of France, who descended from Hugh Capet, and nine intervening -French Kings, among whom were Robert II., Philip Augustus, Louis VIII., -and St. Louis. The last is not the only saint who figures in this splendid -pedigree. The mother of Edward II. was Eleanor, daughter of Ferdinand -III., King of Castle and Leon, who was canonized by Clement X. Again, -through the marriage of Edmund of Langley, Duke of York, with Isabel, -daughter of Peter the Cruel, Mr. Tennyson descends from Sancho the Great -and Alphonso the Wise. Other crowned ancestors of the poet are the Emperor -Frederick Barbarossa, and several Kings of Scotland, notably Malcolm -III. and the "gracious Duncan," his father. In truth, the Shakespearean -gallery is crowded with portraits of his progenitors--e.g., besides those -already mentioned, John of Gaunt, Edmund Mortimer Earl of March, Richard -Earl of Cambridge, Richard Plantagenet "the Yeoman," Edmund Beaufort -Duke of Somerset, Lord Hastings (of the reigns of Edward IV. and Richard -III.), and Lord Stanley. Mr. Tennyson is not only descended from the -first Earl of Derby and that third earl with whose death, according to -Camden, "the glory of hospitality seemed to fall asleep," but from the -"stout Stanley" who fronted the right of the Scots at Flodden, and whose -name in Scott's poem was the last on the lips of the dying Marmion. -"Lord Marmion," says Scott, "is entirely a fictitious personage:" "but" -he adds "that the family of Marmion, Lords of Fontenay in Normandy, was -highly distinguished; Robert de Marmion, a follower of Duke William, -having obtained a grant of the castle and town of Tamworth. This Robert's -descendant, Avice, married John, Lord Grey of Rotherfield, one of the -original Knights of the Garter, whose great-granddaughter became (in 1401) -the wife of John, Lord D'Eyncourt, another ancestor of Mr. Tennyson's; -whose uncle, the Right Honourable Charles Tennyson, many years Liberal -member for Lambeth, assumed the name of D'Eyncourt by royal licence." - -Probably the learned compiler of this abstruse genealogy has no time to -study the poets, or he might have read of one who claimed an even more -ancient descent:-- - - NOBLES and HERALDS, by your leave, - Here lies, what once was, MATTHEW PRIOR, - The son of ADAM and of EVE, - Can STUART or NASSAU claim higher? - -The following beautiful lines, which occur in _The Princess_, have been -the subject of many parodies:-- - - Home they brought her warrior dead; - She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry: - All her maidens, watching, said, - "She must weep or she will die." - - Then they praised him soft and low, - Call'd him worthy to be loved, - Truest friend and noblest foe; - Yet she neither spoke nor moved. - - Stole a maiden from her place, - Lightly to the warrior stept, - Took the face cloth from the face; - Yet she neither moved nor wept. - - Rose a nurse of ninety years, - Set his child upon her knee-- - Like summer tempest came her tears-- - "Sweet my child, I live for thee." - - * * * * * - -An excellent parody, by Shirley Brooks, appeared in _Punch_, December 30, -1865. - - -HOME THEY BROUGHT. - -(_With abject apologies to Mr. Tennyson, Miss Dance and Miss Dolby_). - - HOME they brought her lap-dog dead, - Just run over by a fly, - JEAMES to Buttons, winking, said, - "Won't there be a row, O my!" - - Then they called the flyman low, - Said his baseness could be proved: - How she to the Beak should go-- - Yet she neither spoke nor moved. - - Said her maid (and risked her place), - "In the 'ouse it should have kept, - Flymen drives at such a pace"-- - Still the lady's anger slept. - - Rose her husband, best of dears, - Laid a bracelet on her knee. - Like playful child she boxed his ears-- - "Sweet old pet!--let's have some tea." - -And the following by Mr. Sawyer is also worthy of preservation:-- - - -THE RECOGNITION. - - Home they brought her sailor son, - Grown a man across the sea, - Tall and broad and black of beard, - And hoarse of voice as man may be. - - Hand to shake and mouth to kiss. - Both he offered ere he spoke; - But she said--"What man is this - Comes to play a sorry joke?" - - Then they praised him--call'd him "smart," - "Tightest lad that ever stept;" - But her son she did not know, - And she neither smiled nor wept. - - Rose a nurse of ninety years, - Set a pigeon-pie in sight: - She saw him eat--"'Tis he! 'tis he!" - She knew him--by his appetite! - - * * * * * - -In January, 1882, Mr. Cook speaking at a public meeting in reference to -the state of affairs in Ireland at that time, observed that he could not -better represent Mr. Gladstone's position in this land question than by -quoting a parody on that celebrated poem of Tennyson's, "Home they brought -her warrior dead":-- - - Home they brought Montmorres dead, - _He_ nor sighed nor uttered cry. - All the English angered said - Strike! or know the reason why. - - Jones and Boycott labouring well - Lost the fruits of earlier years; - Surely now 'tis time to quell, - Yet no remedy appears, - - Farmers who had paid some rent - On the cold ground weltering lay; - Still on landlord plunder bent - Small attention did he pay. - - Travelling Forster entering said: - But our "Bill" will strangled be; - Then the Premier raised his head-- - Oh sweet, my child, I strike for thee. - - * * * * * - - -IN IMMEMORIAM. - -(_Ascribed to the author of "In Memoriam" but not believed to be his_). - - We seek to know, and knowing seek; - We seek, we know, and every sense - Is trembling with the great intense, - And vibrating to what we speak. - - We ask too much, we seek too oft; - We know enough, and should no more; - And yet we skim through Fancy's lore, - And look to earth and not aloft. - - * * * * * - - O sea! whose ancient ripples lie - On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone; - O moon! whose golden sickle's gone, - O voices all! like you I die! - (_Dies._) - - From _Medley_, by Cuthbert Bede, 1856. - -The 1842 volume of Tennyson's works contained a short poem in four verses -entitled - - -A FAREWELL. - - Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, - Thy tribute wave deliver: - No more by thee my steps shall be, - For ever and for ever. - - * * * - - A thousand suns will stream on thee, - A thousand moons will quiver; - But not by thee my steps shall be, - For ever and for ever. - - * * * * * - -The following parody is taken from _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872. - - -A FAREWELL. - -_After sleeping in the Argyle Hotel, Dunoon._ - - Bite on, thou pertinacious flea, - And draw the tiny river; - No more for thee my blood shall be, - For ever and for ever. - - Bite, fiercely bite, and take with glee - From each unwilling giver; - No food for thee my blood shall be, - For ever and for ever. - - And here will toss some wretched he, - And here he'll tear and shiver; - Bed-making she will hunt the flea - For ever and for ever. - - A thousand limbs may smart for thee, - A thousand skins may quiver; - But not for thee my blood shall be, - For ever and for ever. - -A still closer imitation of the versification of the original is contained -in _The Shotover Papers_, published in Oxford in 1874. - - Rise up, cold reverend, to a see, - Confound the unbeliever! - Yet ne'er 'neath thee my seat will be - For ever and for ever. - - Preach, softly preach, in lawn and be - A comely model liver, - But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be - For ever and for ever. - - And here shall sleep thine alderman, - And here thy pauper shiver, - And here by thee shall buzz the "she," - For ever and for ever. - - A thousand men shall sneer at thee, - A thousand women quiver, - But ne'er 'neath thee my seat shall be - For ever and for ever. - - * * * * * - - -ODE TO ALDGATE PUMP. - - Flow down, false rivulet, to the sea - Thy sewage wave deliver; - No longer will I quaff from thee - For ever and for ever. - - The dust of citizens of yore, - Who dwelt beside the river, - And leakages of sewers pour - Into thy stream for ever. - - A thousand hands may pump from thee, - A thousand pails deliver - Their sparkling draughts, but not to me - For ever and for ever. - - Oh, let them lock thy nozzle up, - And drain thee to the river; - Nor any mortal fill his cup - Again from thee for ever. - - From _Funny Folks_. - - * * * * * - - -THE UNDERGRAD. - - His fists across his breast he laid, - He was more mad than words can say; - Bareheaded rushed the undergrad - To mingle in November's fray. - In cap and gown a don stepped down - To meet and greet him on his way; - "It is no wonder," said his friends, - "He has been drinking half the day." - - All black and blue, like cloud and skies, - Next day that proctor's face was seen; - Bruised were his eyebrows, bruised his eyes, - Bruised was his nose and pummelled mien. - So dire a case, such black disgrace, - Since Oxford was had never been; - That undergrad took change of air - At the suggestion of the dean. - -This is taken from _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872, and is a parody on _The -Beggar Maid and King Cophetua_, which was also in the 1842 collection. - -In a little volume by C. S. Calverley entitled "Fly Leaves," (George -Bell & Sons, 1878) there are several clever parodies, and one, entitled -_Wanderers_, is an especially happy imitation of the style of Tennyson's -Brook:-- - - -THE TINKER. - - I turn'd me to the tinker, who - Was loafing down a by-way: - I asked him where he lived--a stare - Was all I got in answer, - As on he trudged: I rightly judged - The stare said, "Where I can, sir."? - - I asked him if he'd take a whiff - Of 'bacca; he acceded; - He grew communicative too, - (A pipe was all he needed,) - Till of the tinker's life, I think, - I knew as much as he did. - - "I loiter down by thorp and town; - For any job I'm willing; - Take here and there a dusty brown, - And here and there a shilling. - - "I deal in every ware in turn, - I've rings for buddin' Sally - That sparkle like those eyes of her'n; - I've liquor for the valet. - - "I steal from th' parson's strawberry plots, - I hide by th' squire's covers; - I teach the sweet young housemaids what's - The art of trapping lovers. - - "The things I've done 'neath moon and stars - Have got me into messes: - I've seen the sky through prison bars, - I've torn up prison dresses. - - "I've sat, I've sighed, I've gloom'd, I've glanced - With envy at the swallows - That through the windows slid, and danced - (Quite happy) round the gallows; - - "But out again I come, and show - My face nor care a stiver, - For trades are brisk and trades are slow, - But mine goes on for ever." - - * * * * * - -Another parody of the same original, and almost as clever, is contained in -a little anonymous Pamphlet, entitled _Idyls of the Rink_, published by -Judd & Co., in 1876, it is called - - -THE RINKER - -_By Alfred Tennyson._ - - I start from home in happy mood, - Arrayed in dress so pretty, - And sparkle out among the men, - Who come up from the City. - - But first I linger by the brink, - And calmly reconnoitre, - For when I'm fairly on the rink, - I never care to loiter. - - Then "follow me," I loudly call, - At skating I'm so clever, - For men may come, and men may fall, - But I rink on for ever. - - I chatter with my little band - Of friends so gay and hearty, - And sometimes we go hand in hand, - And sometimes in a party. - - I slip, I slide, I glance, I glide, - There is no one can teach me, - I give them all a berth full wide, - And not a soul can reach me. - - I chatter, chatter, to them all, - At skating I'm so clever, - For men may come, and men may fall, - But I rink on for ever. - - I wind about, and in and out, - With here a figure tracing. - And here and there I dance about, - And here I go a-racing. - - I'm always making graceful curves, - As everyone alleges. - And while I've nerve, I'll never swerve, - From in and outside edges. - - And after me I draw them all, - At skating I'm so clever, - For men may come, and men may fall, - But I rink on for ever. - - * * * * * - -I now come to a clever and most amusing little work entitled _Puck on -Pegasus_, by H. Cholmondeley-Pennell, which was published about sixteen -years ago by the late Mr. John Camden Hotten. In the original edition this -work was a small quarto, with numerous illustrations and a characteristic -frontispiece designed and etched by dear old George Cruikshank. It -has since run through numerous editions, and is now included in the -series known as _The Mayfair Library_, published by Chatto and Windus. -It contains the following parodies:--"Song of In-the-Water," after -_Longfellow;_ "The Du Chaillu Controversy," after _The Bon Gaultier -Ballads;_ "The Fight for the Championship," after _Lord Macaulay;_ "How -the Daughters come down at Dunoon," after _Robert Southey;_ "Wus, ever -wus," after _Tom Moore;_ "Exexolor!" after _Longfellow's_ Excelsior; -"Charge of the Light (Irish) Brigade," after _Tennyson_. - -The incidents referred to in the last-mentioned parody have now somewhat -faded from the public memory. It is sufficient to say that the warlike -behaviour of the one brigade was quite as great a contrast to the action -of the other, as the parody here given presents to the original poem:-- - - -CHARGE OF THE LIGHT (IRISH) BRIGADE. - -(_Not by A----d T----n_). - - Southward Ho--Here we go! - O'er the wave onward - Out from the Harbour of Cork - Sailed the Six Hundred! - Sailed like Crusaders thence, - Burning for Peter's pence,-- - Burning for fight and fame-- - Burning to show their zeal-- - Into the gates of Rome, - Into the jaws of Hell, - (It's all the same)! - Marched the Six Hundred! - - "Barracks, and tables laid! - Food for the Pope's Brigade;" - But ev'ry Celt afraid, - Gazed on the grub dismay'd-- - Twigged he had blundered;-- - "Who can eat rancid grease? - Call _this_ a room a-piece?"[2] - "Silence! unseemly din, - Prick them with bayonets in." - Blessèd Six Hundred! - - Waves every battle blade-- - "Forward the Pope's brigade!" - Was there a man obeyed? - No--where they stood they stayed, - Though Lamoricière pray'd, - Threatened, and thundered-- - "Charge!" Down their sabres then - Clashed, as they turn'd--and ran-- - Sab'ring the empty air, - Each of one taking care, - Here, there, and ev'rywhere - Scattered and sundered. - - Sick of the powder smell, - Down on their knees they fell, - Howling for hearth and home-- - Cursing the Pope of Rome-- - Whilst afar shot and shell - Volleyed and thundered; - Captured, alive and well, - Ev'ry Hibernian swell, - Came back the tale to tell; - Back from the states of Rome-- - Back from the gates of Hell-- - Safe and sound every man-- - Jack of Six Hundred! - When shall their story fade? - Oh the mistake they made! - Nobody wondered, - Pity the fools they made-- - Pity the Pope's Brigade-- - NOBBLED Six Hundred! - -Like the accomplished authors of _The Bon Gaultier Ballads_, Mr. -Cholmondeley-Pennell is almost too much a Poet to be thoroughly successful -as a mere Parodist. His muse often carries him away, and what begins in -mere _badinage_, and playful imitation, runs into graceful sentiment and -poetical imagery, until the author pulls her up short, and compels her to -turn aside again into the well-worn "footprints in the sand of time." - -It would be difficult to find a better example both of the merits, -and, so far as _mere parody_ is concerned, of the defects of Mr. -Cholmondeley-Pennell's style than in the following lines, which he has -kindly permitted me to insert in this collection.--They parody the _Morte -D'Arthur:_-- - - -LINES SENT TO THE LATE CHARLES BUXTON, M.P., WITH MY FAVOURITE HUNTER, -WHITE-MIST. - - The sequel of to-day dissevers all - This fellowship of straight riders, and hard men - To hounds--the flyers of the hunt. - I think - That we shall never more in days to come - Hold cheery talk of hounds and horses (each - Praising his own the most) shall steal away - Through brake and coppice-wood, or side by side - Breast the sharp bullfinch and deep-holding dyke, - Sweep through the uplands, skim the vale below, - And leave the land behind us like a dream. - - I tear me from this passion that I loved-- - Though Paget sware that I should ride again-- - But yet I think I shall not; I have done: - My hunt is hunted: I have skimmed the cream, - The blossom of the seasons, and no more - For me shall gallant Scott have cause for wrath, - Or injured farmer mourn his wasted crops. - - Now, therefore, take my horse, which was my pride - (For still thou know'st he bore me like a man--), - And wheel him not, nor plunge him in the mere, - But set him straight and give his head the rein, - And he shall bear thee lightly to the front, - Swifter than wind, and stout as truest steel, - And none shall rob thee of thy pride of place. - - * * * * * - - -IN THE SCHOOLS AT OXFORD. - -to an examiner. - -(_Suggested by the Laureate's conundrum "In The Garden at Swaintson."_) - - Butcher boys shouted without, - Within was writing for thee, - Shadows of three live men - Talked as they walked into me. - Shadows of three live men, and you were one of the three. - - Butcher boys sang in the streets, - The bobby was far away, - Butcher boys shouted and sang - In their usual maddening way.-- - Still in the Schools quite courteous you were torturing men all - the day. - - Two dead men have I known, - Examiners settled by me. - Two dead men have I scored, - Now I will settle with thee. - Three dead men must I score, and thou art the last of the three. - - REGNOLD GREENLEAF. - - (_The Shotovor Papers_, 1874). - -Since the year 1845 Alfred Tennyson has been in the receipt of a civil -list pension of £200 a year, so that, in round figures, he has received -about £8,000 of the public money, besides drawing the annual salary of -£100 since his appointment as Poet Laureate, November, 1850. The sale -of his works has also, of course, been greatly increased, owing to his -official title, and the present fortunate holder of the laurels enjoys a -fortune much in excess of that of any of his predecessors in office. From -the days of Ben Jonson downwards Poets Laureate have been paid to sing the -praises of the Royal Family; of these Laureates, Jonson, Dryden, Southey, -and Wordsworth were true poets, but the others in the line of succession -were mere rhymesters, whose very names are now all but forgotten. Eusden, -Cibber, and Pye were unremitting in their production of New Year, and -Birth-day Odes, Southey did little in this way, and Wordsworth would not -stoop to compose any official poems whatever, although he wore the laurels -for seven years. - -It was reserved for Alfred Tennyson to revive the custom, and he has -composed numerous adulatory poems on events in the domestic history of our -Royal Family. - -The smallest praise that can be bestowed on Tennyson's official poems is -that they are immeasurably superior to any produced by former Laureates; -and although the events recorded have but a passing interest, the poems -will probably long retain their popularity. The death of the princess -Charlotte in 1817 was, no doubt, considered at the time as a greater -public loss than was the death of Prince Albert in 1861; yet who now -reads Southey's poem in her praise? Whereas the beauty of Tennyson's -_Dedication_ of the Idyls of the King will cause it to be remembered long -after people have forgotten the Prince to whom it was inscribed. - -The Dedication commences thus:-- - - "THESE to his Memory--since he held them dear, - Perhaps as finding there unconsciously - Some image of himself--I dedicate, - I dedicate,--I consecrate with tears-- - These Idyls. - - "And, indeed, He seems to me - Scarce other than my own ideal knight." - - NOTE.--Poets Laureate, with the dates of their - appointment:--Benjamin Jonson, 1615-16; Sir William Davenant, 1638; - John Dryden, 1670; Thomas Shadwell, 1688; Nahum Tate, 1692; Nicholas - Rowe, 1715; Lawrence Eusden, 1718; Colley Cibber, 1730; William - Whitehead, 1757; Thomas Warton, 1785; Henry James Pye, 1790; Robert - Southey, 1813; William Wordsworth, 1843; and Alfred Tennyson, 19th - November, 1850. - -Continuing in this strain for another fifty lines, the Poet credits the -Prince with every conceivable virtue, after which, as a contrast, it is -almost a relief to turn to some parody, less ideal, and less heroic. - - THESE to his memory--since he held them dear, - Perchance as finding there unwittingly - Some picture of himself--I dedicate, - I dedicate, I consecrate with smiles-- - These Idle Lays-- - Indeed, He seemed to me - Scarce other than my own ideal liege, - Who did not muchly care to trouble take; - But his concern was, comfortable ease - To dress in well-cut tweeds, in doeskin suits, - In pants of patterns marvellous to see; - To smoke good brands; to quaff rare vintages; - To feed himself with dainty meats withal; - To sport with Amaryllis in the shade; - To toy with what Neræa calls _her_ hair; - And, in a general way, to happy be, - If possible, and always debonair; - Who spoke few wise things; did some foolish ones; - Who was good-hearted, and by no means stiff; - Who loved himself as well as any man; - He who throughout his realms to their last isle - Was known full well, whose portraiture was found - In ev'ry album. - We have lost him; he is gone; - We know him now; ay, ay, perhaps too well, - For now we see him as he used to be, - How shallow, larky, genial-hearted, gay; - With how much of self-satisfaction blessed-- - Not swaying to this faction nor to that, - Because, perhaps, he neither understood; - Not making his high place a Prussian perch - Of War's ambition, but the vantage ground - Of comfort; and through a long tract of years, - Wearing a bouquet in his button-hole; - Once playing a thousand nameless little games, - Till communistic cobblers gleeful danced, - And democratic delvers hissed, "Ha! ha!" - Who dared foreshadow,, then, for his own son - A looser life, one less distraught than his? - Or how could Dilkland, dreaming of _his_ sons, - Have hoped less for them than some heritance - Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, - Thou noble Father of her Kings to be-- - If fate so wills it, O most potent K----; - The patron once of Polo and of Poole, - Of actors and leviathan "comiques;" - Once dear to Science as to Art; once dear - To Sanscrit erudition as to either; - Dear to thy country in a double sense; - Dear to purveyors; ay, a liege, indeed, - Beyond all titles, and a household name, - Hereafter, through all times, Guelpho the Gay! - - _The Coming K----_ - -_The Coming K----_ was published about ten years ago as one of Beeton's -Christmas Annuals, and created a sensation at the time, as it dealt with -some social scandals then fresh in the public mind. After enjoying a rapid -sale for a short period, it was suddenly withdrawn in a mysterious manner -from circulation, and is now rather scarce. Following the Dedication, -just quoted, are parodies of the Idyls of the King, with the following -titles:--The Coming of Guelpho; Heraint and Shenid; Vilien; Loosealot -and Delaine; The Glass of Ale; Silleas and Gettarre; The Last Carnival; -and Goanveer. In each of these parts there are parodies well worthy of -preservation, but space will only permit of the insertion of the following -extracts, one from _Vilien_, the other from _Goanveer_. - -In _Vilien_, the then prevalent crazes for Spiritualism, Table Rapping, -and Cabinet séances are amusingly satirised; Vilien seeks out Herlin the -Wizard, and thus begs him to reveal the one great secret of his art:-- - - "I ever feared you were not wholly mine, - And see--you ask me what it is I want? - Yet people call you wizard--why is this? - What is it makes you seem so proud and cold? - Yet if you'd really know what boon I ask, - Then tell me, dearest Herlin, ere I go, - The charm with which you make your table rap. - - * * * - - O yield my boon, - And grant my re-iterated wish, - Then will I love you, ay, and you shall kiss - My grateful lips--you shall upon my word." - And Herlin took his hand from hers and said, - O, Vilien, ask not this, but aught beside. - But as thou lov'st me, Vilien, do not ask - The way in which I make the table rap. - O ask it not! - And Vilien, like the tenderest hearted maid - That ever jilted swain or lover mocked, - Made answer, either eyelid wet with tears: - "Nay, Herlin, if you love me, say not so; - You do but tease to talk to me like this. - Methinks you hardly know the tender rhyme - Of 'Trust me for all in all, or not at all.' - I heard a 'comique' sing the verses once, - And they shall answer for me. List the song: - - 'In love, 'tis as in trade; if trade were ours, - Credit and cash could ne'er be equal powers-- - Give trust to all or don't give trust at all. - - It is the little rift within the lute - That cracks the sound and makes the music mute, - And leaves the banjo nothing worth at all. - - It is the little moth within the suit, - It is the merry maggot in the fruit, - That worming surely, slowly ruins all. - - It is the little leaven makes the lump, - It is the little piston works the pump; - And A-L-L spells ALL, and--all is all.' - - O, Herlin, do you understand my rhyme? - And Herlin coughed, and owned that he did not. - - * * * * * - - And Villien, naught abashed, replied again: - "Lo, now, how silly you must be, you know, - My simple stanzas not to understand; - 'Tis thus our truest poets write their rhymes; - They try their sense and meaning to conceal; - But you should solve their riddles, though 'tis said - They don't the answers know themselves, sometimes. - However, be that as it may, I think - I'll give you one verse more. So Villien sang: - "That sign, once mine, is thine, ay, closelier mine, - For what is thine is mine, and mine is thine, - And this, I much opine, is line on line; - To learn the obvious moral once for all." - But Herlin looked aghast, as well he might, - Nor knew the teaching of her little song." - -The last legend, that of _Goanveer_, tells how-- - - "Fleet Goanveer had lost the race, and stood - There in the stable near to Epsom Downs." - -This mare the Coming K---- had backed heavily, but his trusted friend, Sir -Loosealot, obtaining access to her stable the night before the race, had -drugged her, so that on the day she hobbled sickly to the winning-post. -By this evil trick Sir Loosealot wins much, whilst the Coming K---- is a -heavy loser. Guelpho visits the mare in her stable, and thus addresses -her, in a parody of the celebrated passage in Guinevere, where Arthur -parts from his faithless Queen:-- - - "And all went well till on the turf I went, - Believing thou wouldst fortune bring to me, - And place me higher yet in name and fame. - Then came the shameful act of Loosealot; - Then came thy breaking down in that great race; - And now my name's worth nil at Tattersall's, - And all my knights can curl their lips at me; - Can say 'I've come a cropper,' and the like, - And all through thee and he--and him, I mean-- - But slips will happen at a time like this. - Canst wonder I am sad when thus I see - I am contemned amongst my chiefest knights? - When I am hinted at in public prints - As being a man who sold the people's race? - But think not, Goanveer, my matchless mare, - Thy lord has wholly lost his love for thee. - Yet must I leave thee to thy shame, for how - Couldst thou be entered for a race again? - The public would not hear of it; nay, more, - Would hoot and hound thee from the racing-course, - Being one they had loved, yet one on whom they had lost." - He paused, and in the pause the mare rejoiced. - For he relaxed the caresses of his arms; - And, thinking he had done, the mare did neigh, - As with delight; but Guelpho spake again:-- - "Yet, think not that I come to urge thy faults; - I did not come to curse thee, Goanveer: - The wrath which first I felt when thou brok'st down - Is past--it never will again return. - I came to take my last fond leave of thee, - For I shall ne'er run mare or horse again. - O silky mane, with which I used to play - At Hampton! O most perfect equine form, - And points the like of which no mare yet had - Till thou was't bred! O fetlocks, neater far - Than many a woman's ankles! O grand hocks - That faltered feebly on that fatal day!" - - * * * * * - - Yet, Goanveer, I bid thee now good-bye, - And leave thee, feeling yet a love for thee, - As one who first my racing instinct stirred, - As one who taught me to abjure the turf. - Hereafter we may meet--I cannot tell; - Thy future may be happy--so I wish. - But this I pray, on no account henceforth - Make mixture of your water--drink it neat; - I charge thee this. And now I must go hence; - Through the thick night I hear the whistle blow - That tells me that my 'special' waits to start. - Thou wilt stay here awhile, so be at rest; - But hither shall I never come again, - Or ever pat thy neck, or see thee more. - Good-bye!" - -On the occasion of the arrival of the Princess Alexandra from Denmark in -March, 1863, Tennyson wrote:-- - - -A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. - - SEA-KINGS' daughter from over the sea, - Alexandra! - Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, - But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, - Alexandra! - Welcome her, thunders of fort and of fleet! - Welcome her, thundering cheer of the street! - Welcome her, all things youthful and sweet! - Scatter the blossom under her feet! - - * * * * * - - For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, - Teuton or Celt, or whatever we be, - We are each all Dane in our welcome of thee, - Alexandra! - -In 1869, Ismail Pasha, the Viceroy of Egypt, visited this country, and the -following kindly welcome appeared in _The Tomahawk_ of July 10, 1869:-- - - -BRITANNIA'S WELCOME TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS STRANGER. - - PLAGUE of Egypt, from over the sea, - Ismail Pasha! - Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be, - Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners are we, - But all John Bulls in our welcome of thee, - Ismail Pasha! - - Welcome him, blunder of escort and suite, - Mounted inspector, and mob in the street! - Call up the first cab his Highness to meet! - Throw his hat-box and Bradshaw and rug on the seat! - Welcome him! feast him with fourpenny treat, - One glass of old ale and a sandwich to eat! - Scatter, O Royalty, gold for his keep! - Dream, all ye tradesmen of harvests to reap! - The Palace is empty, our pockets are deep! - Fling wide, O menial, the grand back door! - Take him, O attic, and rock him to sleep! - Strew a _viceregal_ shakedown on the floor! - Welcome him, welcome him, all that is cheap! - Sing, Prima Donna, and fashion stare! - Scrape up your regiments, weak and few, - Hurry, ye Commons, and all be there, - To swell the pomp of the grand review! - Chuckle, Britannia! a Sultan? pooh! - A nobody! don't we know who's who, - Ismail Pasha! - - Seeking quarters for change of air, - Come to us, love us (but pay your fare)-- - Guests such as you we are happy to see; - Come to us, love us, and have we not shown, - In breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, and tea, - Kindness to strangers as great as your own? - For Jacksons, O'Tooles, and McStunners we, - Viceroy, Khidevé, or whatever you be, - Yet thorough John Bulls in our welcome of thee, - Ismail Pasha! - -Shortly after the death of the late John Brown, when it was announced that -the Queen had had a statue of him erected in the grounds at Balmoral, -it was also rumoured that Tennyson was writing a poem in his honour. A -jocular author suggested that it might run as follows:-- - - Trash about bells and the merry March hare - Wrote I once at the royal summons. - More of us Danes than Antic Rum-uns! - No; let me see! I'll our welcome of thee, - Alexandra! - - Have I gone mad, or taken a drappie? - Norman and Saxon and Dane a wee, - Just a wee drappie intil our ee, - My Indo-Teuton-Celtic chappie! - Norman and Saxon a wee are we, - But more of us rum-uns or Danes you see - Some of us Saxons, and all with a B - In our bonnets, or something that's stronger than tea; - And it's all as easy as A, B, C, - To the poet who sang like a swan up a tree, - Alexandra! - - "The promise of May" was a little bit late, - And a fox jumped over a parson's gate, - And he had my cochins, too, if you please, - With a cat to the cream, which was not the cheese; - And a guinea a line is about the rate - You must pay for what flows from the poet's pate - When the blue fire wakes up the whole of the town; - And I'm sure I don't know what to say about Brown. - But whatever I say and whatever I sing - Will be worth to an obolus what it will bring! - - _The Referee_, September, 1883. - -It is generally admitted that Tennyson's more recent official poetry -has added little to his fame, whilst it has often been mercilessly -ridiculed, and, of late, his adulatory poems, and protestations of -loyalty, have frequently been ascribed to interested motives. As soon as -it was definitely announced that he was to be _ennobled_, a genealogy was -compiled tracing his descent from the kings who ruled in Britain long -before the Conquest. This grand claim (which was quoted at page 28) has -since been rather spoilt by the plain statement that Alfred Tennyson's -grandfather was a country attorney, practising in a small, quiet way in -Market Rasen, North Lincolnshire, who, having made money in his business, -retired, and bought some land in the neighbourhood. - -But for the title just conferred upon him, Tennyson's birth and lineage -would have been matters of perfect indifference to his readers. As for -raising Tennyson to the peerage, no writer seems seriously to have -defended an act which most people look upon as a mistake. Not one parody -in its favour has been written, but many against it. - - You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky clear, - For to-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year; - For I am a rhyming prig, Vicky, that shoddy and sham reveres, - So I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - There's many a crazy lyre, they say, but none so effete as mine; - It cannot ring out an ode to Brown, that gallant gilly of thine, - For there's none so inane as poor old Alf in his sad, declining years; - And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - I sleep so sound all night, Vicky, that I shall never wake; - So come in the early morn, Vicky, and give me a slap and a shake; - For I must gather my scissors and paste and scraps of the bygone years, - And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - As I came up the Row, Vicky, whom think you I should see? - Lord Queensberry against a lamp, and singing Tweedle-de-dee: - He thought of that vile play, Vicky, I wrote in bygone years; - But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - He thought I was a fool, Vicky, for I looked dazed and white; - He took me for a fool, Vicky--by jingo, he was right. - They call me Atheist-hater; but I care not for their jeers, - For I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - They say men write, and all for love; but this can never be: - They say that great men write and starve; but what is that to me? - For gold I sell my laughter, for gold I sell my tears, - And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - I wrote my "In Memoriam" when I was young and green; - I wrote my "Promise of the May" when I was pumped out clean; - And I've been the Court's hired lackey for many cringing years; - And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - The spider in my mouldy brain has woven its web for hours - On the dull flats of Lincoln fens and withered hot-house flowers; - I feel the shortening of my wits and the lengthening of my ears, - So I'm to be one of the peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - The night winds come and go, Vicky, upon the meadow grass; - There are guineas for the rhymster and thistles for the ass: - I have been your rhyming flunkey for over thirty years; - Now I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - There will be poets after me, not fresh and green and still, - Who care less for a Prince's nod than for the People's will, - Not rhyming royal nuptials and singing royal biers; - But I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - You must wake and call me early, call me early, Vicky dear; - To-morrow will be the silliest day we've seen for many a year; - For I'm a lackey and prig, Vicky, that sham and shoddy reveres, - And I'm to be one of the Peers, Vicky, I'm to be one of the Peers. - - From _The Secular Review_, December 29, 1883. - - * * * * * - -Of Tennyson's Patriotic Poems _The Charge of the Light Brigade_ has always -been the most popular, and has, consequently, been the most frequently -parodied. An excellent parody, taken from _Puck on Pegasus_, was given on -page 31; the following are the most interesting examples which remain to -be quoted:-- - - -THE INSTITUTION OF MECHANICAL ENGINEERS. - - On Thursday, August 3, 1865, an excursion was made by the Members of - the Institution of Mechanical Engineers of England, to the Dublin - Corporation Waterworks at the Stillorgan and Roundwood Reservoirs. - The members proceeded from Bray through the Glen of the Downs, along - a portion of the line of pipes, and at the Roundwood Reservoir - they were handsomely entertained by Sir John Gray, M.P., the - Chairman of the Waterworks Committee, and by Mr. John Jameson, the - Deputy-Chairman. - -The following parody appeared in a Dublin newspaper a few days later. Dr. -Waller, who is mentioned in it, was then the Chairman of the Connoree -Copper and Sulphur Mines, in the Vale of Avoca, which were also visited by -the party of Engineers:-- - - -THE TWO HUNDRED. - -(After Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade.") - - "Half-past nine, August three-- - Half-past nine--onward! - Off to the Vartry Works - Went some two hundred. - Off to the Vartry Works, - Where the good water lurks, - Down on the Wicklow line, - Thinking of how they'd dine; - 'Toasting,' with best of wine, - Off--with the weather fine-- - Went the two hundred. - - "'Forward!' said Sir John Gray, - On to the station, Bray, - There, there was some delay. - Some of the party said - 'Waller has blundered.' - But they were wrong, to doubt-- - Forty-three cars set out, - On from the station there, - Into the mountain air-- - Through Wicklow's mountain air-- - Drove the two hundred. - - "Arrived at the Vartry stream, - Inspected each shaft and beam; - Saw how the men with spade - Embankments and _puddle_ made: - Crowds there of every grade - Admired and wondered. - Gray, like an engineer-- - Explained what was strange or queer: - All the works, far and near, - He showed the two hundred. - - "Then through the Vartry pipes - As niggers bend to stripes, - Right through these monster pipes. - Like string through a bodkin, - Sir John led a lot of us, - Making small shot of us; - The first man he caught of us - Was our _London Times_--Godkin. - - "Done with the Vartry Works, - Flashed all our knives and forks; - To work, like some 'hungry Turks,' - Went the two hundred. - Soup, fish, meat, fowl, and ham, - Ice, jellies, pies, and jam; - At this wild mountain cram - All the guests wondered. - - "Champagne to the right of them, - Champagne to the left of them, - Champagne around them, - Popping and spurting. - Toasts then came from the chair, - Toasting the ladies fair, - But not a female there, - Therefore no flirting. - - "Good wine of every sort, - Speeches with joke and sport; - Then they went back again, - But not the two hundred. - Some of them went astray - O'er hills and far away, - But, getting home next day, - Made up the two hundred. - - "W. S." - -This poem is signed with the initials W. S., which probably stand for -the name of the late Mr. William Smith, a gentleman well-known in Dublin -literary circles, as the author of many clever parodies which appeared -over the _nom de plume_ of "Billy Scribble." Whether these humorous poems -have ever been published in a collected form, I cannot say, and I should -be glad to receive any information about them. - - * * * * * - - -"THE HALF HUNDRED" (OF COALS). - -_A good way after A. Tennyson's "Six Hundred."_ - - Up the stairs, up the stairs, - Up the stairs, onward! - Joe took, all out of breath, - Coals, half a hundred! - Up he went, still as death, - Lest they had wonder'd - That I, with a cellar large, - Bought by the "Hundred!" - - "Forward! the light evade; - Let 'em not know," I said; - "Glide up as still as death, - With the 'Half-hundred!' - Let them be gently laid! - No sound as by earthquake made - When the ground's sunder'd! - You here, if one should spy, - Wondering the reason why? - I with the shame should die! - So crawl up still as death, - With the 'Half-hundred!'" - - A cat on the right of him! - Cat on the left of him! - Cat at the front of him! - What if he blunder'd? - Slipt his foot! clean he fell! - Came then a horrid yell! - Joe look'd as pale as death, - As down they came _pell mell_, - All the "Half-hundred!" - - Out popt the "party" there! - Wondering what meant that _ere_ - Noise on the landing stair! - All stood and wonder'd! - Dust-clouds of coal and coke! - Made them all nearly choke! - Oh! such a dreadful smoke! - As from the second floor - Rolled the "Half-hundred!" - - Voices at right of him! - Voices at left of him! - Voices behind him! - Question'd and thunder'd! - Shrunk I into my shell; - Ah! how my grandeur fell! - Knowing that (thought a "swell") - I was thus found to buy - Coals by the "Hundred!" - - How does one's glory fade, - When there an end is made - At what the world wonder'd? - Ne'er from my mind will fade - That awkward mess we made, - Of the "Half-hundred!" - - JAMES BRUTON. - - _(From the Stratford-on-Avon Herald.)_ - - * * * * * - -The following clever parody was given to me, about ten years ago, by a -young Scotch friend, who has since gone to New Zealand. I have no clue to -the _year_ in which it was written (the day of the month, however, was -carefully preserved), nor do I know by _whom_ it was written, nor where it -made its first appearance in public. Will any kind correspondent furnish -me with information on these points? - - -THE DOCTOR'S HEAVY BRIGADE. - - "They would scarcely believe him when he told them that when in - Thurso, some time ago, he on one occasion saw six hundred people - asleep in a church." Speech of Dr. Guthrie, October 26th. - - O'er their devoted heads, - While the law thunder'd, - Snugly and heedlessly - Snored the Six Hundred! - Great was the preacher's theme; - Screw'd on was all the steam; - Neither with shout nor scream - Could he disturb the dream - Of the Six Hundred! - - Terrors to right of them! - Terrors to left of them! - Terrors in front of them! - Hell itself plundered! - Of its most awful things, - All those unlawful things. - Weak-minded preacher flings - At the dumb-founder'd! - Boldly he spoke, and well, - All on deaf ears it fell, - Vain was his loudest yell - Volley'd and thundered; - For, caring--the truth to tell, - Neither for Heaven nor Hell, - Snor'd the Six Hundred; - - Still, with redoubled zeal, - Still he spoke onward, - And, in a wild appeal, - Striking with hand and heel, - Making the pulpit reel, - Shaken and sundered-- - Called them the Church's foes, - Threatened with endless woes, - Faintly the answer rose, - (Proofs of their sweet repose), - From the United Nose - Of the Six Hundred! - - -L'ENVOY. - - Sermons of near an hour, - Too much for human power; - Prayers, too, made to match - (Extemporaneous batch, - Wofully blundered). - With a service of music, - Fit to turn every pew sick, - Should it be wondered? - Churches that will not move - Out of the ancient groove - Through which they floundered. - If they will lag behind, - Still must expect to find - Hearers of such a kind - As the Six Hundred! - - * * * * * - - -THE CHARGE OF THE BLACK BRIGADE.[3] - - Half a day, half a day, - Sped the clocks onward, - While in Freemason's Hall - Roared the six hundred!-- - Frantic the Black Brigade, - "Charge for the Church!" they said, - In the Freemason's Hall - Roared the six hundred! - - Frantic the Black Brigade, - Fearful the row they made, - Some day they'll know too well - How they have blundered. - Theirs not to hear reply, - Theirs throat and lungs to try, - Theirs to bawl "Low" and "High," - Round the Archbishop's chair - Roared the seven hundred! - - Canons to right of him, - Canons to left of him, - Canons in front of him, - Shouted and thundered! - Stormed at with groan and yell, - Really they stood it well, - Till they were out of breath, - Till an Earl tried to quell - Howls by the hundred! - - Flustered the laymen's hair; - Flushed all the clergy were; - Scaring the waiters there - Hooting and hissing, while - York's prelate wondered-- - Guides of us sinner folk - - Precept and law they broke, - Curate and rector spoke, - Dealing the Church a stroke - Shaken and sundered-- - Then they divided, and - Lost the six hundred! - - Clergy to right of chair, - Clergy to left of chair, - Clergy in front of chair, - Shouted and thundered! - Stamping, with groan and yell, - Past any power to quell, - They who had roared so well - Went blessed, and out of breath, - Back to their flocks to tell - All that was done by them-- - Nice fourteen hundred! - - When will the scandal fade - Of the wild row they made? - All the world wondered - Why such a noise was made - All by the Church Brigade-- - Blind fourteen hundred! - - _Punch_, 1868. - - * * * * * - - -AT THE MAGDALEN GROUND. - -_Ecce canit formas alius jactusque pilarum._ - -I. - - Drive to the Magdalen Ground; - Soon myself there I found, - Balls flew, and ground boys - After them blundered! - Theirs not at ease to lie, - Theirs but to field, and shy - Balls up and mind their eye; - If they were out of breath, - Who could have wondered? - -II. - - Balls to the right of me! - Balls to the left of me! - Balls, too, in front of me! - Nearly a hundred! - There stood each cricket swell, - Some of them batted well, - Smacking the balls about; - Seldom their wickets fell; - I stood and wondered! - -III. - - Thirsty, with elbows bare, - Bowlers were bowling there; - Cricket-balls through the air - Whizzed past their heads the while. - Muchly I wondered - Why no one's head was broke, - For at each mighty stroke - Close past the legs or head - Of some unconscious bloke, - Fast the balls thundered; - Which, had they hit him, would - Limbs have near sundered! - -IV. - - Balls to the right of me! - Balls to the left of me! - Balls, too, behind me! - Bounded and thundered! - Then came a sudden thwack, - Right on my poor old back, - Earthward I tumbled smack, - Knocked out was all my breath - With this untimely crack; - Whether my bones were smashed, - I lay and wondered. - - Ne'er will the memory fade - Of the large bruise it made, - Not if six hundred - Years on this earth I stayed. - Why cricket's ever played, - Often I've wondered! - - From _Lays of Modern Oxford, 1874_. - - * * * * * - -The following is a fair specimen of the Puff Poetical, taken from the -_Daily News_ of January, 1878:-- - - -CHARGE OF THE FAIR BRIGADE. - -_With the Junior Partner's Apologies to Mr, Tennyson._ - - Half a league, half a league, - Half a league onward, - All on the underground line - Rode the six hundred. - Right! cried the guard of the train; - Right! for the Sale, he said, - Into the Terminus then - Glide the six hundred. - - Forward the bright brigade! - Was there a heart dismayed, - Not tho' it seemed too true - Someone had fainted. - Their's not to call a fly, - Aldgate, the station nigh; - Their's but to try and buy, - Into the premises - Came the six hundred. - - Counters to right of them, - Counters to left of them, - Counters in front of them, - Dighted and lumbered; - Greeted with chair and grace - Boldly they entered apace, - Into the matter fain, - Into the "Sale" amain - Went the six hundred. - - Flash'd all their note-books fair, - Flash'd all the pencils there, - Noting with all due care. - Purchases rich and rare, - All the world wondered; - Plunged in the "Hibernum Sale," - Pleased with each neat detail; - Silken and Linen - Metre and yard-stick fail - Almost to measure. - Then they hark back, but not-- - Not unencumbered. - - Counters to right of them, - Counters to left of them, - Counters behind them - Piled up with wonders; - Offered some bargains rare, - Mute with a great despair - They that had bought so well - Came from the "Tempus" Sale - Tired and deadly pale, - Weary six hundred. - - When can their gladness fade? - O! the good time they had! - All the world wondered. - Honour the "parcels made;" - Honour the Drapers' Trade, - Noble six hundred. - - * * * * * - - -THE CHARGE OF THE "BUSTLE." - - Forward the Big Bustle! - Down the long street rustle, - Sweeping the street Arab - Into the gutter; - Swells to the right of it, - Swells to the left of it. - Cane, stick, and eyeglass, - All in a flutter! - - Loud cries the errand-boy, - "Big Bustle there, ahoy!" - And the respectable - Citizens stare-- - Reckless of every one, - On goes the "haughty one," - Sweeping past houses, - Terrace and square. - - But look, the low'ring sky - Portends a storm is nigh; - While men on all sides - Gallantly throng; - Swells to the right of it, - Swells to the left of it, - Blue Bustle charges, - Sweeping along. - - Ah, 'tis a rainy day! - Streams flood the muddy way, - And the fair ornament - Cheeky cads hustle; - Homeward it now retreats, - Flies from the crowded streets, - Safe at last! ah, but not-- - _Not the same Bustle!_ - - _Judy_, 17th April 1872. - - * * * * * - - -OUR BOYS. - -On the occasion of the Six Hundredth performance of this most successful -comedy at the Vaudeville Theatre, the following verses were composed:-- - - Keep the league! keep the league, - Keep our league onward! - We twain have "run" a piece - Nights now Six Hundred. - - Though but a light brigade, - Not such "great guns" 'tis said. - Yet we a play have played - Nights full Six Hundred! - - "Here's your piece," Byron said, - "Take it friends, undismayed," - So we did, for we knew - Seldom he's blundered! - Ours not to talk, but buy, - Ours but to act (or try!) - How fared the Comedy! - Into two years we've run, - Nights now Six Hundred. - - Prophets to right of us, - Prophets to left of us, - Prophets in front of us, - Volleyed and thundered! - Wiseacre shot and shell, - "May, for a time, do well!" - Ne'er, in their jaws (so right!) - Ne'er in their mouths that night - Boded Six Hundred. - - "Flashy! a thing of air! - Flashy! but very fair!" - So said these wonders there, - Stage-wise alarmists! while - All who of fun'd heard, - Crushed in the groaning pit. - Fought thro', fought bit by bit! - Coster and Nobleman - Laughed at the same old hit, - Laughed at, and wondered, - Thought of that night, but not - Dreamed of Six Hundred! - - Dresses wore spite of us, - Scenes waned each night of us, - Stitches made light of us, - Severed and sundered; - Summers on "houses" tell, - "Business," tho', never fell, - Everything turned out well, - So, we are playing still, - Playing each night with will, - All that is left of us - After Six Hundred! - - When shall this fortune fade? - No increased charge we've made - (Herein we blundered!) - Thanks to all, true as steel! - Thanks to the Public, we'll - Double Six Hundred. - -These stanzas, which bore the signature of Mr. Robert Reece, were -circulated among the audience, but were not spoken from the stage. - -The extraordinary run of _Our Boys_, which closed in April, 1879, will -long excite the curiosity and wonder of the theatrical world. Mr. Byron's -comedy was produced January 16, 1875, and was played continuously for four -years three months and three days. This would allow about 1,321 nights, -but extra day representations have raised the total number of performances -to 1,362. Besides this return the "long runs" of previous days were -completely dwarfed. When _Our American Cousin_ was brought out at the -Haymarket it ran for 496 nights, and the _Colleen Bawn_ went 278; _Meg's -Diversion_, 330; and _School_ 381 nights respectively. - - * * * * * - - "_Apropos_ of the vote for six millions," said _The Globe_, "Mr. - Gladstone, in his speech, protested against many of the attacks - which had been levelled at him during the debate, and he threatened - Mr. Chaplin in particular with his vengeance upon some future - occasion, and he quoted, amid the laughter of the House, some - doggerel verses which had been sent to him in reference to the - vote." These lines, parodying 'The Charge of the Light Brigade,' ran - thus:-- - - "Ring out your battle cry-- - Vote us our war supply, - This must we do or die-- - Vote the six millions. - Theirs not to reason why, - Ours not to make reply, - Ours but to say 'You lie'-- - Vote the six millions." - - * * * * * - - -THE CHARGE OF THE "RAD." BRIGADE. - -(After Mr. Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade".) - - By the League, by the League, by the League onward, - Into the Commons' House went the three hundred. - Forward the "Rad." Brigade! "Pass this Bill quick!" he said. - Into the Commons' House went the three hundred. - - Forward the "Rad." Brigade! Who is a whit afraid? - What tho' the Tories say we have all blundered? - Theirs but to moan and cry--let Jemmy Lowther sigh, and ask Sir - Stafford "Why?" - Into the Commons' House went the three hundred. - - Leaguers to right of them, Whiggites to left of them, - Tories in front of them, shouted and thundered. - Stormed at with hoot and yell, while weak-kneed Lib'rals fell, - Into the lobby drear, into the House pell-mell, rushed the - three hundred; - - Flashed all their tongues quite bare, each one his speech to air, - Crushing the Leaguers there, dishing the Tories while Salisbury - wondered. - Plunged in the hot debate, those who the rules had broke-- - Parnell and Dillon--reeled from brave Gladstone's stroke shattered - and sundered; - Then they went out, but not--not the three hundred. - - Leaguers to right of them, Whigs on the left of them, - Tories behind them, stamped, roared, and thundered, - Stormed at with hoot and yell, while many a weak one fell, - They that had voted well came from the lobby back, back to the House - pell-mell-- - All that was left of the happy three hundred. - - When will they e'er be paid? Oh, the grand vote they gave! - Salisbury wondered! - Honour the vote they gave! Long live the "Rad." Brigade! - Gladstone's three hundred. - - 25th June, 1882. J. ARTHUR ELLIOTT. - - * * * * * - - -A LAY OF THE LAW COURTS. - -Being the experience of Officials, Counsel, Clients, Witnesses, and all -who do their business in the Great Legal Maze. With apologies to the Poet -Laureate. - - * * * * * - - Up the stairs, down the stairs, - Farther and farther yet; - Here we come out of breath, - Flustered and sundered. - - Barriers to right of us, - Barriers to left of us, - Barriers in front of us! - Bad words we thundered. - - Most doors are barred and locked, - All sense of safety shocked; - Why is our business blocked - By those who blundered? - - Back to the charge we're led; - Corridors dark we tread; - Had we gone heels o'er head - Who could have wondered? - - No friend to say "Beware!" - No warning, "Pray, take care!" - Each step another snare! - If one, there's five hundred. - - Ours not to make reply; - Ours not to reason why; - Still we may raise the cry, - Some one has blundered! - - _Funny Folks_, 1883. - - * * * * * - - -THE LATEST CHARGE. - -[At a meeting in Ireland recently, when Mr. Biggar got up to speak, six -hundred ladies rose and quitted the room.] - - On their legs, on their legs, - On their legs onward, - All with face pale as death - Rose the Six hundred. - How dare he show his head? - "Rush from the wretch!" they said. - Straight to the street beneath - Strode the Six Hundred. - - Forward the fair brigade, - No woman there dismayed. - Not though each fair one knew - Biggar had blundered. - His not to reason why, - His not to make reply, - Best take his hat and fly, - When with rage out of breath - Rushed the Six Hundred. - - Married to right of him, - Single to left of him, - Widows in front of him - Volleyed and thundered. - No storm of shot and shell - E'er silenced man so well. - Joe! ne'er his tale shall tell - When near an Irish belle-- - Noble Six Hundred! - - _Funny Folks_, January 1884. - -_The Nineteenth Century_, March 1878, contained a poem entitled-- - - -THE REVENGE. - -_A Ballad of the Fleet._ - -I. - - At FLORES, in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay, - And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: - "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" - Then sware Lord Thomas Howard; "'Fore God I am no coward; - But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, - And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. - We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" - - * * * * * - -The rugged metre, and the exaggerated national sentiment of this ballad -were thus amusingly parodied:-- - - -RETRIBUTION--A XIXTH CENTURY BALLAD OF THE SLOE. - -_By the Author of "Vengeance, a Ballad of the Fleet."_ - - At his chambers in the Albany Sir Richard Tankard lay, - And a missive, like brown buttered toast, was brought him on a tray; - "Come, drink my Spanish wine--fifty dozen, all is thine, - And bring your friends with you, we'll drink till all is blue." - - Then sware Lord Thomas Drunker: "By jingo, I'm no funker; - But I cannot go, I fear, for my liver's out of gear, - And my head feels like to burst, and I only slake my thirst - With Apollinaris water, for I dare not touch port wine." - - Then spake Sir Richard Tankard, "I know you are no funker, - And fly wine for a moment to return to it again, - But my liver and my brain are free from ache and pain. - I should count myself the funker if I left them, my Lord Drunker, - Unsatisfied, and craving for the purple wine of Spain." - - He called his friends together to go with him and dine. - He told them of the telegram that told him of the wine. - - "We will go for we are dry; - Good Sir Richard, we are thine, - And the vintage we will try. - - If good there will be little left ere morrow's sun be set!" - And Sir Richard said again, "We be all good Englishmen; - Let us empty all the bottles down our sturdy British throttles, - For I never turned my back upon glass or bottle yet." - - Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roared a hurrah, and so, - Like true-born sturdy Englishmen, we all of us would go. - And found the wine all laid along the floor in many a row, - And half was laid on the right-hand side, and half on the left was - seen, - And the table, like the white sea foam, ran down the room between. - - The dim eyes of the waiters winked with an inward laugh; - They seemed to mock the notion that we the wine would quaff. - But as the night was waning they watched the rows grow small, - And whispered to each other, "I bet they'll drink it all!" - For the wine was flowing swiftly down, as a cataract might be - When it leaps from a mountain to the sea! - - And the moon went down and the stars came out o'er the smoky London - town; - And never a moment ceased the flow of the purple liquor down! - Glass after glass, the whole night long, the mighty magnums went, - And bottle after bottle was away from the table sent. - - "Dead men," as in a battle field, lay strewn upon the floor, - But still there was no cry of "Hold!" but constant shouts for "more!" - For he said, "Drink on, drink on!" - Though he scarce could lift his hand. - - And it chanced when more than half of the summer night was gone - That he rose up on his feet and tried to stand, - But he sunk into his chair, and lay back grinning there, - And close up to his side we stept, - Then--the rule in such a case--we cork'd him on the face, - And he fell upon the floor, and he slept. - - So pass'd we all, and when we woke each knew of a heavy head, - For not a soul of all of us had found the way to bed! - And a tempest of indignation swept over our surging brains, - That we could be floored by vintage, ay, ev'n of a hundred Spains! - - "It never was PORT"! we cried, and so we tasted it once again--'twas - SLOE! - Vile SLOE, with all our might, we had drunk for half the night! - And brave Sir Richard Tankard said, "Boys, although we drank hard, - 'Tis SLOE-JUICE, and not Spanish wine, is giving us such pains!" - Then in a sink, that day, we poured the rest away, - To be lost evermore in the drains. - -On the 15th March, 1882, at one of the London Ballad Concerts, Mr. Santley -sang, for the first time, a patriotic song, written by Alfred Tennyson, -the music composed by Mr. C. V. Stanford. This song was announced with -much ceremony as a new work, whereas it was simply an abbreviated, and -somewhat modified, arrangement of a poem in five verses, entitled _Hands -all Round_, which had appeared in the _Examiner_ in 1852, over the -signature _Merlin_. The song did not arouse any enthusiasm, and is now -only memorable for the offence its chorus gave to the temperance party. -The first verse is quoted to illustrate the parodies:-- - - "First pledge our Queen, my friends, and then - A health to England, every guest; - He best will serve the race of men - Who loves his native country best! - May freedom's oak for ever last, - With larger life from day to day; - He loves the present and the past - Who lops the moulder'd branch away. - Hands all round! God the traitor's hope confound! - To the great cause of Freedom, drink my friends, - And the great name of England round and round." - -On this poem getting into the papers, the Good Templars attached far too -much importance to it, and wrote to remonstrate with the Poet Laureate. -The following reply was sent to Mr. Malins, the Chief Templar:-- - - "86, Eaton-square, London,--Sir,--My father begs to thank the - Committee of the Executive of the Grand Lodge of England Good - Templars for their resolution. No one honours more highly the good - work done by them than my father. I must, however, ask you to - remember that the common cup has in all ages been employed as a - sacred symbol of unity, and that my father has only used the word - 'drink' in reference to this symbol. I much regret that it should - have been otherwise understood.--Faithfully yours, HALLAM TENNYSON." - -The following parody, adverting to this correspondence, appeared in -_Punch_, April 1, 1882:-- - - -SLOPS ALL ROUND! - -_Tennyson Teetotalised._ - -[The Manchester Good Templars having expostulated with the Poet Laureate -for countenancing "in his latest so-called patriotic song, _Hands all -Round_," the heathen and intoxicating custom of drinking toasts (in -anything stronger than toast and water) it is understood that the -conscience-stricken Bard has prepared the following "revised version" for -the special use of the I. O. G. T's.] - - FIRST pledge the Alliance, friends, and then - A health to WILFRID, champion dear! - He honours best that best of men - Who drinks his health in ginger-beer. - May LAWSON'S jokes for ever live, - With washier shine from day to day, - He's Freedom true Conservative, - Who Zoedone imbibes alway. - Slops all round! - Heaven the Wittler's hopes confound! - To the great cause Teetotal, swig my friends, - And the great name of LAWSON round and round! - - To Local Optionists who long - To hold the land in leading-strings, - By boldly banning liquors strong, - For lemonade and such sweet things. - To all who 'neath our watery skies, - Would English wits with water whelm, - To Toastandwaterdom's swift rise, - Till the Good Templar rules the realm, - Slops all round! - Heaven the Wittler's hopes confound! - To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends, - And the great name of LAWSON round and round! - - To all our Statesmen, so they be - Forwarders of our League's desire, - To both our Houses, if with glee - They'll quench, in water, Freedom's fire, - What odds though Freedom's flag _should_ sink, - Whilst high the Temperance banner waves? - Shall Britons bondsmen be to Drink - Through fear of being Slopdom's slaves? - Slops all round! - Heaven the Wittlers' hopes confound! - To the great cause Teetotal swig, my friends, - And the great name of LAWSON round and round! - - * * * * * - - -DRINKS ALL ROUND. - -(Being an attempt to arrange Mr. Tennyson's noble words for truly -Patriotic, Protectionist, and Anti-Aboriginal Circles):-- - - A health to Jingo first, and then - A health to shell, a health to shot! - The man who hates not other men - I deem no perfect patriot! - To all who hold all England mad - We drink; to all who'd tax her food! - We pledge the man who hates the Rad! - We drink to Bartle Frere and Froude! - Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned! - To the great cause of Jingo drink, my boys, - And the great name of Jingo round and round! - - To all the Companies that long - To rob as folk robbed years ago; - To all that wield the double thong, - From Queensland round to Borneo! - To all that, under Indian skies, - Call Aryan man "a blasted nigger;" - To all rapacious enterprise; - To rigour everywhere, and vigour!-- - Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned! - To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys, - And every filibuster round and round! - - To all our statesmen, while they see - An outlet new for British trade, - Where British fabrics still may be - With British size all overweighed! - Wherever gin and guns are sold - We've scooped the artless nigger in; - Where men give ivory and gold, - We give them measles, tracts, and gin! - Drinks all round! Here's to Jingo, King and crowned! - To the great name of Jingo drink, my boys, - And to Adulteration, round and round. - - From _The Daily News_, March 17, 1882. - - * * * * * - - -THE LAUREATE'S LAST LYRIC; OR, NORTHAMPTON' FREEMEN. - - Come! pledge Northampton, friends, and then - A health to Freemen's every guest; - He best will serve the race of men - Who loves his country's freedom best! - May Freedom's reign for ever last, - With wider bounds from day to day; - He loves the present, not the past, - Who breaks the tyrant's chain away! - - CHORUS--Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! - Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends, - The hope of Britain round and sound! - - To all the British hearts, who long - Will keep their heart of freedom whole-- - To all our noble sons, the strong - Of British birth--the men of soul - Who rise against coercive wrong, - That drags "suspects" untried to gaol, - While starving thousands in the realm. - Oh! burst the prison of the "Pale." - Whatever statesman holds the helm. - - CHORUS--Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! - Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends, - The hope of Britain round and sound! - - To all our statesmen who for Right, - Are leaders at the land's desire; - Nor bend nor aid the force of Might, - That gags free speech to quench the fire - That burns to make the people great, - In thought and deed on every hand. - We freedom gave the mighty State, - But lack it in our native land! - - CHORUS--Hands all round! All despotic laws confound! - Northampton's Freemen, cheer, my friends, - The hope of Britain round and sound! - - June 1882. E. T. CRAIG. - - * * * * * - -Tennyson's blank verse has seldom been more successfully imitated than -in _The Very Last Idyll_, written by Shirley Brooks for "Punch's Pocket -Book," it concludes thus:-- - - "And the blameless king, - Rising again (to Lancelot's discontent, - Who held all speeches a tremendous bore), - Said, "If one duty to be done remains, - And 'tis neglected, all the rest is nought - But Dead Sea apples and the acts of apes." - Smiled Guinevere, and begged him not to preach; - She knew that duty, and it should be done: - So what of pudding on that festal night - Was not consumed by Arthur and his guests, - The queen upon the following morning, fried." - -In a similar strain, but more ponderous in treatment is _Sir Tray: an -Arthurian Idyll_, which appeared in Blackwood's Magazine for January, -1873. A few of the opening lines betray the whole of the jest:-- - - "The widow'd dame of Hubbard's ancient line - Turned to her cupboard, cornered anglewise - Betwixt this wall and that, in quest of aught - To satisfy the craving of Sir Tray, - Prick-eared companion of her solitude, - Red-spotted, dirty white, and bare of rib, - Who followed at her high and pattering heels, - Prayer in his eye, prayer in his slinking gait, - Prayer in his pendulous pulsating tail. - Wide on its creaking jaws revolved the door, - The cupboard yawned, deep throated, thinly set - For teeth, with bottles, ancient cannisters, - And plates of various pattern, blue or white; - Deep in the void she thrust her hookèd nose - Peering near sighted for the wished-for bone, - Whiles her short robe of samite, tilted high, - The thrifty darnings of her hose revealed;-- - The pointed feature travelled o'er the delf, - Greasing its tip, but bone or bread found none. - Wherefore Sir Tray abode still dinnerless, - Licking his paws beneath the spinning-wheel, - And meditating much on savoury meats." - -The hypercritical might object that, inasmuch as the dame greased the -tip of her nose whilst peering into the recesses of her store-chamber, -that some small rest of edibles was there, but the poem hurries on to -its tragical climax, and carries the reader breathless past such trivial -objections as these. - -The dame passes out, and swiftly down the streets of Camelot, where she -seeks, and finds, the needed bread, and hastens back--but all too late, -alas! for Sir Tray lay prone upon the hearth, and neither breathed nor -stirred:-- - - "Dead?" said the Dame, while louder wailed Elaine; - "I see," she said, "thy fasts were all too long, - Thy commons all too short, which shortened thus - Thy days, tho' thou mightst still have cheered mine age - Had I but timelier to the city wonned. - Thither I must again, and that right soon, - For now 'tis meet we lap thee in a shroud, - And lay thee in the vault by Astolat, - Where faithful Tray shall by Sir Hubbard lie." - - Up a by-lane the undertaker dwelt; - There day by day he plied his merry trade, - And all his undertakings undertook: - Erst knight of Arthur's Court, _Sir Waldgrave_ hight, - A gruesome carle who hid his jests in gloom, - And schooled his lid to counterfeit a tear. - With cheerful hammer he a coffin tapt, - While hollow, hollow, hollow rang the wood, - And, as he sawed and hammered, thus he sang-- - - Wood, hammer, nails, ye build a house for him, - Nails, hammer, wood, ye build a house for me, - Paying the rent, the taxes, and the rates. - - I plant a human acorn in the ground, - And therefrom straightway springs a goodly tree, - Budding for me in bread and beer and beef. - - O Life, dost thou bring Death or Death bring thee? - Which of the twain is bringer, which the brought? - Since men must die that other men may live. - - O Death, for me thou plump'st thine hollow cheeks, - Mak'st of thine antic grin a pleasant smile, - And prank'st full gaily in thy winding sheet. - - Yet am I but the henwife's favourite chick, - Pampered but doomed; and, in the sequel sure, - Death will the Undertaker overtake." - -Thus to Sir Waldgrade the Dame recounts her loss:-- - - "Sir Tray that with me dwelt, - Lies on my lonely hearthstone stark and stiff; - Wagless the tail that waved to welcome me." - -Here Waldgrave interposed in sepulchral tones-- - - "Oft have I noted, when the jest went round, - Sad 'twas to see the wag forget his tale-- - Sadder to see the tail forget its wag." - -The description of the coffin follows, and, lastly, after sundry -vicissitudes (including a visit to the hatter's), the dame returned-- - - "Home through the darksome wold, and raised the latch, - And marked, full lighted by the ingle-glow, - Sir Tray, with spoon in hand, and cat on knee, - Spattering the mess about the chaps of Puss." - - * * * * * - - -SIR EGGNOGG. - - Forth from the purple battlements he fared, - Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named - From that embrasure of his argent shield - Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry - On snuffy parchments drawn,--so forth he fared, - By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared, - Where grew the juniper with berries black, - The sphery mansions of the future gin. - But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent - On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl, - Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn, - And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck - Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal, - So scornful she: and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed - Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots - In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high - In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower - Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream - Of the tire-woman, at the window bent - To dress her crispèd hair. She saw, ah woe! - The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled - O'er the flamboyant parapet which ridged - The muffled coping of the castle's peak, - Prone on the ivory pavement of the court, - Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent - Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor. - This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised, - Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath, - And, finding nothing more could reunite - The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode - On his careering palfrey to the wars, - And there found death, another death than hers. - - From _Diversions of the Echo Club_. - - * * * * * - -The following is from the _St. James's Gazette_, January 14, 1881. - - -THE PLAYERS. - -_A Lawn Tennisonian Idyl._ - - I, who a decade past had lived recluse, - Left for awhile the dust of books and town - To share the pastimes of a country house; - And thus it chanced that I beheld a scene - That steep'd my rusted mind in wonderment. - The morn was passing fair; no vagrant cloud - Obscured the summer sun, as from the porch - I sallied forth to saunter at my will - Adown the garden path. Anon I came - To where a lawn outspread its verdant robe, - Whose decoration filled me with amaze. - Lawns many had I seen in days gone by, - But never lawn before the like of this; - For o'er its grassy plane a strange device - Of parallelograms rectangular - Was limn'd in lines of most exceeding whiteness: - Athwart the centre of this strange device - A threaden net was stretch'd a full yard high, - And clasp'd in its reticulated arms, - As ivy clasps the oak, two sturdy staves - Uprear'd on either side. At either end, - Holding opposing corners of the field, - A youth and damsel did themselves disport - In costume airy, mystic, wonderful; - The while in dexter hand each held a quaint - And spoon-shaped instrument of chequer'd strings-- - Modell'd perchance, upon an ancient lute-- - Wherewith they nimbly urged the bounding sphere - Across the meshy bar. - - No space had I - To ponder, ere they spied me and did call - A welcome--"Hast thou come to see us play?" - "What is the game?" I ask'd; they answer'd "Love." - "A pretty game," quoth I, "for man or maid, - But one wherein a third is out of place; - Fain would I therefore go." "Nay, nay," they cried; - "Prithee remain, and thou shalt stand as umpire." - And so I stay'd, and presently besought - To know their prospects. Then the maiden said, - "I'm fifteen now;" the gallant, he replied, - "And thirty, I." Whereon methought at first - That he did somewhat overstate his case, - Though she seem'd rather underneath the mark. - But when they said that she was thirty-two, - And, next, that he was forty, I perceived - They told of other things than length of years; - Since mortals' ages, e'en at census time, - Could scarce be subject to such fluctuations. - Thus did they wage the contest, hither, thither - Running and smiting, till triumphantly - The damsel shouted, "Deuce!" Alas! mused I, - That lips so fair should utter words so base, - Yet would have held my peace, had not the youth - Turn'd unto me--"How's that; was that a fault?" - "A fault!" I answer'd; "aye, and worse than that; - Indeed, 'tis nigh a sin." "Go to," he said; - "Thou makest merry." So the sport went on; - And then she cried, "Advantage, and I win!" - And then, "'Tis deuce again!" and then, "Advantage - To thee!" and then she strove to reach the ball, - And fail'd, and in despair exclaim'd, "Oh, dear, - I'm beaten!" and fell back upon the sward. - "And this," quoth I, "is this your game of love? - Well, I have heard men say that oftentimes - True love, once smooth, is scattered to the deuce - And she that first advantage hath obtain'd, - Doth lose at last, and suffer sad reverse. - Sweet maid, when thou art wed, the deuce avoid, - And thou shalt ne'er at least deserve a beating." - She laugh'd; he frown'd; I turn'd, and went my way. - - * * * * * - -Notwithstanding the care Tennyson has usually bestowed upon his writings, -he has occasionally of late years, published poems in the magazines, -remarkable for their inferiority--even as compared with ordinary magazine -poetry--by no means a very high standard. Perhaps he never wrote a weaker -set of lines than those printed in "Good Words" for March, 1868, they were -headed-- - - -1865-1866. - - I stood on a tower in the wet, - And New Year and Old Year met, - And winds were roaring and blowing; - And I said, "O years! that meet in tears, - Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?" - Science enough and exploring, - Wanderers coming and going; - Matter enough for deploring, - But aught that is worth the knowing? - Seas at my feet were flowing, - Waves on the shingle pouring; - Old Year roaring and blowing, - And New Year blowing and roaring. - -The following parody, which appeared shortly afterwards, is scarcely -inferior to the Laureate's lines.-- - - -1867-1868. - - I sat in a 'bus in the wet, - "Good Words" I had happened to get, - With Tennyson's last bestowing; - And I said, "O bard! who works so hard, - Have ye aught that is worth the knowing?" - - Verses enough and so boring, - Twaddle quite overflowing, - Rubbish enough for deploring; - But aught that is worth the knowing? - Placards on walls were glowing, - Puffs in the papers pouring, - "Good Words" roaring and blowing, - "Once a Week" blowing and roaring! - -Or, "another way," as the cookery books say-- - - -A PARODY, - -_After Tennyson's Last._ - - TENNYSON stood in the wet, - And he and his publishers met, - His publishers cursing and swearing, - And they said "O Tennyson tell us, - Have you anything good to sell us, - The public mind it enrages, - To read such bosh by pages, - 'The Victim' was little better, - And oh! that 'Spiteful Letter.'" - They spoke, their poor hair tearing, - TENNYSON poems rehearsing, - Publishers cursing and swearing, - TENNYSON swearing and cursing. - - * * * * * - -"The Victim," above referred to, which also had appeared in "Good Words," -was the subject of the following witty parody, in which the versification -of the original is closely imitated:-- - -FOOTNOTES: - -[Footnote 1: The song in _Enid_, here alluded to, runs thus:-- - - Turn, fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud; - Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm and cloud; - Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. - - * * * * * - - Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands; - Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands; - For man is man and master of his fate. - - Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd; - Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud; - Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. -] - -[Footnote 2: A room for each man, and plenty of excellent provisions were -amongst the inducements held out to the deluded victims who enlisted in -the Papal Brigade to fight against Italian unity.] - -[Footnote 3: _Apropos_ of the clamorous meeting of the Clergy, in -Freemason's Hall, December, 1868, the Archbishop of York in the Chair. -1439 votes were recorded at the division.] - - -"THE VICTIM." - -NOT _by Alfred Tennyson, Poet Laureate_, - -(See _Good Words_, January 1, 1868). - -I. - - A plague upon the people fell, - A plague of writers high and low, - There were some wrote ill, and some wrote well, - And the Novel, the Novel was all the go; - But the people tired of what they admired, - And they said to the Editors one and all, - 'We have had enough of sensation stuff, - So give us a change, be it great or small'-- - And the Editors paled - As they heard the throng-- - What would you have of us? - Poem or Song? - Were it the queerest, - Were it the dearest - Money can purchase, - We'll give you a Song. - -II. - - But still the plague spread far and wide, - Bad novels were written and bought and read, - In which handsome wives took their husbands' lives, - And maidens behaved as if they were wed: - So the people stormed and some of them swore, - '"Good Words" they butter no parsnips, no; - So give us a song, both sweet and strong, - Or you or your magazines may go-- - To Jericho!'-- - Or was it Hong Kong? - 'Were it the queerest, - Were it the dearest, - We'll give them a song.' - -III. - - The Editors went through 'The Men of the Time,' - 'Including the Women,' with eager look, - Through the men and women who dabble in rhyme, - Whose names are inscribed in that golden book. - 'Oh! who shall we get to sing to "the Beast"? - To sing to the Beast a deathless song?'-- - 'Till they came to Tupper, the great High Priest-- - _Proverbially_ the worst of the throng. - And their hearts exulted - A moment or two:-- - '_His_ were the queerest, - But we've promised the _dearest_, - Tupper won't do!' - -IV. - - Again they looked for a bard divine. - 'Here's one,' they exclaimed, 'should be preferred - A poet the half of whose name is _Swine_, - Is fittest to sing to the swinish herd. - But _Swine_ and _burn_ suggest in their turn - Ideas a little too gross and warm; - And a poet who writes of hermaphrodites - Is scarcely the man to weather the storm. - So Swineburne, too, - Won't do, won't do! - What's to be done - With the raging throng? - We can't have the queerest, - We'll pay for the dearest: - Give us a song!' - -V. - - The cry went forth o'er cities and towns; - It tickled the ears of the men who write; - It leaped from the land and over the downs, - And flew like wind through the Isle of Wight: - There Tennyson sat in his wide-awake hat, - Or smoked and strolled on his 'sponge-wet' grounds; - '_I_'ll give them a song not over long-- - I'll give them a song for two hundred pounds.' - How happy, how happy, - The Editors grew! - 'Were it the merest - Trash, 'tis the _dearest_, - And therefore will do.' - -VI. - - The poet wrote the poem I quote, - 'The Victim,' whose life the priests would destroy - But the Editor knows ere now, I suppose, - That _he_ is the victim, and not the boy: - 'Tis he must _bleed_ for this rhythmic deed - And ever for more, as the public cry, - May Alfred the Great--the Laureate-- - Shriek out 'the _dearest_, the _dearest_ am I!' - And the public are happy, - And so they ought; - For to them doth belong, - If not the sincerest - Outburst of song - That ever was thought, - At least the dearest - That ever was bought. - - January 27, 1868, "M." - _Dublin Paper_. - -Tennyson's _The Victim_ was curiously anticipated by _The Prophet Enoch_, -a poem by James Burton Robertson (London, James Blackwood, 1860), in which -the following passage occurs:-- - - "'One victim more!' a thousand voices cry; - 'One victim more!' resounds the cave of gloom. - Lo! borne on lofty car, 'mid savage cries - Of a wild band, a costlier victim comes. - It is a lovely stripling, o'er whose cheek - Youth hath her earliest purple bloom suffused: - In rich luxuriant curls his locks descend, - Twined with the fatal flowers that sweetly mock - The victim they adorn. Wild with despair, - His shrieking mother grasps the iron wheel - Of the inexorable car: she spurns - The fierce rebukes, or menace of the throng, - To catch the last glimpse of her darling boy. - 'Ah! spare my son; shed mine own blood instead: - My life may satisfy your vengeful gods!'" - Exclaims the hapless matron, but in vain. - - * * * * * - - -THE THREE COURSES OF ACHILLES. - -Mr. Gladstone's fondness for Homer is well known, and he was doubtless one -of the first to read the Laureate's lines in the _Nineteenth Century_, -called "Achilles Over the Trench." This Trojan hero will now be dearer -than ever to the Premier, for the Laureate's lines show him to be a man -strangely after the "People's William's" own heart. Thus, it is matter of -public notoriety that Mr. Gladstone thinks thrice before he makes his mind -up to any great matter, and he is famed for his historic "three courses." -How curious, then, to find that Achilles, too, has what may be termed a -"triologic" bent of mind! Evidently it was not till he had thought thrice -that he remained sulking in his tent. And when he came out and fought, we -find, from Alfred Tennyson, that-- - - "Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout, - Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies." - -The fragment of verse is incomplete, but we have little doubt that when we -see it complete, we shall read something of this kind:-- - - "Thrice rolled his glowing eye, with fury fired, - And thrice his spear leapt forward at the foe; - Whilst as the sinking sun proclaimed it three, - He thrice imbued it in the Trojan's blood. - Then stood he where three stones were rudely piled, - And thrice he thought what next his course should be; - Thrice wiped the triple tears that dewed his cheek, - Thrice muttered words I care not to repeat; - Then murmuring his mother's name three times, - Made up his mind to slaughter three more foes. - So thrice again his spear was launched in space, - And three miles off, within Troy's triple walls, - Three widows, each with children three, were left - To mourn that he, Achilles, had not thought - Four times that afternoon instead of three." - - From _Funny Folks_. - - * * * * * - - -UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY. - -_An Experiment._ - -(A parody of the _Lord of Burleigh_.) - - When he whispers, "O, Miss Bailey, - Thou art brightest of the throng!" - She makes murmur, softly, gaily-- - "Alfred, I have loved thee long." - - Then he drops upon his knees, a - Proof his heart is soft as wax; - She's--I don't know who; but he's a - Captain bold from Halifax. - - Though so loving, such another - Artless bride was never seen; - Coachee thinks that she's his mother-- - Till they get to Gretna Green. - - There they stand by him attended, - Hear the sable smith rehearse - That which links them, when 'tis ended, - Tight for better or for worse. - - Now her heart rejoices--ugly - Troubles need disturb her less-- - Now the Happy Pair are snugly - Seated in the night express. - - So they go with fond emotion, - So they journey through the night; - London is their land of Goschen-- - See its suburbs are in sight! - - Hark, the sound of life is swelling, - Pacing up, and racing down; - Soon they reach her simple dwelling-- - Burley-street, by Somers Town. - - What is there to so astound them? - She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!" - When five brats emerge--confound them! - Shouting out, "MAMMA!"--"PAPA!" - - While at this he wonders blindly, - Nor their meaning can divine, - Proud she turns them round, and kindly, - "All of these are mine and thine!" - - * * * * * - - Here he pines and grows dyspeptic, - Losing heart he loses pith-- - Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic, - Swears that Moses was a myth. - - Sees no evidence in Paley, - Takes to drinking ratafia: - Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey, - While she's pouring out the tea. - - One day, knocking up his quarters, - Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, - Hanging in his knotted garters, - Which she knitted ere they wed. - - FREDERICK LOCKER. - - * * * * * - - -In Memoriam. - -£ S. D. - -"_Abiit ad plures._" - -BADEN-BADEN, MDCCCLXVIII. - - -I. - - I HOLD it truth, with him who rings - His money on a testing stone - To judge its goodness by its tone, - That gold will buy all other things. - - It hides the ravages of years; - It gilds the matrimonial match; - It makes deformity "a catch;" - And dries the sorrowing widow's tears. - - Let love grasp cash, lest both be drowned; - Let Mammon keep his gilded gloss; - Ah, easier far to bear the loss - Of love, than of a thousand pound! - - Let not the victor say with scorn, - While of his winnings he may boast, - "Behold the man who played and lost, - And now is weak and overworn." - - * * * * * - -II. - - O, Fortune, fickle as the breeze! - O, Temptress, at the shrine of gain! - O, sweet and bitter!--all in vain - I come to thee for monied ease! - - "The chances surely run," she says; - But prick the series with a pin; - Mark well; and then go in and win!-- - Or lose! for there are but two ways. - - And still the phantom, Fortune, stands - And sings with siren silvery tone; - Music that I may reach alone - With empty purse and empty hands! - - And shall I still this fickle fair - With constant energies pursue? - Or do as other people do-- - Escape the tangles of her hair? - - * * * * * - -XXVII. - - I envy not in any mood - The mortal void of Mammon's lust, - Who never to a chance will trust, - And never Fortune's favours woo'd. - - I envy not the plodding boor, - Whose stupid ignorant content - Cares not if odds on an event - Are 2 to 1 or 10 to 4. - - Nor him who counts himself as blest, - And says, "I take the wiser way, - Because for love alone I play, - So gambling never breaks my rest." - - I hold it true, whate'er befall, - I feel it when I lose the most, - 'Tis better to have play'd and lost - Than never to have played at all. - - (Name of Author not known). - - * * * * * - - -PUNCH TO SALISBURY. - - I hold it true, whate'er befall, - Though Jingo bounce and patriot rail, - 'Twere better far to meet and fail, - Than never try to meet at all. - - * * * * * - - -THE RINKER'S SOLACE. - - I hold it true whoe'er may fall, - I _feel_ it when I tumble most, - 'Tis better to have rinked and lost - Than never to have rinked at all. - - _Tennyson_ (revised). - - * * * * * - - -BEHIND TIME. - - She looked quite cross--her face had not - The smile that once lured one and all, - While waiting at that seaside spot - For him she loved;--divinely tall; - Her sloe-black eyes showed restless change, - Small sparks of anger you might catch, - And yet those eyes you could not match, - Were you throughout the world to range, - "Alas! I'm getting weary, weary-- - Waiting here for Fred; - He said he'd take me sailing--query? - He's not come yet," she said. - - "He asked me when we met last night, - If I would like a sail or row; - I answered 'Yes,' with great delight; - He said at one o'clock we'd go. - - 'Tis now five minutes past the hour, - And where is _he_, I'd like to know? - Oh! if I did not love him so - I'd punish him--and show my pow'r. - But oh, alas! it _is_ so dreary - When I am not with Fred; - I feel like Moore's lamenting Peri: - Why _won't_ he come?" she said. - - The tear-drops then welled from her eyes, - And down her damask cheek they crept; - Her bosom heaved with sundry sighs, - She cried, "I'll _no_ excuse accept. - I will not speak to him," said she; - "How _dare_ he keep me waiting here!" - When suddenly, approaching near, - Her tardy swain she chanced to see; - - And then, forgetting she'd been weary, - She cried, "Oh, here comes Fred!" - And somehow then she seemed less dreary, - "How _nice_ he looks!" she said. - - H. C. NEWTON. - - From _Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1884. - -The Poet Laureate's cruise with Sir Donald Currie, in the autumn of 1883, -was an event of some importance, as he was then afforded an opportunity -of reading his poems to a select audience of Royal personages; it is -generally supposed that it was during that trip also that the Prime -Minister offered him the title, his acceptance of which has since been -the subject of so much comment and censure. _Punch_ (September 22, 1883) -described the voyage to the north in the following comical medley of -parodies of the Laureate's poems:-- - - -A LAUREATE'S LOG. - -(_Rough Weather Notes from the New Berth-day Book_.) - - -MONDAY. - - If you're waking, please don't call me, please don't call me, CURRIE - dear, - For they tell me that to-morrow t'wards the open we're to steer! - No doubt, for you and those aloft, the maddest merriest way,-- - But _I_ always feel best in a bay, CURRIE, _I_ always feel best in - a bay! - - -TUESDAY. - - Take, take, take?-- - What will I take for tea? - The thinnest slice--no butter,-- - And that's quite enough for me! - - -WEDNESDAY. - - It is the little roll within the berth - That by-and-by will put an end to mirth, - And, never ceasing, slowly prostrate all! - - -THURSDAY. - - Let me alone! What pleasure can you have - In chaffing evil? Tell me, what's the fun - Of ever climbing up the climbing wave? - All you the rest, you know how to behave - In roughish weather! I, for one, - Ask for the shore--or death, dark death,--I am so done! - - -FRIDAY. - - Twelve knots an hour! But what am I? - A poet, with no land in sight, - Insisting that he feels "all right" - With half a smile--and half a sigh! - - -SATURDAY. - - Comfort? Comfort scorned of lubbers! Hear this truth the Poet roar, - That a sorrow's crown of sorrows is remembering days on shore. - Drug his soda, lest he learn it when the Foreland gleams a spec - In the dead unhappy night, when he can't sit up on deck! - - -SUNDAY. - - Ah! you've called me nice and early, nice and early, CURRIE dear! - What? Really in? Well, come, the news I'm precious glad to hear; - For though in such good company I willingly would stay-- - I'm glad to be back in the bay, CURRIE, I'm glad to be back in the bay! - -It is now somewhat more than fifty years since a young, and comparatively -obscure writer addressed some presumptious lines to a lady of noble -family, in which he sneered at her claims of long descent, ridiculed -nobility generally, and concluded by advising her to go out amongst the -poor, to teach the children, and to feed the beggars. - -The tone of the poem was censorious and offensive; but Lady Clara Vere -de Vere, to whom it was addressed, let it pass unnoticed by, knowing -that "Everything comes to those who know how to wait," and now this last -daughter of a hundred Earls has written a good-humoured rejoinder to the -first Baron Tennyson, in which she playfully assumes her age to have -remained what it was fifty years ago:-- - - Baron Alfred T. de T., - Are we at last in sweet accord? - I learn--excuse my girlish glee-- - That you've become a noble Lord; - So now that time to think you've had - Of what it is makes charming girls, - Perhaps you find they're not so bad-- - Those daughters of a hundred earls. - - Baron Alfred T. de T., - When last your face I chanced to see, - You had the passion of your kind, - You said some horrid things to me; - And then--"we parted," you to sail - For Oshkosh, in the simple steerage, - But now--excuse my girlish glee-- - You reappear, and in the peerage! - - Baron Alfred T. de T., - Were you indeed misunderstood - That other day I heard you say, - "'Tis only noble to be good?" - I really thought you then affirmed-- - 'Tis so the words come back to me, - "Kind hearts are more than coronets, - And simple faith than Norman blood." - - Baron Alfred T. de T., - There stand twin-spectres in your hall, - And as they found you were a Lord - Two wholesome hearts were changed to gall; - The two, an humble couple they, - I think I see them, on my life, - The while they read of "Baron" T., - The grand old Adam, and his wife! - - Trust me, Baron T. de T., - From yon blue heaven above us bent, - This simple granger and his spouse - Smile as you read your long descent. - Howe'er it be, it seems to me, - Nor must you think my language cruel, - It seems--excuse my girlish glee-- - Consistency's a lovely jewel. - - Baron Alfred T. de T., - I know you're proud your name to own; - Your pride is yet no mate for mine, - My blood is bluer than your own. - Don't bid me break your heart again - For pastime, ere to town I go; - I'll not do that, my noble Lord, - But give you something that I owe. - - Baron Alfred T. de T., - When you were in that angry fit - You turned to me and thundered out, - "Go, teach the orphan girl to knit." - I am an orphan girl myself, - And that my knitting you may see, - Here is a _mitten_ that I've knit-- - Excuse my gushing, girlish glee. - - * * * * * - -Now, there was another young lady who was treated with scant courtesy by -the author of _Locksley Hall_, and she, too, has written a reply to the -love-sick ravings of the young poet:-- - - -COUSIN AMY'S VIEW. - -SCENE--_The neighbourhood of Locksley Hall._ - -_Enter_ Lady AMY HARDCASH (_ætat. forty_)_, with a book of poems and -several children_. - -LADY AMY _loquitur_. - - CHILDREN, leave me here a little; don't disturb me, I request; - For Mamma is very tired, and fain would take a little rest. - - 'Tis the place, the same old place, though looking somewhat pinched - and small. - Ah, 'tis many and many a day since last I looked on Locksley Hall! - - Then 'twas in the spring of life and love--ah, Love, the great - Has-been! - Love which, like the year's own Spring, is very nice--and very - _green!_ - - In the Spring the new French fashions come the female heart to bless, - In the Spring the very housemaid gets herself another dress; - - In the Spring we're apt to feel like children just let loose from - school; - In the Spring a young girl's fancy's very apt to play the fool. - - On the moorland, by the waters he was really _very_ nice; - There was no one else at hand, and I--forgot Mamma's advice. - - He indulged in rosy raptures, heaved the most suggestive sighs, - Said the very prettiest things about my lips and hazel eyes. - - All his talk was most poetic, all his sentiments were grand, - Though his meaning, I confess, I did not always understand. - - So that, when he popped the question, I _did_ blush and hang my head, - And,--well, I dare say the rest was pretty much as he has said. - - * * * * * - - LOCKSLEY'S famous--yes, and married, notwithstanding his fierce curse, - To a dame with lots of gold and very little taste for verse. - - Nice to be a Lion's Lady in Society, no doubt! - Not so nice to smooth his mane at home when Leo is put out. - - Talk of tantrums! Read these lines he published after--well, the jilt, - Pitching into poor Mamma, and charging me with nameless guilt! - - Dear Mamma! _I_ thought her hard--but I'm a mother now myself, - And, I know what utter nonsense is the poet's scorn of pelf. - - * * * * * - - "Woman is the lesser man!" I hold that false as it is hard. - The most womanish of creatures surely is an angry bard. - - Yet, sometimes, when, as at present, Spring is brightening all the - land, - Comes that longing for the fields, SIR RUFUS _cannot_ understand; - - Comes a ghostly sort of doubt if e'en Society can give - All, quite all, for which a _well-loved_ woman might desire to live; - - Comes a memory of his voice, a recollection of his glance, - Thoughts of things which then had power to make my maiden pulses dance; - - Comes,--but I'm extremely stupid. Well, I know if our dear FAN - Took a fancy for a poet, I should soon dismiss the man. - - Here she comes! She'll wed, I hope, rich Viscount VIVIAN ere the fall. - She ne'er had had _that_ chance, had I espoused the Lord of Locksley - Hall! - - _Punch_, June 1, 1878. - - * * * * * - -In a magazine entitled _The Train_, published in 1856, there was a poem -called _The Three Voices_, written by Mr. Lewis Carroll, who has since -become famous for his quaintly humorous works. This was a parody of the -obvious truisms, the muddled metaphor, and vague reasonings contained in -Tennyson's _Two Voices_, and Mr. Carroll has wisely inserted it in his -last collection of poems (_Rhyme? and Reason?_ Macmillan and Co.), it is -somewhat altered from its original form, and is much heightened in its -effect by the intensely comic, and ably drawn, illustrations of Mr. Arthur -B. Frost. - -Unfortunately, this clever parody is too long to quote entire, and an -extract gives but a faint idea of its terribly grotesque sorrows, and its -whimsical burlesque of the Laureate's reasoning in _The Two Voices:_-- - - THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach, - Her tongue was very apt to teach, - And now and then he did beseech, - - She would abate her dulcet tone, - Because the talk was all her own, - And he was dull as any drone. - - She urged "No cheese is made of chalk;" - And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk, - Tuned to the footfall of a walk. - - Her voice was very full and rich, - And when at length she asked him "Which?" - It mounted to its highest pitch. - - He a bewildered answer gave, - Drowned in the sullen moaning wave, - Lost in the echoes of the cave. - - She waited not for his reply, - But, with a downward leaden eye, - Went on as if he were not by. - - Then, having wholly overthrown - His views, and stripped them to the bone, - Proceeded to unfold her own. - - * * * * * - - "Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss - Of other thoughts no thoughts but this, - Harmonious dews of sober bliss? - - "What boots it? Shall his fevered eye - Through towering nothingness descry - The grisly phantom hurry by? - - "And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air; - See mouths that gape and eyes that stare, - And redden in the dusky glare? - - "Yet still before him, as he flies, - One pallid form shall ever rise, - And bodying forth in glassy eyes. - - "The vision of a vanished good, - Low peering through the tangled wood, - Shall freeze the current of his blood." - - Till, like a silent water-mill, - When summer suns have dried the rill, - She reached a full stop, and was still. - - To muse a little space did seem, - Then like the echo of a dream, - Harped back upon her threadbare theme. - - Still an attentive ear he bent, - But could not fathom what she meant: - She was not deep, nor eloquent. - - * * * * * - -But, in truth, Tennyson has never failed so signally as when he has -attempted to be metaphysical, and although his admirers have written many -essays to explain the profundity of his ideas, and the beauties of his -philosophy, their explanations seem to require some explaining, whilst it -also seems that general readers fail to discern the charm in his would-be -philosophical writings. - -The _Higher Pantheism_ may be taken as an instance. It commences thus:-- - - The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains-- - Are not these, O Soul, the vision of Him who reigns? - - Is not the vision He? tho' He be not that which he seems? - Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? - - Dark is the world to thee; thyself art the reason why; - For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I!" - -There are several other couplets which do not tend to unravel the poet's -tangled web of thought, whereas if we turn to _The Heptalogia_ (Chatto -and Windus, 1880), we find the whole mystery treated with much greater -lucidity of expression in _The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell_. - - ONE, who is not, we see; but one, whom we see not, is: - Surely this is not that; but that is assuredly this. - - What, and wherefore, and whence? for under is over and under: - If thunder could be without lightning, lightning could be without - thunder. - - Doubt is faith in the main; but faith on the whole is doubt: - We cannot believe by proof; but could we believe without? - - Why, and whither, and how? for barley and rye are not clover: - Neither are straight lines curves; yet over is under and over. - - * * * * * - - God, whom we see not, is; and God who is not, we see; - Fiddle, we know, is diddle: and diddle we take it is dee. - -The clever little work, from which the above is an extract, was published -anonymously, but has been ascribed by the _Athenæum_, and other -authorities, to a no less distinguished poet than Mr. A. C. Swinburne. Its -full title is-- - - -SPECIMENS OF MODERN POETS. - -THE HEPTALOGIA; OR, THE SEVEN AGAINST SENSE. A CAP WITH SEVEN BELLS. - - I. The Higher Pantheism in a Nutshell. - II. John Jones. - III. The Poet and the Woodlouse. - IV. The Person of the House (Idyl CCCLXVI.) - V. Last Words of a Seventh-rate Poet. - VI. Sonnet for a Picture. - VII. Nephelidia. - -All these poems display wonderful power and choice of language, with a -perfect mastery of the most difficult forms of metre, such as only a -practised poet could achieve. - - * * * * * - -_The Nineteenth Century_ for May, 1880, contained another of the -Laureate's vague rhapsodical poems, entitled _De Profundis_, of which -all the meaning was as well expressed in the following parody as in the -original:-- - - "Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep, - From that great deep before our world begins; - Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep, - From that true world within the world we see, - Whereof our world is but the bounding shore. - Awfully deep, my boy, awfully deep, - With this ninth moon that sends the hidden sun - Down yon dark sea, thou comest, darling boy." - -_The Princess Ida; or, Castle Adamant_, by Mr. W. S. Gilbert, which was -produced at the Savoy Theatre, on January 5th, 1884, though a humorous -adaptation of Tennyson's _Princess_, is not strictly a burlesque, and is -styled by the author "A Respectful Operatic Per-version" of the Laureate's -poem. It is altered from an earlier piece by Mr. Gilbert on the same -theme. Almost the only passage which can be considered an actual parody -of Tennyson's diction is the speech of the Princess Ida to the Neophytes, -which is modelled on the Lady Psyche's harangue in the original poem:-- - - "Women of Adamant, fair Neophytes-- - Who thirst for such instruction as we give, - Attend, while I unfold a parable. - The elephant is mightier than Man, - Yet Man subdues him. Why? The elephant - Is elephantine everywhere but here (_tapping her forehead_). - And Man, whose brain is to the elephant's, - As Woman's brain to man's--(that's rule of three) - Conquers the foolish giant of the woods, - As woman, in her turn, shall conquer Man! - In mathematics, woman leads the way-- - The narrow-minded pedant still believes - That two and two make four! Why we can prove, - We women-household drudges as we are-- - That two and two make five--or three--or seven; - Or five-and-twenty, if the case demands! - Diplomacy! The wiliest diplomate - Is absolutely helpless in our hands, - _He_ wheedles monarchs--woman wheedles him! - Logic? Why, tyrant Man himself admits - It's waste of time to argue with a woman! - Then we excel in social qualities: - Though Man professes that he holds our sex - In utter scorn, I venture to believe - He'd rather spend the day with one of you - Than with five hundred of his fellow-men! - In all things we excel! Believing this, - A hundred maidens here have sworn to place - Their feet upon his neck. If we succeed, - We'll treat him better than he treated us: - But if we fail, why then let hope fail too! - Let no one care a penny how she looks-- - Let red be worn with yellow--blue with green-- - Crimson with scarlet--violet with blue! - Let all your things misfit, and you yourselves, - At inconvenient moments come undone! - Let hair-pins lose their virtue; let the hook - Disdain the fascination of the eye-- - The bashful button modestly evade - The soft embraces of the button-hole! - Let old associations all dissolve, - Let Swan secede from Edgar--Gask from Gask-- - Sewell from Cross--Lewis from Allenby! - In other words, let Chaos come again! - -A large number of miscellaneous parodies remain to be noticed, a few of -the best will be given in full; of the remainder it will be sufficient to -indicate the works in which they occur, as they are readily accessible. - - -THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. - -Some time ago _Funny Folks_ remarked:-- - - "The Laureate ought to add a verse to his famous lay of the Six - Hundred. It seems that whenever one of the immortal brigade dies, a - couple of recruits, at least, appear and fill his place. There are - already far more living claimants to the glory of participating in - the famous charge than ever took part in it. - - "When can their glory fade, - If from the Light Brigade - When ONE is sundered, - Two will his place supply, - Ready to multiply - Still the Six Hundred?" - -And in a somewhat similar manner parodies on this famous poem seem to -start up on every hand. One, not yet mentioned, appeared in _Figaro_, -November 29, 1876. - -Another anonymous parody of the same original, called "The Charge of the -Tight Brigade," though rather smart, is too slangy in its language to be -inserted. - -The following has been sent by Mr. James Dykes Campbell, who states that -it was current in the Oxford colleges about twenty years ago. The author's -name is not known. - - -THE CHARGE OF THE GOWNSMEN. - -_A Reminiscence of the Anti-Tobacco Lecture._ - -(The Metre has been kindly lent for the occasion by the Poet Laureate). - - To the "Star," through the "Star," - Up the "Star" staircase-- - Into the Assembly Room, - Crowded the Gownsmen. - Some one cried, "Chaff the cad!" - Forward they went like mad-- - None knew exactly why-- - All wished a lark to try-- - E'en 'neath the Proctor's eye-- - Into the Assembly Room. - On went the Gownsmen. - - 'Baccy to right of them, - 'Baccy to left of them, - 'Baccy in front of them, - Densely surrounds men! - Howled at by cad and scout, - Ordered by Proctors out, - Still they pressed onwards well, - Raising a stifling smell, - Into the "Star" Hotel, - To the Assembly Room, - Hastened the Gownsmen. - - Flashed every weed alight, - Showed every gownsman fight, - Hitting to left and right, - Checking the Proctor, and - Milling the Townsmen. - Flew Academic blows, - Smashing the civic nose, - Strong was the smoke, and thick, - Making the Lect'rer sick-- - Then from the Assembly Room, - Down the stairs, down the stairs, - Bolted the Gownsmen! - - Peelers to right of them, - Proctors to left of them, - Pro.'s on the rear of them, - Mingled with Townsmen! - Out of the "Star Hotel", - Those who had smoked so well, - Thro' the Turl--through the High - Mizzled the Gownsmen! - - Still shall the tale be told, - When Private Halls are old, - How was that Lect'rer sold - By the fierce Gownsmen! - - * * * * * - -I am indebted to the courtesy of an unknown correspondent for the -following parody, which was recited by Major Wilson after a banquet -given in honor of the Anniversary of the Birth of Robert Burns, at the -Caledonian Club, Leadville, Colorado:-- - - -"THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BALLET." - - Half a leg, half a leg, - Half a leg onward, - All before the foot-lights - Danced the one hundred. - Crash went the German band. - Supes strew'd the stage with sand; - All before the foot-lights - Danced the one hundred. - - "Forward, the light ballet!" - Was there a coryphée - Who couldn't help feeling - Some one had blundered? - Turned on the calcium light, - Glittered each spangled tight, - Kicked they with main and might; - All before the foot-lights - Danced the one hundred. - - Bald heads to right of them, - Bald heads to left of them, - Bald heads in front of them - Shouted and thundered; - Cynosures of every eye, - Boldly they kicked and high, - Regardless of life and limb, - Into the very sky - Kicked the one hundred, - - Flashed all their fleshings bare, - Flashed as they turned in air, - Crazing the bald heads there, - In orchestra chair, while - All the house wondered. - On light, fantastic toe, - Pirouette and _pas de Seaux_, - Premier and coryphée - Reeled from the vertigo, - Shattered and sundered, - And then they danced back, - But not--not the one hundred. - - Bald heads to right of them, - Bald heads to left of them, - Bald heads in front of them - Shouted and thundered; - Bravoed the _dilettante_, - While each old Bonfanti, - With split raiment and scanty, - Danced back from the jaws of death, - Back from the--(see Dante), - All that was left of them, - Left of one hundred. - - When can their glory fade? - Oh, the high kicks they made! - All the house wondered. - Fling up your big bouquet, - Bald-headed Y. M. C. A.! - Honour the light ballet, - Noble one hundred! - -From _The Carbonate Chronicle_, Leadville, Colorado, January 27, 1883. - - * * * * * - - -TRAGIC EPISODE IN AN OMNIBUS. - -(Charged to the Poet Laureate.) - - _Night Scene--Last City 'bus, chock full of people. Enter--Very - stout old gentleman._ - -(Related by an eye witness.) - -I. - - Half a yard, half a yard, - Half a yard onward, - All through that narrow way, - Gasping and out of breath, yet never ponder'd! - "Right, Bill," the 'bus cad said, - "'Bout time we were in bed." - All through that narrow way - Still he strode onward. - -II. - - Though light began to fade, - Was there a man dismayed? - Not tho' each row well knew - _Some one_ had blunder'd; - Theirs not to make reply, - Theirs not to reason why, - Theirs to sit tight and try - To look stouter, broad, and high, - As _he_ came onward. - -III. - - Sneerers to right of him, - Frowners to left of him, - Scowlers in front of him, - Curses a hundred. - Words that no man could spell, - Boldly strove he and well, - All through that narrow way, - Tumbling about pell-mell, - Still on he wander'd. - -IV. - - To threats he gave no care, - Worrying the poor man there, - As standing he eyed them, while - The 'bus rolled and thundered. - Wrap't in his dark, brown cloak, - Right through that line he broke, - 'Twas then that boot and shoe - Thought it a feeble joke-- - Corns nearly sundered! - For he turned back again, - Seeing he'd blunder'd. - -V. - - Sneerers to right of him, - Frowners to left of him, - Scowlers behind him, - Curses a hundred. - Words that no man could spell, - How he got out no one can tell; - Back through that narrow way, - Back from that beastly sell, - Moaning the toil and time, - Unwittingly squandered. - -VI. - - Can his bumps be repaid? - Won't he be ever afraid - Of 'busses? I wondered! - Honour the try he made, - Honour the stones he weighed, - As he limped homeward. - -From "Cribbings from the Poets" (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883.) - - * * * * * - -On page 38 a parody entitled _The Doctor's Heavy Brigade_ was inserted, -with a note that the author's name was not known. I have been pleased to -receive the information that these clever verses were written by a Scotch -poet whose name I am not at liberty to mention, and appeared in _The -Scotsman_ about ten years ago. - -The following _apropos_ composition, which has never before been printed, -is from the same pen. - -Tennyson's original poem commences-- - - "You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, - Within this region I subsist, - Whose spirits falter in the mist, - And languish for the purple seas?" - -And concludes-- - - "Yet waft me from the harbour-mouth, - Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, - And I will see before I die - The Palms and Temples of the South." - - * * * * * - - -THE LAUREATE IN PARLIAMENT. - - You ask me why, though ill at ease, - I sit among those Vere de Veres, - I used to curse in former years, - Pooh-poohing all their pedigrees. - - My answer's plain as it is true, - Although of just and old renown, - My fame is flattening slowly down, - And yieldeth not its wonted due. - - This state of things I can't afford. - My dramas and my later lays - Have brought me neither pence nor praise. - And, after all, a lord's a lord - - And so I joined the upper set, - I know the seasons, when to take - Macmillan by the hand, and make - My poems fly far wider yet. - - I speak not of my works to you - Who have them--they shall further go, - The many-headed beast shall know, - That he must learn to read them too. - - Yet blame me not for pride or pelf, - I've royal blood, the heralds say, - Insisting on it, yea or nay. - (I never heard of it myself). - - And, furthermore, you ought to know - 'Twas not my doing, I was sent-- - The Premier ordered me, I went; - What man can stay when he says "Go?" - - I'd vote for some august decree - Strong as the fabled towers of Ilium, - Broad-based upon the people's William! - Do anything, he asked of me! - - Well, yes, the House _is_ dull, but still - A useful haunt, where sitting down, - (Extremely handy when in town) - A man may eat the thing he will. - - I only said, the House was dreary! - Wit cometh not, with help to keep - One's eyes awake; but I can sleep - Like others there that grow aweary! - - I hold it true whate'er befall. - That, though in bed more quiet kept, - 'Tis better to have sat and slept - Than never to have slept at all. - - But yet should faction gather head, - Till by degrees to fullness wrought, - Men speak much louder than they ought; - I'll take the train, and go to bed. - - Yes, waft me from the brainless mouth, - Wild wind! I seek a calmer sky, - And I will reach before I die - My old home island in the South! - - * * * * * - - -A DREAM OF QUEER WOMEN. - -(_With Apologies to the Poet Laureate._) - - I READ, before mine eyelids dropt their shade, - The last romance from MUDIE'S lately writ - By one who is considered--in the trade-- - The flower of female wit. - - Miss BLANK, the famous writer, whose wild way - Of fiction-weaving was the first to fill - The startled times of good VICTORIA - With ghosts which haunt them still. - - And for awhile I tumbled on my bed, - Her Art from slumber held me, as strong gales - Hold driven birds from lighting, and my head, - Chock-full of her strange tales. - - * * * * * - - Sudden I heard a voice that cried, "Come here! - I want to look at you." - - I, turning, saw, curled in an easy chair, - One sitting well wrapped up, as if from cold, - Her cheeks were peachy, and her fluffy hair - Was of the tawny gold. - - She, flashing forth a Circe smile, began: - "I murdered men for fun--it was my trade; - But, oh, 'tis long since I have slain a man. - Once, panther-like I played - - "With many husbands, and then shed their blood, - But life in this dim place is vastly slow; - I have no men to murder in my mood-- - That makes my only woe! - - "The men, my lovers, how they bowed their necks - 'Neath the neat boots wherewith my feet were shod! - I witched them, and the sturdiest of the sex - Were vassals to my nod. - - "At last the sly detective tracked me down; - I tried to coax _him_, but the brute was cold. - They found the last poor fool I tried to drown, - And for the rest--behold!" - - With that she tore her robe apart, and half - The polished ivory of her shoulders grand - Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a laugh, - Showing the convict's brand. - - * * * * * - - From _Punch_, October 12, 1878. - - * * * * * - - -A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN AND OTHERS. - - I read, before such things had lost their spice, - _Les Jolies Femmes de Paris_--a sweet work, - Devoted to the furtherance of vice-- - A sort of Devil's _Burke_. - - A scroll of fame and frailty that includes - All Hamadryads that have ever shone, - And nymphs who sell the Satyrs, in the woods - Of Boulogne and St. John. - - And for awhile the study of those plates, - Wherein the sylvan beauties were portrayed, - Lifted my soul across the Dover straits, - Without a Boyton's aid. - - * * * * * - - Then swiftly rose another Voice, and burst: - "Aye, let them troll your ditties and applaud;-- - 'Twas I, Madame, preceded you, I first - Called poetry a fraud. - - "I was Thérésa, and I saw what 'took,' - Dropped art, dropped passion; knew you'd had enough; - The amorous _Sapeur_ cozening a cook - Was all my lay of love. - - "And court and street took up the strains in glee; - I sang to Cæsar, sang to prince and priest, - And in the palace of the Medici - Roared _Le Petit Ebeniste_." - - Then clashed the cymbals, and the bugles blew, - Vague scents swarmed o'er the visionary stage; - A soft sweet shape arose. We looked and knew - The Darling of the age. - - She spoke no word, she had no need to speak; - Who could withstand the sorceress--who compete? - We knew that matchless smile, and that unique - Allurement of the feet; - - The way so womanly, and yet so bold; - Her eyes so frank, her gestures so profane; - Her step so light--Ah! no need to be told-- - _Voici La Belle Helene_. - - Evohe, la belle Hélène, fair and fat, - And forty, though they say you are, Time's touch - Lies soft upon your plumpness--and of that, - Say, _can_ one have too much? - - Oh no, my liege, my gracious Grande Duchesse, - However variously our ways incline, - You find us all before your sweet address, - Natives of Gérolstein. - - * * * * * - -This poem proceeds to describe, at considerable length, the leading -actresses then appearing in the Paris theatres and music halls. - - From _Edward VII._, 1876. - - * * * * * - -Another parody of the same poem appeared in _The World_, July 23, 1879, -from which a few verses are quoted:-- - - -A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN. - - "DREAMING, methought I heard the Laureate's song - Of fairest women linked with deeds of shame, - Whose burning loves of insult and of wrong - Were anguish-paths to fame. - - "And for a while their sad looks haunt my dream; - Then the night-visions slowly fade away, - And fairer faces in the warm light gleam-- - The beauties of to-day. - - * * * * * - - "And around one, supreme in perfect grace, - Princes bow down, and nobles gather nigh; - And crowds afar off gaze upon her face, - Contented there to sigh. - - * * * * * - - "Then o'er my dream a daintier figure came, - Whose voice was music, and her gesture grace - The fire of genius frets her tender frame, - And lights her girlish face. - - "In foreign tones she murmurs, 'O, the bliss - Of art that triumphs on a perfect stage; - The thunders of applause, and e'en the hiss - That tells of Envy's rage!'" - - * * * * * - -A parody on the same original, entitled _A Dream of Great Players_ -(in reference to Lawn Tennis) appeared, on the 13th February, 1884, -in _Pastime_, an ably conducted journal, devoted to out-door games -and recreations. Unlike most of the sporting papers, _Pastime_ has a -distinctly literary tone, and publishes, from time to time, clever -parodies of our modern poets. Two have appeared on Tennyson's blank verse, -the first (June 29, 1883), entitled _A Fragment of the Lost Tennisiad;_ -the second, which was much longer, appeared in the number for July 27, -1883, and commenced thus:-- - - -THE LAY OF THE SEVENTH TOURNAMENT. - - All the long week Lawn-tennis balls had rolled - On the green sward beside the echoing line, - Until the last and stateliest of the crowd - Of players there competing, Donald Stewart, - Had fallen at Wimbledon before his foe, - Ernest: the last, because his skill was great, - They hailed the winner of the All-comers' prize. - And graced with large reward and honour meet. - One struggle yet remained,--Ernest with William, - Renshaw with Renshaw, must at last contend, - Equal alike in name and age,--well matched - In strength and skill,--there lightly-clad they stood, - Brother confronting brother,--and the net - Betwixt them. High above them blazed - The goblet, carved with curious imagery, - Unknown save to the initiate, but to these - Pregnant with meaning, mystic, magical, - Prize of the great Lawn-tennis championship, - Which in its deep capacious womb concealed - A thirsty man's allowance long withheld: - This twice had William gained in equal fight, - Winner of two successive tournaments; - And, could he claim the prize but once again, - 'Twere his for ever. - - Therefore hither came - From Wimbledon and Putney, and the lands - Which lie across the silver stream of Thames, - From far Tyburnia and Belgravian halls, - The strength and manhood of our lusty youth, - The grace and beauty of our matchless maids, - Clothed in rich raiment flashing on the sward - In hues that mocked the butterfly, and made - The rainbow colourless--satin and silk, - Cambric, and lawn, and muslin virginal: - Haply, there also whatsoe'er of strange - Elise, or Worth, or Harberton devise, - The wizards of adornment,--mystic shapes - Dual or indivisible,--the awed bard - Shrinks into silence. - - * * * * * - - -THE BACHELOR'S RETURN. - -_A Vere de Vere-isimilitude._ - - MRS. BIGGS, of Brunswick Square, - On me you shall no more impose. - You said I wanted change of air; - My books, my desk, you bade me close; - - You raved about my "precious 'elth." - Has conscience, Mrs. B., no twinges? - You wouldn't lose me for the wealth, - You told me "not of all the Injies." - - Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, - Though I had work upon my hands, - I grew alarmed: oppressed with care, - I sought repose on Ramsgate sands. - Returned at last, I chanced to cast - A glance into my chiffonier. - Oh, Mrs. B., your dodge I see!-- - While I've been gone you've drunk my beer! - - Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, - You put strange memories in my head,-- - That currant jam!--I'd almost swear - I'd half-a-dozen pots of red. - Oh, your sweet child! On him I smiled - Benignly; but it seemed to me - That he had smears across his face - Which I was hardly pleased to see. - - Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, - You've used up all my choice Pekoe; - My sherry's gone; and where, oh where - Is that half-flask of curaçoa? - Of brandy, too, I'm quite bereft: - The bottle's dry, and--oh, my stars! - This ends what patience I had left-- - You've smoked up all my best cigars! - - Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick Square, - Some meeker lodger you must find; - Though good apartments may be rare, - To quit you I've made up my mind. - You held your course without remorse, - To make me trust you with my keys, - But when on you my back was turned, - You needs must play such pranks as these. - - Mrs. Biggs, of Brunswick square, - If rooms be vacant on your hands, - If footsteps sound not on your stair, - And tenantless your mansion stands, - Go, teach that orphan girl you call - Eliza,--she who cleans the boots,-- - The awful fate which waits for all - Who steal their lodgers' best cheroots. - - A. P. SINNETT. - - From _Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1871. - - * * * * * - -A parody of the May Queen, entitled _The Premier's Lament_, appeared in -_The Evening News_, of February 18, 1884, ridiculing Mr. Gladstone for his -policy in Egypt, and foretelling defeat as probable in the then pending -vote of censure. The parody had no literary merit. - - * * * * * - - -TIT FOR TAT. - - WE were two children in one house, - She was as meek as the mildest mouse, - The time had come for a midnight spree! - When we were over our jokes and wine, - She scattered horse-hair chopped up fine. - O! the girl was fair to see! - - She laughed well-pleased with what she'd done, - She played the dreadful trick for fun. - The time had come for a midnight spree! - I lay awake! and struck a match, - For didn't the horrible horse-hair scratch. - O! the girl was fair to see! - - I made a vow! I laid a snare! - And crept quite softly up the stair, - The hour had come for a midnight spree! - And after dinner from her bed - I stole the pillow for her head. - O! the girl was fair to see! - - I took the dredger full of flour, - The pillow powdered for an hour; - The time had come for a midnight spree! - I hated her for her cruel sell, - She loved her tresses passing well. - O! the girl was fair to see! - - She slept serenely all that night, - But woke up in a dreadful fright; - The time had come for a midnight spree! - When half awake she neared the glass, - She uttered naughty words, alas! - O! the girl was fair to see! - - She brush'd and comb'd her floury head, - "I'll never get it out," she said, - The time had come for a midnight spree! - My deep revenge she'll not forget - I think she may be brushing yet! - O! the girl was fair to see! - - From _Fun_, February 1, 1868. - -The same journal also contained, December 16th, 1872, _Papa's Theory_ -(after A. Tenny..n); and, May 7, 1876, _Home They Brought the Gallant -Red_--(croquet.) - - * * * * * - -George Cruikshank's _Omnibus_, published in 1842, contains on page 260 -some pertinent remarks on Parody. "It is essential, says E. P. W., to -the full effect of a parody, that the original should be familiar to the -reader. Now, several parodies we have received possess that advantage, -thus we have half-a-dozen parodies on "Gray's Elegy," suggested by the -conflagration at the Tower, and a like number of variations of the -"Beggar's Petition;" but although these originals are well known, we pass -their parodies by in favour of one upon Tennyson's 'Mariana at the Moated -Grange,' entitled"-- - - -THE CLERK. - - With black coal-dust the walls and floor - Were thickly coated, one and all; - On rusty hinges swung the door - That open'd to the gloomy wall; - The broken chairs looked dull and dark, - Undusted was the mantel-piece, - And deeply-speck'd with spots of grease - Within the chamber of the clerk. - He only said "I'm very weary - With living in this ditch;" - He said, "I am confounded dreary, - I would that I were rich." - - * * * * * - - About six fathoms from the wall, - A blackened chimney (much askew) - Smoked in his face--and round and small - The chimney-pots destroyed his view, - Hard by--a popular highway, - With coal-dust turned to pitchy dark, - Where many a little dog doth bark-- - Some black, some mottled, many grey. - He said, "My life is very dreary, - With living in this ditch;" - He said, "I am fatigued and weary, - I would that I were rich." - -The two other verses of this parody have no great merit, and, indeed, the -above are only quoted to show that more than forty years ago there was an -outcry about the wretched habitations of our London poor. - - * * * * * - - -THE BUGLE SONG. - -[At the commencement of the Wagnerian performances at Bayreuth, the chief -_motivo_ in the opera was given out by several bugles, after which the -curtain rose.] - - The bugle calls in Bayreuth's halls - Some notes of Wagner's mythic story; - The tenor shakes, the heroine quakes, - And the wild Teuton leaps in glory. - Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying, - Echoes of Melody, ye answer, "Dying, dying." - - O hark! O hear! how thin and clear, - With no perspiring players showing; - O sweet and far from bar to bar - The horns and trumpets faintly blowing. - Blow--let us hear composers' ghosts replying; - Blow, Wagner, blow, while Melody is dying. - - "Sweet tunes," they cry, "you shall not die, - Nor fade from hill, and field, and river, - But sweetly roll from soul to soul, - And gladden music lovers ever." - Blow, bugles, blow, set the wild echoes flying, - But Melody still answers--"Never dying." - - From _Funny Folks_. - - * * * * * - - -SONG OF THE IRWELL. - - I flow by tainted noisome spots, - A dark and deadly river; - Foul gases my forget-me-nots, - Which haunt the air for ever. - I grow, I glide, I slip, I slide, - I mock your poor endeavour; - For men may write, and men may talk, - But I reek on for ever. - - I reek with all my might and main, - Of plague and death the brewer; - With here and there a nasty drain, - And here and there a sewer. - By fetid bank, impure and rank, - I swirl a loathsome river; - For men may write, and men may talk, - But I'll reek on for ever. - - I grew, I glode, I slipped, I slode, - My pride I left behind me; - I left it in my pure abode-- - Now take me as you find me. - For black as ink, from many a sink, - I roll a poisonous river; - And men may write, and men may talk, - But I'll reek on for ever. - - And thus my vengeance, still I seek - Foul drain, and not a river; - My breath is strong, though I am weak, - Death floats on me for ever. - You still may fight, or may unite - To use your joint endeavour; - But I'll be "boss," in spite of Cross, - And poison you for ever. - - _The City Lantern_, Manchester, 1874. - - * * * * * - - -THE BAGGAGE MAN. - - WITH many a curve the trunks I pitch, - With many a shout and sally; - At station, siding, crossing, switch, - On mountain-grade or valley. - I heave, I push, I sling, I toss, - With vigorous endeavour, - And men may smile and men grow cross, - But I sling my trunks forever! - Ever! ever! - I bust the trunks for ever. - - The paper trunk from country town - I balances and dandles; - I turn it once or twice around, - And pull out both the handles, - And grumble over travelling-bags - And monstrous sample-cases; - But I can smash the maker's brags - Like plaster-Paris vases, - They holler, holler, as I go; - But they can stop me never, - For they will learn just what I know-- - A trunk won't last forever; - Ever! never! - - I tug, I jerk, I swear, I sweat, - I toss the light valises; - And what's too big to throw, you bet, - I'll fire it round in pieces. - They murmur, murmur everywhere; - But I will heed them never, - For women weep and strong men swear, - I'll sling their trunks forever! - Ever! ever! - I'll bust the trunk forever! - - From the United States _Independent_, September, 1881. - -After the defeat of Colonel Burnaby, and the Hon, A. C. Calthorpe, at the -last Birmingham election, the following parody appeared in _The Gridiron_, -a local satirical paper. - -The dashing Colonel's testimony in favour of Cockle's pills was the cause -of many jokes at his expense in the election squibs. Messrs. Stone and -Lowe were prominent members of the Birmingham Conservative party. - - "Home they brought the news with dread! - He nor swore nor uttered cry: - His committee watching said, - He must weep, or he will die. - - "Then they praised him, Stone and Lowe, - And called him worthy to be loved, - Jingo's friend and Gladstone's foe, - Yet he neither swore nor moved. - - "Rose up Calthorpe from his place, - Lightly to the warrior crept, - Made a speech all full of grace, - But he neither swore nor wept. - - "Rose a man of ninety years, - Placed a pill-box on his knee, - Like summer tempest came his tears, - "Cockle mine, thou'st done for me!" - - * * * * * - - -HARD TIMES. - -(A Parody of _The Grandmother._) - - AND so your prosperous days have passed away from you, John; - And empty have grown your pockets, and all your customers gone; - And the Government still keep talking--they never were over-wise; - Never fit to rule you, John--but you wouldn't take my advice. - - For, John, do you see, the Tories were never the men to save; - It doesn't look well to be mean while Britannia rules the wave: - Swagger enough--lots of swagger--but it all costs money, you know. - And so your grandfather found, John, some seventy years ago! - - For I remember the troubles that vexed your grandfather, John, - Stripped every rag off his back, to the very shirt he had on; - It was all for England, and glory--but that cost money, you know-- - Seventy years ago, John, seventy years ago. - - And now you say it's the same, what with Afghanistan and Zulu, - And that darned American weather come over to bother you too; - 'There won't be very much left me, if this sort of thing goes on; - And this is a time of peace--of peace with honour!' says John. - - 'And all trade seems half dead, and the farmers can't pay their rent, - While the landlords are only too happy to give them back twenty per - cent. - Farmers!--and pay no rent? Well, the rent perhaps could be borne, - But giving back twenty per cent. won't make up for American corn. - - To be sure, Lord Beaconsfield says that we're an Imperial race, - And an unscientific frontier is really a sort of disgrace; - And Stafford and Holker--I hear them too--their voices are sweet, - But they can't very well expect _me_ to get fat on American meat. - - And to tell you the good plain truth, I never can quite understand - What it is Lord Beaconsfield means, or what he's got in his hand; - He conjures eggs out of his hat, he keeps fireworks under his bed, - I really am not always certain he's not going to stand on his head. - - And the Liberals make it their text as they go to the hustings, no - doubt! - Even those who do nothing in office understand what to promise when - out; - There wouldn't be waste any more--not enough to make meat for a mouse-- - If Gladstone was at the Exchequer, and Hartington leading the House. - - Pattering upon the platform--they'll all be pattering soon, - When Beaconsfield makes up his mind to dissolve them some fine - afternoon, - I seem to be sick of it all--I know every word they'll say, - And perhaps it will come even sooner, for some are beginning to-day. - - So this is a time of peace--of peace with honour, you know; - And empty have grown my pockets--they never used to be so; - At least, not often, I think. I never was one to boast, - But I seem to be sick of it all--and of empty pockets the most.' - - Prize parody from _The World_, November 19, 1879. - - * * * * * - -The second prize parody on the same topic commenced thus:-- - - BREAD has gone up again. Was that what you said to me, - child? - Bread and coals gone up, and the weather wet and wild; - Bread gone up again, and cold and hunger severe; - An' me not knowing which way to turn, an' you but a child, - my dear. - - Don't look at me that way, Mary, with eyes that plead for - bread-- - O Lord, I could bear it well enough, if it only fell on my - head! - But the child so weak and sickly, and me but an old man now, - Asking no better, though, Lord knows, than to work in the sweat of - my brow. - - But work is not to be had, though I seek it from morning till night: - Not to be had by me; there are men who are younger, a sight; - Younger and stronger, too, who take what is to he had; - And bread has gone up and cold is sharp, and times is very bad. - - * * * * * - -At page 127 of _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton (Wyman and Sons, 1880) -will be found another long parody of the same original. - - * * * * * - - -THE SPITEFUL LETTER. - - Of course, it is here, all snarl and sneer, - A letter from my Tutor. - He said it was wrong, not to read in the "Long," - For he was far acuter. - - O little don, in the days bygone, - Did you never prefer the pages - Of those gay books--a woman's looks-- - To the lore of Eastern sages? - - Were there not times when College Rhymes - Relieved your mind dejected? - And were they not a sorry lot - Of things you had rejected? - - The time is brief from the fresh green leaf - Of the callow moderator; - From the greener leaf to the yellow leaf, - The age of perambulator. - - Silly, am I? Is that your cry? - And, I shall live to see it? - Exactly so; but yours said "No," - And mine said "Yes, so be it." - - And he would know who 'twas that so - Had filled my thoughts with folly, - And, oh! the name was the very same, - The name of our love was Molly. - - From _The Shotover Papers_, Oxford 1874. - - * * * * * - -In _Fun_ of February 1, 1868, it was asked, "Who sent _The Spiteful -Letter_ to Alfred Tennyson?" - - "If anybody _did_--and nobody doubts that it really was - somebody--everybody ought to know about it. _Fun_ has, therefore, - addressed a circular to everybody who is anybody in the round of - rhyme, putting the direct question--'Was it you, you, or you?' - Down to the latest moment answers had been received from George - Macdonald, the Poet Close, Algernon Swinburne, and Walt Whitman." - -As the two last-named parodies are the best they are quoted, although it -will be seen that they give not the slightest explanation of the origin of -_The Spiteful Letter:_-- - -FROM A.....N S......E. - - Sick of the perfume of praise, and faint with the fervid caresses, - Flushing his face with a flame that is fair, like the blood on a dove; - Weary of pangs that have pleased him, the poet refrains and confesses-- - Shrinks from the rapture of death, and the lips and the languors of - love; - The rootless rose of delight, and the love that lasts only to blossom, - Blossom and die without fruit, as the kisses that feed and not fill; - Famishing pleasure, dry-lipped, with the sting and the stain on her - bosom, - And all of a sin that is good, and all of a good that is ill! - -(This explicit language of Mr. S......E'S will, we are sure, be -satisfactory to all our readers. No explanation could make his reply -clearer and more readily intelligible.--ED. _Fun_.) - - * * * * * - - -FROM W..T W..TM..N. - -(_An American, one of the roughs, a kosmos._) - - Nature, continuous ME! - Saltness, and vigorous, never-torpid yeast of ME! - Florid, unceasing, for ever expansive; - Not schooled, not dizened, not washed and powdered; - Strait-laced not at all; far otherwise than polite; - Not modest, nor immodest; - Divinely tanned and freckled; gloriously unkempt; - Ultimate yet unceasing; capricious though determined; - Speak as thou listest, and tell the askers that which they seek to - know. - Thy speech to them will be not quite intelligible. - Never mind! utter thy wild common-places; - Yawp them loudly, shrilly; - Silence with shrill noise the lisps of the foo-foos. - Answer in precise terms of barbaric vagueness, - The question that the _Fun_ editor hath sparked through Atlantic cable - To W..T W..TM..N, the speaker of the password primeval; - The signaller of the signal of democracy; - The seer and hearer of things in general; - The poet translucent; fleshy, disorderly, sensually inclined; - Each tag and part of whom is a miracle----. - -(_Thirteen pages of MS. relating to_ MR. W..T W..TM.N _are here omitted_). - - Rhapsodically state the fact that is and is not; - That is not, being past; that is, being eternal; - If indeed it ever was, which is exactly the point in question. - -⁂ The fact, rhapsodically stated, occupies twenty-six more pages of -MS., but is left in as much doubt at the end as it was in at the -beginning.--Ed. _Fun_. - - -SONG OF THE UNSUCCESSFUL STOCK EXCHANGE SPECULATOR - -(_Apropos of certain recent failures_). - - Break, break, break! - It's a serious thing to see, - And I wish I could manage to utter - The cheques that are forged by me! - - Oh well for the bill-broking cad - That is able to toddle away! - Oh well for the discounting lad - That goes to no Botany Bay! - - The detective police go on, - To find him whose name's on the bill-- - And it's oh for a whiff of Havannah brand, - And a glass of the wine that is still! - - Break, break, break! - It's little of me you will see; - For the tender touch of detective's hand - May some day be felt by me. - - From _Faust and 'Phisto_, 1876. - - * * * * * - -_Tithonus_ was the subject of two long prize parodies, concerning Lord -Beaconsfield, which appeared in _The World_, July 30, 1879. - -The opening stanzas of the first parody are now of almost historical -interest:-- - - AH me! the times decay, and rent-rolls fall, - The farmers weep the burden of moist ground, - The men that back the field are out of luck. - For during such a summer where's the coin? - For me a wreath, prize of verbosity - Was made: it withers still in Tracy's hands. - For what to me this quiet Western world, - While shadows flit before me, like a dream - Of princely visits to the far-off East, - And costly gifts, and Empire's badges worn? - Alas for these gray tresses, once so black, - When, glorious in my youth, I was thy choice, - Britannia, and I seemed no vulgar clod - To thee, who taught'st me my verbosity. - Then, though the dull roughs met where'er they would, - Beat the Park palings down, and marred the flowers, - They could not end my rule; but left me still - To sit 'neath shade of thy Imperial shield-- - Imperial locks beside Imperial shield-- - Though all things else were ashes. Thy rich gift, - The Garter, made amends; but, Tracy, go; - I pray thee go; take back thy vulgar gift: - Why should the honest working man desire - To vary from the spendthrift race of men, - And part with hard-earned quarts of "fourpenny," - Which good Sir Wilfrid calls the curse of all? - - * * * * * - -In the _The Shotover Papers_, page 181, will be found, _Tithonus in -Oxford_. - - "The men come up, the men come up, go down. - The mighty Proctor prowls along the streets. - Dons come and plough the men, and let them through, - The unattached at length becomes B.A. - The only envious moderators - Will never pass. I linger through the terms - Here in the quiet Tavern's classic shades, - A bearded undergraduate, well nigh bald, - Roaming along the High, the Broad, the Corn, - Amidst new men, strange faces, other minds." - - * * * * * - - -THE LAWYER'S SOLILOQUY. - - "I hold it clear, as one who sings - The party song in divers tones, - That men may rise on stepping stones - Of brazen speech to higher things." - -This is the first of sixteen verses contained in the _St. James's -Gazette_, of June 18, 1881. - - * * * * * - - -A TENNYSONIAN LYRIC. - - I hold this truth with one who sings - That when a donkey will not go, - The kick, the curse, the brutal blow - Should be exchanged for milder things. - - But who that sees the donkey's ears - Droop downward, and his hind legs rise, - While from the creature's back he flies, - Can spare the lissom switch he bears? - - Or who can smile when crowds condemn, - And ragamuffin imps deride, - Advising him to "get inside" - That product of Jerusalem? - - Had I the brute that would not stir, - Despite "Gee-woa!" or "Kim-up, Ned!" - I should, methinks, use arts instead - Of supplemented provender. - - From _Funny Folks_. - - * * * * * - -_Funny Folks_ for January 23, 1875, contained a parody, in ten verses, on -_The Voyage;_ the first and last verse only are given, as the rest are of -little interest:-- - - -THE EXCURSION TRAIN. - - We left behind the painted buoy - That tosses at the harbour mouth; - And madly danced our hearts with joy - As fast we floated to the South. - - -THE VOYAGE. - - "We left behind the painted boy - Who tumbles at the gutter's mouth, - And madly leaped our hearts for joy - In taking tickets for the south; - To get away from smell and sound, - And crowded street and city roar, - Two used-up clerks on pleasure bound, - Ere yet our holidays were o'er. - - * * * * * - - And never tongue of ours was furled, - As on we went with spirits free; - The railway was our little world, - Though not a little whirled were we. - The winds and rain might blow and cease-- - What cared we for wind or rain? - We'd paid our one pound ten apiece, - And this was our Excursion Train! - - * * * * * - -The following is an extract from a parody on _The Lotus Eaters_. It was -written by Captain Barlow, and obtained the second prize offered by the -Editor of _The World_, in which paper it appeared in September, 1879:-- - - -THE MINISTERS AT GREENWICH. - - "GREENWICH," they said, and pointed into space; - "The steaming train will bear us thither soon," - In time for dinner came they to that place, - In which it seemèd always dinner-time. - A place of diners: some with friend or fair, - Slow dropping down the stream, to feast did go; - And those by quicker train did there repair - Who deemed all other locomotion slow, - Nor cared to watch the muddy river's flow. - - The sky looked showery, as is oft the case - Now, when no two days ever seem the same; - But yet, despite of Nature's frowning face, - To dine the whitebait-eating members came. - Baskets they saw of that delightful fish - Whose flavour is seductive, and doth make - Those who have tasted say that never dish - Was so delicious, and when they partake - Of these, all other food they straight forsake. - - Then some one said, "Why further should we pace?" - And all at once they sang, "This is the place - To spend a happy day. Rest we a little space. - Refreshing is this liquor dry, - Iced well as well can be;" - - Drink is "the best of life." Then why - Abstain teetotally? - * * * * - - * * * * * - - -THE AMIABLE DUN. - -_A Fragment._ - -(After Tennyson.) - - At breakfast time he comes and stands, - He puts his paper in your hands, - He hums and haws, with "ifs" and "ands." - - His hands he laves with unseen soaps, - Thanks you for nothing, says he hopes, - Then bows, "Good morning, sir;" he slopes. - - From _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872. - -A parody of the "Lord of Burleigh" appeared in _Figaro_, January 22, 1873, -and one entitled "A Welcome to Alexandra (Palace)" in _Funny Folks_, May -18, 1875. - -The Poet Laureate has recently contributed a poem, entitled _Early -Spring_, to an American paper. It consisted of eight verses, and the fee -paid the writer was said to be 1,000 dollars. - -Taking the following as a fair example of the rest, it would seem that 125 -dollars per verse was a very liberal remuneration:-- - - Opens a door in Heaven; - From skies of glass - A Jacob's ladder falls - On greening grass, - And o'er the mountain-walls - Young angels pass. - - * * * * * - -Has the Poet no friends about him who can point out that by the -publication of such painfully weak effusions, the once great reputation -of Tennyson is being surely, if slowly, undermined; and that the rising -generation will be little encouraged, by such specimens of his genius, -to read his early works. It is well known that the Poet Laureate is -exceedingly vain of his writings, and does not hesitate to place them on -a par with those of Milton; this is a point we may leave to posterity to -decide, but it seems most improbable that even the finest works of the -laurelled, pensioned, titled bard of our days, will ever be considered -worthy of a place by the side of the glorious and imperishable poems of -the stern old puritan. - -As parodies of Tennyson's poems are constantly being produced, a -supplementary collection of them will be published separately at some -future date. - - * * * * * - - -MR. CHARLES STEWART CALVERLEY. - -The death of "C. S. C." will be heard of with regret by all who enjoy the -lighter forms of English poetry, such as are to be found to perfection -in his two little volumes, entitled "Fly Leaves" and "Verses and -Translations," published by Messrs. G. Bell and Sons. - -Mr. Calverley had an extraordinary ear for rhythm, and could imitate, at -will, the measure and metre of any poet. Taking some comically trifling -topic, he could so write it up as to reproduce not only the style, but -even the very mode of thought of his original. Thus, in his poem, "The -Cock and the Bull," he has caught far more of Robert Browning than the -mere verbal eccentricities; "Wanderers" contains the very best of all -parodies of Tennyson's "Brook" (quoted on page 30); Matthew Arnold is -well imitated in "Thoughts at a Railway Station;" whilst the "Ode to -Tobacco" reads like a continuation of Longfellow's "Skeleton in Armour." -For _refined parody_, as distinguished from mere verbal burlesque, Mr. -Calverley was unapproached, and no collection of humorous English poetry -would be complete, which did not include several of his best pieces. -His humour was ever genial and pleasant, without a tinge of malice or -ill-will, and even those whom he so deftly parodied could have taken -no offence at his clever banter. Mr. Calverley was also a considerable -scholar, as his translations testify, and he left at Oxford (where he -studied before going to Cambridge) a considerable reputation as a wit and -conversationalist. - - * * * * * - - - - -H. W. Longfellow. - - -Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born at Portland, Maine, on February 27, -1807, and died on the 24th March, 1882, having thus just completed his -75th year. After graduating at the age of eighteen at Bowdoin College, -he entered the office of his father to study the law. Soon afterwards, -however, he left America for Europe, where he travelled for three years -and a half, in order to qualify himself for a professorship of modern -language, which had been offered to him in the college where he had -received his education. A few years later he was appointed to a similar -position in Harvard College. In order to become acquainted with the -literature and language of Northern Europe he again left America and -travelled in Scandinavia, Germany, and Switzerland, entering upon his new -duties in 1836. Mr. Longfellow commenced his career as an author while yet -he was an undergraduate, and continued to write almost to the last. A mere -list of his works would occupy considerable space. They are thoroughly -well known wherever our language is spoken, and have obtained in this -country a popularity second to that of no English writer. The Universities -of Oxford and Cambridge both conferred degrees upon Mr. Longfellow, and -he was also elected a member of the Russian Academy of Science and of the -Spanish Academy. - -The following are the poems which have been most frequently selected as -the models for Parodies:--A Psalm of Life; Beware!; Evangeline; The Song -of Hiawatha; The Village Blacksmith; Excelsior; Curfew; The Bridge; and -several parts of the Saga of King Olaf. - - -A PSALM OF LIFE ASSURANCE. - - Tell me not in mournful numbers, - Life Assurance is a dream, - And that while the public slumbers, - Figures are not what they seem! - - Really, I am quite in earnest! - So would you be. Here's a goal! - Come let's have enquiry sternest. - It's too bad, upon my soul. - - Here's a set of fellows borrow - Money that they can't repay, - Then buy up, till each to-morrow - Finds them deeper than to-day. - - Thus my claim they'll fail in meeting, - Though they've taken all I gave! - They, not muffled drums, want beating - Soundly till they look quite grave. - - Talk of board rooms' tittle tattle! - Stuff! I have insured my life. - I'm not dumb, like driven cattle! - And I'll make a precious strife! - - Trust the Future? Come, that's pleasant! - Wait until I'm buried--dead? - No, I'll make a row at present. - On official toes I'll tread! - - And directors think to blind us! - Humbug us just for a time. - Till we go to leave behind us - Nothing? Why, the thing's sublime! - - Nothing! Do they think another - Will insure, like me, in vain! - No! the outcry they'll not smother, - Nor catch shipwrecked dupes again! - - Let us, then, be up and doing, - Never mind what be our fate, - Each director still pursuing, - Shouting out "Investigate!" - - From _The Tomahawk_, September 11, 1869. - - * * * * * - - -THE PSALM OF FICTION. - - Tell us not in mournful "numbers" - Life is all a ghastly dream! - Such as those we have in slumbers - When the nightmare makes us scream. - - Life is dark enough in earnest - Without bringing in the gaol, - Only readers of the sternest - Like their heroines out on bail. - - Not to swindle, or to borrow - Is the reputable way; - Not to marry, and to-morrow - Kill your bride, and run away. - - Arson's wrong, and poisoning dreary, - And our hearts, though pretty brave - Now and then get rather weary - Of the gallows, and the grave. - - In the great domestic battle, - In the matrimonial strife, - Be not like those Mormon "Cattle," - Give your hero but one wife. - - _Wives and Daughters_ should remind you - There are women without crime; - Draw them and you'll leave behind you - Fictions that may weather time. - - Fictions free from that Inspector, - Who is sent by Richard Mayne, - And finds footmarks that affect a - Solemn butler in the lane. - - Let us, then, have no more trials, - No more tampering with wills, - Leave the poisons in the phials - And the money in the tills. - - * * * * * - - -MISS M. TO MR. GREEN. - -_A Mournful Ditty._ - - Tell me not that I am pretty-- - Really don't, now, Mr. Green; - I'm the last to think it's witty - Not to name things as they seem. - - Yes; I know my hair is curly, - Blacker than the blackest sloe; - And I know that you'll be surly - With the candour I thus show. - - That my eyes with fire are glancing - I'll admit if that you say: - Yet I think that you're romancing - When you swear they're bright as day. - - Then my teeth you state are pearl, - Purer than the driven snow; - And to touch my lips you'd dare all - Dangers from an earthly foe. - - Please don't be so very minute - When my beauties you describe, - As, perhaps, your flimsy tribute - May appear to be a bribe. - - To secure my young affections - To your nasty little self, - And to banish all reflections - That you seek not me but pelf. - - Now, if you'd be bright and happy, - Try and don't be what you seem-- - A wretched, lazy, selfish chappy: - There--you have it, Mr. Green. - - _The Modern Athenian._ - - * * * * * - - -BACHELOR'S LIFE. - - "I will tell in measured numbers, - That our life is not a dream; - That the earth we don't encumber; - That we are not what we seem. - - "Man is real--we are earnest; - Eve, thy birth is not a fib; - Of man thou art, to him returnest; - We each are looking for his rib. - - "No selfishness, not pleasure, - Is our only aim below; - Or to win wealth and treasure, - The only bliss we wish to know. - - "Life is short, time is fleeting, - We should hurry, up and do - That which brings a parent's greeting, - That which settles us below. - - "Bring us aid through life to battle - Who'll gird her hero in the strife; - No longer be mere straying cattle, - Find a tender, loving wife, - - "Beware the future, howe'er pleasant - Our fondest dream of it may be; - Our freedom, liberty, past and present, - Our pleasures we may cease to see. - - "Do not married men remind us, - We, though erring, yet have time, - To amend and leave behind us - Names unsullied by the crime. - - "A crime the ladies all declare, - Being single through life's rapid run; - No victim to their wedded care, - Bent on freedom, pleasure, fun. - - "Let us then be up and doing, - With a heart for any fate; - Still in honour's track pursuing, - Find a partner, though its late." - - From _Notes and Queries_, August 31, 1872. - -The following appeared in the _Seattle Intelligencer_ (a Washington -Territory newspaper), of December 4, 1871:-- - - -THE MAIDEN'S DREAM OF LIFE. - - "Tell us not, in idle jingle, - 'Marriage is an empty dream!' - For the girl is dead that's single, - And things are not what they seem. - - "Life is real! life is earnest! - Single blessedness a fib; - Man thou art, to man returnest, - Has been spoken of the rib. - - "Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, - Is our destined end or way; - But to act that each to-morrow - Finds us nearer marriage-day. - - "Life is long, and youth is fleeting, - And our hearts are light and gay; - Still like pleasant drums are beating - Wedding marches all the day. - - "In the world's broad field of battle, - In the bivouac of life, - Be not like dumb-driven cattle! - Be a heroine--a wife! - - "Trust no future, howe'er pleasant; - Let the dead past bury its dead; - Act--act in the living present, - Hoping for a spouse ahead. - - "Lives of married folk remind us - We can live our lives as well, - And departing leave behind us - Such examples as will 'tell'; - - "Such examples that another, - Wasting time in idle sport, - A forlorn, unmarried brother, - Seeing shall take heart and court. - - "Let us, then, be up and doing, - With a heart on triumph set; - Still contriving, still pursuing, - And each one a husband get." - - * * * * * - - -ON CAMPBELL'S "_Lives of the Chancellors_." - - Lives of great men misinform us - Campbell's _Lives_ in this sublime, - Errors frightfully enormous, - _Misprints_ on the sands of time. - -The interest which is taken in this collection by many of the subscribers -is shewn by their kind permission to quote Parodies from their works; by -the information they have sent as to out-of-the-way books in which others -may be found; and, further, by their contribution of original Parodies. - -The author of the following introduction to this series, is well known for -his charming pathetic poems. From the first he has rendered most valuable -assistance; having formed a large collection of Parodies, he has kindly -placed them at the Editor's disposal, and they will be inserted under the -respective authors to whom they apply. - - -THE MONTHLY PARODIES. - -AN APOLOGY. - -_After William Morris's "Earthly Paradise."_ (_Written expressly for this -collection._) - - Of Love or War this is no hour to sing, - But I may ease the burden of your fears - (Lest you think death to mirth is happening), - And quote from wit of past and present years, - Till o'er these pages you forget your tears, - And smile again, as presently you say - Some idle jingle--or forgotten lay. - - But when a-weary of the hunt for mirth - Thro' comic journals with a doleful sigh - You feel unkindly unto all the earth, - And grudge the pennies that they cost to buy - These "weakly comics," lingering like to die, - Remember, then, a little while, I pray, - The clever singers of a former day. - - The pomp and power and grand majestic air - That marches thro' their poems' stately tread, - These idle verses may catch unaware, - And by burlesque call back remembered - Some rhymes "that living not can ne'er be dead," - Though what is meant by that I cannot say-- - But Mr. Morris wrote it one fine day. - - Here grouped are strains of parody in rhyme, - Now classified and placed in order straight, - Let it suffice it for the present time - That some be old, while some are born but late, - A careful choice, from all the crowd that wait, - Of those that in forgotten serials stay, - Or are, in passing journals, tossed away. - - Folks say a wizard to a common King, - One April-tide such wondrous jest did show - That in a mirror men beheld each thing, - Like, yet unlike, and saw the pale nose glow, - While rosy face looked white as fallen snow, - Each visage altered in such comic way - That those who came to court, remain'd to play. - - So with these many Parodies it is, - If you will read aright and carefully, - Not scathing satire, nor malicious hiss - For lack of beauty in the themes to see, - Nor jeerings coarse, at what men prize, as we - But jest to make some little changeling play - Its pranks in classic robes, all crowned with bay. - - J. W. GLEESON WHITE, - CHRISTCHURCH. - - _March_, 1884. - - * * * * * - -On the 1st March, 1884, a bust of Longfellow (by Mr. T. Brock, A.R.A.) was -unveiled in Poet's Corner, Westminster Abbey. It is placed between the -graves of Dryden and Cowley, and bears this inscription:-- - - -LONGFELLOW. - - "This bust was placed among the memorials of the poets of England by - the English admirers of an American poet, 1884." - -and on the sides are the dates-- - - "Born at Portland, U.S.A., February 27, 1807. - Died at Cambridge, U.S.A., March 24, 1882." - -Mr. J. Russell Lowell was present at the ceremony, and gave an address, in -which he stated that-- - - "Longfellow's mind always moved straight towards its object, was - always permeated with the emotions, and gave them the frankest, - the sincerest, and, at the same time, the most simple expression; - and never was there a private character more answerable to public - performance than that of Longfellow. His nature was consecrated - ground, into which no unclean spirit could ever enter." - -This tribute to his memory, paid by one who had known him for nearly forty -years, sufficiently explains the reason why, in the parodies of his works -which are now to be given, nothing of a personal nature will be inserted. -Indeed it is doubtful whether one unkindly worded, or spiteful burlesque -was ever penned about either Longfellow, or his works. The absence of -this element will be all the more noticeable as following directly after -the parodies of the Poet Laureate, whose actions and writings have -invited so many attacks. Tennyson's early sneers at hereditary nobility, -as contrasted with his adulation of royalty, and the exaggerated praise -of princes in his official poems of later years. His involved, and -often obscure, mode of writing, especially when attempting to deal with -metaphysical topics; his narrow insular prejudices; his frequent writings -in praise of war, and calling aloud for the blood of either the French, or -the Russians, or the Spaniards. And, lastly, his acceptance of a coronet -which sits grotesquely enough on the laurels he so long has worn as Poet -Laureate. - -In all this there was ample room for adverse comment, which the life and -works of Longfellow never afforded. The tenderness, the grace, the sweet -pathos, and the exquisite simplicity of his poems, combined with the -purity, charity, and kindness of his personal character, were such that -detraction, envy, and malice were dumb, and criticism itself was almost -silenced. - -Hence the parodies will be found to consist principally of imitations -of his style, language, or ideas, or of reproductions of his poems in a -grotesque form. In some cases a few verses of the original are given for -the convenience of comparison with the parodies. - - -A NOBLE AMBITION. - - Tell me not in mournful numbers, - Life's one long unending bill-- - Debts unpaid disturb your slumbers-- - Tin _will_ fly, do what you will. - - Meat is high in real good earnest, - Far above the hungry soul; - Dust thou art, to dust returns, is - Very typical of coal. - - In the weekly market battle, - For the cheapest things and best, - Be not like dumb-driven cattle, - Stand out bravely, all the rest. - - Not enjoyment, hardly sorrow, - Feel we, when small debts we pay; - Still, we know that each to-morrow - Finds them larger than to-day. - - Duns are hard, and time is fleeting, - Bills are sadly in arrears, - And our hearts, tho' brave, stop beating - At the aspect of affairs. - - Bailiffs are not very pleasant, - Lock your door and keep the key; - Act, act in the living present-- - Leave your country, cross the sea. - - Lives of great men, too, remind us, - Big debts sometimes clogged _their_ feet; - And, like them, we leave behind us - Some few bills we cannot meet-- - - Bills that make you try to smother, - As you cross the stormy main, - Thoughts of love, and home, and mother, - Listening for your step in vain. - - Let us then be up and doing - With an eye to making tin, - Any likely trade pursuing, - Learn to gain your end and win. - - From _The Figaro_, December 3, 1873. - - * * * * * - - -THE LIBERAL PSALM OF LIFE. - - Tell us not in mournful numbers - Liberal union is a dream: - Bright is cranky, Bob Lowe slumbers; - Yet things are not what they seem. - - Opposition must be earnest, - Or we shall not win the goal; - If for Gladstone still thou yearnest, - Thou art a weak-minded soul. - - Ministerial slips to follow - Is our destined end and way, - So that we may throw each morrow - Stumbling blocks in Dizzy's way. - - Dizzy's strong, but fame is fleeting; - Conservatism, now so brave, - In the Bills which we are greeting, - Yet may find an early grave. - - Trust no Forster, howe'er pleasant, - Let past premiers bury their dead; - Act with Hartington at present, - Nor the coming session dread. - - Hansard's pages all remind us - We have but to bide our time; - Dizzy some fine day may find us - In majority sublime. - - Gladstone's gone, but till another, - Like him takes the helm again, - Let us help our leader, brother, - Hartington with might and main. - - Let us then be up and doing, - Meeting Dizzy in debate, - Tory tactics still pursuing, - Find a policy--and wait! - -From _Funny Folks_, February 27, 1875, when the Conservative party, led -by Mr. Disraeli, was in power, and the Liberal Opposition was led by Lord -Hartington. - - * * * * * - - -A PSALM OF LIFE AT SIXTY. - -_What the Heart of the Old Man said to the Genial Gusher at Christmas -Time._ - - Tell me not in Christmas Numbers - Life is but a _gourmet's_ dream! - Sure your sense is dead or slumbers: - Peptics are not what they seem. - - Life is serious! Life is solemn! - And good grub is not its goal: - _Menu_-making by the column - Helps not the dyspeptic soul. - - Not delight from cates to borrow - Is the aim of prudent will, - But to eat so that to-morrow - Finds us not exceeding ill. - - Feeds are long and health is fleeting; - And old stomachs once so strong, - Find that indiscriminate eating - Very quickly puts them wrong. - - In the banquet's dainty battle, - At the table's toothsome strife, - Feed not like dumb hungry cattle, - Wield a cautious fork and knife! - - Trust no _menu_, howe'er pleasant; - Night-mare-Nemesis is dread; - Swig and swallow like a peasant, - You'll repent it when in bed! - - Memories of big feeds remind us - Christmas pudding peace can slay; - Touch it, and next morn shall find us - Indigestion's helpless prey. - - Pudding that perhaps another, - Light of heart and bright of brain, - Some strong-stomached younger brother, - Eating, sends his plate again. - - Let us then beware high feeding, - Or the love of luscious cate, - Still abstaining, ne'er exceeding, - Learn to dodge dyspeptic fate! - - From _Punch_, December 27, 1879. - - * * * * * - - Lives of wealthy men remind us - That by using Printer's ink, - We can die and leave behind us - Monstrous piles of golden "chink." - - * * * * * - - -TO MY SCOUT AT BREAKFAST. - - Don't tell me in cheerful numbers - That the jug is full of cream! - For the milkman's conscience slumbers, - And things are not what they seem! - - _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, 1872. - - * * * * * - - -A FRAGMENT. - - Wives of great men all remind us - We may make our wives sublime - By departing--leave behind us - Widows in the "weeds" of time. - - Widows that perchance some other - Sailing o'er life's solemn main - Some forlorn rejected brother, - May take heart, and "splice" again. - - * * * * * - - -BEWARE! - -(_From the German._) - - I know a maiden fair to see, - Take care! - She can both false and friendly be, - Beware! beware! - Trust her not. - She is fooling thee! - - She has two eyes, so soft and brown, - Take care! - She gives a side glance and looks down, - Beware! beware! - Trust her not, - She is fooling thee! - - LONGFELLOW. - - -"TAKE CARE." - - Have you a wife with real estate? - Take care! - She can "devise, and alienate," - Beware! Beware! - She has got - The whip hand of thee! - - Too promptly she may take her cue, - Beware! - And learn she has the "power to sue," - Take care! Take care! - Thwart her not, - She'll be down on thee! - - Her three per cents are but a snare, - Take care! - She "holds" as if _femme sole_ she were, - Beware! Beware! - Has she not - The whip hand of thee? - - You, Darby, who could sponge on Joan, - Take care! - Henceforth her earrings are her own, - Beware! Beware! - Touch them not, - She'll be down on thee! - - If this new law be put in force, - Take care! - Lest th' old mare prove the better horse, - Beware! Beware! - Marry not, - There's a hint for thee! - - From _The Tomahawk_. - - * * * * * - - -BEWARE! - - I know a rink that's fair to see, - Take care! - It can both kind and cruel be, - Beware! Beware! - Trust it not, - It will injure thee! - - It has two skates to lend to you, - Take care! - With wheels that oft want oiling too, - Beware! Beware! - Trust it not, - It will injure thee! - - It has a surface smooth as glass, - Take care! - For you can't see what will come to pass, - Beware! Beware! - Trust it not, - It will injure thee. - - It shows your wondrous grace and skill, - Take care! - But naught it says about a spill, - Beware! Beware! - Trust it not, - It will injure thee! - - It tells you much of pleasure there, - Take care! - 'Tis a delusion and a snare, - Beware! Beware! - Trust it not, - It will injure thee!" - - _Idyls of the Rink_, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -BEWARE! - -(_Dedicated to Lord Salisbury._) - - I know a statesman fair to hear; - Take care! - He can make worst the best appear; - His "little game" is very clear. - Beware! Beware! - Trust him not--he is one to fear. - - He has a conscience--_he says so;_ - Take care! - He knows how far to let it go - (We had a _Treaty_ once, you know). - Beware! Beware! - Trust him not, though it _may_ be so. - - He gives thee a mode of trading "fair;" - Take care! - It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear! - A "card" for him, for thee a snare. - Beware! Beware! - Trust him not, though it sounds so rare. - - He has one face, and some say _two;_ - Take care! - And what he says it is not true, - He would do good, but not to _you_. - Beware! Beware! - Trust him not, or you will rue. - - _Grins and Groans_, 1882. - - * * * * * - - -THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. - - Under a spreading chestnut tree - The village smithy stands; - The smith, a mighty man is he, - With large and sinewy hands; - And the muscles of his brawny arms - Are strong as iron bands. - - * * * * * - - Week in, week out, from morn till night, - You can hear his bellows blow, - You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, - With measured beat and slow, - Like a sexton ringing the village bell, - When the evening sun is low. - - * * * * * - - LONGFELLOW. - - * * * * * - - -THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH AS HE IS. - - Under the spreading chestnut tree - The village blacksmith stands, - The smith an awful cad is he - With very dirty hands. - For keepers and the rural police - He doesn't care a hang. - He swears, and fights, and whops his wife, - Gets drunk whene'er he can; - In point of fact, our village smith's - A very awful man. - - He goes on Sundays to the pub' - With other festive boys, - When drinking beer and goes of rum - His precious time employs. - Till he gets drunk, and going home - He makes no end of noise, - Then, with his poor half-starving wife - He in a passion flies. - He pulls her by the hair, from off - The bed on which she lies, - And kicks her round the room, and says - Bad things about her eyes. - - Smoking, soaking, bullying, - Onward through life he goes, - Each morning sees a blackened eye - Or else a broken nose. - I fear within the County Gaol - Calcraft his life will close; - Thanks, thanks to thee, thou black blacksmith - For the lesson thou hast taught. - By Calcraft, or his deputy - I never will be caught, - And to that end I'll never do - The thing I hadn't ought. - - From _Figaro Programme_, February 6, 1873. - - * * * * * - - -THE NIGHT POLICEMAN. - -(_Not by Henry W. Longfellow._) - - Beside a noisy tavern door - The night policeman stands, - And a foaming pot of half-and-half, - He clutches with eager hands; - But little doth our Robert know - He is watched by thievish bands. - - His voice is thick, his speech too strong - For any sober man; - His brow is wet with his tall helmet, - He drinks whene'er he can; - But the merry prig laughs in his face, - He arrests not any man. - - Through the dark night to the broad daylight - You can hear him tramp below, - Until the serjeant hath passed, and then - He soon doth leave his beat to go - To visit a sprightly area belle, - When the evening star is low. - - When the burglar, fixing a handy tool, - Breaks in through the bolted door, - And quickly pockets the notes and gold, - And the glittering jewelled store store-- - Hearing the laugh, as he gaily flies, - Come from the kitchen floor. - - When Robert makes report next morn - Of nought but naughty boys, - Householders angrily impeach. - He hears the inspector's voice; - And he knows that his stately form no more - Will make the cook rejoice. - - It sounds to him like a warning voice: - Farewell to rabbit pies, - And juicy ham and nourishing stout, - And the pickles he doth prize. - And with his worsted glove he wipes - A tear from out his eyes. - - Shuffling, lying, sorrowing, - He takes off his dark blue clothes-- - Lantern, truncheon, and helmet too, - With his cape he sadly throws. - Burglaries attempted! Burglaries done! - Out of the force he goes. - - From _Funny Folks_, May 22, 1875. - - * * * * * - - -THE VILLAGE GROG SHOP. - - Under a spreading chestnut tree - The village grog shop stands; - The host a thirsty man is he, - With large and bloated hands; - And the vessels of his beery charms - Are bright in pewter bands. - - His tap is "Watney," "Meux," and "Long," - And bitter as the tan; - His till is fill'd with ready coin, - He cheats whene'er he can, - He looks the whole "Bench" in the face, - And he trusts not any man. - - Week in, week out, from morn till night, - You can hear the liquor flow; - And after hours the bobby's tread, - With measured beat and slow, - Like a convict working the cheerful mill - When his morals have been low. - - And maidens, not long freed from school, - Jot down th' increasing score, - They love to see the lab'rers gorge, - And hear the rustics roar, - And catch th' attempted wits--so "fly," - With chaff--from a sawdust floor. - - He goes in Sessions 'fore the Bench, - And sits among the crowd; - He hears the "unpaid" jaw and preach, - He hears his counsel's voice - Pleading with legalic fire; - And licensed, has his choice. - - It makes him think of the Three per Cents. - Wherein his money lies! - He needs must think of her once more - How in the bar she plies, - And with his hard rough hands he lifts - His beer-mug to the skies. - - Spoiling--adult'ring--borrowing, - Onward through life he goes; - Each morning sees some cask begun, - Each evening sees its close; - Somebody tempted, something won, - Has earned the pub's repose." - - _Mirth_, March, 1878. F. H. S. - - * * * * * - - -THE ENGLISH JUDGE. - -(_As sung by Dr. E. V. Kenealy_). - - Under the carved-oak canopy - Our ermined Justice sits; - The Judge, a mighty man is he, - With large and varied wits; - And nobly to his land and Queen - His duty he acquits. - - His wig is crisp, and gray, and full, - And if his face you scan, - 'Tis furrow'd deep with lines of thought; - 'Twere hard his brow to span. - And he looks the whole world in the face, - For he fears not any man. - - Term in, term out, from ten till four, - You can hear his accents clear; - You can hear him crush deceit and fraud - With authority severe, - But the innocent and helpless one - Has naught from him to fear. - - And strangers "doing" London sights - Look in at the swinging door; - They love to see his massive form, - And to hear his legal lore, - And to catch the pearls of thought that drop - From his copious mental store. - - At four for home he leaves the bench, - And 'midst his books and notes - His leisure far into the night - To "cases" he devotes. - Nor counts his nights and mornings lost, - If justice he promotes. - - With patient care he extricates - The tangled legal skein; - Whilst barristers and clients sleep, - Re-links the broken chain, - And ere the hour of ten has come - Is at his post again. - - Toiling, re-searching, circuiting, - Onward through life he goes; - Each morning sees new work begun, - But not each night its close; - And not till Long Vacation comes - Can he expect repose. - - Thanks, thanks! then, to the English Judge - For the lessons he has taught! - For a life so earnest and so pure, - With good example fraught. - And may we all learn this from him,-- - How duty should be wrought. - - _Truth Christmas Number_, 1879. - - * * * * * - - -THE VILLAGE BEAUTY. - - Under a spreading Gainsborough hat - The village beauty stands, - A maiden very fair to see, - With tiny feet and hands, - As stately, too, as if she owned - The squire's house and lands. - - Her hair is golden brown and long, - Her brow is like the snow, - Her cheeks are like the rosy flush - Left by the sunset's glow, - She greets the lads with a careless look, - She's the village belle, you know. - - Week in, week out, at morn and night, - The young miller comes each day; - "'Tis the nearest way to town," he says, - But 'tis rather out of his way, - And every night he seems to have - Plenty of time to stay! - - And children, coming home from school - Look in at the door, and know - That the handsome fellow by her side - Is pretty Nellie's beau, - Who can hardly tear himself away, - When he finds 'tis time to go. - - He goes on Sundays to the Church, - And sits in his proper pew, - But his eyes wander off to the transept near, - Where he sees a charming view, - For Nellie sits there, in her Sunday best, - With her bonnet of palest blue. - - He hears the parson pray and preach - With his outward ear alone, - For he only listens for Nellie's voice, - And responds in a dreamy tone, - And when she smiles at the carpenter near, - He can't suppress a groan. - - Despairing, hoping, fearing, - Onward thro' life he goes; - Each morning he sees Nellie, - And each evening, at its close; - She even haunts him sleeping, - And disturbs his night's repose. - - Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, - For the lesson thou hast taught; - Thus at the flirting time of life - Our fortunes may be wrought, - So we cannot be too careful - Over every word and thought! - - L. P. - -From _The Dunheved Mirror_, Cornwall, March, 1880. - - * * * * * - - -THE BRITISH M. P. - -(_A Song of St. Stephen's._) - - Under St. Stephen's high roof-tree - The British M. P. sits: - M. P. a mighty man is he, - With sharp and seasoned wits, - And an eloquence that, once set free, - Would give opponents fits. - - Week in, week out, from noon to night, - He must sit in silent woe, - Whilst WARTON vents his dullard spite, - With measured boom and slow, - Or SEXTON soars in furious flight - When the morning lights burn low. - - Boiling and bored, no fight, no fun, - Onward the M. P. goes. - Each day sees aimless jaw begun, - No night beholds its close. - Little attempted, nothing done-- - No work and no repose! - - _Punch_, March 24, 1883. - - * * * * * - - -THE VILLAGE PAX. - -(_With Deprecatory Acknowledgments to Longfellow._) - -["A PEACEFUL PARISH.--It is worthy of remark that in a parish near -Blandford a petition in favour of peace has been signed by every grown-up -man and woman, with the exception of one farmer."--_Times._] - - Under the spreading olive tree - The peaceful village stands, - It's known for its tranquillitee - Throughout the neighbouring lands; - And it drinks but very weak Bohea, - Nor smokes the mildest brands. - - Its hair is smooth, its patience long, - Its biceps, when you span, - You find they're more like dimples; and - You may hit them where you can, - And come off cheap with easy fame, - For it fights not any man. - - Week in, week out, from morn till night, - You can hear the humming low - Of dogs who like to bark and bite - Because their nature's so; - And their cocks they're all put out of sight, - For the bullies used to crow! - - Preaching, protesting, sorrowing, - Because of Eastern foes, - Each morning sees that village dawn, - Each evening sees it doze, - O'er asses' milk and ginger-beer, - And Peter Taylor's prose. - - Thanks, thanks, to you, O happy vale! - It is a cheering thought - That somewhere waits a blessed spot - For one by yells distraught, - Where bray of Jingoes reaches not, - And Drummond-Wolff is nought. - - * * * * * - - -THE VILLAGE WOODMAN. - -(_With apologies to Mr. Longfellow._) - - Under a spreading chestnut tree - The busy Gladstone stands; - Ever this restless W. G. - Has something on his hands. - O'er field or meadow, park or farm, - O'er clay or gravelly lands, - He takes the sharpened axe in hand - With tree-destroying plan; - His brow is wet with woodman's sweat, - He fells whate'er he can, - And looks the proud tree in the face, - And cleaves it like a man. - - Week in, week out, from morn to night, - You can hear his hatchet's blow; - You can see him swing his heavy axe, - Resolved that tree shall go, - Like a workman labouring for his pay - When his funds are very low; - And tourists, wandering o'er the fields, - Look aghast at this woodman bold; - They shudder at the flashing axe, - And mark the upturned mould; - They see by the scattered chips that fly - That the woodman's strong though old. - - He goes on Sunday to the church, - And reads the lessons there. - To hear the parson pray and preach - Few to that church repair. - But reading in that village church - Makes the G. O. M. rejoice, - For he loves to hear his own sweet voice - In Church or Parliament. - But where'er he be he thinks of trees, - How many fallen lie, - And those who notice him may see - A twinkle in his eye. - - Toiling, rejoicing, brandishing - His axe, thus on he goes; - Each morning sees some grand old tree, - Each evening sees its close; - Some branches felled, some trunk laid low-- - And then he seeks repose. - - _Moonshine_, January 19, 1884. - - * * * * * - -Longfellow's _Song of Hiawatha_ certainly invites parody, and its easy -metre is readily caught up by any one having an ordinarily good ear, and -knack of versification. Consequently parodies of it abound; unfortunately -they become somewhat wearisome in perusal from the monotonous diction, and -some of the best only will be quoted at length. - -The following, written by Mr. J. W. Morris, appeared in the _Bath and -Cheltenham Gazette_ shortly after the appearance of Longfellow's poem, and -is interesting as giving an account of the feelings with which _Hiawatha_ -was first received:-- - - -HIAWATHA. - -(_A Parody._) - - Do you ask me what I think of - This new song of _Hiawatha_, - With its legends and traditions, - And its frequent repetitions - Of hard names which make the jaw ache, - And of words most unpoetic? - I should answer, I should tell you - I esteem it wild and wayward, - Slipslop metre, scanty sense, - Honour paid to Mudjekewis, - But no honour to the Muse. - - * * * * * - - "Honour to the Muddyminded!" - Who now wears the belt of Wampum, - He has stolen it from the Northmen, - And he wears it, and shall wear; - And hereafter, and for ever, - Shall he hold ungrudged dominion - Over all the winds that whistle; - Call him no more Muddyminded, - Call him Longfellow, the Yankee! - - * * * * * - - Forth upon a Pitchy Puddle, - Gleaming with a fitful phosphor; - In a bark of his own making, - With a line of his own twisting, - Forth to catch a fine new Poem - All alone went Muddyminded. - At the stern sat Muddyminded, - For 'twas windy, and he knew - He was heavy, and he trembled - Lest he'd sink his grand canoe; - Soon he came to where 'twas clearer, - And the bottom he could see, - So he looked, and saw the bottom, - Saw the bottom of the sea. - - There he saw the song he wanted - Lying _far beyond his reach_, - Lying just within his vision, - But beyond the reach of boat-hook. - There it lay in all its armour, - Fenced about with ugly words, - Indian names and Indian notions, - Painted too, with various colours, - Earthy, very earthy, too. - - Muddyminded cast about him, - How he'd bring this song to light:-- - "Take my bait, you Indian Poem!" - Cried he down the depths below, - Then sat waiting for an answer, - For an answer from below. - - Quiet lay the Indian Story, - Nor would listen to his clamour; - Turned he to another tale though,-- - EUANGLEEN,--six-footed monster, - And he bade him take the bait, that - Still was dangling to and fro: - EUANGLEEN he rose to take it; - Muddyminded liked him not, - And he shouted through the water, - "Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you! - You are not a Poem at all, - You are one six-footed monster, - You are not the song I wanted." - Then went downward swift and certain - Down the depths of dark oblivion, - Disappointed EUANGLEEN. - - Then the mighty Indian Poem - Said to GOLDEN LEG, another, - "Take the bait of this great boaster, - Break his line, and spoil his trade!" - But again did Muddyminded - Shout derision as he rose, - "Pesta! Pesta! shame upon you! - You are but a lame imposture, - Fame will never call you Poem, - You are not the song I wanted." - - Then upleapt this Indian Story, - Legend rude, but fierce and strong-- - High enough he leapt, to show us - What he might be could we tame him, - Could there but a real Magician - Disenchant him, and control. - His great jaws he op'ed, and swallowed - Both canoe and Muddyminded. - - Down into that dark oblivion - Plunged the hapless Muddyminded,-- - As a log on some black river - Down the rapids plunges soon, - Found himself in utter darkness, - Thought he had been there before, - Groped about, and groped, and wondered, - Wondered, groped, and groped the more. - - J. W. M. - - * * * * * - -In 1856, a small shilling volume of 120 pages was published by George -Routledge and Co., as a companion to Longfellow's _Hiawatha_. This was -entitled, "_The Song of Drop o' Wather_, a London legend, by Harry -Wandsworth Shortfellow," and is now scarce. It commences thus:-- - - -APOLOGY FOR THERE BEING NO PREFACE. - - AUTHOR (_considering_). "People expect a preface; and this is the - place for one. But there is no preface in the great 'Indian Edda' - which has occasioned this poem. The author of that work gives his - explanation to the public in the Notes and Vocabulary; then, of - course, mine also, ought (and is) to be found in the Notes and - Vocabulary to 'The Song of Drop o' Wather.'" - -Then follow the contents, consisting of an Introduction and thirteen -chapters, namely:-- - - I. Drop o' Wather's Childhood. - II. Drop o' Wather and Pudgy-Wheezy. - III. Drop o' Wather's Fasting. - IV. Drop o' Wather's Friends. - V. Drop o' Wather's Filching. - VI. Drop o' Wather's Wooing. - VII. Drop o' Wather's Wedding. - VIII. The Ghost of the Star and Garter. - IX. Bilking the Runners. - X. Paw-Paw-Keeneyes. - XI. The Hunting of Paw-Paw-Keeneyes. - XII. The Fate of Queershin. - XIII. Drop o' Water's Departure. - -In its completeness and closeness of imitation, this anonymous work is -the best parody extant of the _Song of Hiawatha_. From the introduction, -and the first chapter, it will be gathered that the hero is a poor little -gutter child, who grows up to be a thief. The following chapters trace his -career in crime, and the last describes his departure to Australia as a -repentant emigrant. - - -THE SONG OF DROP O' WATHER. - -INTRODUCTION. - - Ye who love the haunts of Town-Life, - Love the kennel and the gutter, - Love the doorway of the gin-shop, - Love the mud about the kerb-stones, - And the drippings from the houses, - And the splashing of the rain-spouts - Through their palisade of gratings, - And the thunder of the coaches, - Whose innumerable echoes, - Roar like sea-waves on the shingle;-- - Listen to these wild traditions, - To this song of Drop o' Wather! - Ye who love a nation's legends, - Love the ballads of a people, - That like voices from afar off - Call to us to stop and listen, - Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy, - Scarcely can the ear distinguish - Whether they are hummed or shouted;-- - Listen to this London Legend, - To this song of Drop o' Wather! - - -I. - -DROP O' WATHER'S CHILDHOOD. - - Downward through the darkening twilight, - In the days long time ago, now, - In the last of drunken stages, - By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah, - On the pavement fell poor Norah, - Just about to be a mother. - She'd been tippling with some women, - Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door, - When her Gossip, out of mischief, - Partly idle, partly spiteful, - Pushed the swing-door from behind her, - Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap, - And poor Norah tumbled backward, - Downward through the darkening twilight, - On the gangway foul, the pavement, - On the gangway foul with mud-stains. - "See! a wench falls!" cried the people; - Look, a tipsy wench is falling!" - There amidst the gaping starers, - There amidst the idle passers, - On the gangway foul, the pavement, - In the murky darkened twilight, - Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe. - Thus was born young Drop o' Wather, - Thus was born the child of squalor. - He was named, by those who knew him, - Out of joke, and fun, and larking, - For what's called an Irish reason, - Or, by folks who sport the Classics, - A _lucus a non lucendo_, - Like, for all it is so unlike, - Hold a thing to be another, - For the sake of contradiction, - Or the sake of droll connection; - So the folks who knew our hero, - Gave his nickname for this reason,-- - 'Cause his mother never touched a - Drop of Water in her lifetime. - At the door on fine spring evenings, - Played the little Drop o' Wather; - Heard the cry of "Buy my inguns!" - Heard the cry "Young raddyshees, yere" - Calls of cadger, costermonger; - "Bilin'-apples!" said the huckster; - "Pies-all 'ot!" still said the pieman. - Saw the pot-boy, Wall-eyed Tommy, - Trudging through the dusk of evening, - With the shrillness of his whistle - Piercing all the courts and alleys. - And he sang the song of street-boys. - Sang the song the pot-boy taught him;-- - "Wall-eyed Tommy, he's the cove, boys! - He's the ranting, roaring blade, boys! - He's the lad, the daring fellow! - He's the chap, to carry ale-cans, - Pots of beer, and all them 'ere boys!" - Saw the balls at the pawnbroker's, - Balls alike, and three in number, - Saw the gold and burnish on them, - Bawled, "What are those? I say, mother!" - And the fuddled Norah answered, - "Once a cricketer, when angry, - Seized his ball, and bowling, threw it - Up against the shop times threefold, - Right against the shop he threw it; - 'Tis its tri-ghost that you see there." - Saw the gallows near the prison, - In the morning sky, the gallows; - Bawled, "What is that? I say mother!" - And the fuddled Norah answered, - "'Tis the gallows-tree, the gibbet; - All the naughty boys of London, - All the wicked ones and careless, - When in town they steal and pilfer, - Hang on that 'ere tree above us." - When he heard the thieves at midnight, - Hooting, laughing in the alley, - "What is that?" he cried half frightened; - "What is that? Now tell me, mother!" - And the fuddled Norah answered, - "That's the thieves and prigs together, - Talking in their own cant language, - Hoaxing, chaffing one another." - Then the little Drop o' Wather - Learned of all the thieves their language; - Learned their slang and learned their by-words, - Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings, - Where they hid themselves from justice; - Talked with them whene'er he met them, - Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies." - Of all prigs he learned the language, - Learned their gag, and all their secrets. - Found out all their haunts and dodges, - Picked up where they hid their booty, - How they packed the swag so closely, - Why they fought so shy and wary; - Talked with them whene'er he met them, - Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers." - - -II. - -DROP O' WATHER AND PUDGY-WHEEZY. - - Out of childhood into manhood - Now had grown young Drop o' Wather, - Skilled in all the craft of filchers, - Learned in all the slang of robbers, - In all ways and means of cribbing, - In all knowing arts and dodges. - Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather; - He could pitch a pebble from him, - And run forward with such fleetness, - That the pebble fell behind him! - Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather; - He could fling ten pebbles upward, - Fling them with such strength and swiftness, - That the tenth had left his fingers - Ere the first to ground had fallen. - He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun, - Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood; - When into his hand he took it, - He could smite a fellow's head off, - He could knock him into next week. - He had ankle-boots so jemmy, - Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin; - When he put them on his trotters, - When he laced them up so tightly, - At each step three feet he measured. - From his lair went Drop o' Wather - Dressed for roving, armed for plunder; - Dressed in shooting-jacket natty, - Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons; - On his head a spick-and-span tile, - Round his waist a vest of scarlet; - In his mouth a sprig of shamrock, - In his breast a dashing brooch-pin, - Gold mosaic, set with sham stones; - With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun, - With his ankle-boots so jemmy. - Warning said old fuddled Norah, - "Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather, - To the quarter of the West-End, - To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair, - Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street), - Lest they clap you into prison." - But the daring Drop o' Wather - Heeded not her woman's warning; - Forth he went along the alley, - At each step three feet he measured; - Tempting looked the shops about him, - Tempting looked the things within them; - Bright and fine the showy jewels, - Smart and gay the newest fashions, - Brown and smooth cigars in boxes, - All that set his heart a-longing, - Longing with the wish to crib them. - - * * * * * - - -XIII. - -DROP O' WATHER'S DEPARTURE. - - Now remains for me to tell of - How he ended, Drop o' Wather; - What befell him, after all his - Knowing doings in the course of - His career, his life in London. - He had run his rigs so clever, - He had risked so very closely, - He had just avoided Newgate, - He had narrowly 'scaped hanging; - And a dream he had one midnight, - Brought him to a sense of danger. - Thus he dreamed; 'twas really awful. - Not far off from Bedford Bury, - By the muddy Big-Thame-Water, - At the doorway of his lodging, - Thought he stood one rainy morning, - Thought he stood there, lounging idly, - Watching fall the sooty raindrops - From the eaves and roofs of houses, - Watching fill the dirty puddles, - Splashed and speckled with the drizzle; - Flowed in filthy streams the gutters, - Flowed the spouts as they ran over; - Pouring, pelting, came the shower. - - * * * * * - - Through the alley, sudden, briskly, - Something in the hazy distance, - Something in the misty morning, - Came along the dripping pavement, - Now seemed hurrying, now seemed hasting, - Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. - Was it Dingledong, the dustman? - Was it Twopenny, the postman? - Or the cobbler, Shoe-shoe-mender, - Or the milkman, Water-well-it, - With the raindrops dripping, dashing - Profitably in the milk-cans? - It was neither milkman, dustman, - Cobbler, postman, none of those men, - Coming on that misty morning; - But a set of sturdy fellows, - Fast advancing up the alley, - Striding, splashing through the raindrops, - Come with warrant strictly formal, - From the distant Police-office, - From Marlborough Street that morning, - Come with magistrate's command to - Apprehend and promptly take up - Drop o' Wather for his trial. - Then he thought he dreamed the scene of - His conviction, condemnation; - How he saw the Court dense crowded, - Crowded with indignant faces; - How he saw the dock, where he stood, - How he saw the Bench, where Judge sat, - How he saw the box for jury, - Where the twelve sat looking fateful; - Saw the Judge rise up and cover - With black cap his hair of silver; - Heard the word of solemn verdict,-- - "Guilty!" Words of fearful sentence,-- - "Hanged by neck," and "dead, dead, dead," last. - Thought he fainted quite away there, - And was carried straight to Newgate; - In the dreary cell of felon, - In condemned cell chained with fetters, - There to 'wait the time appointed - For his final execution. - Dreamed he saw the black-robed Chaplain - Come to speak of consolation; - Dreamed he heard the words of comfort - Sounding strangely (Ah, how strangely!-- - Sad to think how very strangely - Come those words to ear of culprit, - Never taught to seek their lessons, - Never taught to know their meaning!) - Dreamed he saw the fatal gibbet, - Dreamed he saw the upturned faces - Of the multitude below him; - Dreamed he felt Jack Ketch's fingers - Busy round his neck, adjusting - Noose of rope that was to hang him - Like a dog, not human creature! - Dreamed that in that awful moment, - Came a shout, a cry, a calling; - Dreamed he heard "Reprieve!" loud shouted. - Dreamed he heard of transportation - Being his commuted sentence. - This last thought possessed him wholly - When he woke, and found he'd dreamed all. - Grave he pondered, till it struck him, - That he'd carry out the substance - Of that portion of his dreaming, - Where he felt relieved from terror. - He resolved to seek his fortune - In a fresh new scene of action; - He determined on the scheme of - Nothing less than transportation, - Voluntary transportation, - Willing, prompt, self-transportation, - Most transporting transportation,-- - In words other,--emigration. - And he said to mother Norah, - To his wife his Minnie Wather, - Better half, his Frisky-Whisky, - "I've made up my mind to try and - Live a new life, life more dacent; - So let's go and try what turns up - In the New World over yonder." - On the deck stood Drop o' Wather, - Turned and waved his hat at parting; - On the deck of the good vessel, - Outward bound for the long voyage, - Stood and waved his hat at parting - From the dear old Mother Country. - - * * * * * - - Then a pause; and then he shouted, - Shouted loudly Drop o' Wather: - "Southward! Southward! now then, Southward!" - And the ship went sailing forward - On her way of trust and promise, - Southward, southward; Drop o' Wather - Looking steadfastly before him, - As confronting firm the future. - And his people gave a loud cheer, - Just to cheer him up at parting, - As the ship sailed southward, southward; - And they cried, "Good-bye, my boy, then! - Good bye, Norah! Good-bye, Minnie! - Take good care of yourselves, darlints! - Let us know how you all get on! - Best of all good luck go wid' ye! - So God bless ye! and God speed ye!" - Thus departed Drop o' Wather, - Drop o' Wather, the fine fellow, - With his trust of doing better, - With, at least, that firm intention. - To the regions of the New World, - Of the Bay entitled Bot'ny, - To the Island of New Holland, - To another "New" New South Wales, - To the land of hope, Australia! - -This clever parody is followed by amusing burlesque notes, the first of -which thus explains the origin of _The Song of Drop o' Wather_. - - "This London Legend--if it may be so called--has been suggested by - an interesting Indian tradition, given to the world in the form of - a beautiful poem. The picturesque scenery, vivid description, and - glowing imagery to be found in that production, are fully felt; - while their charm is no more disparaged by the present sportive - trifle, than the sublimity of Shakespeare has been lessened by - the burlesques and parodies that have been made from time to time - upon his great dramas. The tragedy of _Hamlet_ is exalted, not - lowered, by Mr. Poole's admirably clever travestie. The mere fact - of burlesquing a work avouches its excellence--certainly its - popularity." - -It is much to be regretted that the author of this amusing work should -remain unknown. - - * * * * * - -Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's _Puck on Pegasus_ (Chatto and Windus) -has gone through so many editions, and is such a favourite book, that -his imitation of _Hiawatha_ is familiar to most people. The author has -recently somewhat modified its opening lines. As thus altered it will -shortly appear in a selection of Mr. H. C. Pennell's poems, and he has -kindly allowed me to include it in this collection. - -The original poem in _Puck on Pegasus_ commenced thus:-- - - -SONG OF IN-THE-WATER. - - When the summer night descended, - Sleepy, on the White-witch water, - Came a lithe and lovely maiden, - Gazing on the silent water-- - Gazing on the gleaming river, - With her azure eyes and tender,-- - On the river glancing forward, - Till the laughing wave sprang upward, - Upward from his reedy hollow, - With the lily in his bosom, - With his crown of water-lilies-- - Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple - As he sprung into the starlight, - As he clasped her charmed reflection - Glowing to his crystal bosom-- - As he whispered, "Fairest, fairest, - Rest upon this crystal bosom!" - - * * * * * - -In the new version the title has been changed, and some of the opening -lines altered, but from the point where the above extract closes to the -end of the poem, the two versions are very similar, and the later one is -quoted in full:-- - - -SONG OF LOWER-WATER. - - When the summer Moon was sleeping - On the Sands of Lower-Water-- - By the Lowest Water Margin-- - At the mark of Dead Low Water,-- - Came a lithe and lovely maiden, - Crinolina, Wand'ring Whiteness, - Gazing on the ebbing water-- - Gazing on the gleaming river-- - With her azure eyes and tender,-- - On the river glancing forward, - Till the laughing Wave sprang upward, - From his throne in Lower-Water,-- - Upwards from his reedy hollow, - With the lily in his bosom, - With his crown of water-lilies-- - Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple - As he leapt into the starlight, - As he clasped her charmed reflection - Glowing to his crystal bosom-- - As he whisper'd "Wand'ring Whiteness, - Rest upon my crystal bosom! - Join this little water party."... - Yet she spoke not, only murmured:-- - Down into the water stept she, - Lowest Water--Dead Low Water-- - Down into the wavering river, - Like a red deer in the sunset-- - Like a ripe leaf in the autumn: - From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled, - Came a soft and dreamy music, - Softer than the breath of summer, - Softer than the murm'ring river, - Than the cooing of Cushawa,-- - Sighs that melted as the snows melt, - Silently and sweetly melted; - Sounds that mingled with the crisping - Foam upon the billow resting:-- - - Still she spoke not, only murmured. - - From the forest shade primeval, - Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her; - He the most Successful Squeaker-- - He the very Youthful Porker-- - He the Everlasting Grunter-- - Gazed upon her there, and wondered! - With his nose out, Rokey-pokey-- - And his tail up, Curley-wurley-- - Wondered what could be the matter, - - Wondered what the girl was up to-- - What the deuce her little game was.... - - And she floated down the river, - Like a water-witch'd Ophelia.... - FOR HER CRINOLINE SUSTAINED HER. - - * * * * * - - -THE WALLFLOWERS. - - Two belated men from Oxford, - Members of a nameless college-- - Pip, the philosophic smoker, - And his friend they called the Fluffer-- - Men belated in the country, - Lost their way geologising; - Reached the city after midnight, - After lawful hour of entry, - By the gateway of the college. - And they did not rouse the porter, - For they knew the dean was wrathful, - And had vowed a weighty vengeance, - If a man knocked in belated. - But they gat them round a back way, - Where a wall divides the college - From intrusion of the vulgar. - Stole they down a lonely footpath, - And they halted where a sapling - Very near the wall was growing; - And above an ancient elm-tree - Stretched a downward arm in welcome, - To embrace the little sapling. - Each in turn his toe adapted, - Where a crevice in the stonework, - In the worn and ancient stonework, - Gave a short precarious foothold - While they climbed the little sapling. - Pip had scaled the wall, and sitting, - Helped the Fluffer struggling upwards, - When a Bobby, a policeman, - Irreproachable policeman, - Came upon them round the corner, - And remarked, "Gents, I have caught you; - You're a pretty pair of wallflowers!" - Then the Fluffer answered briefly, - Answered, "Bobby, you have caught us," - And the careful Pip, the smoker, - From his seat upon the wall-top, - Echoed, "I believe you've caught us." - But the Bobby, the policeman, - Said, "I have not seen you do it-- - Seen you over any wall get; - And perhaps I should not see you, - If I happened to be looking - In an opposite direction, - With my back turned right upon you." - Nothing further said the Bobby, - Irreproachable policeman, - Only grinned, and seemed to linger. - Quick then Pip pulled up the Fluffer, - And inquired, "Old fellow, Fluffer, - Have you any coin about you?" - And the Fluffer from his pockets, - Brought the bob, the silver shilling, - And the piece of six, the tizzy, - And the piece of four, the joey, - And the double bob, the florin. - Down he threw them on the pathway; - Then the Bobby, the policeman, - Irreproachable policeman, - Picked them up, and whispered softly, - Somebody had dropped some money; - He was lucky to have found it. - After that did Pip, the smoker, - And his friend they called the Fluffer, - Get across the wall securely; - But the Bobby, the policeman, - Irreproachable policeman, - Did not see them get across it; - For he happened to be looking - In an opposite direction, - And his back was turned upon them. - - _Odd Echoes from Oxford_, by A. Merion, B.A. - -J. C. Hotten, 1872. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF NICOTINE. - - SHOULD you ask me why this meerschaum, - Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens, - With the odours of tobacco, - With the oil and fume of "mixture," - With the curling smoke of "bird's eye," - With the gurgling of rank juices, - With renewed expectorations - As of sickness on the fore-deck? - I should answer, I should tell you, - From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps, - From the old leeks of the Welshland, - From the soil of kitchen gardens, - From the mud of London sewers, - From the garden-plots and churchyards, - Where the linnet and cock-sparrow - Feed upon the weeds and groundsel, - I receive them as I buy them - From the boxes of Havana, - The concocter, the weird wizard. - Should you ask how this Havana - Made cigars so strong and soothing, - Made the "bird's eye," and "York-river," - I should answer, I should tell you, - In the purlieus of the cities, - In the cellars of the warehouse, - In the dampness of the dungeon, - Lie the rotten weeds that serve him; - In the gutters and the sewers, - In the melancholy alleys, - Half-clad Arab boys collect them, - Crossing-sweepers bring them to him, - Costermongers keep them for him, - And he turns them by his magic - Into "cavendish" and "bird's-eye," - For those clay-pipes and churchwardens, - For this meerschaum, or he folds them, - And "cigars" he duly labels - On the box in which he sells them. - - From _Figaro_, October 7, 1874. - - * * * * * - -The following is an extract from a long parody contained in _Lays of -Modern Oxford_, by _Adon_ (Chapman and Hall, 1874.) - - -THE BUMP SUPPER. - - "_Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero Pulsanda tellus._" - - You shall hear how once our college, - When our boat had done great wonders, - And had bumped all boats before it, - Gave a great and grand bump-supper. - First the scouts, the sherry-swiggers, - And the scouts' boys, beer-imbibers, - Spread the things upon the table. - - * * * * * - - And they placed upon the table - Champagne-cup and rosy claret. - When the lamp-black night descended - Broad and dark upon the college, - When the reading man, the bookworm, - Grinding, sat among his Greek books, - With his oak securely sported, - And his tea-cup on the table, - From their rooms in groups assembled - Many guests to this great supper. - Came the boating men in numbers, - Came the cricketers in numbers, - Came the athletes clothed with muscle, - Came the singers, and the jesters, - And the jokers, funny fellows; - Came the active gymnast Biceps, - Also Pugilis, his comrade, - Very clever with the mittens; - Came our sturdy plucky boat's crew, - Remex Princeps, and his comrades, - And the steerer, Gubernator. - All were hungry, all were merry, - Full of repartee and laughter. - First they ate the slippy oyster, - Native oyster, cool and luscious, - And the ruddy blushing lobster, - And the crab so rich and tasty; - Then they ate the cold roast chicken, - And the finely flavoured ox-tongue, - And the cold roast mutton sheep's flesh, - And the pigeon-pie, the dove-tart, - And the well stuffed duck and turkey, - With the sausages around it. - Thus the guests, the mutton munchers, - Played the noble game of chew-chew, - Game of knife and fork and tumblers, - Very popular in Oxford. - - * * * * * - - Then a man, who came from Cornwall, - Sang a song that clearly stated - If a person named Trelawny, - Should by any hap or hazard, - Leave the world by death untimely, - Many people in the south-west - Part of England would insist on - Knowing wherefore he had left it. - Then the cheeky smiling Ginger - Sang of lovely Angelina, - Lady with the Grecian bend, and - Of the maiden dressed in azure, - With both eyes and hair of darkness. - Then the guests said, "Sing some more songs; - Sing to us immortal Ginger, - Songs of laughter quaint and comic, - With a merry roaring chorus, - That we all may be more noisy. - And the sleeping dons may waken." - - * * * * * - - All was shouting, noise, confusion, - Till at last the guests exhausted, - All departed hot and dizzy, - Thus the entertainment ended, - Thus the great bump-supper ended, - Long to be discussed and talked of, - Long to be remembered by the - College in the days hereafter. - - * * * * * - - -THE LEGEND OF KEN-E-LI. - -(From _Figaro_, August 11, 1875.) - - * * * * * - - High among the tribes of Jon-buls, - Was a tribe they called the Lor-yahs; - Very cunning were the Lor-yahs: - They could talk and twist and double - Till the other tribes of Jon-buls - Scarcely knew if they were standing - On their heads or on their sandals. - - Chief among these learned Lor-yahs - Was the great and good Ken-e-li. - Brave and handsome, kind and gentle, - Soft in voice and smooth in manner, - Wise yet simple, strong yet tender, - Was the mighty chief Ken-e-li. - But the blind and stupid Jon-buls - Could not see his many virtues; - When he spake they shouted, "_Bun-kum!_" - And they scoffed at good Ken-e-li. - - * * * * * - - The poem then describes the gentle manners - of the inhabitants of the district An-lee, their - mild sports and pastimes, and how they chose - the great Ken-e-li to be their talking Em-pee in - the council of their nation, and the manner in - which he was received there. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE BEETLE. - - [The following graceful effusion, by a well-known - Longfellow-countryman of the Colorado insect, should be hailed - with delight by the British public. As it contains an accurate - description of the Beetle, we would suggest that it should be - learned by heart by the Rector of Hitcham's school-children, with a - view to preventing entomological mistakes.] - - Should you ask me of the Beetle, - Of the Colorado Beetle!-- - Properly the _Doryphora - Decemlineata_ christen'd-- - I should answer, I should tell you, - "He's a beggar for potatoes, - Quite a glutton at potatoes-- - For he 'wolfs' the common 'murphy.' - The _Solanum tuberosum_. - (Thus the _savans_ named the tater!") - - Should you ask me if the Beetle - Were at all like other beetles-- - Like the 'chafer, for example, - Him whom boys impale on pin-point-- - I should straight reply in this wise: - "He, when young, is like the insect - Whose abode is always burning, - She whose children are departed.[4] - - But when fourteen days have glided, - Then the Beetle is much longer; - Very much more pointed-taily, - Sharp as to his latter ending, - Red thus far has been his colour, - Red, the hue of guardsman's tunic, - Red, the tint of postal pillars. - But, as time and trouble try him, - This our insect grows much paler, - Fades and fades till he is yellow-- - Yellow e'en as one dyspeptic, - Yellow with black stripes upon him." - - Should you further ask the poet, - How to treat the little stranger? - I should answer, I should bid you, - "Stamp on him, where'er you find him! - In the garden--in the pig-sty-- - In the parlour or the bed-room-- - In the roadway or the meadow-- - Squash the little wretch, confound him! - _That's_ the way that I should answer,-- - That's the sort of man that _I_ am." - - From _Funny Folks_. - -In 1879 the editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best parodies -on Longfellow's _Hiawatha_, the subject selected being _The Hunting of -Cetewayo_. There were 135 competitors, the first prize was awarded to -Floreant-Lauri, whose poem will be found, with the three next best, in -_The World_ for October 8, 1879. - -The prize poem commenced as follows:-- - - Very wrath was Wolsey-Pullsey - When he landed at Fort Durban, - Hearing all the depredations - Of the cunning Cetewayo; - Called his captain Giffey-Wiffey, - Saying, "Catch this Cetewayo, - Muzzle thou this mischief-maker; - Not so tangled is the jungle, - Not so dark the deepest donga, - But that thou canst track and find him." - Then in hot pursuit departed - Giffey-Wiffey and his soldiers, - Through the jungle, through the forest; - But they found not Cetewayo-- - Only found his bed and blanket. - From the farthest dingey-donga - Cetewayo looking backward, - Placed his thumb upon his nostril, - Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey, - Made the gesture of derision, - Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey, - Hurling at them his defiance. - Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly, - "When I catch you, you black rascal, - Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey, - You and she shall be acquainted," - Mockingly came back the answer: - "When you catchee, when you catchee!" - - * * * * * - - * * * * * - - -THE HUNTING OF CETEWAYO. - - Full of anger was Sir Garnet - When he came among the Zulus, - And found them in a precious muddle, - Heard of all the wicked doings, - All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd - By the savage Cetewayo. - Fuming in alarming fashion, - Through his thick moustache he mutter'd - Dire words of blood and thunder, - Raging like an angry tiger-- - "I will nobble Cetewayo, - Bag this horrid rascal," said he; - "Not so wide the realm of Zulus, - Not so terrible the bye-ways, - That my anger shall not nail him, - That my vengeance shall not spot him!" - Then in hot pursuit departed - Marter and the mighty hunters - On the trail of Cetewayo. - Through the bush where he had hidden, - To the hut where he had rested-- - But they found not Cetewayo; - Only in the charcoal embers - And the smell of bad tobacco, - Found the spot where he had halted; - Found the tokens of his presence. - Through the bush and brake and forest - Ran the cunning Cetewayo, - Till a lonely kraal he entered - In the middle of the forest! - Then the corpulent old sinner - Heard the tramp of many footsteps, - Heard the sound of many voices, - Saying, "He, the white man's coming!" - Got into a funk and shivered. - Then came Marter, mighty Major, - He, of all Dragoons the boldest, - To the hut door riding straightway, - Saying, "Where is Cetewayo, - For his Majesty is wanted?" - Then came forth the noble savage, - On his breast a scarlet blanket, - Proudly wearing à la toga, - Gave himself to mighty Marter; - Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers! - Ended now his strange adventures, - Ended all his wily dodges, - All his plottings and his schemings, - And his hecatombs of Zulus! - - From _Snatches of Song_, by F. B. Doveton, 1880. - - * * * * * - - - - -HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING. - - -_Author's Preface._ - -("In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight -attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, -with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in -the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.'") - - From his shoulder Hiawatha - Took the camera of rosewood. - Made of sliding, folding rosewood, - Neatly put it all together. - In its case it lay compactly, - Folded into nearly nothing; - But he opened out the hinges, - Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, - Till it looked all squares and oblongs, - Like a complicated figure - In the Second Book of Euclid. - This he perched upon a tripod-- - Crouched beneath its dusky cover-- - Stretched his hand, enforcing silence-- - Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!" - Mystic, awful was the process. - All the family in order, - Sat before him for their pictures; - Each, in turn, as he was taken, - Volunteered his own suggestions, - His ingenious suggestions. - First the Governor, the Father, - He suggested velvet curtains - Looped about a massy pillar; - And a corner of a table, - Of a rosewood dining-table. - He would hold a scroll of something, - Hold it firmly in his left hand; - He would keep his right hand buried - (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; - He would contemplate the distance - With a look of pensive meaning, - As of ducks that die in tempests. - Grand, heroic was the notion: - Yet the picture failed entirely-- - Failed because he moved a little, - Moved, because he couldn't help it." - - * * * * * - - Next to him the eldest daughter: - She suggested very little, - Only asked if he would take her - With her look of 'passive beauty.' - Her idea of passive beauty - Was a squinting of the left eye, - Was a drooping of the right eye, - Was a smile that went up sideways - To the corner of the nostrils." - -After having taken each member of the family in succession, with the most -dismal results:-- - - Finally my Hiawatha - Tumbled all the tribe together, - ('Grouped' is not the right expression), - And, as happy chance would have it, - Did at last obtain a picture - Where the faces all succeeded: - Each came out a perfect likeness. - Then they joined, and all abused it, - Unrestrainedly abused it, - As 'the worst and ugliest picture - They could possibly have dreamed of.' - - * * * * * - - But my Hiawatha's patience, - His politeness and his patience, - Unaccountably had vanished, - And he left that happy party. - Left them in a mighty hurry, - Stating that he would not stand it, - Stating in emphatic language - What he'd be before he'd stand it. - Thus departed Hiawatha. - - From _Rhyme? and Reason?_ by Lewis Carroll, 1883. - -These disjointed extracts give but a poor idea of this most amusing poem, -the comical effects of which are much heightened by Mr. A. B. Frost's -humorous illustrations. - - * * * * * - - -THE LAWN-TENNIS PARTY AT PEPPERHANGER. - -(_A fragment in the metre of Longfellow's "Hiawatha."_) - - I was sitting in my wigwam, - Looking from my lofty wigwam, - On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh, - O'er the vale of Pepperhanger. - Suddenly there came a rapping, - [Sidenote: The Postman's knock.] - Double rapping, double tapping, - Sounding through the little wigwam, - Startling quiet Pepperhanger. - Thus the Government Messénjah, - [Sidenote: Heathen Mythology.] - Mercury of brazen buttons, - Crimson-collared, azure-coated, - Blue as when some ancient Briton, - As enlightenment came o'er him, - Thinking skin was rather shabby, - [Sidenote: History of England.] - Went and put a coat of Woad on. - He, the carrier of all letters, - He the bearer of all tidings - To the lofty hill of Dryburgh, - To the vale of Pepperhanger. - Swiftly then I took the letter; - Eagerly I read the message - From a hospitable lady - Of the vale of Pepperhanger, - "Come at four o'clock to tiffin, - If no better action urges; - In the cool of Tuesday evening, - Come and play a game of Tennis - On my lawns at Pepperhanger." - Thus her letter: then I sallied - To her almost hidden wigwam. - Which from East and rude Sou'-wester - Evergreen the pine-tree shelters; - Took my Tennis shoes of rubber, - Mocassins of Indian rubber, - Racket, too, of Horace Bayley, - To the tournament of Tennis - On the lawns of Pepperhanger. - [Sidenote: Lodge's Peerage.] - Came the lordly Tennyslornah. - Came the Reverend B. A. Kander, - [Sidenote: Clergy List.] - Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge, - Came the smasher, young de Vorley, - Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah, - Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe, - [Sidenote: Sludgeborough-in-the-Marsh.] - Strangers from a distant countrie, - To the tournament of Tennis - In the vale of Pepperhanger. - There we had a game at Tennis, - Outdoor Tennis let us call it, - Lest the lords of real Tennis - Should invoke a curse upon us; - Hotly smote the fierce back-hander, - Volleyed toward, also froward, - Till the speeding ball appeared as - One continuous flash of lightning: - Shouted loudly cries of Tennis, - "Forty-thirty" and "advantage," - Giving fifteen, owing thirty - For a bisque, anon half-thirty - Owing, giving, taking, wanting, - Till the brain was almost reeling, - [Sidenote: Colenso's Arithmetic.] - Handicapping calculations - All too hard for Pepperhanger! - Presently the tea-bell sounded - Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens - To the ne'er inebriating - Ever cheering goblet summons. - - From _Pastime_, August 24, 1883. - - * * * * * - -The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a number of clever parodies, many of -which were contributed to _Punch_ during his Editorship of that journal. -Three of the longest and most amusing of these were _The Very Last Idyll_, -after Tennyson; _The Rime of the Ancient Mariner_, after Coleridge; and -The _Song of Hiawatha_, after Longfellow. A quotation from The _Very Last -Idyll_ was given on page 44; and the parody on Coleridge will be quoted -when that author is reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared in -_Punch_ as far back as 1856, commenced thus:-- - - -THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. - - (_Author's Protective Edition._) - - You, who hold in grace and honour, - Hold as one who did you kindness - When he published former poems, - Sang Evangeline the noble, - Sang the golden Golden Legend, - Sang the songs the Voices utter, - Crying in the night and darkness, - Sang how unto the Red Planet - Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, - Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen - (Coming awkward for the accents - Into this his latest rhythm) - Write we as Protracted Fellow, - Or in Latin, Longus Comes-- - Buy the Song of Hiawatha. - - Should you ask me, Is the poem - Worthy of its predecessors, - Worthy of the sweet conceptions - Of the manly, nervous diction - Of the phrase, concise or pliant, - Of the songs that sped the pulses, - Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash, - Of the other works of Henry? - I should answer, I should tell you, - You may wish that you may get it-- - Don't you wish that you may get it? - - * * * * * - - Should you ask me, What's its nature? - Ask me, What's the kind of poem? - Ask me in respectful language, - Touching your respectful beaver, - Kicking back your manly hind-leg, - Like to one who sees his betters; - I should answer, I should tell you, - 'Tis a poem in this metre, - And embalming the traditions, - Tables, rites, and superstitions - Of the various tribes of Indians. - - * * * * * - - I should answer, I should tell you - Shut your mouth and go to David, - David, Mr. Punch's neighbour, - Buy the Song of Hiawatha. - Read and learn, and then be thankful - Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth, - Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth. - Truer poet, better fellow, - Than to be annoyed at jesting - From his friend, great Punch, who loves him. - - * * * * * - -The following is a list of the names of some famous advertisers of thirty -years ago, taken from _Hiawater_, a parody contained in "The Shilling Book -of Beauty," by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853):-- - - "Howlawaya, the quack doctor; - Mosieson, the cheap slop seller; - Mechisteel and Warrenblacking; - Camomile, the Pillofnorton; - Marywedlake, oaten bruiser; - Doctorjong, the great cod liver; - Revalenta, the Dubarrie, - Rowlandskalidore, and Trotman's - Doubledupperambulator." - -Another scarce parody on the same original was entitled _Milk-and-Watha_, -and an amusing skit was also contained in Gilbert's libretto to _Princess -Toto_. - -There is also a parody in Edmund Yates's _Our Miscellany_ (G. Routledge -and Co., 1857), and "Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection," appeared in _Tom -Hood's Comic Annual_, 1877. - - * * * * * - - -SHORTFELLOW SUMS UP LONGFELLOW. - - Miles Standish, old Puritan soldier, courts gal Priscilla by proxy; - Gal likes the proxy the best, so Miles, in a rage, takes and hooks it. - Folks think he's killed, but he ain't, and comes back, as a friend, - to the wedding, - If you call this ink-Standish stuff poetry, _Punch_ will soon reel - you off Miles. - - _Shirley Brooks_ on "The Courtship of Miles Standish." - - * * * * * - - -THE WAGNER FESTIVAL. - - (_By an admirer of Longfellow's "Evangeline," who sorrowfully - sat through the six concerts._) - - This is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth, - Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed - garments, - Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, - Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms, - Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ - Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing. - - This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner - Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame - Materna; - Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj, - And Richter, to whom is presented a bâton--brand new, silver-mounted; - But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes? - Where are the men--tawny swells--who talked of clubs, races, or - billiards, - Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes orchestral? - Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed, - And the critic goes--glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner. - - _Funny Folks._ - -Another parody of Evangeline, entitled _Picnicaline_ occurs in "Mirth and -Metre," 1855. - - -EXCELSIOR. - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through an Alpine village passed, - A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice, - A banner with this strange device, - Excelsior! - - His brow was sad; his eye beneath - Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, - And like a silver clarion rung, - The accents of that unknown tongue. - Excelsior! - -It is possible that Longfellow had the motto of New York, "_Excelsior_," -in his mind when he composed this hackneyed poem, which has served as the -model for hundreds of parodies, and particularly for advertising purposes. -A few of the more amusing only can be inserted. - - -EXCELSIOR IN "PIDGIN ENGLISH." - -The following article is from _Pro and Con_, December 14, 1872. - -"Pidgin English is the name given to an absurd _patois_ which is used in -conversation between the Chinese celestials, and the outer barbarians. It -appears to be a physical impossibility for a Chinaman to pronounce the -letter _r_ as in rough, cry, or curry, which he turns into lough, cly, and -cully, as young English children often do. V, he turns into W, th into -f, and to most words ending with a consonant, he adds a final syllable, -as in _find findie_, _catch catchee_, &c. I, me, my, and mine, are all -expressed by one word, _my_. The vocabulary consists of a few words of -French origin, such as savey, one or two from the Portuguese, many common -Chinese expressions, such as _chop-chop_ for quick; _man-man_, which -means stop; _maskee_, never mind, or do not mind; _chin-chin_, good-bye; -_welly culio_, or _muchee culio_, very curious; _Foss-pidgin-man_, a -priest; and _Topside Galah_, hurrah for the top, or Excelsior. There is -also a plentiful use of the word _pidgin_, which is simply a corruption -of our word _business_, but it appears to be applied with the utmost -impartiality, to a variety of most incongruous phrases. As an example of -every day talk, a lady telling her nurse to bring down her little girl and -boy to see a visitor would say,--'Aymah, suppose you go topside catchee -two piecee chiloe, bull chiloe, cow chiloe, chop chop.' From a gentleman -well acquainted with China and the Chinese, we have received the following -clever imitation of Excelsior, which is pronounced a very fair specimen of -Pidgin English":-- - - -TOPSIDE GALAH! - - "That nightee tim begin chop-chop, - One young man walkee, no can stop, - Maskee colo! maskee icee! - He cally that flag wid chop so nicee - _Topside Galah!_ - - "He too muchee solly, one piecee eye - Look see sharp--so fashion--allo same my, - He talkee largee, talkee stlong, - Too muchee culio-allo same gong-- - _Topside Galah!_ - - "Inside that housee he can see light, - And evely loom got fire all light. - Outside, that icee largee high, - Inside he mouf, he plenty cly, - _Topside Galah!_ - - "Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee!' - Bimeby lain come-welly darkee, - Hab got water, too muchee wide! - Maskee! my wantchee go topside-- - _Topside Galah!_ - - "'Man-man,' one galo talkee he, - What for you go topside look see?' - And one tim more he plenty cly, - But allo tim walkee plenty high, - _Topside Galah!_ - - "'Take care that spilem-tlee young man! - Take care that icee!'" He no man-man; - That coolie chin-chin he 'Good night,' - He talkee, 'My can go all lite!' - _Topside Galah!_ - - "Joss Pidgin man chop-chop begin - That morning tim that joss chin-chin, - He no man see, he plenty fear, - Cause some man speakee, he can hear - _Topside Galah!_ - - "That young man die--one largee dog see, - Too muchee bobbely, findee he; - Hand muchee colo, allo same icee, - Have piecee flag wid chop so nicee, - _Topside Galah!_ - - MOLAL. - - "You too much laughee! what for sing? - I tink you no savey what ting! - Supposee you no b'long cleber inside, - More better you go walkee topside, - _Topside Galah!_" - -Another, but, on the whole, inferior version of the above parody appeared -in Harper's Magazine, and is quoted at page 122 of _Poetical Ingenuities -and Eccentricities_, by W. T. Dobson (Chatto and Windus, 1882.) - - * * * * * - - The shades of night were falling fast, - When through the spacious High there passed - A form in gown of strange device, - Who uttered in a tone of ice, - "Your name and college!" - - His brow was black, his eye beneath - Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth; - And still amid the darkness rung - The accents of his well-known tongue; - "Your name and college!" - - "Try not the High," the porter said, - "Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led." - But forth in "loud" illegal dress - The youth went, crying "Let him guess - My name and college!" - - (_Half-an-hour elapses._) - - "O stay," his comrade said, "and rest - Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!" - To gain their wind the fliers try, - When lo! a figure gliding nigh, - Cries, "Name and college!" - - "Beware the proctor's sacred paunch, - Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch!" - This was the porter's last good-night; - A voice replied, "It serves me right - For cutting college!" - - Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine, - Two youths, in dread of penal fine, - Slunk silent through the awful gate, - And "hoped they were not much too late, - They'd run from college!" - - There, like a mouse awaiting cat, - Awful and calm the proctor sat; - And, like a death-knell booming far, - A voice fell stern: "This week you are - Confined to college!" - - _College Rhymes_, 1863. - - * * * * * - - -EXEXOLOR. - - The shades of night had fallen (_at last!_) - When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd - A youth, who bore, in manual vice, - A pot of something monstrous nice-- - XX--oh lor! - - His brow was bad--his young eye scann'd - The frothing flagon in his hand, - And like a gurgling streamlet sprung - The accents to that thirsty tongue, - XX--oh lor! - - In happy homes he saw them grub - On stout, and oysters from a tub,-- - The dismal gas-light gleamed without, - And from his lips escaped a shout, - "XX--oh lor!" - - "Young man," the Sage observ'd, "just stay, - And let me dip my beak, I say, - The pewter is deep, and I am dry!" - "Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye? - XX--oh lor!" - - "Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend - Thy beery burden here, my friend--" - Th' unbidden tear regretful rose, - But still his thumb-tip sought his nose; - XX--oh lor! - - "Beware the gutter at thy feet! - Beware the Dragons of the street! - Beware lest thirsty Bob you meet!" - This was the ultimate remark; - A voice replied far thro' the dark, - "XX--oh lor!" - - That night, by watchmen on their round, - The person in a ditch was found; - Still grasping in his manual vice, - That pot--once fill'd with something nice-- - XX--oh lor!!! - -From Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's _Puck on Pegasus_ (Chatto and Windus.) - - * * * * * - - -THE THEATRE. - - "_Nam quae pervincere voces Evaluere sonum referunt quem - nostra Theatra?_" - -I. - - The theatre was filling fast, - As through the open door there passed - A stranger with a scarlet tie, - That instantly provoked the cry - Of "Turn him out!" - -II. - - His nose was red, his lips beneath, - In frequent smiles disclosed his teeth, - And upward when he turned his eye, - In ceaseless hubbub came the cry, - "Ugh! Turn him out!" - -III. - - "Stay, stay," a master said, "and rest, - The 'Vice' cares little how you're dressed," - But loud from undergraduate lung - The cry continually rung, - "Ugh! Turn him out!" - -IV. - - The public orator began - To spout his Latin like a man; - His lips moved fast, but not a word - Was audible; we only heard, - "Ugh! Turn him out!" - -V. - - The Gaisford and the Newdigate - And Stanhope shared no better fate; - No single voice could drown the cry - That roared out from the gallery, - "Ugh! Turn him out!" - -VI. - - The 'Vice' rose up from off his chair, - And raised his finger in the air, - And gently strove the noise to quell, - But louder came the ceaseless yell, - "Ugh! Turn him out." - -VII. - - I left the place with aching brain, - And deafened ear that throbbed again, - And as I sauntered down the High, - Upon the breeze I heard the cry, - "Ugh! Turn him out!" - - _Lays of Modern Oxford_ (Chapman and Hall, 1874.) - - -EXCELSIOR. - - The price of meat was rising fast, - As to his daily duty passed - A toiler who, with bitter laugh, - Had read upon his _Telegraph_, - Excelsior! - - His brow was sad; because it bore - A costlier hat than e'er before: - His feet were sadder; he'd to pay - For boots that quickly wore away, - Excelsior! - - In oyster shops he saw the shells - Wherein the luscious bivalve dwells, - But had no chance of shelling out, - And murmured, as he dreamt of stout, - Excelsior! - - "Try this rump-steak!" the butcher said; - "At Tillyfour the ox was bred; - Juicy it is, M'Combie's pride, - And only one-and-six." He sighed-- - Excelsior! - - "Stay!" cried a maiden of the bar, - "A shilling buys a good cigar-- - Ten more some icy dry champagne." - He shook his head and cried again, - Excelsior! - - "Take comfort," said a Hebrew mild; - "I love to help a Christian child. - My moderate terms are cent. per cent. - 'Twas sixty once," he thought, and went-- - Excelsior! - - At dead of night that wayward youth, - So saddened by the eternal truth, - Was by a pious peeler found, - Who kindly raised him from the ground, - Excelsior! - - He uttered words that can't be told, - Said eating game was eating gold, - Showered maledictions on the souls - Of those who raise the price of coals-- - Excelsior! - - When morning shone upon the town, - He had to pay five shillings down, - And blessed the rulers of the skies - The price of Justice does not rise, - Excelsior! - - MORTIMER COLLINS. - -_The London Magazine_, February, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -"CLEAN YOUR DOOR-STEP, MARM?" - - The shades of night were some time past, - And snow had fallen thick and fast; - A youth, who broom and shovel bore, - Was heard to call outside the door, - "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" - - In happy homes he saw the light - Of household fires gleam warm and bright, - The singing kettle brightly shone-- - Again, again, his well-known tone-- - "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" - - His brow was sad--his chilly nose, - Like fiery coals, glow'd in the snows, - And, as the kitchen bell he rang, - In accents clear he loudly sang, - "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" - - "Oh, stay," the girl said, "while I see, - As I takes up the toast and tea; - And if your charge is not too high"-- - "A tanner's all," the poor boy's cry, - "To clean your doorstep, Marm?" - - He set to work with all his might, - But suddenly went out of sight;-- - Half-buried in the coals was found - The youth who sang that piteous sound, - "Clean your doorstep, Marm?" - - Some rascal in the night had twigged, - The coal-iron loose, which he had prigged, - "If I'd a know'd a hole was there, - I would o' coorse ha' took more care - Cleaning your doorstep, Marm?" - - * * * * * - - -YE MAYDEN AND YE EGGE. - - The shades of night were gone--at last, - As, all agog to break her fast, - A maiden sat, 'mid kith and kin, - While bent, impatient to begin, - _Egg-shell she o'er_. - - _Ye Paterfamilias._ - His brow was staid; his eyes beneath - Were closed. Not so his lips and teeth, - Whence, like a copper clarion rung - "Grace before meat." Still, listening, hung - _Egg-shell she o'er_. - - _Hys remonstrance._ - "Try not the egg!" the "old man" cried, - "Dark lowers some prodigy inside! - What if fowl play?"--no more he said, - For her protecting fingers spread - _Egg-shell she o'er_. - - _Ye Mayden_--_her Prayer._ - "Stay, Pa!" the maiden said, "let's test - Your query, ere upon this breast - You anguish pile." Her moistening eye - Here drooped, and struggled with a sigh, - _Egg-shell she o'er_. - - _Ye Fynde._ - At break of shell, as chickenward - (For aught she knew) her spoon she stirred, - A something stubborn claimed a stare. - "My brooch!" cried with a startled air, - _Egg-shell she o'er_. - - _Ye Ende._ - There in the middle--so they say-- - Hard, but albuminous it lay. - And, when she grew serener, far, - Fished the thing up, with "dear old star!" - _Egg-shell she o'er_. - -This ingenious but rather mad parody appeared in _The Figaro_ of May 6, -1876. - - -THOSE HORRID SCHOOLS. - -I. - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through the quad a gownsman passed, - Whose seedy look and sunken cheek - Bespoke as plain as words could speak, - "Those horrid schools!" - -II. - - His coat was worn; his bags beneath - Were quite too short his legs to sheath, - While like a penny trumpet rung - The treble of that mournful tongue, - "Those horrid schools!" - -III. - - In happy homes he left the light - Of household fires both warm and bright; - Before the spectral "Great Go" shone, - And from his lips escaped a groan, - "Those horrid schools!" - -IV. - - "Try but to pass," his tutor said, - "A class is not within your head. - The yawning gulf is deep and wide!" - But still that treble voice replied, - "Those horrid schools!" - -V. - - "Oh stay!" the maiden said, "and rest - Thy learned head upon my breast!" - A tear stood in his sunken eye, - He blushed, and answered, looking shy, - "Those horrid schools!" - -VI. - - "Beware tobacco's withered plant! - Beware of vinous stimulant!" - This was the gov'nor's last good-bye, - A voice replied, from out the fly, - "Those horrid schools!" - -VII. - - At break of day, as through the gloom - The scout when going from room to room, - Uttered the oft repeated call, - A voice came from the bedroom small, - "Those horrid schools!" - -VIII. - - The poor young sap asleep quite sound, - Half buried in the sheets was found, - Still grasping, nibbled by the mice, - An Ethics with the strange device, - "Those horrid schools!" - -IX. - - There in the twilight, cold and grey, - Dirty, unwashen, there he lay, - While from his scout the sentence flowed, - "Oh drat those books--them schools be blowed, - "Them 'orrid schools!" - - _College Rhymes_, 1861 - - -THAT THIRTY-FOUR. - -(The following parody was selected for a prize in a competition, by the -editor of _Truth_, and appeared in that paper on November 25th, 1880. It -refers to the American puzzle, called "Thirty-four," which was then very -popular). - - Chill August's storms were piping loud, - When through a gaping London crowd, - There passed a youth, who still was heard - To mutter the perplexing word, - "That Thirty-four!" - - His eyes were wild; his brow above - Was crumpled like an old kid glove; - And like some hoarse crow's grating note - That word still quivered in his throat, - "That Thirty-four!" - - "Oh, give it up!" his comrades said, - "It only muddles your poor head; - It is not worth your finding out." - He answered with a wailing shout, - "That Thirty-four!" - - "Art not content," the maiden said, - "To solve the 'Fifteen' one instead?" - He paused-his tearful eyes he dried-- - Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed, - "That Thirty-four!" - - At midnight, on their high resort, - The cats were startled at their sport, - To hear, beneath one roof, a tone - Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan, - "That Thirty-four!" - - * * * * * - - -TOBACCO SMOKE! - - The clouds or smoke were rising fast, - As through a college room there passed - A youth who bore, 'spite sage advice, - A "baccy"-pouch with strange device, - "Tobacco smoke!" - - His brow was sad; his eye beneath - Stared on a pipe, laid in its sheath, - And in his ears there ever rung - The accents of the donor's tongue, - "Tobacco smoke!" - - * * * * * - - "Try not the shag!" the old man said, - It is o'er strong for thy young head, - Dire its effects to those untried - Heedless he was, and but replied, - "Tobacco smoke!" - - "Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and test - Our Latakia--'tis the best!" - He grasped his packet of birds'-eye, - And only muttered with a sigh, - "Tobacco smoke!" - - "Beware; don't set your room alight-- - The college might object--good-night!" - Such were the words the scholar spoke, - And scarcely heard through closing oak, - "Tobacco smoke!" - - That Freshman by his scout was found - Lying all prone upon the ground, - And still his hand grasped like a vice - The "baccy"-pouch with strange device, - "Tobacco smoke!" - * * * * * - R. C., Oxford. - -_College Rhymes_, 1864. - - * * * * * - - -"OBSTRUCTIONISTS." - - (_By a Lover of Longfellow, after spending Twenty-six Hours - in the House of Commons._) - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through St. Stephen's portals passed - An Irish band, not over nice, - Whose banners bore the strange device-- - "Obstructionists!" - - Each brow was sad, each eye beneath - Glared at Cavan, Dungarvan, Meath; - And soon in Erin's brogue was heard - Again their policy absurd-- - "Obstructionists!" - - * * * * * - - "Tempt not the Commons," Northcote said, - "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; - Too long its rules have been defied;" - But still the Irish rowdies cried-- - "Obstructionists!" - - * * * * * - - "Beware the Ministerial branch-- - Beware the Tory avalanche!" - Was Biggar's caution, and he smiled, - When for a nap he left the wild - "Obstructionists!" - - At noon that day O'Donnell craved - A respite, but the Commons braved - The contest, and their only prayer - Was to demolish then and there-- - "Obstructionists!" - - The chaplain came his usual round, - The Commons sitting still he found, - Using each possible device - To crush that band, not over nice-- - "Obstructionists!" - - But late on that eventful day - The "stumbling blocks" were kicked away; - South Africa rejoiced afar, - And Biggar moaned, "It's done we are!"-- - "Obstructionists!" - - _Funny Folks._ - - * * * * * - - -ENDYMION. - - The shades of night were falling fast - Round Hughenden,--for some time past - A Statesman, working day and night, - A flowery fiction did indite-- - _Endymion_. - - His hair was dark, and you could trace - A soupçon of an ancient race; - And still, in quite his early way, - He wrote of Lords and Ladies gay-- - _Endymion_. - - "Tempt not the Press," Lord Rowton said. - "Of critics have a timely dread: - They skinned you when you wrote _Lothair_." - He answered, with his nose in air, - "_Endymion!_" - - "Oh stay," the Tory said, "and make - That wicked GLADSTONE writhe and quake." - A twinkle flash'd from out his eye: - "I'll give him rope," he said, "and try - _Endymion!_" - - "Beware the day they may begin - To break the Treaty of Berlin!" - This was the Tory's last appeal. - He only said, "I will reveal - _Endymion!_" - - And so, when Ireland was aflame, - The Eastern Question just the same, - Conservatives beheld with doubt - Their Leader bring his novel out-- - _Endymion_. - - And all who waded through the book, - Met Titles, Tailor, Prince and Dook: - What wonder it is all the rage? - For epigram adorns thy page, - _Endymion!_ - - There, in the twilight, cold and grey, - Serene in Curzon Street he lay. - "This cheque from LONGMANS' will go far," - A voice said. "Now for a cigar!" - _Endymion!_ - - _Punch_, December 4, 1880. - - * * * * * - - -A "COMMON" GRIEVANCE; OR, OUR OPEN SPACES AND OUR ÆDILES. - - The summer day was waning fast, - As o'er a London heath there pass'd - A youth who walked with steps precise, - And murmured, more than once or twice, - "The Heath is ours!" - - His eyes flashed brightly in his head, - Till, as the notice-boards he read, - His cheeks for one short moment blenched, - but soon he cried, with fingers clenched, - "The Heath is ours!" - - Then he recalled the large amount - The people'd paid that they might count - That Heath their own, and then again - He shouted out, with might and main, - "The Heath is ours!" - - As thus he cried, a keeper came, - And roughly said, "Young man! Your name? - I'll summons you for spouting here!" - "Bah," cried the youth, "I have no fear-- - The Heath is ours!" - - The liveried myrmidon but jeered, - "Well, that's the queerest tale I've heerd; - This 'eath's been taken by our Board." - Much moved, the youth in answer roared, - "The Heath is ours!" - - "Rouse not his ire," an old man said; - "You have not, p'rhaps, the by-laws read? - Alas! he's might upon his side." - "Go to!" the eager youth replied, - "The Heath is ours!" - - "O stay!" a maiden said, "nor pass - In that mad way across the grass! - You will be fined. Oh, please don't go!" - "Thanks!" cried the youth, "but I must show - The Heath is ours!" - - * * * * * - - Then, rising 'gainst crass Bumble's yoke, - He every stupid by-law broke, - And when stern keepers asked his name, - Still loud the self-same answer came: - "The Heath is ours!" - - As evening fell, a tottering form, - All heedless of the gathering storm, - Defied each notice-board he passed, - And cried--determined to the last: - "The Heath is ours!" - - * * * * * - - A youth, when next the sun came round, - Buried in summonses was found; - Still gasping, as yet more were served, - In accents, feeble and unnerved: - "The Heath is ours!" - - * * * * * - - There to the Police Court brought next day, - He'd many pounds and costs to pay; - And from his lips no more was heard - That cry he'd learned was so absurd: - "The Heath is ours!" - - _Truth_, August 2, 1883. - - * * * * * - -The following description of an unpleasant nocturnal adventure has been -written especially for this collection:-- - - The shades of night were falling fast, - One mile from town was Knightsbridge passed, - We found ourselves (it was not nice) - Tripped up by two men in a trice, - And felt so sore! - - Our brow was muddy, as beneath - Their pressure we could scarce draw breath, - Our "withers" seemed to be unwrung. - As we were in the gutter flung, - And felt so sore! - - We never shall forget that night - Rising in pitiable plight, - We found our jewellery gone, - Ourselves a sight to look upon, - We felt so sore! - - "Try not to pass!" they might have said. - Alas! they tripped us up instead. - Such warning was to us denied, - And stretched upon the pavement wide, - We felt so sore! - - "Oh, stay a moment, that arrest - May police vigilance attest," - Was what we were inclined to cry, - But we could only heave a sigh-- - We felt so sore! - - Beware a court, where the roads branch, - Be wary, lest an avalanche - Of blows should, when out late at night, - On your poor occiput alight, - We felt so sore! - - They ran away with watch and guard, - And left us on the pavement hard, - Whilst we to follow did not dare, - Because we had no breath to spare-- - We felt so sore! - - No passers by to make a sound, - And not a "peeler" to be found. - Still gasping from their hands of _vice_, - Glad to escape at any price, - We felt so sore! - - Then all at once we cried "hooray!" - Here comes a "Bobby" on his way. - A LONG FELLOW we spied afar, - And mentally exclaimed, "Ha! ha!" - Excelsior. - - T. F. DILLON CROKER. - - * * * * * - -A courteous correspondent has forwarded a little pamphlet, which was -issued by Enoch Morgan, Sons, and Co., New York, about three years ago. -It has some quaintly comical _silhouette_ illustrations, beneath each of -which is one of the following verses:-- - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through an Eastern village passed - A youth who bore, through dust and heat, - A stencil plate, that read complete-- - SAPOLIO! - - His brow was sad, but underneath, - White with "Odonto" shone his teeth. - And through them hissed the words, "Well, blow - Me tight if here is 'ary show!" - SAPOLIO! - - On household fences, gleaming bright, - Shone "Gargling Oil," in black and white. - Once "Bixby's Blacking" stood alone, - He straight beside it clapped his own-- - SAPOLIO! - - "Try not my fence," the old man said, - "With 'Mustang Liniment' 'tis spread, - Another vacant spot thar ain't," - He answered with a dash of paint-- - SAPOLIO! - - "O, stay," the maiden said, "a rest - Pray give us! What with 'Bixby's Best,' - And 'Simmons' Pills,' we're like to die." - He only answered, "Will you try-- - SAPOLIO?" - - "Beware them Peaks! That wall so bright - Is but a snow bank, gleaming white, - Your paint won't stick!"; came the reply, - "I've done it! How is that for high?" - "SAPOLIO." - - One Sabbath morn, as heavenward - White mountain tourists slowly spurred, - On ev'ry rock to their dismay, - They read that legend strange, alway - "SAPOLIO." - - There on the summit, old and fat, - Shameless, but vigorous he sat, - While on their luggage as they passed, - He checked that word, from first to last, - "SAPOLIO." - - * * * * * - -Advertising parodies of _Excelsior_ abound. Extracts from a few of the -best are given below:-- - - -13, CROSS CHEAPING. - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through the ancient city passed, - A youth who scorned to pause or stop, - Until he reached that noted shop, - 13, CROSS CHEAPING. - - In happy homes he saw the light, - Of household fires gleam warm and bright; - He heeded not the cheerful coal, - But strode straight onward to his goal, - 13, CROSS CHEAPING. - - "Beware of rain," an old man said, - "Dark lowers the tempest overhead," - The youth made quite a little speech, - "I fear no rain if once I reach - 13, CROSS CHEAPING." - - "Oh stay," a maiden said, "and rest; - Put not your strength to further test," - A smile lurked in his bright blue eye, - And merrily he made reply: - "13, CROSS CHEAPING." - - "Once safely there, I shall forget - My tired feet, and dread of wet; - Whilst buying where I've bought before; - Whilst choosing from that well-filled store, - 13, CROSS CHEAPING." - - "Their BOOTS have richly earned their fame; - Their SHOES have gained an envied name; - What matters mud, however thick, - When once your feet are shod by DICK, - 13, CROSS CHEAPING." - - -PILOSAGINE. - - The shades of night were falling fast, - When on the word his eyes he cast-- - That word which struck him with amaze-- - Couched in the adverts' meant to praise. - PILOSAGINE. - - Sleep from his eyelids fastly fled, - As to himself he wondering said: - "If it be true that I can buy - What will produce a beard, I'll try - PILOSAGINE." - - * * * * * - - "Tempt not the trash," in tones full rough, - His father urged, "Like other stuff - That you have oft and often tried - 'Tis sure to prove." The youth replied, - "PILOSAGINE." - - PILOSAGINE at once applied, - The wished-for three for which he sighed, - Imperial, beard, moustache, soon felt; - And thankful is he that e'er he spelt - PILOSAGINE. - - * * * * * - -I. - - The drizzling rain was falling fast, - As thro' the streets of London passed - A youth who bore a neat and nice - Umbrella with the strange device, - "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." - -II. - - His step was firm, erect his form, - As heedless of the gathering storm - He homeward hied with dauntless mien - Beneath that elemental screen-- - "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." - -III. - - He saw umbrellas creased and torn, - By wet and angry persons borne, - And sorrowing o'er their wretched plight, - He pitied those who lacked that night - "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." - -IV. - - "Best try a cab," an old friend said; - "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. - The rain will faster fall anon;" - But still that youth relied upon - "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." - -V. - - "O stay," a maiden said, "I'd fain - Ask a brief shelter from the rain." - The astonished youth gazed at the fair, - And gently answered, "You may share, - "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." - - * * * * * - - -OZOKERIT. - - (_By a Long-way-after-a-Fellow-Poet._) - - The shades of night were falling fast, - When through a western suburb passed - A man who bore upon his back - A placard, with this word in black-- - "OZOKERIT." - - His brow was dark, his eye beneath - Gleamed like a lantern o'er his teeth, - Which gnashing ceaselessly he sung - That fragment of an unknown tongue-- - "OZOKERIT." - - In humble homes he saw the light - Of candles--if anything less bright - Above, the glimmering gas lamps shone, - The contrast wrung from him a groan. - "OZOKERIT." - - "Trust not the gas," the old man said, - "Dingy and dull the lamps o'er head-- - The illumination is ill supplied," - But loud that sandwich bearer cried, - "OZOKERIT." - - "O stay," the maiden said, "or rest - Until your mystery is guessed!" - A wink obscured his cunning eye, - As still he mentioned in reply-- - "OZOKERIT." - - Beware the peeler, stern and staunch, - With bull's-eye pendant at his haunch. - This was the pleasant last "Good-day," - A voice replied, some streets away, - "OZOKERIT." - - At break of day, while reeled along, - Shouting their oft repeated song. - Some "Jolly Dogs," with blinking stare, - They heard a voice ring through the air, - "OZOKERIT." - - The speaking, tracing by the sound, - They, sitting on a doorstep, found - A man, who bore upon his back - A placard, with that word in black, - "OZOKERIT." - - There on the doorstep, cold and flat, - Puzzled by pondering he sat; - And with the hoarseness of catarrh, - He sighed, "I wonders what it are!" - "OZOKERIT." - - From _Fun_, October 22, 1870. - - * * * * * - - -CURFEW. - -I. - - Solemnly, mournfully - Dealing its dole, - The Curfew Bell - Is beginning to toll. - - Cover the embers, - And put out the light, - Toil comes with the morning, - And rest with the night. - - Dark grow the windows, - And quenched is the fire, - Sound fades into silence,-- - All footsteps retire. - - No voice in the chambers, - No sound in the hall! - Sleep and oblivion - Reign over all! - - LONGFELLOW. - - * * * * * - - -CLOSE OF THE SEASON. - -I. - - Suddenly, joyfully, - Leaving the Row, - The London Belle - Is beginning to go. - - Cover the couches - And shut out the light, - Calls cease in the morning, - And parties at night. - - Closed are the windows, - And out is the fire. - The knockers are silent - All footmen retire. - - No groom in the chambers, - No porter in hall: - Dust and brown holland - Reign over all! - -II. - - The season is ended, - And closed like the play, - And the swells that adorned it - Vanish away. - - Dim grow its dances, - Forgotten they'll be, - Like the ends of cigars, - Thrown into the sea. - - Squares lapse into silence, - The Railways are full - The windows are papered, - The West End is dull. - - Fewer and fewer - The people to call - Sweeps and the charwoman, - Reign over all. - - * * * * * - - -THE END. - - Tuesday, September 7, 1880. - - (_A Vague Reminiscence of Longfellow._) - - Tardily, wearily, - Reacheth its goal - The Session of '80, - Tired old soul! - - Cover the benches, - And put out the light; - Divisions are over, - And sittings all night. - - The bells are all dumb, - And idle the wire; - Rant sinks into silence, - Reporters retire. - - Fewer and fewer - The few footsteps fall; - Quiet and Constables - Reign over all! - - _Punch_, September 18, 1880. - - * * * * * - - -THE BRIDGE. - - I stood on the bridge at midnight, - As the clocks were striking the hour, - And the moon rose o'er the city, - Behind the dark-church tower. - - * * * * * - - How often, oh, how often, - In the days that had gone by, - I had stood on the bridge at midnight - And gazed on that wave and sky! - - LONGFELLOW. - - -THE BRIDGE (By _Longus Socius_.) - - I stood on the bridge at midday, - And the crowd was striking in power, - And the roar rose from the City, - And the docks about the Tower. - - And I made a bright reflection - On the waters under me, - Like a muddy highway flowing - With steamers to the sea. - - * * * * * - - How often, oh, how often, - In omnibus or fly, - I have crossed the bridge at midday, - When you hardly could get by. - - How often, oh, how often - I have wished the crowd beside - Were at Jericho or elsewhere, - Or the pathways were more wide. - - For my heart was hot and restless, - And my mind was full of care, - Lest the train I wished to go by - Might start 'ere I got there. - - * * * * * - - And I think how many thousand - Of crowd-encumbered men, - Each striving to stem the current, - Have missed their trains since then. - - I see the long processions - Of the cabs and the 'busses go, - And the eager people restless, - Because they must walk so slow. - - And for ever, and for ever, - For all that a party knows, - As long as the cabs and the 'busses - Must pause with their frequent "whoas," - - To cross it in either direction - Will take an hour or near, - So you simply must start at eleven, - If by twelve you would cross it clear. - - _Fun_, November 3, 1866. - - * * * * * - - -THE RINK. - - _Respectfully Dedicated to the Author of "The Bridge."_ - - I sat in the Rink at midday; - The clocks were striking the hour, - But you would not have known, for the April sun - Was quenched in a copious shower. - - I saw the raindrops falling - In puddles in the street, - And I envied the throng that was passing along - With wet, but unrollered feet. - - And far in the hazy distance - Of that dripping April day, - My snug hearth fire gleam'd redder and higher, - Because I was far away. - - The rattle of wheels rang round me, - With a quaint and wooden roar, - And groups of the fair, with dishevelled hair, - Were lying about on the floor. - - E'en I, in a moment of madness, - Had snatched at the fatal cup. - And my rollers were on, but I sat all alone, - For alas! I could not get up. - - And like those rinkers rolling - Amongst their woodon piers, - A flood of thoughts came o'er me - That filled my eyes with tears. - - How often, oh, how often, - In the days that had gone by, - I had waltzed in that room at midnight, - With a fixed and a vacant eye. - - How often, oh, how often, - I had wished that a cab from afar, - Would bear me away in its bosom - To my rooms, and a mild cigar. - - For my limbs were hot and restless, - And my boots a serious care, - And the burden of mild flirtation, - Seemed greater than I could bear. - - But now it is changed and vanished, - It has fallen over the brink; - Before, we were sad, but now we are mad, - And the ball-room is turned to a rink. - - Yet whenever I watch these rinkers - Amongst their wooden piers, - Like the sound of April raindrops, - Comes the thought of other years. - - And I think how many thousands - Of skate-encumbered men, - Each bearing his burden of ladies, - Have rinked on this floor since then. - - I see the long procession, - Still tottering to and fro, - The young feet clumsy and rapid, - The old feet clumsy and slow. - - And for ever, and for ever, - As long as the raindrops fall, - As long as we've angling ladies, - (And angular too) at all, - - The Rink and its ceaseless rollers, - And its broken limbs, shall appear - As the symbol of Bedlam's madness - And its accurate image here! - - KIT NUBBLES - -_The Figaro_, June 14, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -THE WHITEFRIARGATE BRIDGE. - -I. - - I stood on the bridge at midnight, - As "Travis" was striking the hour; - And the moon rose o'er the city - Aslant the Dock Co.'s tower. - -II. - - I stood and recalled how savage, - In the day that's just gone by, - I was stopped by that bridge at midday, - And watched it raised on high. - -III. - - For my heart was hot and restless, - My business full of care; - And the check thus put upon me - Seemed longer than I could bear. - -IV. - - - And I thought how many thousands - Of work-encumbered men, - On hearing the bell a-ringing, - Have cursed this bridge since then. - -V. - - I see the long procession - Still pacing to and fro-- - The master, the clerk, the workman; - The Dockmen, officious and slow. - -VI. - - And forever, and forever, - As long as the Company goes, - As long as we brook the fashion - Of transit, and bow to our woes. - -VII. - - So long we shall lose our appointments, - So long by our spouses be told - That we're ten minutes late as usual, - And our dinner is getting cold. - - _The Whitefriargate Papers_, Hull, February 17, 1872. - - * * * * * - - -SUNSET. - - (_An Imitation._) - - I stood on the shore at even, - And I looked out into the west, - Out over the pathless ocean, - As the sun sank down to rest. - - I saw him dip into the billows, - And the sea was one blaze of light, - As if day's expiring effort - Was to blacken the darkness of night. - - From my feet to the far horizon - Was a golden sparkling road, - A type of the path that leads us - From earth to God's abode. - - As darkness fell on the waters, - I heard the sea-birds' cry, - And the mighty ocean answered - With its waves in an endless sigh. - - Then I thought how like the sunlight - We find our hopes depart, - And the ocean's endless sighing - Found an echo in my heart. - - F. W. D., St. Alban Hall. - -_College Rhymes_ (T. Shrimpton and Sons, Oxford), 1873. - - * * * * * - - -THE SLAVE'S DREAM. - - Beside the ungathered rice he lay, - His sickle in his hand; - His breast was bare, his matted hair - Was buried in the sand, - Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, - He saw his Native Land - - * * * * * - - The forests, with their myriad tongues, - Shouted of liberty: - And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, - With a voice so wild and free, - That be started in his sleep, and smiled - At their tempestuous glee. - - He did not feel the driver's whip, - Nor the burning heat of day; - For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, - And his lifeless body lay - A worn-out fetter, that the soul - Had broken and thrown away! - - LONGFELLOW. - - * * * * * - - -THE SWELL'S DREAM; OR, WHAT HIS HEIR WOULD LIKE TO BRING ABOUT. - - (_Dedicated by a Shortman to a Longfellow._) - -I. - - Beside an untouched ice he lay, - An eighteenpenny cigar in his hand, - He shook his hair with an angry air - At the sound of a distant band. - Then he dreamt in the mist and shadow of sleep - He was a beggar in the Strand. - -II. - - Wide through his frock-coat's gaping seams - His fancy shirting showed; - He had no gloves, no crutchy cane, - No nosegay _a la mode;_ - And he saw a man, with a tinkling pan, - Crying m-u-lk all down the road! - -III. - - He felt quite sore, and very lean, - His face was sadly tanned; - His bones stuck out on both his cheeks, - And he could hardly stand. - A tear dropped from the sleeper's lids, - His Havanna from his hand. - -IV. - - And then the dismal vision showed - The way in which he sank; - From golden chains, to aches and pains, - With no balance at the bank. - For this woe he could feel, and it caused him to reel, - He had but himself to thank. - -V. - - From a popular man, dubbed a wit and a wag, - To a pauper without a _sous;_ - From morn till night, like an unhappy wight, - Cut or shunned by all he knew. - And this was his fate, by stopping up late, - And losing his money at "loo!" - -VI. - - How he had wasted his time and his tin - By keeping and driving a team. - The care and the cash he had spent on his weeds, - All this he saw in his dream. - And, as his thoughts sped, the blood in his head - Curdled up like so much cream. - -VII. - - He thought of the good he might have done - For love and charity; - And with anguish bowed, he cried out aloud - A word that began with a "d!" - He started and woke--and exceedingly riled, - Rang the bell for a Soda and B. - -VIII. - - How did he feel as he took out his watch, - And consulted the time of day? - Had he learnt a lesson from the Land of Sleep? - I hope for my sake he may! - And I think the moral _did_ reach its goal, - For he's got quite stingy they say. - -From _Cribblings from the Poets_ (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883). - - * * * * * - - -SONG OF THE SILENT LAND. - - Into the Silent Land! - Ah! who shall lead us thither? - Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, - And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. - Who leads us with a gentle hand - Thither, O thither, - Into the Silent Land? - - LONGFELLOW. - - * * * * * - - -SONG OF THE IRISH LAND! - -(_After Longfellow and Salis._) - - Into the Irish Land! - Ah! who shall lead us thither? - Clouds in the Western sky less darkly gather, - And household wrecks less thickly dot the strand. - Who leads us with a friendly hand, - Thither, oh thither, - Into the Irish Land? - - O Land! O Land! - For which poor Pat hath plotted, - GLADSTONE, mild herald by kind fate allotted, - Beckons, and with his blessed Bill doth stand, - To lead us with a friendly hand - Into the Land whence we've long been parted, - Into the Irish Land! - - _Punch_, August 13, 1881. - -In _Punch_ of October 21, 1882, there was another parody of this poem, -entitled "Song of the Oyster Land," by a _Longing Fellow_, commencing-- - - "Into the Oyster Land! - Ah! Who shall lead us thither?" - - * * * * * - - -THE NORMAN BARON. - - In his chamber, weak and dying, - Was the Norman baron lying; - Loud without the tempest thundered, - And the castle-turret shook. - In this fight was Death the gainer, - Spite of vassal and retainer, - And the lands his sires had plundered, - Written in the Doomsday Book. - - * * * * * - - Every vassal of his banner, - Every serf born to his manor, - All those wronged and wretched creatures - By his hand were freed again. - And, as on the sacred missal - He recorded their dismissal, - Death relaxed his iron features, - And the monk replied, "Amen!" - Many centuries have been numbered - Since in death the baron slumbered - By the convent's sculptured portal. - Mingling with the common dust. - But the good deed, through the ages - Living in historic pages, - Brighter grows and gleams immortal, - Unconsumed by moth or rust. - - LONGFELLOW. - - * * * * * - - -THE REPENTANT BARON. - - A Lay of Berlin. - - (_After Professor Shortfellow._) - - In his chamber, mine adjoining, - Was the German Baron dining. - Loud his voice with passion thundered, - And with fear the kellner shook. - As I listened it was plainer - That he bullied this retainer, - Forasmuch as he had blundered; - Or it might have been the cook. - - Just outside, upon the Linden, - On an instrument (a wind 'un) - Played a minstrel most demurely, - Dismal as the parish waits. - And so loud he kept on getting, - While his frau stood by him, knitting, - That I thought, "The Baron, surely, - Will demolish all the plates." - - "Spare a groschen, princely stranger! - May you never be in danger - Of the want of means to spare 'un, - Or a couple, if so be." - Then the minstrel went on playing, - Not a single word more saying; - And exclaimed the shuddering Baron, - "_Miserere Domine!_" - - Tears upon his eyelids glistened - While in agony he listened - To the instrument (a wind 'un) - Which the minstrel he did play. - Then unto the kellner ready, - "Take this double thaler," said he, - To the minstrel of the Linden, - Begging him to go away." - - In that hour of deep contrition - He beheld with double vision - All the sins he had committed, - And he said in accents thick - To the kellner, "Loo' here, kellner, - You're a 'spec'ble kind o' felner; - _I'm_ a felner to be pitied; - I'm a mis'ble felner! Hic. - - "Can you feel for one in sorrow? - I shall make my will to-morrow; - I shall leave you all my money, - Every single thing that's mine. - Watch--repeater; ring--carbuncle; - Kellner you're my long-lost uncle. - Just discovered this--how funny! - Fesh another bolowine." - - Many hours the clock has numbered - Since the German Baron slumbered; - And his boots are at the portal - Of his chamber, free from dust; - And an instrument (a wind 'un) - Sounds again upon the Linden, - Waking that unhappy mortal - From the snorings of the just. - - GODFREY TURNER. - - _Tom Hood's Comic Annual_, 1871. - - * * * * * - - -Longfellow's ballad, _The Skeleton in Armour_ commences thus:-- - - "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! - Who, with thy hollow breast - Still in rude armour drest, - Comest to daunt me! - Wrapt not in Eastern balms, - But with thy fleshless palms - Stretched, as if asking alms, - Why dost thou haunt me?" - -its metre was admirably imitated by the late C. S. Calverley, in his - - -ODE TO TOBACCO. - - Thou who, when fears attack - Bidst them avaunt, and Black - Care, at the horseman's back, - Perching, unseatest; - Sweet when the morn is grey; - Sweet when they've cleared away - Lunch, and at close of day - Possibly sweetest. - I have a liking old - For thee, though manifold - Stories, I know are told, - Not to thy credit. - - * * * * * - - Cats may have had their goose - Cooked by tobacco juice; - Still why deny its use - Thoughtfully taken? - We're not as tabbies are: - Smith take a fresh cigar! - Jones, the tobacco jar! - Here's to thee, Bacon! - -From C. S. Calverley's _Verses and Translations_ (George Bell and Sons). - - * * * * * - - -THE DERBY WEEK. - - (_A Long Way After a Longfellow._) - - Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how precious are thy pleasures! - Not hymned alone in summer-time - With hoarse enthusiastic rhyme, - Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, but hailed in pewtern measures! - - Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how coarse the cads who "put on" - Their three half-crowns for Insulaire, - Or intimate Sir Joseph's "square." - Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week--as if I cared a button! - - Saturnian feasts, Saturnian feasts, you ape, despite Dame Grundy. - We laugh until the dread bell rings, - But oh, the aches to-morrow brings, - And Derby week, and Derby week, that reckoning on the Monday! - - The welsher's book, the welsher's book, is mirror of thy glories: - It's ready when _their_ horse comes in, - But somewhat muddled when _you_ win. - The welsher's book, the welsher's book, whips Black's in point of - stories! - - So Derby week, oh, Derby week, your usual style, we think, errs, - In ending in too cheerful nights, - Headaches and debts, green veils and fights, - And Derby week, oh, Derby week, Dutch dolls and British drinkers. - - _Funny Folks_, June 8, 1878. - - * * * * * - -The following are parodies of the "Saga of King Olaf," contained in -Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn":-- - - -QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY. - - (_A Longfellow Cut Short._) - - Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, - In her chamber that looked over meadow and croft; - She held in her hand a ring of gold - That was brought to her by a henchman old. - King Olaf had sent her that wedding gift; - But knowing King Olaf was prone to thrift, - She gave the ring to her goldsmiths twain, - Who smiled as they handed it back again. - Then Sigrid the Queen in her haughty way, - Asked, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, pray?" - They answered, "Queen, if the truth be told, - The ring is Brummagem--'t isn't gold!" - The colour flushed over forehead and cheek, - She simply stamped--but she did not speak. - A footstep rang on the outer stair, - And in strode Olaf with royal air. - He kissed her hand, and he whispered love, - And (just for the rhyme) he murmured "Dove!" - She smiled with contempt as she said "Oh, king! - Step it--and get five bob on that ring!" - The face of King Olaf was dark with gloom, - He swore as he strode about the room. - She raised her brows and looked at the King-- - "To swear before ladies is not the thing!" - "Why should I wed thee," he cried, "old maid? - A faded beauty, a heathen jade!" - He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp, - And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp. - They placed the King in a dungeon vault, - Because he was guilty of an assault, - With Tupper for supper, and hot cross buns - They slowly starved him, those savage ones, - And his only drink was Petrole_um_-- - And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Rum! - - A SHORTFELLOW. - - * * * * * - - -THE SAGA OF THE SKATERMAN. - - Down by the Serpentine, - Found I the Skaterman-- - Found him a-wiping his - Eyes with his ulster-sleeve, - Eyes full of scalding tears, - Red with much blubbering. - Red was his nose likewise-- - Deeply I pitied him. - - "Cheer up, O Skaterman! - Never say die!" says I. - "Cheer up, my hearty!"--so - Tried I to comfort him, - Slapping his back, whereby - Coughed he like anything, - Forth went my heart to him, - Lent him my wipe, I did, - Dried his poor nose and eyes, - Sitting aside of him - Holding his hand. - "Hark to the Skald!" I says, - "Tell him what's up with thee; - Thor of the Hammer will - Come to thine aid!" - Then spake the Skaterman, - Rumbling with muttered oaths - Deep in his diaphragm, - Grumbling at Thor: - "Blow Thaw and Scald!" he cried; - "Blow heverythink!" he cried, - Salt tears a-rolling down - Alongside his nose. - "See these here 'Hacmes,' Sir, - New from the Store they are, - Never been used afore, - Twelve-and-six thrown away! - Friga the Frigid came, - Friga, great Odin's wife, - Bound up the river-gods, - Laid out an icy floor - Mete for the Skaterman. - Then I began to hoard. - Weekly and weekly hoard, - All of my saving to - Buy these here things-- - Came Thaw, the thunder-god, - Brake up the Ice-bound stream-- - Twelve-and-six thrown away, - That's what's the matter, Sir-- - Thaw, he be blowed!" - Then, with a wild shriek, he - Upped with his knobby stick, - Smote on the Acme steel, - Smote with a mighty stroke, - Smote it and broke it up - Into small flinderkins, - Banged it and smashed it up - Into smithereens. - Shocked, then I left him there, - Grumbling at Thor! - - _Punch's Almanack_, 1884. - -Another long parody of the same original was contained in _Punch_, -September 20, 1879. It was entitled "A Modern Saga," and consisted of -nine verses, describing Professor Nordenskiöld's travels and discoveries -concerning the North-East passage. - - * * * * * - -It is now a good many years since a well-known American author, Mr. Bayard -Taylor, produced a clever little book, entitled "Diversions of the Echo -Club." The late Mr. John Camden Hotten published it in London, and it -has since gone through several editions. The scheme of the book is thus -given by the author:--"In the rear of Karl Schäfer's lager-beer cellar and -restaurant--which everyone knows, is but a block from the central part of -Broadway--there is a small room, with a vaulted ceiling, which Karl calls -his _Löwengrube_, or Lions' Den. Here, in their Bohemian days, Zoïlus -and the Gannet had been accustomed to meet, discuss literary projects, -and read fragments of manuscript to each other. The Chorus, the Ancient -and young Galahad gradually fell into the same habit, and thus a little -circle of six, seven, or eight members came to be formed. The room could -comfortably contain no more: it was quiet, with a dim, smoky, confidential -atmosphere, and suggested Auerbach's Cellar to the Ancient, who had been -in Leipzig. - -Here authors, books, magazines, and newspapers were talked about; -sometimes a manuscript poem was read by its writer; while mild potations -of beer and the dreamy breath of cigars delayed the nervous, fidgetty, -clattering-footed American Hours. The character which the society assumed -for a short time was purely accidental. As one of the Chorus, I was -present at the first meeting, and, of course, I never failed afterwards. -The four authors who furnished our entertainment were not aware that I had -written down, from memory, the substance of the conversations, until our -evenings came to an end, and I have had some difficulty in obtaining their -permission to publish my reports." - -These so-called "Reports" describe the proceedings at eight meetings of -the Club, and the conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most famous -modern poets. The members next proceed to draw lots as to whose works they -shall imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or, more correctly -speaking, comical imitations of style, many of which are exceedingly -amusing. - -The principal poets thus parodied are William Morris; Robert Browning; E. -A. Poe; John Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne; R. W. Emerson; E. C. -Stedman; Dante G. Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier; Oliver Wendell -Holmes; Alfred Tennyson; H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret Harte; J. R. -Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning; and several less known authors. - -Amongst the minor poets are included several American writers, whose works -are almost unknown to English readers. - -On the Fifth night _Zoilus_ draws _Longfellow_, and his comrades caution -him to beware how he treats an author, already a classic, whose works have -been complimented by many ordinary parodies. He composes the following -imitation of Longfellow's hexameters:-- - - -NAUVOO. - - This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat! - Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple. - Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions, - Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit, - Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums, - Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion, - Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at Newport, - Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipestone, - Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso, - So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo. - - Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded, - Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin. - Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod, - Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates, - That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy. - Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor, - Balder, or Freya, Quetzalcoatl, Perun, Manabozho, - Verily, though to the sense theologic it might be offensive, - Great were the gain to the pictured, flashing speech of the poet. - - Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers, - Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine-trees, - Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham. - Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal, - Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer; - So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter, - Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time - Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,--the Kingdom of Zion. - Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar, - Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit, - Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo. - - All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol, - Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake. - Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer, - Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of ten-pins,-- - Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep, - Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco. - Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet, - Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar: - Also--for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral-- - Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient. - Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer! - Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present! - Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never!" - Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo, - So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise!" - -This poem does not altogether meet with his comrades' approval; Zoïlus -retorts that "it is no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the Sapphic -verse is much more practicable." - -_The Gannet_ hereupon asserts that he could write an imitation of -Longfellow's higher strains--not of those which are so well known and so -much quoted--which would be fairer to the poet, and after a short interval -produces-- - - -THE SEWING-MACHINE. - - A strange vibration from the cottage window - My vagrant steps delayed, - And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo, - I paused beneath the shade. - - What is, I said, this unremitting humming, - Louder than bees in spring? - As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming, - Shed from Sandalphon's wing. - - Is this the sound of unimpeded labour, - That now usurpeth play? - Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor, - Ghittern and virelay? - - Or, is it yearning for a higher vision, - By spiritual hearing heard? - Nearer I drew, to listen with precision, - Detecting not a word. - - Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do, - Myself the while unseen, - I marked a maiden seated by the window, - Sewing with a machine. - - Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle, - Her gentle hand the seam: - My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle - Those shirts, as in a dream! - - Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar - Some imperceptible taste; - The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar, - By beauty is embraced. - - O fairer aspect of the common mission! - Only the Poet sees - The true significance, the high position - Of such small things as these. - - Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges, - Deform the maiden's hand; - Her implement its soft sonata merges - In songs of sea and land. - - And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton, - Blent with her rhythmic tread, - Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten, - And troubadours are dead. - -It may be said of "Diversions of the Echo Club" (now published by Messrs. -Chatto and Windus), that whilst many of the parodies are amusing, none -are either vulgar or ill-natured; the criticisms on the various poets are -generally just, thoughtful, and keenly perceptive. - - * * * * * - -Before leaving Longfellow there are two amusing imitations of Hiawatha to -be quoted; Unfortunately, the very clever _Song of Big Ben_ is too long to -quote in full, but it is easily accessible:-- - - -THE SONG OF BIG BEN. - - Should you ask me why these columns - Filled with words of many speakers-- - Why this record of their doings, - With their frequent repetitions, - Their inane deliberations, - And their aggravating dulness? - I should answer, I should tell you, - "That I write them as I hear them, - As I hear, and as I see them;-- - That the world may learn what happens - In the painted, gilded chamber, - In the chapel of St. Stephen's, - At the House of Talkee-Talkee, - Where, upon the woolsack, patient, - Lolls the Chancellor, hard-headed, - Where, enthroned above the table, - Sadly sits and broods the Speaker." - Should you ask me why he sits there? - I should answer, I should tell you, - "'Tis because the people will it; - 'Tis because they send up members - Who will talk for moons together; - Nought accomplishing, yet spouting, - Like the dolphin, Mishe-no-zha, - Weak and watery stuff for ever." - If still further you should ask me, - Saying "But what do these members, - And the many like unto them, - In the House of Talkee-Talkee?" - I should answer your enquiry - Straightway in such words as follow:-- - "Much they love to hear their voices - Talking rubbish at all seasons: - Many 'mongst them seize all chances - For the riding of their hobbies; - Ride them late and ride them early, - Ride them through the Standing Orders; - Ride them without bit or bridle, - Knowing not, nor caring whither." - And if once again you query, - Saying, "Is this all they do there?" - I should answer your fresh query, - I should meet your new conundrum - Right away in some such fashion - As the following, for instance, - I should tell you, "There are many - Who will bide their time with patience, - Knowing that to them by waiting - Will come all the things they long for. - That M.P. means oft More Power; - That 'twill bring them briefs and clients, - Make them 'guinea-pigs' and chairmen, - Knight them, maybe, in the future; - Or ennoble them if only - They will spend their money freely - For the party they belong to." - If you really had the conscience - To make any more enquiries, - I would answer, I should tell you - Not to ask more leading questions, - But to wait and read these columns. - In these records find your answers, - In these lines replies discover. - - -THE LORDS. - - To the gilded, painted chamber - Of the House of Talkee-Talkee, - Comes a crowd of various people, - Comes a flock of noble ladies, - Painted most, and all _decolletees;_ - Come the Bishops and the Judges, - Gravely taking up their places; - Clad in their state robes, the Judges, - Like to agéd washerwoman; - In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops, - Fussy, like the hen that cackles - Over new-laid egg or chicken; - Come diplomatists by dozens, - Blazing with their numerous orders, - Which they gladly take, like bagmen; - Come with their vermilion buttons - And their petticoats of satin, - Wond'ring much, the Chinese Envoys:-- - Wond'ring why it is the ladies - Care to sit squeezed up like herrings? - How it is their faces glow so - With the ruddy hues of nature? - Wond'ring why it is the nobles - Moon about with hideous cloaks on, - Making them appear round-shouldered, - Mute-like, "Jarvie-ish," ungainly? - Why it is Lord Coleridge carries - 'Neath the folds of his the head-gear - Known in slang phrase as a "stove-pipe!" - Why in swallow-tail of evening - Mr. Pierrepoint walks at noon-day? - Why the Primate greets profusely - Fezzed Musurus when he enters? - Why the latter comes to gaze on - These ill-fated dogs of Christians - That his former masters cheated? - And their wonderment continues - As they hear the _charivari_, - See the entrances and exits, - Watch staid men in green and silver, - Rushing here and running thither. - Others, clad in velvet small-clothes, - Pottering in among the benches, - Nought effecting but confusion. - - * * * * * - - Entered are at last the household, - And the Queen comes through the doorway, - Sits she in her dress of velvet - On the throne, and all is silent. - Only for a minute's space though, - For, from down a distant lobby, - Comes the sound of pattering footsteps, - Like the rush of many waters, - By the shore of Gitche Gumee, - By the shining Big Sea Water. - Nearer, nearer, comes the pattering, - Louder, louder grow the voices, - More pronounced the hurried scuffling. - Now it seems as though the sound wave - Rolled close to the chamber's portal, - And, 'midst loud complaints and laughter, - Plainly heard by all who sat there, - Comes unto the bar the Speaker; - At his heels are Stafford Northcote, - And Ward Hunt, the Tory giant, - After them the deluge! Members - Fight and push, and pull and scuffle; - Loudly wrangle for their places, - And protest with scanty measure - Of politeness or good breeding; - Whilst their premier, safe translated, - Smiles a smile that's cold and selfish. - - But at length the Commons settle - Into order as behoves them. - And the Chancellor upstanding - Mounts the throne's wide steps, and kneeling - To his sovereign he offers - Her own speech, which she declining, - He unrolls, and then distinctly - With a voice and tone majestic - (Picked up in his constant practice), - Read it in this way and this wise:-- - "Listen to these words of wisdom - Sounding much but meaning little, - That with much elaborate caution, - In the Cabinet we hit on. - - Oh, my faithful Lords and Commons, - As it is so far from likely - That you read the daily journals, - As it is so very certain - You've heard nothing that has happened, - I will tell you what you cannot - By remotest chance have heard of: - Know ye then, my trusted children, - There has been a war in Turkey, - And my Ministers have written - Some despatches on the subject; - So if, later on, my Commons - Should find out the vote for foolscap - And for ink and quills is swollen, - They will know the cause and pass it; - But let me haste on to tell you - In thrice twenty lines the items - That for weeks have been known fully - Through the papers to the people. - Know ye then, my Lords and Commons - (This is likewise news important, - I have journeyed far to tell you), - We joined Europe in a Conference, - And we sent our trusty cousin, - Robert Cecil, Salisbury's Marquis, - To take part in its discussions? - Know ye not that Robert Cecil, - Lordly master he of Hatfield, - Went and saw, but did not conquer-- - Went and talked, but did not manage - Well his coaxing or his bluster; - Nay, came back completely vanquished, - And must do without his dukedom? - Need I add, my knowing children, - How his failure grieved his colleagues-- - How Lord Derby wept to hear it-- - How Lord Beaconsfield has felt it? - Still bewails it much in private, - And in public should his lips curl, - That is merely force of habit. - Know ye too, my legislators, - My most able statute-makers, - That my Indian subjects vastly - Liked the squibs let off at Delhi, - By my dreamy poet-Viceroy; - And, about to die of famine, - They enjoyed the show immensely. - All the Colonies are prosp'rous! - Which, if I am not mistaken, - Will be news to many of them, - Say, for instance, to Barbadoes. - - Gentlemen, who pull the purse-strings, - I presume you will, as usual, - Vote sufficient of the needful. - Go, then, and in these great labours - May the spirit of the Master, - Gitche Manito, the Mighty - Aid you, lest they should o'erwhelm you." - - Then uprose the Queen, and vanished, - And a hubbub fills the Chamber: - Peers take off their robes of velvet; - Ladies cover up their shoulders, - And the throng is quickly scattered; - Yet was very full the chamber-- - Full of Lords, and full of strangers, - All come down, and feeling curious - How the Earl and eke the Marquis - Would get on when brought together; - Some there were who thought the Marquis - Would upon the Earl his back turn; - Some who thought the Earl would curl his - Upper lip, and snub the Marquis; - Others that the Marquis, smarting - With the knowledge that he'd been offered - Coolly on the Eastern altar, - That he had been made a victim; - Had been sent to wreck his prestige, - 'Mongst the diplomatic breakers, - Would dig up the buried hatchet - From the _Quarterly's_ shut pages, - Would dash down the friendly peace-pipe, - And his tomahawk turn wildly - On his former foe, Ben Dizzy; - But it did not come to pass so, - For on Thursday all was quiet, - And the Salisburian lion - Lay down with the Dizzian lambkin. - And the Marquis keeps his vengeance - For a more convenient season, - If, indeed, he has not hopes still - Of a dukedom for his failure. - After this they talked for four hours, - But the talk meant simply nothing! - - -THE COMMONS. - - As the "brave" re-seeks his wigwam, - Left deserted in the autumn, - When the early spring-tide tempts him - To return and hunt the bison-- - To return and trap the beaver-- - To return and scalp the "pale-face"-- - To return, in short, and do for - Many beasts and birds and fishes; - So unto their long-left places, - To their worn and padded places, - Where they sought for reputation-- - Where they strove for loaves and fishes-- - Where they hounded down the helpless-- - Where they vexèd those in office-- - Where they howled and snored and hooted-- - Where they quite wore out the Speaker, - Harried Adderley and Holker, - Tried in vain to draw Ben Dizzy, - And gave forth such endless rubbish-- - Came the M.P.'s for the Session. - Came in state, too, Mr. Speaker - With the mace and with his chaplain;-- - Gold the mace, and Byng his chaplain; - Whereupon did Captain Gossett, - In his normal tights and ruffles, - "Tile" the door till prayers were over. - Thus all present fell to praying, - Let us hope they prayed in earnest, - For delivery from envy, - Spite and malice and Kenealy. - Prayed for sense (God knows most want it), - Prayed for very frequent count-outs, - And for early dissolution. - [_Left Praying._ - - Now the mace is on the table - From his oaken throne the Speaker, - In his hand the Queen's speech holding, - Tries to read it, but half through it, - Something ails him, and he falters. - May we not trace his emotion - To the thought of what's before him? - How can he fail to remember - That the bores have re-assembled. - Stronger both in lung and purpose, - That when they left town last August. - And he knows he can't escape them, - That his eye perforce will caught be - By the Lewises and Lawsons, - By the Biggars and the Whalleys, - By the Newdegates and Parnells, - This is why his voice completely - Fails him and prevents his reading, - This is why his accents die out, - Like the last song of Pu-kee-wis, - Of the dying swan, Pu-kee-wis; - This is why they have to bring him - Of the water from his cistern - (Let us hope it first was filtered), - Which he drinks, and so recovers; - Drinks, and so concludes his reading. - - Then, since there is no amendment, - One would think that when the mover - And the seconder had spoken - That the House would straightway scatter; - Little do they know, who think so, - Of the ways of Mr. Gladstone! - Little do they understand him, - If they think he can keep silence - When the Eastern question's talked of! - Could they fancy Whalley speechless, - With the Jesuits on the _tapis?_ - Could they picture Doctor "Dewdrops" - Dumb upon the Magna Charta? - Or the Common Serjeant henceforth - Dropping his deceased wife's sister? - Could they e'en think Holker clever? - Couple modesty and Jenkins? - Take from Lewis his white waistcoats, - Or from Plimsoll his last hobby? - Could they do all this? it's doubtful, - Even then, if Mr. Gladstone - Could be really kept from speaking. - When the Eastern question's mentioned, - He is always running over - With a tide of verbal fulness; - At a moment's notice ready - To break through his lips or flow out - In a pamphlet from his study, - Just as when the cat, Me-aw-nee, - Sees a mouse she pounces on it; - As the buffalo, Shu-shu-kah, - At the sight of crimson's maddened; - As the sturgeon, Minhe-nah-ma, - Meets a mackerel, but to bolt it, - As the 'possum, Pau-ku-kee-wis, - When it finds a gum-tree, climbs it, - So does this M.P. for Greenwich - Seize upon the Eastern question, - Be it in, or out of, season, - Be it _apropos_ or useless, - Be it positively dangerous - To allude to it in public; - So on Thursday seized he on it, - Even though he knew the time was - Not yet come to talk upon it, - Poured his stream of words upon it, - Swamped it with his fluent diction; - And when he had talked a column, - Was informed by Gathorne Hardy, - That the questions he'd propounded - Would be answered in the blue-books; - That the information asked for - Would be printed in the blue-books; - That, in short, his speech was useless-- - _Verba et præterea nihil_. - Whereupon the Speaker vanished, - And the House broke up its sitting. - - _Truth_, February 15, 1877. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF PAHTAHQUAHONG. - -"The REV. HENRY PAHTAHQUAHONG CHASE, hereditary Chief of the Ojibway -tribe, President of the Grand Council of Indians, and missionary of the -Colonial and Continental Church Society at Muncey Town, Ontario, Canada, -has just arrived in England, on a short visit."--_The Standard._ - - Straight across the Big-Sea-Water, - From the Portals of the Sunset, - From the prairies of the Red Men, - Where Suggema, the mosquito. - Makes the aggravated hunter - Scratch himself with awful language; - From the land of Hiawatha, - Land of wigwams, and of wampum, - Land of tomahawks and scalping, - (See the works of J. F. COOPER), - Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG, - Comes the Chief of the Obijways. - Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome, - After manner of the Pale Face, - Show him all the old world's wonders, - Griffins in the public highways, - Gormandising corporations, - And the Market of Mud-Salad. - Show him, too, the dingy Palace, - And the House of Talkee-Talkee; - Where the Jossakeeds--the prophets-- - And the Chieftains raise their voices. - Like Iagoo the great boaster, - With immeasurable gabble, - Talking much and doing little, - Till one wishes they could vanish - To the kingdom of Ponemah-- - To the Land of the Hereafter! - We will show him all the glories - Of this land of shams and swindles, - Land of much adulteration, - Dusting tea and sanding sugar, - And of goods not up to sample; - Till disgusted PAHTAHQUAHONG, - Till the Chief of the Obijways, - President of Indian Council, - Missionary swell, and so forth, - Cries, "Oh, let me leave this England, - Land of Bumbledom and Beadles, - Of a thousand Boards and Vestries; - Let me cross the Big-Sea-Water, - With Keewaydin--with the Home Wind, - And go back to the Ojibways!" - _Punch_, March 12, 1881. - - * * * * * - -A _jeu d'esprit_ somewhat in the nature of _The Rejected Addresses_ -has recently been published by Mr. George Dryden, of Lothian Street, -Edinburgh. It is entitled "_Rejected Tercentenary Songs_, with the -comments of the Committee appended." Edited by Rolus Ray. - -It will be remembered that the Edinburgh University has just been -celebrating its Tercentenary, and the contents of this amusing little -sixpenny pamphlet consist of the Poems supposed to have been sent in, by -matriculated students of the University, in competition for a prize of Ten -Guineas, offered by the Tercentenary Committee for the best song in honour -of the occasion. - -It contains numerous Latin and Macaronic verses, a long parody of Walt -Whitman, one of Gilbert, and two of Longfellow, which I venture to quote. -The first is incomplete:-- - - "I stood in the quad at midnight, - As the bells were tolling the hour; - And the moon shone o'er the city, - Behind the Tron Kirk tower." - - "Among the black stone gables - The ghostly shadows lay; - And the moonbeams from the rising moon, - Falling, made them creep away." - - "With weary brain and mind opprest, - I stood in the quad and pondered--" - -Here it breaks off abruptly; the other is a very fair parody of the _Song -of Hiawatha_, although, of course, some of the allusions are only of local -interest. The poem is entitled-- - - -PIAMATER. - -_By Alfred Longcove._ - - Should you ask of what I'm writing, - With the scented smoke of segars - Curling around my weary head, - With the odours of the class-rooms, - And its wild reverberations - Of the many interruptions - Of its bands of many students, - Rankling in my ears and nostrils? - Why my head I scratch so often? - Why I ask my muse to aid me - With her bright poetic fire? - Why I burn the gas at midnight? - Why I have so many books-- - Poetry books on prosy subjects, - Books of songs by Burns and Moore, - Ponderous books for words referring, - Webster's Unabridged and Walker's - Poet's Rhyming Dictionary-- - Strewed around me on the table? - I should answer, I should tell you, - "'Tis because I am composing - A natal song to Alma Mater." - - 'Tis thy year, O Alma Mater, - Of thy great Tercentenary. - Time, thy years three hundred measures - With his glass; the mighty Hour-glass - Marks thy seconds, passing quickly, - With grains of sand for e'er falling - Through its glassy neck so slender, - Let us sing to her, O students, - A pæan song of natal greetings, - Let us spread our banquet-tables - In the halls of Edina's town. - Let us drain to her good welfare - Many bottles filled with good wine - From the vineyard of the Loire, - From the Spanish town of Xeres, - From the town of great Oporto, - From the country of the Deutchers, - From the flow'ry land of Champagne; - Let us drain the pewter tankards, - Filled with Bass's bittery beer - And with Dublin's triple X stout; - Let us drain our glassy goblets, - Filled with the wine of Gooseberry, - Filled with clarets made in London, - And with other imitations; - Let us brew the Festive Toddy - From the whisky, great Tanglefeet, - On that morn--her natal morning! - Sons and daughters of old Scotland, - Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky, - Don your costumes made for Sunday; - O ye students of Edina, - Put your "go-to-meetings" on you; - O ye Dons, that festal morning, - Don ye your gowns and mortar boards; - Let the Billirubin warble - One of his impromptu ditties, - Physiologic songs of praise-- - Sing the praise of Alma Mater; - Let the great, her mighty surgeon, - Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen - Of his intellect most massive, - In a speech of his own making, - Stock full of jokes and anecdotes-- - Speak the praise of Alma Mater; - Let them all, her swell Professors, - Puff her up above the skies. - From the Gardens to the Meadows, - From the Loch--great Duddingston-- - To the station of Haymarket, - From the Place of the Lunatics - To the town of Portobello-- - Where the many donkey-riders - Ride along its dirty sands; - Where the fellows go on Sunday - For a walk, and drink the _Ozone_ - Wafted round promiscuously; - Where they go to meet their damsels, - And walk with them along the strand-- - From Merchiston to Warriston, - Let merry songs of praises ring - On that day, her happy birthday. - Now join with me, ye students all, - Wish her now, your Alma Mater, - Greatest wealth and prosperity. - Hail to thee, O Alma Mater, - School above schools upon this earth! - Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist! - Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture! - Hail to thee, O Parenchyma! - Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet! - Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter! - Hail to thee, O Billirubin! - Hail to thee, O Wells of Water! - Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon! - Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic! - Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver! - Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker! - Hail to thee, her Story-teller! - Hail to thee, the great Dissector! - Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer! - Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder! - Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller! - Hail to thee, O Afterglower! - Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer! - Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew! - Hail to thee, the Magna Charta! - Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy! - Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer! - Hail to thee, no Small Pertater! - Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder! - Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer! - Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain! - Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal! - Hail to thee, O Science Gossip! - Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver! - Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner! - Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer! - Hail to thee, O great Lunatic! - Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper! - Hail to ye, her famous Children! - Hail to ye, O Students' Council! - Hail to ye, her many Students! - Hail to me, her Song Composer! - Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends, - And Near Relations, on that day! - All hail to our Alma Mater - On her natal morn be given!!![5] - - * * * * * - -The author of _The Dagonet Ballads_ has produced so many pathetic poems, -descriptive of the terrible miseries of our London poor, that one is -rather apt to overlook the humorous poetry proceeding from the same pen. -But, like all true masters of pathos, this poet of the people has the -power to summon up smiles through our tears. It was well said of Tom Hood -"that the blending of the grave with the gay which pervaded his writings, -makes it no easy task to class his poems under the heads of 'serious' and -'comic.'" This remark applies with equal force to the poems of George R. -Sims, and were it possible to anticipate the verdict of posterity we might -expect to find the names of Hood and Sims classed together; indeed, so far -as practical results are concerned, the philanthropical efforts of the -younger poet are likely far to exceed anything that was achieved by the -author of _The Bridge of Sighs_ and _The Song of the Shirt_. - -But this is not the place to consider Mr. Sims' position as a serious -writer, although, indeed, even the following poem has a moral:-- - - -A PLUMBER. - -(_An Episode of a rapid Thaw._) - - The dirty snow was thawing fast, - As through the London streets there passed - A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice, - Exclaimed, "I don't care what's the price-- - A Plumber!" - - His brow looked mad, his eye beneath - Was fixed and fierce--he clenched his teeth, - While here and there a bell he rung, - But found not all the shops among - A Plumber. - - He saw his home, he saw the light - Wall-paper sopped--a gruesome sight. - He saw his dining-room afloat, - He cried, "I'll give a fi' pun note-- - A Plumber!" - - "O stop the leak!" his wife had said; - "The ceiling's cracking overhead. - The roaring torrent's deep and wide"-- - "I'll go and fetch," he had replied, - "A Plumber." - - "Pa ain't at home," the maiden said, - When to the plumber's house he sped. - He searched through London low and high, - But nowhere could he catch or spy - A Plumber. - - Next morn, a Peeler on his round, - A mud-bespattered trav'ller found, - Who grasped the "Guide to Camden Town" - With hand of ice--the page turned down - At "Plumbers." - - They brought a parson to his side, - He gently murmured ere he died-- - "My house has floated out to sea, - I am not mad--it's not d. t.-- - It's Plumbers." - -This parody is to be found in a small volume entitled _The Lifeboat and -other Poems_, by George R. Sims (John P. Fuller, Wine Office Court, -London, 1883). - -By the author's kind permission I am also enabled to quote the very funny, -although slightly incoherent, remarks of-- - - -THE POETS ON THE MARRIAGE WITH A DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER BILL. - - It comes as a boon and a blessing to men - When your missus as was disappears from your ken. - - ANONYMOUS. - - When from the wife you get a parting benison, Her sister will - console you-- - - ALFRED TENNYSON. - - When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief, - You mourn Maria in your handkerchief, - Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief. - - AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS. - - Beneath the spreading chestnut tree - The village smithy stands-- - With Mrs. Smith it's all U P, - She's gone to other lands. - But he goes on Sunday to the church, - And hears her sister's voice; - He leaves his scruples in the lurch, - And she makes his heart rejoice. - The morning sees his suit commenced, - The evening sees it done-- - Next day the Parson ties the knot, - And Pa and Aunt are one. - - LONGFELLOW. - - O blood-bitten lip all aflame, - O Dolores and also Faustine, - O aunts of the world worried shame, - Lo your hair with its amorous sheen, - Meshes man in its tangles of gold; - O aunts of the tremulous thrill, - We are pining--we long to enfold - The Deceased Wife's Fair Relative Bill. - - SWINBURNE. - -Although the above lines were written several years ago, they may be -appropriately quoted now that the House of Commons has once again carried, -and by a large majority, a resolution in favour of the repeal of the law -prohibiting marriage with a deceased wife's sister. - -(In a division in the House of Commons on May 6, 1884, Mr. Broadhurst's -motion was carried by 238 to 127, or a majority of 111 in favour of the -repeal.) - - * * * * * - - -DYSPEPSIA. - - The dinner hour had come at last, - The evening sun was sinking fast; - I sat me down in sorry mood, - And darkly look'd upon the food. - Dyspepsia! - - My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd, - And o'er the steaming _potage_ gleam'd; - Alas! not mine to find relief - In whitebait's flavour bright and brief. - Dyspepsia! - - "Try not the duck," my conscience said; - 'Twill lie upon your chest like lead; - Delusion all, that bird so fair; - The sage and onions are a snare. - Dyspepsia! - - "Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd - A portion of a chicken's breast; - I view'd the fowl with longing eye, - Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh, - Dyspepsia! - - I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare - A brace of pheasants and a hare; - A tear stood in my bilious eye, - When helping friends to pigeon-pie. - Dyspepsia! - - "Beware the celery, if you please; - Beware the awful Stilton cheese." - This was the doctor's last good-night; - I answered feebly, turning white, - "Dyspepsia!" - - The scarcely-tasted dinner done, - Old Port and walnuts next came on; - I kept my mouth all closely shut; - But how I long'd for just one nut! - Dyspepsia! - - Some nuts I had, at early day, - (Morn was just breaking cold and grey), - I, starting up, with loud ha! ha! - Felt falling, like a falling star. - Dyspepsia! - -_The Mocking Bird_, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst, London, 1868.) - - -THE FATE OF THE WINTER RIDER. - -(_By a young lady aged fourteen_). - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through a lonely village passed - A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice - A two-wheeled thing of strange device-- - A Bicycle. - - His brow was sad, his eye below - Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow, - While like a silver clarion rung - A bell, which on the handle hung-- - Of the Bicycle. - - In cosy sheds he saw the light - Of bicycles well cleaned and bright; - Along the road deep ruts had grown, - And from his lips escaped a moan-- - "My Bicycle!" - - "Try not that road," the old man said, - "'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head; - The farm pond, too, is deep and wide;" - But loud the bicyclist replied, - "Rot! Bicycle!" - - "Beware the oak-tree's withered arm, - Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!" - This was the peasant's last good-night; - A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right-- - Vive Bicycles!" - - At break of day, as in a brook - A passenger did chance to look, - He started back, what saw he there? - His voice cried through the startled air, - "A Bicycle!" - - A bicyclist, upon the ground, - Half buried in the dirt, was found - Still hugging, in his arms of ice, - That two-wheeled thing of strange device, - The Bicycle. - - There in the twilight cold and grey, - Helpless, but struggling, he lay, - While, now no longer bright and fair, - His bicycle lay broken there-- - Poor Bicycle! - -_Whizz;_ the Christmas number of _The Bicycling Times_, 1880. - - * * * * * - - -THE SETTLER'S VERSION OF EXCELSIOR. - - The shades of night were a coming down swift, - Upidee, Upida. - The snow was heapin' up, drift on drift, - Upidee, Upida. - Through a Yankee village a youth did go, - Carrying a flag with this motto-- - "Upidee, Upida." - - On his high forehead curled copious hair, - He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair, - A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash, - And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache, - Upidee, Upida! - - About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper - He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper; - He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen - And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'-- - "Upidee, Upida." - - "Oh take care," cried an old man, "stop; - It's blowing gales up there on top; - You'll be blown right off the other side," - But the humorous stranger still replied, - "Upidee, Upida." - - "Beware the branch of the sycamore tree, - And rolling stones, if any you see;" - Just then the farmer went to bed, - And a singular voice replied overhead, - "Upidee, Upida." - - "Oh, stay!" the maiden said, "and rest, - Your weary head upon this breast." - On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, - As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum, - "Upidee, Upida!" - - About a quarter to six in the next forenoon - A man accidentally going up too soon - Heard repeated above him, as much as twice, - Those very same words, in a very weak voice, - "Upidee, Upida." - - The very same man about a quarter to seven - (He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven), - Found buried up there, among the snow and ice, - That youth with the banner with the strange device, - "Upidee, Upida." - - He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt, - The lamp of his life was quite gone out, - On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin', - There was no more use for him to be sayin', - "Upidee, Upida!" - - * * * * * - - The shades of night were falling fast, - As through the streets of London passed - A party with a packet nice, - On which was seen the strange device-- - _Exitium_. - - "Hi, stay!" the Bobby cried, "you man." - Says he, "You'll catch me if you can." - Three rapid strides, and he was gone; - From Bobby's lips escaped a groan-- - _Exitium_. - - At break of day, as in a fright, - The Bobbies came from left and right, - Each murmured, starting in a scare; - A crash resounded through the air-- - _Exitium_. - - There in the twilight cold and grey-- - In ruins stately buildings lay, - And o'er the land the news is spread: - "Another Fenian escapade!" - _Exitium_. - -_Scraps_, 14 May, 1884. - - * * * * * - - Use not the coke, the old man said, - The stove must be by small coal fed. - The heap of slack is deep and wide, - But still their saucy voices cried, - Don't bother us! - - _Printer's Devil_, Northampton, 1884. - - -WHAT IS IN AN AIM. - -(_After "The Bridge."_) - - I went to bed at eleven, - At the sign of the Azure Boar, - And I knew that my room was seven, - For I'd seen it upon the door. - - With a flickering, flaring candle, - That glimmered like sickly Hope, - I found out my way to the handle, - And I flung the portal ope, - - When a gentleman--not to _my_ thinking-- - Was placed in the door upright; - It was evident he had been drinking, - For he hiccuped out in the night; - - And he spoke in a language mighty, - That rang through the chill and gloom; - And he asked me, "Highty-tighty," - "What the deuce do you do in my room?" - - And never of warning mildly - A word had the stranger said, - Ere he took up a bootjack wildly, - And hurled it at my head; - - And down with a noise and clatter - It fell o'er the winding stair, - And some one cried, "What's the matter?" - And I said, "I am not aware!" - - And whenever I feel dyspeptic, - And whenever my soul's unwell, - And whenever I've got lumbago, - And whenever my eyelids swell, - - I see the man with the bootjack, - He swears as he used to swear, - And I hear the implement falling - And clattering down the stair; - - And I say to myself at twilight, - A vindictive person's a brute; - I'd rather have been on the skylight - Than down at the staircase foot! - - For whatever evil you suffer, - The words of the sage rehearse, - "Though things may be bad, you duffer, - They might be a good deal worse." - -_The Story of a Railway Tavern_, by Professor Long, Fellow of the Learned -Societies, contained in _Vere Vereker's Vengeance_, by Thomas Hood, 1865. - - * * * * * - -Reference was made, on page 80, to Edmund H. Yates's parody on -_Evangeline_, it is to be found in "Mirth and Metre," by F. E. Smedley and -E. H. Yates, 1855. - -It commences thus:-- - - -PICNIC-ALINE. - - These are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the - chestnuts - All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance-- - Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with - windows-- - Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with - black things. - Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée - Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened. - These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who - in them - Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of - Buckstone? - Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and - muslins, - Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions? - Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love--even - marriage, - All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic; - And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped, - And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining! - Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic, - Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business, - List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden-- - List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad! - - EDMUND H. YATES. - - * * * * * - - -TOWN AND GOWN. - - Brightly blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November, - Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College, - Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker." - Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses, - Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows. - There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors, - There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid; - There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the - Proctors, - Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" _in - futuro_, - Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres. - Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November - Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean, - Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly," - "Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless - ditty. - But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is), - A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted. - Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle, - Out to the noise, and the din, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics, - Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brimfull of the valour of Holland, - Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric, - As flashes the pheasant's tail when he hears the first gun in October. - Now with a yell and a spring the cads came up to the onset, - Cursing and swearing amain, and throwing their arms out like thunder. - Stopping before All Saints' the hideous work of Dean Aldrich, - Stopping De Whyskers made emphatic the sign for the battle, - Thereon he let fall a blow swift like an armourer's hammer, - Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains, - Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser - Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura. - Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming - Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter, - Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden; - Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm. - Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful, - Even to Worcester the slow, or _Botany Bay_, as they call it, - Down by Trinity Gates, and Balliol beloved of the scholar, - Down by the temple of Tom, whence the Curfew rings in the gloaming - Thundered the fray till the rain came down on the scene as a damper. - - _College Rhymes_ (T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.) - -The great "Town and Gown" rows that used to occur annually on the Fifth -of November, between the undergraduates and the townspeople, have been -gradually dying out, but the memory of them still lingers in many old -College Rhymes and traditions. They are most vividly described in _Verdant -Green, an Oxford Freshman_, a light-hearted clever little work, by the -Rev. E. Bradley, Rector of Lenton, better known under his pseudonym -of Cuthbert Bede. Mr. Bradley, although himself a Cambridge man, was -intimately acquainted with Oxford. - - * * * * * - - -A VOICE FROM THE FAR WEST, - -_Hailing the Centenary Birthday of Burns_. - - Happy thy name, O BURNS! for burns, in thy native Doric, - Meaneth the free bright streams, exhaustless, pellucid, and sparkling, - Mountain-born, wild and erratic, kissing the flow'rets in passing, - Type of thy verse and thyself--loving and musical ever; - And the streams by thy verse made immortal are known by our giant - rivers, - Where the emigrants sing them to soothe the yearnings for home in - their bosoms, - And the Coila and gentle Doon, by the song of the Celtic wanderer, - Are known to the whispering reeds that border the great Mississippi. - Thou wert the lad for the lasses! lasses the same are as misses; - And here we have misses had pleased you--Missouri and the Mississippi. - And "green grow the rushes" beside them--as thy evergreen chorus would - have them. - Thou wert the champion of freedom!--Thou didst rejoice in our glory! - When we at Bunker's Hill no bunkum display'd, but true courage! - Jubilant thou wert in our Declaration of Independence! - More a Republican thou than a chain-hugging bow-and-scrape Royalist! - Even the Stars and the Stripes seem appointed the flag of thy - destiny;-- - The stars are the types of thy glory, the stripes thou didst get - from Misfortune. - -_Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns_. Edited by Ben Trovato (Routledge, -Warnes & Routledge. London, 1859.) - - * * * * * - -There are several excellent parodies in _Lays of the Saintly_, amongst -them the following, which is given here as it is also in the style of -Longfellow's _Evangeline:_-- - - -SISTER BEATRICE (A.D. uncertain). - - This is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls, - Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus, - Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens, - Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent, - Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters-- - Fluent in sound, and avoiding the stiffness of commoner blank verse, - Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers, - Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England; - Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly - Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author. - -I. - - In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly, - To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling, - Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order, - Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle, - Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister. - Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly, - And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contemplation. - More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters, - For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in - Messages, parcels, _et cetera_, from those who came to the wicket. - Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady, - Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master; - Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to), - "Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying - Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them, - Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless? - No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent: - Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to catch - me." - So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic, - And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments; - Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safeplace, - Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them. - "Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then murmured Beatrice, - "And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building." - And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten'd - With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the - canvas; - Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her, - Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her, - Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness, - Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled. - -II - - Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted; - Scarce had she gone, when lo! with wonderment be it related-- - Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Madonna, - Took up the keys and the raiment Beatrice had quitted, and wore them, - Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent; - Became in appearance a nun, so that none could discover the difference. - Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing - Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization; - Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent; - Till it would not have surprised them to see a celestial halo - Gather around her head, and pinions spring from her shoulders, - That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better. - Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her - Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction. - Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office, - Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water. - -III. - - Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escaped from the convent, - Much had she seen of the world, and its wickedness greatly distress'd - her; - Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet she dared not; - Oft was determined to go, still she "stood on the order of going." - Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular agent - Entered one day, in the house where the truant sister was staying, - But changed as she was in appearance, he did not know her from Adam; - Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar figure. - "Now I shall learn," thought she, "what they say of my flight and - my absence." - And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister Beatrice, - As of a friend she had known when living near to the convent. - "Truly," the factor replied, "She is still the pride of our sisters, - Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affection. - Would there were more of her kind in _some_ houses monastic I know of," - Puzzled and rather distress'd, then answer'd the truant _religieuse_, - "She whom I speak of, alas! was less of a saint than a sinner, - She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speak of another?" - "Not in the least, my child," the secular agent responded; - "Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did _not_ run away from the cloister, - Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go? Stuff and nonsense!" - "What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is my double and - namesake?" - So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle the question, - Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the portal familiar, - Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour and found a - Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion. - Down on her knees went Beatrice--the why and the wherefore she knew - not. - "Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna; - "Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings, - Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness; - Be you a nun as before, but more pious; farewell, take my blessing." - Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite picture. - Again was Beatrice "herself," like Richard the third, _à la_ - Shakespeare, - Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of Saintship; - While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely as - _she_ did. - - * * * * * - - Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who devised it? - Tenderest he of the poets who wrote in the tongue of (New) England, - Where the minstrel who sang of "Evangeline," also "Miles Standish?" - Alas! he will never again pour forth his effusions pathetic, - But his name and his fame endure, and this characteristic measure - In honour of him I adopt, without any thought of burlesquing. - Thus on the ear its cadence, like sounds from the labouring ocean, - Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author. - -_Lays of the Saintly_, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly & Co.), London, 1882. - - - - -Charles Wolfe. - - -The Reverend Charles Wolfe, who was born in Dublin in 1791, has earned -literary immortality by one short poem, and that copied with considerable -closeness from a prose account of the incident to which it refers. Reading -in the _Edinburgh Annual Register_ a description of the death and burial -of Sir John Moore, the young poet turned it into verse with such sublime -pathos, such taste and skill, that his poem has obtained imperishable fame -in our literature. - -Mr. Wolfe also produced a few other poems of unquestionable grace and -pathos, but nothing approaching the beauty of his immortal ode. He was, -for a time, curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. -His arduous duties in a large, wild, and very scattered parish left him -little leisure to cultivate the muses, and soon told on his delicate -constitution. He died of consumption on 21st February, 1823, at the early -age of 32, and thus the assertion of his detractors that he produced -nothing else of sufficient merit to show that he could have written the -ode in question, may be easily met by the two pleas--firstly, that he had -other duties to perform; and, secondly, that his career was too brief to -admit of many, or great, performances. - -The battle of Corunna was fought on January 16, 1809, by the British army, -about 15,000 strong, under Sir John Moore, against a force of about 20,000 -Frenchmen. - -The British troops had just safely accomplished a retreat to the coast in -the face of a superior force, and were on the point of embarking, when the -French attacked; the enemy was repulsed, but the British loss was very -great, and Sir John Moore, who was struck on the left shoulder by a cannon -ball, died, much lamented by his troops. His body was removed at midnight -to the citadel of Corunna, and a grave was dug for him on the ramparts by -a party of the 9th Regiment. No coffin could be procured, and the officers -of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak -and blankets. The interment was hastened, for firing was heard, and the -officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered -away, and not allowed to pay him their last duty. The embarkation of the -troops took place next day, under the command of Sir David Baird, who had -also been wounded in the fight. - -The following is what Lord Byron correctly termed, "The most perfect Ode -in the language":-- - - -THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. - - 'The following lines were written by a Student of Trinity College, - on reading the affecting account of the Burial of Sir John Moore, in - the _Edinburgh Annual Register_':-- - - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, - As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; - Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot - O'er the grave where our hero we buried. - - We buried him darkly at dead of night, - The sods with our bayonets turning. - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, - And the lantern dimly burning. - - No useless coffin enclosed his breast, - Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; - But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, - With his martial cloak around him. - - Few and short were the prayers we said, - And we spoke not a word of sorrow; - But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, - And we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, - And smoothed down his lonely pillow, - That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, - And we far away on the billow! - - Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, - And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- - But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on - In the grave where a Briton has laid him. - - But half of our heavy task was done, - When the clock struck the hour for retiring; - And we heard the distant and random gun - That the foe was sullenly firing. - - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, - From the field of his fame fresh and gory; - We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- - But we left him alone with his glory! - -The ode was first published in _Currick's Morning Post_ (Ireland) in 1815, -with the signature "W. C.," and the Rev. J. A. Russell, in his "Remains of -C. Wolfe" (London, 1829), states that a letter is preserved in the Royal -Irish Academy, addressed by the Rev. C. Wolfe to John Taylor, Esq., at -the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's Clononty, Cashel, in which he says:--"I have -completed the 'Burial of Sir John Moore,' and will here inflict it upon -you." This letter bears the post mark "September 9, 1816." - -Yet although the poem was quickly copied into all the newspapers, and -at once became widely popular, its authorship long remained the subject -of controversy. By some it was ascribed to Lord Byron, whilst Shelley -was inclined to name Thomas Campbell as its author. In 1841, long after -the death of Wolfe, it was dishonestly claimed by a Scotch teacher, Mr. -Macintosh, who ungenerously sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of -its owner. - -The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right to the poem; -the impostor was compelled to withdraw his claim, and apologise for his -misconduct. - -Of the numerous claims to the authorship of these lines the most striking -was that advanced by the Rev. Francis Mahony ("Father Prout") in -"Bentley's Miscellany," Vol. 1, p. 96, 1837:-- - - "The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is _supposed_ to be the author of a single - poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities - of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and - setting criticism completely at defiance. I say _supposed_, for the - gentleman himself never claimed its authorship during his short and - unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the "Funeral of Sir John - Moore" must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by - the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of - Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration? None. - - "I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful - lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In - 1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Brittany, having raised - a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India, - in that unfortunate expedition, commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the - failure of which eventually lost to the French their possessions in - Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending against the forces - of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that - hemisphere. - - "He was buried that night on the north bastion of the fortress - by a few faithful followers, and the next day the fleet sailed - with the remainder of the garrison for Europe. In the appendix to - the "Memoirs of LALLY-TOLENDAL" by his son, the following lines - occur, which bear some resemblance to those attributed to Wolfe. - Perhaps Wolfe Tone may have communicated them to his relative, the - clergyman, on his return from France. _Fides sit penes lectorem._" - - PADRE PROUT. - - -LES FUNÉRAILLES DE BEAUMANOIR. - -(_The Original of "Not a drum was heard_.") - -I. - - Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funèbre ... - Ni le feu des soldats ... ne marqua son départ. - Mais du BRAVE, à la hâte, à travers les ténèbres, - Mornes ... nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart! - -II. - - De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre-- - La lune à peine offrait un débile-rayon: - La lanterne luisait péniblement dans l'ombre, - Quand de la bayonnette on creusa le gazon. - -III. - - D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire - Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS; - Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire - Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos. - -IV. - - La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée: - Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fut plein! - Mais on fixait du MORT la figure adorée ... - Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain. - -V. - - Au demain! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprête, - Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots, - L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête, - Et nous, ses vétérans, serons loin sur les flots! - -VI. - - Ils terniront sa gloire ... on pourra les entendre - Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer ... ou fol; - Il les laissera dire.--Eh! qu'importe A SA CENDRE, - Que la main d'un BRETON a confiée au sol? - -VII. - - L'œuvre durait encore, quand retentit la cloche - Au sommet du Befroi:--et le canon lointain, - Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche, - Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain. - -VIII. - - Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement ... - Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée: - Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument - Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée! - -This "Father Prout," whom Mr. G. A. Sala terms "the wittiest pedant, the -most pedantic wit, and the oddest fish he ever met with," was well known -as an inveterate jester, as well as an accomplished linguist, so that the -above effusion did not deceive his associates, especially as the documents -referred to in it, as evidence, had no existence save in the fertile brain -of "Father Prout." - -In the recent edition of the "Maclise Portrait Gallery," by Mr. William -Bates, M.A. (Chatto and Windus, 1883), is an interesting biography of -this eccentric genius, in which will be found all that is known about -his French imitation of Wolfe's Ode. Mr. Bates truly remarks that, -notwithstanding Padre Prout's skill in French versification, there are -internal evidences that the poem was not written by a Frenchman, and -further that it has the unmistakable air of a translation. Unfortunately, -however, the mischief was done, and what Mahony may have intended -for a harmless pleasantry, has raised a literary controversy of wide -dimensions. His verses were copied into serious French journals, and many -well-informed foreigners believe the lines to have originated from a -French source. Thus M. Octave Delepierre, in his _Essai sur la Parodie_ -(Trübner and Co., London, 1870), seems to have been entirely misled by -the hoax. He gives part of the French version, and whilst stating that -it is not a settled point, which was first written, he does not mention -Father Prout's article, and seems entirely ignorant of the fictitious and -humorous origin of the French imitation. - -Singularly enough, _The Athenæum_, of July 1, 1871, in reviewing M. -Delepierre's work, fell into the same error, and seriously argued against -the French claim, forgetting all about Father Prout. - -M. Delepierre's statement is (_Essai sur la Parodie_, p. -163):--"Lorsqu'elle fut publiée en 1824, elle parut assez belle pour que -le Capitaine Medwin suggérat qu'elle était due à la muse de _Byron_. -Sydney Taylor réfuta cette supposition, et restitua l'ode à son véritable -auteur, le _Rev. Charles Wolfe_." - -"Ce n'est pas seulement en Angleterre qu'on a discuté la paternité de -cette ode célèbre. On trouve à ce sujet toute une discussion littéraire -dans le journal _L'Intermédiare des Chercheurs et Curieux_, 5ᵋ année, -page 693, et 6ᵋ année, pages 19 et 106." - -"D'après ces détails, il paraîtrait que cette pièce n'est que la -traduction d'une ode Française, composée à l'occasion de la mort du Comte -de Beaumanoir, tué en 1749, à la défense de Pondichery. L'une de ces deux -odes est évidemment une traduction de l'autre; mais quel est l'original?" - -The following is the note in the _Intermédiare_, to which M. Delepierre -refers:-- - - "The well-known verses on the death of Sir John Moore, attributed - to the Rev. Charles Wolfe, but never acknowledged by him, are - so similar to the above, that it is supposed Mr. Wolfe may have - received the French stanzas from his relative, Mr. Wolfe Tone, after - his return from France." - -The best answer to which is, that the French have never yet produced a -genuine and authentic copy of the original version, of a date earlier than -that of Wolfe. - -The ode has been translated into German (by the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey); into -Latin Elegiacs (by the Rev. J. Hildyard); and there is a Greek translation -of it "By a Scottish Physician" in the _Arundines Devæ_ (Edinburgh, -1853); there is also a parody of it by the late Mr. J. H. Dixon, which -is highly spoken of, but, up till now, this has eluded the editor's -researches. - -The Rev. R. H. Barham's well known parody in "The Ingoldsby Legends" is -especially notable for its close imitation of the original; thus not only -is the metre closely followed, but nearly all the lines are made to end -with similar rhymes to those in the original. - -Barham had a good excuse for this comical effusion, in the wish to -expose and ridicule the pretensions of a certain _soi-disant_ "Doctor," -a Durham veterinary surgeon of the name of Marshall, on whose behalf a -claim had been made, in 1824, for the authorship of the "Ode." But this -was afterwards said to have been a mere hoax, as this Marshall was more -remarkable for convivial, than literary tastes. - - Note.--In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that - certain beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might - have been the production of Lord Byron's muse, the late Mr. Sydney - Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, - the late Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant - started up in the person of a _soi-disant_ "Doctor Marshall," who - turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. - It was then that a certain "Doctor Peppercorn" put forth _his_ - pretensions to what he averred was the only "true and original" - version, viz.:-- - - Not a _sous_ had he got, not a guinea or note, - And he looked confoundedly flurried, - As he bolted away without paying his shot, - And the Landlady after him hurried. - - We saw him again at dead of night, - When home from the Club returning, - We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light - Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning. - - All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, - Reclined in the gutter we found him, - And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, - With his _Marshall_ cloak around him. - - "The Doctor's as drunk as the d----," we said, - And we managed a shutter to borrow; - We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head - Would consumedly ache on the morrow. - - We bore him home, and we put him to bed, - And we told his wife and his daughter - To give him, next morning, a couple of red - Herrings, with soda water. - - Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, - And his Lady began to upbraid him; - But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on - 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him. - - We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done, - When, beneath the window calling, - We heard the rough voice of a son-of-a-gun - Of a watchman, "One o'clock," bawling. - - Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down - From his room in the uppermost story; - A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, - And we left him alone in his glory. - - Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--_Virgil._ - I wrote the verses, * * claimed them--he told stories. - - _Thomas Ingoldsby._ - - * * * * * - -The following parody is copied literally from an old ballad sheet in the -British Museum, bearing the imprint:--"Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6 -Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials." No date is given, but that it was -prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the "Charleys," a nick-name for -the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards -the end of 1829. But the crimes of Body-snatching, and "Burking," were -not finally put a stop to until, by the act of 1832, provision was made -for the wants of surgeons by permitting, under certain regulations, the -dissection of persons dying in workhouses, etc.:-- - - Not a trap was heard, or a Charley's note - As our course to the churchyard we hurried, - Not a pigman discharg'd a pistol shot - As a corpse from the grave we unburied. - - We nibbled it slily at dead of night, - The sod with our pick-axes turning, - By the nosing moonbeam's chaffing light, - And our lanterns so queerly burning. - - Few and short were the words we said, - And we felt not a bit of sorrow, - But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead - And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow. - - The useless shroud we tore from his breast - And then in regimentals bound him, - And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest, - With his lobster togs around him. - - We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed, - Our snatching trick now no look sees; - But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled, - And we far away towards Brooks's. - - Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone - And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him; - But nothing we care if they leave him alone - In a place where a snatcher has laid him. - - But half of our snatching job was o'er, - When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling, - And we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar - That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling. - - Slily and slowly we laid him down, - In our cart famed for staching in story; - Nicely and neatly we done 'em brown, - For we bolted away in our glory. - - * * * * * - -At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents -constantly asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient constitution of -the country would be swept away, and that ruin, revolution, and anarchy -would result. The following parody appeared in a Liberal newspaper of the -period:-- - - -ODE ON THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE CONSTITUTION. - - "Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the - death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the - last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over - his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its - prototype." - - Not a moan was heard--not a funeral note, - As his corpse to the devil they hurried, - Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot, - O'er the grave where our idol was buried. - - They buried him darkly at dead of night, - With their threats our remonstrance turning, - By the struggling Stephen's misty light, - In the brazen socket burning. - - No useless coffin enclosed his breast, - In a sheet of parchment they bound him, - And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest, - With schedule A around him. - - Few and short were the speeches said, - And we spoke not a word of sorrow, - But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead, - And thought of the coming morrow. - - We thought as they tumbled him into his bed, - And laid him at rest on his pillow, - That the Radical soon would step over our head, - And we be turned out by the bill--oh! - - Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, - And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, - But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on, - In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him. - - But half our heavy task was done, - When the time came for ending the session, - And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun, - That the King was now in procession, - - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, - From the further defence of the Tory, - We carved not a line on his funeral stone, - But we left him alone in his glory. - -_Figaro in London_, 8th September, 1832. - - * * * * * - -There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after -Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of -Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than -dismay:-- - - -LINES, - -(AFTER WOLFE) - - _Written on the threatened Death_ (_on the Floor of the House_) _of - John O'Connell_. - - Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note, - As down on the floor he hurried; - Not a member offered to lend his coat, - Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried - - We looked at him slily at dead of night, - Our backs adroitly turning, - That he might not see us laugh outright - By the lights so brightly burning. - - No useless advice we on him press'd, - Nor in argument we wound him; - But we left him to lie, and take his rest, - With his Irish _clique_ around him. - - Few and short were the speeches made, - And we spoke not a word in sorrow; - But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead, - He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow. - - We thought, we'll be careful where we tread, - And avoid him where he's lying; - For if we should tumble over his head, - 'Twould certainly send us flying. - - Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone, - And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him; - But little he'll care, and again try it on, - Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him. - - But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?" - When the time arrived for retiring, - And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun - Our attendance to watch him requiring." - - Slowly and softly they shut the door, - After Radical, Whig, and Tory; - And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more," - They left him alone in his glory. - -_Punch_, December, 1847. - - * * * * * - - -"GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM." - -"A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED." - - He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note - Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry, - That, alas! he had no testamur got; - And he felt in a deuce of a flurry. - - He thought how he'd read at dead of night, - The page of Herodotus turning, - By the tallow-candle's flickering light, - Or the moderator burning. - - No ruthless coughing arose from his chest, - Nor did indigestion wound him; - But he said--as the worry was breaking his rest-- - "That Examiner--confound him!" - - "What's the odds?" were the words that he said; - But he choked not down his sorrow; - For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled, - And pictured the "Governor's horror." - - Then he thought, as he hurled himself into bed, - And dashed his head down on the pillow, - That his foe, the tailor, would want to be paid, - And would quickly be sending his bill, oh! - - Very likely he thought (now his credit was gone), - "Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him; - But nothing he'll get: I'll be off to Boulogne," - And he went, out of Britain to shade him. - - Just after his heavy sleep, each tone, - As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, - And he fancied that many a ravenous dun - At the oak was sullenly knocking. - - He cautiously put out his head, and looked down - From his room in the second story: - He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone; - He was all alone,--in his glory (?) - - JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford. - -_College Rhymes_ (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864. - - * * * * * - - -PARODY ON "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." - - "Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note, - As our friend to the bridal we hurried; - Not a wit discharged his farewell shot, - As the bachelor went to be married. - - "We married him quietly to save his fright, - Our heads from the sad sight turning; - And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light, - To think he was not more discerning. - - "To think that a bachelor free and bright, - And shy of the sex as we found him, - Should there at the altar, at dead of night, - Be caught in the snares that bound him. - - "Few and short were the words that we said, - Though of wine and cake partaking; - We escorted him home from the scene of dread, - While his knees were awfully shaking. - - "Slowly and sadly we marched him down, - From the first to the lowermost storey; - And we never have heard or seen the poor man - Whom we left alone in his glory." - -These lines appeared in _Notes and Queries_ June 27, 1868, and are said to -have been written by Thomas Hood. - - * * * * * - - -THE FLIGHT OF O'NEILL, THE INVADER OF CANADA. - -"General O'Neill, who, at the head of the Fenian forces recently invaded -Canada, seems to combine, together with his love for Ireland, a certain -amount of affection for the ordinary enjoyments of life; for one complaint -against him is, that the morning of the attack, when awakened at three -o'clock by a captain belonging to his quarters, he merely said, "All -right!" and fell asleep again. On two subsequent occasions he was awakened -with no more practical result, and on being called a fourth time, got -up. Even then, however, he declined to proceed at once with the glorious -work of liberating Ireland, but said, "He guessed he would wait till -breakfast." After breakfast this great patriot advanced at the head of his -forces, but being surprised by a party of Canadian Volunteers, who fired -upon the Fenians, immediately retired to his quarters, where he was found -very comfortably lodged, and was arrested by General Foster, the United -States Marshal, for a breach of the neutrality laws." - - Not a gun was heard, not a bugle note, - As over the border he hurried; - He took to his heels without firing a shot, - Only looking tremendously flurried. - - No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast, - As over the ground he jolted; - Not caring a straw what became of the rest, - He unhesitatingly bolted. - - And snug in his quarters, at dead of night, - The Yankee General found him; - His bed all ready, his candle alight, - And bottles of whisky around him. - - And when at his door came the clanking and noise, - His courage all sank to zero; - For, though at the head of the Fenian "bhoys," - He wasn't exactly a hero. - - When the Britishers find that he really is gone, - In impotent rage they upbraid him; - If Mr. O'NEILL they had laid hands upon - At that moment, they surely had flay'd him! - - Few and short were the words they said-- - They only expressed their sorrow - That they hadn't caught him, and put him to bed - Where he wouldn't wake up on the morrow. - - But safe in New York, under FOSTER'S convoy, - He has gone to tell his own story; - Where "shut up" very much, this broth of a boy - Is at present alone in his glory! - - _Judy_, 22nd June, 1870. - - * * * * * - - -"RUNNING HIM IN." - -_By a Good Templar in the Force._ - - A groan was heard, like a funeral note, - From a toper in mud half-buried, - And our Serjeant "Drunk and incapable" wrote, - When his form to the station we hurried. - - We hurried him swiftly at dead of night, - And oft with our truncheons spurning, - Under many a gas-lamp's flickering light, - Through alley and crooked turning. - - In rags and tatters the toper was dressed, - For in poverty drink had bound him. - And he lay like a pig in a gutter at rest, - With little pigs squeaking around him. - - We lifted him up, but he fell as one dead, - And we tumbled him into a barrow; - And the idle spectators shouted and said, - "He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow!" - - Lightly they talk of the _spirit_ that's gone, - And o'er empty bottles upbraid him; - But little he'll reck, as they let him sleep on - In the cell where the constables laid him. - - No curtains had he to his lonely bed, - And a rough deal plank was his pillow; - He will wake with parched throat and an aching head, - And thirst that would drink up a billow. - - Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down, - That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary, - And wished that the dissolute youth of the town - A warning might take from his story. - - _Funny Folks._ - - * * * * * - - -THE MURDER OF "MACBETH." - - Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell, - Though of both 'twas surely deserving-- - When, cruelly murdered, _Macbeth_ fell - By the hand of the eminent Irving. - - He murdered him, lengthily, that night, - With his new and original reading. - Till his efforts left him in sorry plight, - And the sweat on his brow was bleeding. - - Five different garments enclosed his breast, - Five brand-new dresses were found him, - Though in never a one did he look at rest, - Though the people might sleep around him. - - Many and long were the words he said, - Till we wished in fervent sorrow, - We could only get home to our welcome bed, - And we vowed not to come on the morrow. - - We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode, - And made us long for our pillow, - That a taste of his tragic genius he owed - To our cousins far over the billow. - - Even there, though his fame before has gone; - He may find it melt in a minute; - But little he'll reck, if they let him act on - In a play with a murderer in it. - - But half the heavy play was o'er - When we seized the chance for retiring, - And left him grovelling about on the floor, - With his friends all madly admiring. - - Sadly we thought as we went away, - From his acting so dreary and gory, - That the eminent I, if he's wise will not play, - _Macbeth_ any more, if for glory. - - _The Figaro_, 16th October, 1875. - -This critic, who left the theatre before the tragedy was half over, was, -of course, eminently qualified to point out the shortcomings of Mr. Irving -in the part of _Macbeth_, But perhaps the critic had forgotten that the -leading character has one, or two, rather strong situations towards the -end of the play, which he should have witnessed before condemning the -actor. - - * * * * * - - -THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, "QUEEN." - - Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note, - As the Bill to the tellers we hurried; - So solemn and dread is the midnight vote - When a title has to be buried. - - We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat, - To make it a question burning; - We strained every nerve to set it afloat, - The hate of all Englishmen earning. - - They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul - (There's much of it still adhering), - And we knew by the distant and random growl - That the foe was sullenly sneering. - - Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled - (That Lowe's a most impudent monkey); - For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said - By the lips of some courtly flunkey. - - 'Twas fondly imagined a title of might, - Renowned in an ancient story; - But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight, - And left it alone in its glory! - - _The Figaro_, April 8, 1876. - -One of the arguments against Mr. Disraeli's Titles Bill, was that -_Empress_ was likely altogether to supersede the older, and more -constitutional, title of _Queen_. The lapse of but a few years has shown -how groundless was this apprehension, for except in state documents or -Daily Telegraph leaders, the title of Empress is never employed. - - * * * * * - -In November, 1879, _The Weekly Dispatch_ (a high-class London Liberal -newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and -methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, -1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of -the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of -Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, -S.E., for the following:-- - - -(_From a Tory point of view._) - - Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note, - As away from the House we all scurried-- - Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot, - The grave where our hopes were buried. - - We buried them sadly and deep that night, - For we had no hope of returning, - By Reason's bright returning light, - And our hearts were sadly yearning. - - Few indeed were the words we said, - But though few they were pregnant with sorrow, - As we all in search of Benjamin fled - To inspire us with hope for the morrow. - - No gaudy star was upon his breast, - No ermine cloak was around him, - Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest; - And he smiled at us all, confound him! - - We thought, as we left with a silent tread, - Of Cross and his dreadful Water, - That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead, - And we far away from that quarter. - - Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone, - And of course they've a right to abuse us; - But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on - In our places and wouldn't refuse us. - - But scarce had our sad hearts aching done. - When again to the fight we were guided; - And we knew that the foe had a victory won, - That our fate was indeed decided. - - Slowly and sadly we all went down - With the blood of our brethren all gory; - But our sun at Midlothian has now gone down, - So farewell to the hopes of the Tory. - -Another parody on the same subject by Mr. James Robinson, of 59, Lyal -Road, North Bow, was also inserted:-- - - Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell, - As its corpse from the hustings we hurried; - But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell - To get the thing decently buried. - - With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave-- - (It was deep and contained some water)-- - All willingly helped, and the sexton gave - An address on its deeds of slaughter. - - With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast, - In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it, - So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest, - With its weapons all around it. - - Brief and stern was the service said, - In its own peculiar lingo; - By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read - From the gospel according to Jingo. - - Lightly we'll speak of the Ministry gone. - Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it, - We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on - In the dishonoured past where we've laid it. - -The Editor added the following remarks:-- - - "Among the numerous parodies of 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' - there are some, faulty in parts, in which there are remarkably - vigorous verses. One competitor, for instance, treating Jingo as a - personality, says:-- - - 'No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast, - Nor in cerement white we bound him; - But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest, - With a pool of that liquid around him.' - -Another winds up thus:-- - - 'Smiling and gladly we toppled him down, - That image of humbug so gory; - We wrote but one line--'Here, under this stone, - _Lies_ bombast, false glitter, and glory.' - -And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the -behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy:-- - - 'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed, - And pommelled his lonely pillow, - He was pitching away into Gladstone's head; - And his fury was like the billow.'" - - -THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER. - -"Mr. Burnand's good-natured but well-directed chaff in 'Blue Beard,' at -the Gaiety, may be said to have ridiculed that curious product of modern -civilisation, the Masher, out of existence. His continued life now seems -to be impossible."--_Daily Paper._ - - Not a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound, - As the song to an _encore_ was hurried; - Not a man in the stalls to cheer was found, - On the night that the Masher was buried. - - He'd come before to a parlous pass, - Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour; - But "Blue Beard" gave him his _coup de grâce_. - And finished him once for ever! - - It killed and buried him sitting there, - By ridicule on him turning; - 'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare, - With the footlights brightly burning. - - His wired gardenia graced his breast, - And sodden in scent one found him, - As he sat there sucking his stick with zest, - With his three-inch collar around him. - - A deep red groove in his puffy throat, - That collar's starched edge was flaying; - And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote, - Were the clocks of his hose displaying. - - Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place. - And his shirt front's wealth of whiteness - Made yet more sallow his pasty face, - More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness. - - No thought worth thinking was in his breast, - Nor on his dull brain was flashing, - But he sat encased in his board-like vest, - Equipped for the evening's mashing. - - But few and short were the leers he gave - At the chorus-girls singing before him; - For cold and swift as an ocean wave, - The chaff of Burnand swept o'er him. - - And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick, - Some hope from the "Johnnies" to borrow; - For they steadfastly sucked every one his stick, - And most bitterly thought of the morrow. - - They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death, - And foreshadowed their doom so plainly, - That they next morning, with feverish breath, - Might demand devilled prawns all vainly; - - That their faith in the curried egg might go, - And a cayenne salad not serve them, - Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low, - Nor a _fricassee'd_ oyster nerve them! - - They felt that the power to attention gain - Would surely henceforth evade them, - And that public contempt would let them remain - In the grave where a "Blue Beard" had laid them. - - And so, when Burnand his task had done, - And received a right warm ovation, - Of all the Mashers was left not one; - 'Twas complete annihilation. - - And they buried them there, where they first were born, - With gardenias on them clustered-- - In the mashing garbs that they long had worn-- - Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered. - - Blithely and gaily they laid them down, - Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there; - And they carved not a line and they raised not a stone-- - For the Mashers were worthy of neither! - - _Truth_, March 22, 1883. - - * * * * * - - -NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR. - - (An old story by an Old Bachelor.) - - (_With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's - clothing._) - -I. - - He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat, - And, of course, exceedingly worried; - He swore he'd never return to the spot, - As out of the front door he scurried. - -II. - - He tried to banish her face from his sight, - She for whom he was yearning; - Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right, - And that she was fond of spurning. - -III. - - But who'd have thought--ah, even guessed-- - That after she had caught and bound him; - It was to be but a flirting jest. - An impartial joke to sound him. - -IV. - - Few and short were the words he had said, - Only this--only this, "love be mine." - She gave him a rap with her fan on his head, - And laughingly left him to pine - -V. - - What was he to do? should he hate her instead? - Or weeping wail, waly willow; - Or wiping away the tears he had shed, - Launch in some fresh peccadillo? - -VI. - - Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, - In arbours and in kitchen gardens; - Only to find _his_ poor heart torn - By devotion, which her hard heart hardens. - -VII. - -L'ENVOI. - - The moral of this I hope you won't shun, - Don't be in your mind too enquiring, - Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun, - You're not cared for by her you're admiring. - -VIII. - - Talk to them civilly and leave them alone, - And this is the end of my story. - And as I don't mean to alter my tone, - I drink to all flirts "con amore." - -From _Cribblings from the Poets_ (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883. - - -A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN MOORE'S, FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER. - - Not a mute one word at the funeral spoke - Till away to the pot-house we hurried, - Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke - O'er the grave where our "party" we buried. - - We buried him dearly with vain display, - Two hundred per cent. returning, - Which we made the struggling orphans pay, - All consideration spurning. - - With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest, - Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him; - And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest, - With his empty pomp around him. - - None at all were the prayers we said, - And we felt not the slightest sorrow, - But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead, - Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow. - - We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed - That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter. - So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head, - For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter. - - Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone, - Now all due respect has been paid him; - Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on - Near the spot where we fellows had laid him. - - As soon as our sable task was done, - Nor a moment we lost in retiring; - And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun, - Gin and water each jolly soul firing, - - Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down, - Singing song, cracking joke, telling story; - And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town, - Riding outside the hearse in our glory. - - _Punch_, January 5, 1850. - -At the time when the above parody appeared there was an agitation on foot -to reform the costliness and vain display at funerals. _Punch_, both in -his cartoons and his letterpress, was exceedingly bitter against the -undertakers. - -The matter was so energetically taken up by the press and the public, that -funerals were soon shorn of their costly mummery, and are now conducted on -much more sensible and economical principles than they were in 1850. - -In reference to the disputed authority of the ode "Not a drum was heard," -the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin, has kindly forwarded a _facsimile_ of -the letter, (to which reference was made on page 105), from the Rev. C. -Wolfe to his friend Mr. John Taylor. It varies slightly from the version -already given, and seems conclusively to establish Wolfe's title as author -of the poem. - -It runs thus:-- - - "I have completed the Burial of Sir John Moore, and will here - inflict it upon you; you have no one but yourself to blame, for - praising the two stanzas (?) that I told you so much;-- - - (_Here follows the poem._) - - "Pray write soon--you may direct as usual to College, and it will - follow me to the country. Give my love to Armstrong, and believe me, - my dear John, ever yours, - - (Signed) CHARLES WOLFE." - -This is addressed-- - - "JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ., - At the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's, - Clonoulty, - Cashel." - -Date of postmark, Se, 6, 1816. - -The handwriting is small, neat, and clear, and there is only one slight -verbal correction, which occurs in the last verse; in verses 3 and 4 a few -end words have been torn off by the seal. - -There is a postscript, as it has no reference, however, to the poem, it is -needless to reprint it. - - * * * * * - -FOOTNOTES: - -[Footnote 4: This appears to be a covert allusion to the lady-bird.] - -[Footnote 5: We shall not publish the vocabulary with this song.--ED.] - - - - -Thomas Hood. - -1798--MAY 3, 1845. - - -In Hood's poems a rare blending is found of wit, fancy, humour and pathos; -and as his personal character was amiable, gentle and good, his memory is -cherished by Englishmen with peculiar affection and respect. - -Thomas Hood was born in London, and was the son of a member of the then -well-known firm of booksellers, Vernor, Hood, and Sharp. - -Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that -profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to -illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His -sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his -meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, -pictorial exponent as Hood. - -Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several -novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of _Fun_. - -Of Hood's poems the four most usually selected for parody and imitation -are, _The Song of the Shirt;_ _The Bridge of Sighs;_ _The Dream of Eugene -Aram;_ and a pretty little piece entitled _I remember, I remember_. - -It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the most earnest and pathetic -of Hood's poems should first have appeared in _Punch_. _The Song of the -Shirt_ will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal. - -This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the -slop-sellers and ready-made clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic -outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted -from it. The machinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London -tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time. - -As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of _The Song of -the Shirt_ and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of -almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many -imitations of a serious nature. - - -TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF A TOURIST. - - In clothes, both muddy and wet, - Without hat--left on the fell; - A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait, - Refreshment at this hotel. - He'd walked a long and weary way, - O'er mountain-top and moor; - And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain, - As he approached the door. - - "I walk! walk! walk! - First climbing hills, and then down - Where the people are not to be seen, - Many miles from village or town. - Oh! haven't I been a dupe, - Pedestrian pleasure to seek, - When so quiet I might have stayed - At Redcar all the week." - - "I walk! walk! walk! - With my boots fast breaking up, - And walk! walk! walk! - Without either bite or sup. - Oh! that again I was at home, - To feel as I used to feel, - And not as now, in hunger and thirst, - With a doubly-blistered heel." - - "I walk! walk! walk! - Up to the knee in bog, - And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost!' - Surrounded by clouds and fog. - I walk! walk! walk! - Till my head begins to spin; - Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out - The stream I tumbled in." - - "I walk! walk! walk! - With cheeks all swollen and red; - A nasty aching within my ears, - Rheumatics in my head. - I walk! walk! walk! - In trousers tattered and torn! - With every thread from foot to head - Quite soaked since early morn." - - "The day is fast wearing out, - And so are my boots and I; - The sleet blows in my face, - As with the breeze I sigh. - Although white fog I'm in, - Yet 'tis a dark look out - For one who hither has come for a change, - And cannot change a clout." - - "I walk! walk! walk! - And nothing can find to see; - While water and mud from out my boots - Is squirting up to each knee. - Talk of scenery! Bah! it's all stuff, - But the waterfall, I admit, - Is good, for it's running down my back, - And I've no dry place to sit." - - "I walk! walk! walk! - With my throat quite parched and dry; - No spirit to rouse my spirits up; - With pulse quite fevered and high. - I've a dropsy got outside, - Whilst inside there's a drought; - Oh! for a good warm draught within, - As a check to the draught without." - - "Walk! walk! walk! - I'll never come here again: - My holiday shall be spent elsewhere, - Free from fatigue and pain. - Or I'll stay at home with my wife, - Where a dry shirt I can wear;"-- - And worn out with misfortune's strife, - And almost weary of his life, - He sank in the old arm chair. - - JOHN REED APPLETON, F.S.A. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE SPURT. - - With hands all blistered and worn, - With eyes excited and red, - A boating man sat, in jersey and bags, - Awaiting the signal with dread. - Tug! tug! tug! - Every bone in his body is hurt; - And still, with a sigh and a dolorous shrug, - He sang the "Song of the Spurt!" - - "Work! work! work! - Till I shiver in every limb; - Work! work! work! - Till the eyes begin to swim - Steam, bucket, and pant, - Pant, bucket, and steam, - Till over the oar I almost faint, - And row along in a dream." - - "O, men, with sisters dear, - O, men, with pretty cousins, - I must mind and keep my form for the end-- - They'll be there on the barge by dozens! - Pull! pull! pull! - What is poverty, hunger, or dirt, - Compared with the more than double dread - Of catching a crab in the spurt!" - - With eyes excited and red, - With good hope of victory fired, - He was rowing along in his jersey and bags, - But feeling uncommonly tired! - Pull! pull! pull! - He began his full powers to exert; - Soon his boat would have been at the head of the river, - But when just at the barge--an unfortunate shiver - Made him catch a crab in the spurt! - - REMEX MORIBUNDUS. - -_College Rhymes_ (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1865. - - * * * * * - - -THE DRIPPING SHEET. - -"This sheet, wrung out of cold or tepid water, is thrown around the body. -Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. -Its operation is truly _shocking_. Dress after to prevent remarks." - - -SONG OF THE SHEET. - -(_After Hood._) - - With nerves all shattered and worn, - With shouts terrific and loud, - A patient stood in a cold wet sheet-- - A Grindrod's patent shroud. - Wet, wet, wet, - In douche, and spray, and sleet, - And still, with a voice I shall never forget, - He sang the song of the sheet. - - "Drip, drip, drip, - Dashing, and splashing, and dipping; - And drip, drip, drip, - Till your fat all melts to dripping. - It's oh, for dry deserts afar, - Or let me rather endure - Curing with salt in a family jar, - If this is the water cure. - - "Rub, rub, rub, - He'll rub away life and limb; - Rub, rub, rub, - It seems to be fun for him. - Sheeted from head to foot, - I'd rather be covered with dirt; - I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot, - If you'll only give me my shirt. - - "Oh men, with arms and hands; - Oh men, with legs and shins; - It is not the sheet you're wearing out, - But human creatures' skins. - Rub, rub, rub, - Body, and legs, and feet, - Rubbing at once with a double rub, - A skin as well as a sheet. - - "My wife will see me no more-- - She'll see the bone of her bone - But never will see the flesh of her flesh, - For I'll have no flesh of my own: - The little that was my own, - They won't allow me to keep, - It's a pity that flesh should be so dear, - And water so very cheap. - - "Pack, pack, pack, - Whenever your spirit flags, - You're doomed by hydropathic laws - To be packed in cold wet rags: - Rolled up on bed or on floor-- - Or sweated to death in a chair; - But my chairman's rank--my shadow I'd thank - For taking my place in there. - - "Slop, slop, slop, - Never a moment of time, - Slop, slop, slop, - Slackened like masons' lime; - Stand and freeze or steam-- - Steam or freeze and stand; - I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed, - That told me to leave dry land. - - "Up, up, up, - In the morn before daylight, - The bathman cries, "Get up," - (I wish he were up for a fight). - While underneath the eaves, - The dry, snug swallows cling, - But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs, - And see if they'll come next spring. - - "Oh! oh! it stops my breath, - (He calls it short and sweet), - Could they hear me underneath, - I'll shout them from the street! - He says that in half an hour - A different man I'll feel - That I'll jump half over the moon and want - To walk into a meal. - - * * * * * - - "I feel more nerve and power, - And less of terror and grief; - I'm thinking now of love and hope-- - And now of mutton and beef. - This glorious scene will rouse my heart, - Oh, who would lie in bed? - I cannot stop, but jump and hop; - Going like needle and thread." - - With buoyant spirit upborne, - With cheeks both healthy and red; - The same man ran up the Malvern Crags, - Pitying those in bed. - Trip, trip, trip, - Oh, life with health is sweet; - And still in a voice both strong and quick, - Would that its tones could reach the sick, - He sang the Song of the Sheet. - -From _Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch_. By J. B. Oddfish, Esq., -M.P., L.L.D. (Malvern Patient, Doctor of Laughs and Liquids). - -Simpkin, Marshall and Co., London, 1865. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE STREET. - -(To the memory of the good, the genial, the large-hearted Thomas Hood, -this humble imitation of his "Song of the Shirt" is inscribed by the -writer). - -I. - - With lips all livid with cold, - And purple and swollen feet, - A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, - Singing the Song of the Street! - "Starve! starve! starve! - Oh, God! 'tis a fearful night! - How the wind does blow the sleet and the snow! - Will it ever again be light? - -II. - - "I have rung at the 'Refuge' bell, - I have beat at the workhouse-door, - To be told again that I clamour in vain, - They are full--they can hold no more. - Starve! starve! starve! - Of the crowds that pass me by, - Some with pity, and some in pride, - But more with indifference turn aside, - And leave me here to die! - -III. - - - "Oh! you that sleep in beds, - With coverlet, quilt, and sheet, - Oh think when it snows what it is for those - That lie in the open street: - That lie in the open street, - On the cold and frozen stones, - When the winter's blast, as it whistles past, - Bites into the very bones. - -IV. - - "Oh! what with the wind without, - And what with the cold within, - I own I have sought to drive away thought - With that curse of the tempted--gin. - Drink! drink! drink! - Amid ribaldry, gas, and glare. - If there's hell on earth, - 'Tis the ghastly mirth - That maddens at midnight, there. - -V. - - "Oh you, that never have stray'd, - Because you have not been tried, - Oh look not down with a Pharisee's frown - On those that have swerv'd aside. - And you that hold the scales, - And you that glibly urge - That the only plan is the Prison van, - The Treadmill, or the Scourge. - -VI. - - "Oh, what are the lost to do? - To famish, and not to feel? - For days to go, and never to know - What it is to have one meal? - They cannot buy, they dare not beg, - They must either starve or steal. - - "Food--food--food! - If it be but a loaf of bread, - And a place to lie-- - And a place to die, - If it be but a workhouse bed! - If you will not give to those that live, - You at least _must_ bury the dead!" - -VIII. - - With lips all livid and blue, - And purple and swoll'n feet, - A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, - And sang the Song of the Street. - As she ceased the doleful strain, - My homeward path I trod; - And the cry and the prayer, - Of that lost one there - Went up to the Throne of God. - - W. H. B. - -_The Standard_, February 16th, 1865. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE STUMP. - - Stump--stump--stump-- - Through market-place, pothouse, and dirt; - Stump--stump--stump-- - With a greasy mob fast to his skirt; - Having changed his coat to secure their vote, - Mr. Gladstone now changes his shirt. - And if he but ends as he does begin, - There is little doubt he will change his skin, - On the stump--stump--stump. - - Stump--stump--stump-- - Through Ormskirk, St. Helen's and Newton, - Whilst after him shout a rabble rout - Of electors "Ain't he a cute 'un?" - Stump--stump--stump-- - With the aid of rhetorical steam, - Till over his speeches we fall asleep, - And hear him stump in a dream; - Stump--stump--stump-- - For ever upon our ear. - Alas! that principle's so cheap, - And office is so dear! - Stump--stump--stump. - - _The Tomahawk_, November, 1868. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE FLIRT. - - With bosom weary and worn, - With eyelids painted and red, - A lady, just from a Duchess's ball, - Sat on the side of her bed. - Her sapphires were gleaming and rich, - And faultless her lace and her skirt, - And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch, - She sang the "Song of the Flirt." - - "Flirt, flirt, flirt! - When the lunch is scarcely begun! - Flirt, flirt, flirt! - Till the sickening supper is done - Ball and dinner, and rout, - Rout, and dinner, and ball, - Till I long for my bed to rest my head, - And in a wakeless slumber to fall." - - "Flirt, flirt, flirt! - Till the room begins to swim; - Flirt, flirt, flirt, - Till the eyes are starting and dim: - Beam, and falsehood, and frown, - Frown, and falsehood, and beam, - Till over my lyings I fall asleep, - And flirt my fan in a dream!" - - "Flirt, flirt, flirt! - My labour never ends; - And what are its wages? all true men's scorn, - And a dreary dearth of friends. - That shattered life--and this broken heart-- - And yon smile that shrines a sneer; - And a house so blank, my cousin I thank - For sometimes calling here!" - - "Oh! but to scent the breath - Of an honest man on my brow-- - To feel the throb of a worthy arm - Winding around me now; - For only one brief hour - To feel as the pure can feel, - To staunch with the power of hearty love - The wounds that refuse to heal!" - - With bosom weary and worn, - With eyelids painted and red, - A woman, fresh from a great duke's ball, - Knelt by the side of her bed. - Her rubies were ruddy and rich, - And perfect her bodice and skirt-- - She looked like a splendid and tigerly witch, - And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch - She sang the "Song of the Flirt." - - F. C. W., Exeter College, Oxon. - -_College Rhymes_ (T. Shrimpton and Son), Oxford, 1872. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE WIRE. - - With finger cunning and firm, - With one eye and a crooked back, - An old man, clad in an old pair of bags, - Was carving a profile in black. - Snip! snip! snip! - Cold, wet, or whatever the day, - And still, with a voice of a ludicrous crack, - He croaked the "Wirer's Lay." - - "Wire! wire! wire! - While men to their lectures fly, - And wire! wire! wire! - Where the Turl runs into the High! - It's O, to be the Vice, - Or a Prince in his cap and gown, - It's O, to be able to pay the price - To be stuck round my hat's old crown. - - "Wire! wire! wire! - Till the nose begins to be clear; - Wire! wire! wire! - Till the lips and the chin appear! - Hair and shoulder and brow, - Brow and shoulder and hair, - Till over the likeness I chuckle and wait - For a gent who's a moment to spare. - - "O, men, with sisters dear! - O, men, with mothers to please! - It is not for them my portraits are bought, - But for dearer far than these! - Snip! snip! snip! - With a point as keen as a dart, - Carving at once a likeness to suit, - And a place in the loved one's heart. - - "But why do I talk of her? - The fair one of unknown name, - I hardly think she could tell the face, - They all seem much the same-- - They all seem much the same, - Because of the types I keep; - 'Tis odd that faces should be so like, - And yet I work them so cheap! - - "Wire! wire! wire! - My labour never flags; - And what are its wages? a copper or two, - Which I lose through the holes in my bags, - A nod of the head, or a passing joke,-- - A laugh,--a freshman's stare,-- - Or a gent so bland, when I ask him to stand - While I carve him his portrait there. - - "Wire! wire! wire! - In the sound of S. Mary's chimes, - Wire! wire! wire! - As specials wire to the _Times!_ - Hair, and shoulder, and brow, - Brow, and shoulder, and hair, - Till the trick is done, and I pocket the coin, - As I finish it off with care. - - "Wire! wire! wire! - In the dull month of Novem- - ber--wire! wire! wire, - When Oxford is bright with Commem. - While under light parasols, - The pretty girls slily glance, - As if to show how nice they would look - If they'd only give me a chance. - - "Oh! but to catch that face - Which health and beauty deck-- - That hat posed on her head, - And the curl that falls on her neck; - For only a minute or two - To sketch as I could when I tried - To take off the Vice as he passed one day, - And the Prince in my hat by his side. - - "Oh! but for a minute or two! - A moment which soon will have gone! - No blessed second for fair or brunette, - Nor even to copy a don! - A little sketching would bring some brass, - But in its musty case, - My scissors must lie, for I have but one eye - With which to look out for a face!" - - With finger cunning and firm, - With one eye and a crooked back, - An old man clad in an old pair of bags, - Was carving a profile in black. - Snip! snip! snip! - Cold, wet, or whatever the day, - And, still with a voice of a ludicrous crack, - Would I could describe its cadaverous knack-- - He croaked the "Wirer's Lay." - - ARTHUR-A-BLAND. - -This parody appeared in _The Shotover Papers_ for May, 1874 (J. Vincent, -High Street, Oxford), it will certainly appeal more to old Oxford men, -from its allusions, than to the general reader. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF LOVE. - - With bosom weary and sad, - With eyelids heavy and red, - A maiden sat, in maidenly grace, - Thinking o'er pleasures dead. - Sigh! sigh! sigh! - In misery, sorrow, and tears, - She sang, in a voice of melody, - The plaintive song of her fears. - - Love! love! love! - Whilst the birds are waking from rest; - And love! love! love! - Till the sun sinks in the west; - It's oh! to be in the grave, - Where hope's false dream is not, - Where doubts ne'er rise to bedim the eyes, - If this is woman's lot! - -Here follow nine more verses in an equally plaintive style, and of no -particular interest. - - From _The Figaro_, February 28, 1874. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE CRAM. - - With fingers trembling and warm, - With eyelids heavy and red, - A schoolboy sat, in true schoolboy style, - His hand supporting his head. - Throb! throb! throb! - With frantic excitement and dread, - And still with a look of dolor and pain, - He sat on the side of his bed. - - "Throb! throb! throb! - In my chamber next the roof; - And work! work! work! - From my friends I must keep aloof; - French and German and Greek, - Greek and German and French, - Till my brow grows damp, and my breath comes hard, - And my agonised hands I clench. - - "Work! work! work! - While my cousins are laughing beneath, - And work! work! work! - Till I scarcely can draw my breath; - It's oh! to prepare! prepare! - My head with knowledge to cram, - Not a word to say! not a moment to spare! - I'm going in for Exam! - - "Work! work! work! - Till the brain begins to swim, - And work! work! work! - Till my eyes are heavy and dim; - Greek and German and French, - French and German and Greek, - Till over the problems I have a nap, - And work them out in my sleep. - - "Throb! throb! throb! - My courage is ebbing fast! - Work! work! work! - I fear that my brain won't last! - Throb! throb! throb! - O come and help me cram! - I'm going to be a lunatic, - If plucked in this Exam! - - "O men with cousins dear! - O men with mothers and wives! - I'd cram you, if I had you here, - Within an inch of your lives! - But Examiners' hearts are hard, - And their wisdom is but a sham; - And little they care what we have to bear, - Or how hard we need to cram! - - "Oh! but to play a game - With my happy friends below! - Oh! but to make a pun, - Or try--but 'tis all 'no go'-- - So they for me may wish, - But I must stay and cram; - Oh, bother it! I'm just 'done up' - With this horrible Exam!" - - With fingers trembling and warm, - With eyelids heavy and red, - A schoolboy sat in true schoolboy style, - His hand supporting his head. - Throb! throb! throb! - And cram! cram! cram! - And still with a look of dolor and pain, - He studied and crammed with might and main, - To pass the dreaded Exam! - - A. P. - -_The Dunheved Mirror_, Cornwall, December, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -THE SLAVE OF THE PEN. - -I. - - With fingers inky and cold, - With eyelids heavy and red, - A scribbler sat through the dreary night, - Spinning "Copy," at morn to be read. - Scratch! scratch! scratch! - In a gas-lighted steamy den, - And still, in a voice of dolorous pitch, - He sang the song of the pen. - -II. - - "Scratch! scratch! scratch! - While engines are shaking the roof; - Scratch! scratch! scratch! - Till the "Devil" appears with a proof. - And it's oh! to be a slave - Of the pen, whether steel or quill, - Is as bad as being a worthless knave - Doing his month at the 'mill.' - -III. - - "Scratch! scratch! scratch! - Is it farce or tragedy grim, - Making up the requisite batch, - With fact, and fancy, and whim? - It fritters away my life, - In the flow of this inky stream. - And over the copy I fall asleep, - And punctuate in a dream." - - * * * * * - - Oh! husband with slippered feet; - Oh! wife in morning gown: - Coming down to breakfast, pleased to read - The latest news of the town-- - Think of the dismal scratch - Of these midnight slaves of the pen. - Forgive them a caustic, or feeble phrase, - And remember they are but men. - - _Funny Folks_, January 9th, 1875. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE SWORD. - - Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, - A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the - battle to lie. - The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, - Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone, he sang ... the Song of the - Sword. - "Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand fathers die; - Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand children cry! - Fight--fight--fight! while mothers and wives lament; - And fight--fight--fight! while millions of money are spent. - - "Fight--fight--fight! should the cause be foul or fair, - Though all that's gained is an empty name, and a tax too great to - bear; - An empty name, and a paltry fame, and thousands lying dead; - Whilst every glorious victory must raise the price of bread. - War--war--war! fire, and famine, and sword; - Desolate fields and desolate towns, and thousands scattered abroad, - With never a home, and never a shed, whilst kingdoms perish and fall; - And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, ... and all for nothing at - all! - - "War--war--war! musket, and powder, and ball-- - Ah! what do we fight so for? ah! why have we battles at all? - 'Tis Justice must be done, they say, the nation's honour to keep; - Alas! that Justice should be so dear, and human life so cheap! - War--war--war! misery, murder, and crime; - Are all the blessings I've seen in thee, from my youth to the present - time. - Misery, murder, and crime--crime, misery, murder, and woe; - Ah! would I had known in my younger days half the horrors which now - I know." - - Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, - A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the - battle to lie. - The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, - And thus with a sad and a terrible tone (oh! would that these truths - were more perfectly known!) he sang the Song of the Sword. - - ANONYMOUS. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF A SOT. - -Words composed by Bro. J. B. Davies, P.M. (753). - -_Dedicated to George Cruikshank, Esq., by his kind permission._ - - With a visage pale and wan, - With a vacant stare of eye; - The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw, - In a tavern standing by. - Drink, drink, drink, - Was the demon that urged him on; - And yet still with a husky voice did he call - For drink, till "his pence were gone." - - Drink, drink, drink, - From morning until night! - Drink, drink, drink, - By the glare of bright gaslight. - Oh! fearful sight to see, - And a dreadful thought to think, - That man, who should rule, a slave should be - To that fearful demon, drink. - - Drink, drink, drink, - Till power of sense is gone, - Drink, drink, drink, - Till it's of health and wealth both shorn; - Beer, brandy, gin and rum, - Rum, brandy, gin and beer, - Till the glorious form of manhood's lost - In the beast that you now appear! - - Oh! men with thoughtful minds, - Oh! men with a reason fair, - Tread not in the paths that drunkards go-- - From demon drink, stand clear. - Drink, drink, drink, - Both in slums and great highway, - Is a curse that we too often meet - In our walks by night or day. - - But why do I thus depict - That fell demon of the soul? - I do but so that my fellow men - Themselves from drink control. - Themselves from drink control, - Because of the scenes we see! - Oh, God! to think that man should seek - In drink his misery! - - Drink, drink, drink, - But soon the time will come, - And what will be the end? a soul that's lost, - A drunkard's wretched home - Where sorrow is found, and mark the cost-- - Neither victuals, fire, or light - With a starving wife near the close of life - To meet the drunkard's sight! - - Drink, drink, drink, - From morning until night, - Drink, drink, drink, - 'Tis the drunkard's sole delight. - Beer, brandy, gin, and rum, - Rum, brandy, gin, and beer, - Till his health is gone and his wealth as well, - For the demon nought will spare. - - Drink, drink, drink, - In mansion as well as in cot, - 'Tis drink, drink, drink, - With the highest and lowest sot; - While toiling thousands sleep - Their rest of calm content, - In gilded palaces round about, - The night's in riot spent. - - Oh! that the world would shun, - That demon in form of drink; - And would reason within themselves - And from its presence shrink! - Oh! how might the soul of wayward man, - Rejoice in freedom then-- - And be better far in health and wealth-- - And better far as men. - - Oh! but that men would see, - The sorrow that drink entails! - The orphan's cry and the madman's shout, - As well the widow's wails. - A curse to body, as well as soul, - Sends thousands to their grave; - And makes of Man, God's noblest work, - A low dejected slave. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF "THE CASE." - -(_A Reminiscence of the late Session_). - - With spirits drooping and worn, - With eyelids heavy as lead, - The members sat on their seats in the House, - And wearily longed for bed; - While "Tich, Tich, Tich," - With gruesome and long-drawn face, - "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, - Sang the Song of "the Case." - - "Tich, Tich, Tich, - In spite of all reproof; - And Tich, Tich, Tich, - Though the members stand aloof, - It's I that ought to be classed - Along with Chatham and Burke, - And I'll never cease to raise my voice - Against such monstrous work!" - - "Tich, Tich, Tich, - Till the brain begins to swim, - Tich, Tich, Tich, - Till their eyes are heavy and dim. - Stream, and minnow, and twitch, - Minnow, and twitch, and stream, - Till over the _tattoo_ they fall asleep, - And see it done in a dream." - - "O, men, so callous and blind-- - O, men, so bloated and rich-- - It isn't Orton you're locking up, - But the real and only 'Tich!' - Tich, Tich, Tich, - 'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest, - Stitching at once with his sewing-machine, - A shroud as well as a vest." - - (_Four verses omitted here._) - - With spirits drooping and worn. - With eyelids as heavy as lead, - The members sat in their place in the House, - And wearily longed for bed; - While Tich, Tich, Tich, - With gruesome and long-drawn face, - "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, - (Ah me! to have to listen to sich), - Sang the Song of "the Case." - - _Funny Folks_, October 2nd, 1875. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877. - - With arguments tattered and worn, - With facts long torn to a shred, - The statesman rose in eloquent rage - To ply his political trade. - Stump, stump, stump, - Is this the successor of Burke, - Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch, - Still sings his song of the Turk? - - Turk, Turk, Turk! - While the Czar is biting the dust. - And Turk, Turk, Turk, - The incarnation of lust. - It's O to be a slave, - Along with the barbarous Turk, - Where women have never a soul to save, - And only a body for--work! - - Turk, Turk, Turk! - Till the brain begins to swim. - Turk, Turk, Turk, - Till the audience is eager and grim. - Rape, and outrage, and murder, - And outrage, murder, and rape, - Till stories, long since disproved, appear - To assume a bodily shape. - - O, men, with sisters dear! - O, men, with mothers and wives! - These are things that are wearing away - Bulgarian Christian lives. - Stump, stump, stump, - It's not uncongenial work, - To be damning away, with a double tongue, - The Tory as well as the Turk. - - Turk, Turk, Turk! - My labour never flags, - Yet, what are its wages? A Nottingham feast, - And a suit of political rags, - A broken party, a shattered name, - A smile from the "Daily News," - A bloody war, and a future so blank - That my mind the thought eschews. - - Turk, Turk, Turk! - On the chill October night, - And Turk, Turk, Turk, - When the weather is warm and bright. - And yet, underneath the theme - A longing for power lurks. - So the people of England show me their backs, - And twit me about my Turks. - - Oh, but to breathe the air - Of the Treasury Bench so sweet, - With never a soul above my head, - And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet! - Oh, but for one short hour, - To feel as I used to feel, - When the Liberal Government was in power, - And I was the man at the wheel! - - Oh, but for one short hour! - A period however brief!-- - No blessed leisure for Power or Hope, - But only time for grief! - A little writing eases my mind-- - A pamphlet, a postcard, a note-- - Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop - May cost my party a vote. - - With statements tattered and worn, - With facts distorted and cooked, - The statesman may hope that his share in the war - Will perchance be overlooked, - Turk, Turk, Turk! - 'Tis vain the truth to shirk, - While thousands of bleeding corpses cry, - "Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die, - And we hope you are proud of your work." - - _They are Five_, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE FLIRT. - -(_Hood's Own--for Somebody Else._) - - In the loudest things that are worn, - With her cheek a peculiar red, - A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,-- - This one idea in her head: - To be stitched, stitched, stitched, - Yet a little more tight in her skirt, - The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched, - She sang the "Song of the Flirt!" - - "Work, work, work. - In the broiling drive and row, - And work, work, work, - At the stifling crush and show. - And I'm so sick of it all, - That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk, - If he'd ask me--I would! For, after this, - Yes,--_that_ would be Christian work! - - "Work, work, work, - On the lawn in the lazy shade; - Work, work, work, - In the blaze of the baked parade. - Tea, and tennis, and band,-- - Band, and tennis, and tea:-- - If I can but ogle an eldest son, - They're all the same to me. - - "You men, do you dare to sneer, - And point to your sisters and wives!-- - Because they simper 'Not nice, my dear;'-- - As if they had ne'er in their lives - Been stitched, stitched, stitched, - Each prude in her own tight skirt, - And wouldn't have been, without a blush, - Had she had the chance--a _Flirt!_ - - "And why do I talk of a blush? - Have I much of Modesty known? - Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek - Grows not unlike my own. - Yet strange that, not for my life, - Could I redden as she does, deep. - I wonder why colour called up's so dear,-- - Laid on should come so cheap. - - "But, work, work, work, - With powder, and puff, and pad: - And, work, work, work, - For every folly and fad! - With Imogen's artless gaze? - No?--Phryne's brazen stare! - With soul undone, but body made up, - I've all the fun of the fair. - - "So I work, work, work! - My labour never fags. - And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom, - And a place on the roll of hags. - Still I ogle away by the wall,-- - A playful kittenish thing; - Autumn well written all over my face, - Though my feet have lost their spring. - - "So at times, when I'm out of breath, - And the men go off in a pack - To dangle about some chit just 'out,'-- - Who smirks like a garrison hack,-- - I try for a short half hour - To feel as I used to feel - When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed, - My hair, at least, was real. - - "And at times, for a short half hour, - It seems a sort of relief - To think of Fred, and the few bright days - Before he came to grief. - My work? May be! Had I a heart, - My tears might flow apace; - But tears must stop--when every drop - Would carry away one's face!" - - In the loudest things that are known, - With her cheek a peculiar red, - A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,-- - This one idea in her head: - To be stitched, stitched, stitched, - Yet a little more tight in her skirt; - The while with her voice disdainfully pitched - (Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched), - She sang the "Song of the Flirt!" - - _Punch_, September 18, 1880. - - * * * * * - - -THE JANITOR'S SONG. - - With features sallow and grim, - With visage sadly forlorn, - The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, - Weary, and sleepy, and worn. - 'Tis a fact, fact, fact! - He sat with a visage long; - And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked, - He sang this Janitor's song: - - "Sweep, sweep, sweep, - In dirt, in smoke, and in dust, - And sweep, sweep, sweep, - Till I throw down my broom in disgust. - Stairs, and chapel, and halls, - Halls, and chapel, and stairs-- - Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls, - And sleep brings release from my cares." - - "From the very first crack of the gong, - From the earliest gleam of daylight, - Day after day and all day long, - Far into the weary night, - It's sweep, sweep, sweep, - Till my broom doth a pillow seem; - Till over its handle I fall asleep, - And sweep away in my dream. - - "Oh! students of high degree, - (I scorn to address a low fellow), - "Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave, - (In the words of the great Othello), - My story's a sad one indeed, - Notwithstanding your laughter and sport; - My life is naught but a broken reed, - And my broom is my only support." - - With features sallow and grim, - With visage sadly forlorn, - The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, - Weary, and sleepy, and worn. - It's a fact, fact, fact, - He sat with a visage forlorn, - And still as he sat with a voice half cracked, - He sang the Janitor's song. - - _Carmina Collegensia._ - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE SHIRK. - - With a countenance weary and worn, - With eyelids all heavy and red, - An Undergrad sat, in his nightgown torn, - Reading his Paley in bed. - Read, read, read, - Till his voice is quite feeble and low, - He can read no more, so in accents poor, - He sang of the dire Littlego. - - Read, read, read, - While the Rooks are cawing around; - And read, read, read, - Till of Cabs I hear the sound. - If only last time I had passed, - And had left all this Littlego work, - I'd become a Jew or a "pious Hindoo," - Or perhaps a barbarous Turk. - - Read, read, read, - It's nothing but read all day; - Read, read, read, - Till I read myself away, - Paley and Euclid so hard, - Mathematics with Latin and Greek, - I only wish I had read them before, - For the Exam begins in a week. - - O, men, who Examiners are, - Recollect when the period arrives - 'Tis not only the _papers_ you're setting this time, - But a _limit_ to Undergrad's lives. - Read, read, read, - By days, by month, by year, - Reading forsooth so uncommonly hard, - That you feel excessively queer. - - But why do I sing of them? - Their hearts are like pieces of stone, - I believe I ought to shun the thought - Of Examiners when I'm alone. - It makes me almost mad - To think of that awful sight; - O, dear, that to some the papers are stiff, - While to others they're easy and light. - - Read, read, read, - My reading will never stop; - And what's its reward? a name in a list, - Where the bottom's as good as the top. - This tumbled bed, with its shaky legs, - Yon room in disorder so great, - All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine, - It shows that I kept it up late. - - Read, read, read, - How full my time has been. - My reading I bless (?) for I possess - No leisure to read _Light Green_. - Hard Latin and odious Greek, - Hard Greek and odious Latin, - Their very dread makes me think this bed - Is the worst I ever sat in. - - Read, read, read, - Till my brain becomes infirm; - Read, read, read, - In this and the Lenten Term. - And then the men who have passed, - As I see them in the street, - Will laugh at me, and twit, and jeer, - Whenever them I meet. - - O, but to get through now-- - A "Second" I would not mind, - With the "General" looming in front, - And the "Littlego" left behind. - Then to think of the feelings of those, - Who cannot these subjects acquire, - Is enough to give one the direst of woes - (Not to mention the wrath of your sire). - - O, but for one short look - At the Euclid or Paley paper, - For one short glance, I soon would dance, - And cut about and caper. - A little peeping would ease my heart, - But from those papers hated, - My eyes must keep, for every peep - Might make me rusticated. - - With a countenance weary and worn, - With his nose, alas! awfully red, - The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame, - And settled himself in his bed. - "Read, read, read," - In his troubled sleep he said. - Examiners think on his piteous face, - If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace, - So in the "First" or "Second" place - The man who reads Paley in bed. - - P. M. W. - -_Light Green_, Cambridge (W. Metcalfe and Son), 1882. - - * * * * * - - -THE BROOD ON THE BEARD. - - With face like a maiden's bare, - With hair on his head strewn thin, - A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair, - Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. - Stroke, stroke, stroke, - Yet never a symptom appeared, - Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke, - In penning THIS Brood on the Beard. - - I wish, wish, wish, - Till wishing becomes a whirl, - Wish, wish, wish, - For the locks with a flowing curl. - Imperial, beard, moustache, - Moustache, imperial, beard, - I long for them each till the three become - Wove into a triad weird. - - Young men with beards full grown, - Young men with moustaches neat; - Say, is it not your lot to own, - The joys of life complete? - I shave, shave, shave, - My cheeks with lather besmeared, - Scraping the skin with razor keen, - To make it utter a beard. - - But why should I dream of beards, - For the pleasure of manhood pine; - Or think of the looks my soul so craves, - That never may be mine? - That never may be mine. - Tho' my heart with hope may pant, - And mourn that some with such are blest, - Whilst I of such am scant. - - I watch, watch, watch - My glass each morning and night; - Watch, watch, watch, - But no sprouting gladdens my sight. - That shaving glass, that razor keen, - That strop I so often whet; - Betray the desire that ne'er may tire - Of what I ne'er may get. - - I feel, feel, feel, - Each morning of each week-- - Feel, feel, feel, - My lips, my chin, my cheek. - Moustache, imperial, beard, - Imperial, beard, moustache, - Could I but see signs of the three, - I would give good sterling cash. - - I rub, rub, rub, - When the shades of night set in, - Rub, rub, rub, - Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin, - Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long, - Upon the hearthrug lies, - And seems to purr contentment for - What nature me denies. - - Oh! could I but only see - Just the faintest dawn of down, - Or FANCY that Nature would - In the end my wishes crown! - Or hope that even I - The hours at last will enjoy, - When maids no longer will deem me - An o'ergrown hobbledehoy. - - But I to have glossy hair, - On my lips a flowing curl, - A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks, - A moustache to turn and twirl, - Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam; - A wish without a hope, - Where fancy free may gain for me - Nothing AT ALL but scope. - - With face like a maiden's bare, - With hair on his head strewn thin, - A youth ill at ease in an easy chair, - Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. - Stroke, stroke, stroke, - Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen - A word that brought the news that he sought-- - 'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE! - - _Old Advertisement._ - - * * * * * - - -"THE SONG OF THE DIRT." - -(_With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood._) - - With garments soddened and soiled, - With boot-tops covered in grime, - With trousers bespattered with foulest mud, - Picking one's way through the slime. - Slush--slush--slush! - And foul-smelling filth and dirt, - That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch-- - I sing the "Song of the Dirt." - - Dirt--dirt--dirt! - In the January night, - And dirt--dirt--dirt! - While the weather is muggy though bright. - Smell, and slime, and reek, - Reek, and slime and smell; - Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip, - And smother myself as well. - - O! but for one short hour! - A respite: 'twould be so sweet! - I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom, - If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet. - For only one short hour, - To feel as I used to feel: - The pavement free from grease and slime - In my walk that's now an ordeal. - - _Funny Folks_, January, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE WAIL OF A PROOF-READER. - -_Made During a Fearful "Spell" of Weather by One of 'Em._ - - With fingers weary and worn, - And nose quite puffy and red, - A Proof-reader sat in his old linen coat, - With a snorting "cold in 'is ead." - With handkerchief in his left, - And pen in his dexter paw, - The miserable man first blew his nose, - Then thus let loose his jaw: - - Read, read, read, - With tears rolling down from my eyes, - Read, read, read, - Till I can't tell l's from i's. - Read, read, read, - In pain, confusion, and noise, - And bored by a voice of dolorous pitch - Belonging to "one of the boys." - - Read, read, read, - In the story next to the roof: - Read, read, read, - Till my soul is lost in the proof. - It's oh to be a Hottentot - In the burning sand, - Where never an author sent a lot - Of manuscript the "devil" could not, - Nor the "reader" understand! - - Read, read, read, - Till my weary spirits sink, - And mark, mark, mark, - While mind ebbs with the ink. - French, and Latin, and Greek! - Hebrew, Spanish, and Dutch! - Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak, - And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak, - But a part of the pen I clutch. - - Oh, but to "DELE" work! - To "transpose" toil for rest! - To "make up" life's remaining years - On smiling Nature's breast! - A "space" of time to join the "chase," - Some "quoins" to see me through! - A good "fat take" of these I want, - But a few large "notes" MIGHT do. - - Oh, for a brief respite - From toilsome pen and proof! - An "out," while I might calmly seek - A "double" who would share my roof; - The "sort" that could "correct" my "forme," - And save me from life's many traps, - And round our "table" smiling "set" - Sweet "fat-faced" MINIONS in "SMALL CAPS!" - - L. F. THOMAS. - - _The British and Colonial Stationer_, May, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE BITTER CRY! - -"Few persons have any conception of these pestilential human rookeries -where tens of thousands are crowded together amidst horrors which call to -mind the middle passage of the slave ship."--[The Bitter Cry of Outcast -London.] - - Wearily wandering into the winding - Maze of the filthy and festering slums, - Borne on the blast of the hurricane blinding, - Suddenly into my spirit there comes - Bitterest cry of the careworn and dying, - Weeping and wailing of old and of young-- - Wailing of women aweary and sighing. - Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung: - - "Strive, strive, strive, - With the wolf at the door, in vain, - Tho' the struggle to keep alive - Is worse than a hell of pain. - - Gin, gin, gin, - Our cares we'll drown once more; - 'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink, - So, swig till our lives be o'er." - - Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, - Wilder than wailing of women and men, - Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers, - Where is the harpy who owneth each den? - Where are the vultures who prey on the living?" - Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath, - Shedders of blood who each moment are giving - Children and women and strong men to Death: - - "Here, here, here," - Is the loud and bitter cry. - "Oh, heed our sob of fear, - And save us ere we die. - - "Rent, rent, rent, - Our cares we'll drown once more, - For there's nothing but gin when the bailiffs are in, - And the baby's dead on the floor." - - G. B. BURGIN. - -Ashley House, High Barnet, Herts, England. - - * * * * * - - -I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. - - I REMEMBER, I remember, - The house where I was born, - The little window where the sun - Came peeping in at morn; - He never came a wink too soon, - Nor brought too long a day, - But now, I often wish the night - Had borne my breath away! - - TOM HOOD. - - * * * * * - -NURSERY REMINISCENCES. - - I REMEMBER, I remember, - When I was a little Boy, - One fine morning in September, - Uncle brought me home a toy. - I remember how he patted - Both my cheeks with kindliest mood; - "Then," said he, "you little fat head, - There's a top because you're good." - - Grandmamma--a shrewd observer-- - I remember gazed upon - My new top, and said with fervour, - "Oh! how kind of Uncle John!" - While mamma, my form caressing,-- - In her eye the tear-drop stood, - Read me this fine moral lesson, - "See what comes of being good!" - - I remember, I remember, - On a wet and windy day. - One cold morning in December, - I stole out and went to play; - I remember Billy Hawkins - Came, and with his pewter squirt, - Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings, - Till they were all over dirt! - - To my mother for protection - I ran quaking every limb. - She exclaim'd, with fond affection, - "Gracious goodness! look at _him!_" - Pa cried when he saw my garment-- - 'Twas a newly-purchased dress-- - "Oh! you nasty little _Warment_, - How came you in such a mess?" - - Then he caught me by the collar-- - Cruel only to be kind-- - And to my exceeding dolour, - Gave me several slaps behind. - Grandmamma, while yet I smarted, - As she saw my evil plight, - Said--'twas rather stony-hearted-- - "Little rascal! sarve him right!" - - I remember, I remember, - From that sad and solemn day, - Never more in dark December - Did I venture out to play. - And the moral which they taught, I - Well remember; thus they said-- - "Little boys, when they are naughty, - Must be whipped, and sent to bed!" - - _The Ingoldsby Legends._ - - * * * * * - -A correspondent, writing to _Notes and Queries_ as far back as June 10, -1871, mentions a parody, of which, unfortunately, only the two verses -following are given:-- - - "I remember, I remember, - The day that I was born, - When first I saw this breathing world, - All naked and forlorn. - They wrapped me in a linen cloth, - And then in one of frieze; - And tho' I could not speak just then, - Yet I contrived to sneeze. - - "I remember, I remember, - Old ladies came from far; - Some said I was like mother dear, - But others thought like _par;_ - Yet all agreed I had a head, - And most expressive eyes; - The latter were about as large - As plums in Christmas pies." - - UNEDA. - -Philadelphia. - - * * * * * - - -A REMINISCENCE. - - I remember, I remember, - The cell, which now I scorn. - The little window where no sun - Could cheer the dreary morn. - Policeman X. no wink too soon, - Brought in my musty fare, - And, growling as he went away, - Locked me in safely there! - - I remember, I remember, - We'd been out late at night. - Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups, - Wound up by "getting tight;" - And then, although no blood was spilt, - That fiend in blue we met; - "Run in" upon my natal day-- - Oh, would I could forget. - - I remember, I remember, - No soda would he bring, - He said the air seem'd rather fresh - For night birds on the wing! - The _spirits_ needed _feathers_ then, - And rest my fevered brow; - He only said, "The place is cool," - And, "Mind! don't make a row!" - - _The Figaro_, March 7, 1874. - -Another parody of the same original appeared in _The Figaro_ for August -26, 1874. It was entitled, "I Remember, I Remember, a reminiscence of -Child-Hood and Thomas Hood," and consisted of four verses, but they are -not now of sufficient interest to be quoted. - - -I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. - - I remember, I remember, - When first I saw a rink, - How fine to be a skater, - I always used to think, - To roll about, both in and out, - Through all the livelong day, - But now I wish the rink and skates - Had been far, far away. - - I remember, I remember, - The skates that first I wore, - The joy I had in buying them, - That I shall have no more; - On being a great skater - My youthful heart was set-- - Now the rink has gone the way of rinks; - The skates I have them yet. - - I remember, I remember, - When first I had a fall, - How hard I found the asphalte, - How loudly I did bawl; - There was anguish in my bosom, - There was fever on my brow, - There were bruises on my body-- - I bear the traces now. - - I remember, I remember, - How oft from school I'd beg; - But my rinking days were over. - When at last I broke my leg. - It was a foolish fancy, - And now 'tis little joy, - To know I broke my fibula, - When I was a little boy. - -_Idyls of the Rink_ (Judd and Co., London, 1876). - - * * * * * - - -THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. - - One more Unfortunate, - Weary of breath, - Rashly importunate, - Gone to her death! - Take her up tenderly, - Lift her with care; - Fashion'd so slenderly, - Young and so fair! - Loop up her tresses, - Escaped from the comb, - Her fair auburn tresses; - Whilst wonderment guesses - Where was her home? - Alas! for the rarity - Of Christian charity - Under the sun! - Oh! it was pitiful! - Near a whole city full-- - Home she had none. - * * * * - TOM HOOD. - - * * * * * - - -ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE. - -"ATQUI SCIEBAT QUÆ SIBI BARBARUS TORTOR PARARET." - -I. - - One more unfortunate - Ploughed for degree, - By those importunate - Questioners three. - -II. - - Tell it him gingerly, - Break it with care, - Think you he'll angry be? - Or will he swear? - -III. - - Look at his college cap, - Bent with its broken flap, - Whilst his hand constantly - Clutches his gown, - And he walks vacantly - Back through the town. - -IV. - - Didn't he study? - Wasn't he cute? or - Had he a coach? and - Who was his tutor? - Or was he a queerer one - Still, and had ne'er a one, - And all this the fruit? Or - -V. - - Was his brain muddled, - Addled and puddled, - From over-working? - Or did he all the day - Racquets and cricket play, - Books and dons shirking? - -VI. - - His Greek was a mystery, - So was his history, - His throbbing brain whirled, - And through his shaggy hair, - Both his hands twirled. - -VII. - - He goes at it boldly, - No matter how coldly - Examiners scan - Him over the table, - And say, "If you're able, - Construe it, man; - Look at it, think of it, - Do what you can." - -VIII. - - Now they stare frigidly, - Calmly and rigidly, - Courteously, slily; - How well he knows them, - Who could suppose them - Witty and wily? - -IX. - - Helplessly staring, - He looks at it long, - Then with the daring - Last look of despairing, - Construes it wrong. - -X. - - Failing most signally, - Construing miserably; - Frequent false quantity, - But as they want it, he - Must do his best, - Until they tell him he - Need not decidedly - Construe the rest. - -XI. - - Full of urbanity - And inhumanity, - See what they've done; - Out of each couple, - They with tongues supple - Ploughed at least one. - -_Lays of Modern Oxford_, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874). - - * * * * * - - -THE HAIR OF THE DEAD. - - Pile it up, - Pile it up, - Till it towers above; - Pile it up, - Pile it up, - 'Tis a labour of love: - Pin it so carefully, - Cannot be known - Of that temple of hair fully - Half's not your own. - That dark plaited mass, - So dear and so rare: - That highly-prized mass, - Is a dead woman's hair. - - Maybe she was poor, - With no money or purse; - Homeless and fasting, - A vagrant, or worse-- - A sport for the wind, - As it listlessly blew, - And who from her kind, - No sympathy knew. - Who knows how she died? - Perchance of her life, - O'er burdened with strife, - She grew weary and cried-- - "To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled - Anywhere, anywhere out of the world." - - Then when the dark waters - Had closed o'er her head, - And this type of Eve's daughters - Was told with the dead; - Then when her poor body - Was borne by the wave - To the shore; they allowed her - A wanderer's grave. - Nor perfect, indeed, - Could she enter it there; - In their terrible greed - They must clip off her hair; - In their venomous greed - They must steal off her hair. - - * * * * * - - What do we care - That this long flowing curl, - Such a charm to a girl, - Is a dead woman's hair? - Our changeable sex, - Do as fashion directs; - And so long as the hair - Is a grace to the head, - So long will we wear - The locks of the dead. - - _The Figaro_, May 5, 1875. - -(At that date ladies were wearing very large chignons). - - * * * * * - -On the occasion of an inebriated "swell" being expelled from the Prince of -Wales's Theatre, by P. C. 22 Z.:-- - - Take him up tendahly, - Lift him with caah; - Clothes are made slendahly - Now, and will taah! - - Punch not that nob of his, - Thus I imploah; - Pick up that bob of his, - Dropped on the floah! - - Pwaps he's a sister, - Pwaps he's a bwother, - Come to the play with him-- - Let 'em away with him-- - One or the other. - - Ram his hat lightly, - Yet firmly and tightly, - Ovah his head. - Turn his coat-collah back, - Get his half-dollah back. - - 22 Z. - - * * * * * - - -THE RINK OF SIGHS. - - One more unfortunate - Knocked out of breath-- - "Rashly importunate," - Jealousy saith. - - Lift her up tenderly-- - Mind her back hair; - Fashioned so slenderly-- - Fetch her a chair. - Burst are her garments, - Hanging in cerements, - While buttons constantly - Fall from her clothing. - Take her up instantly - Loving, not loathing; - Scornfully touch her not-- - Think of the bump she got, - All through those wheels of hers - Which she used killingly; - And those high heels of hers-- - Sat she unwillingly. - She in a mess is - All things betoken, - And spoilt her gay dress is, - While wonderment guesses: - "Are the bones broken?" - "Who is her milliner?" - "Has she a glover?-- - P'raps a two-shilliner;" - "Or has she a dearer one - Still?" P'raps a nearer one-- - Gifts from her lover! - - Alas, for the rarity - Of Christian charity, - There isn't one - Who's a bit pitiful, - While that sad, witty fool, - Woffles, makes fun. - She, as she shivers - And mournfully quivers, - Sits bolt upright. - From window to casement, - From roof unto basement - She stares with amazement, - Mournful of plight. - - Never this history - Tell--'tis a mystery. - How her wheels twirled. - Anywhere, anywhere, - Facing the world; - Whirled her skates boldly, - No matter how coldly - Regarded by man. - Oh, but the Rink of it-- - Picture it--think of it, - When it began; - Rave at it, wink at it, - Now if you can. - - Take her up tenderly-- - Mind her back hair; - Fashioned so slenderly-- - Fetch her a chair. - Can't she sit down on it? - Is she in pain? - True. She doth frown on it-- - "Shan't rink again!" - - _Funny Folks_, February 26, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -THE LAST APPEAL, 1878. - - One more importunate - Struggle for place! - One more unfortunate - Slap in the face! - - Dizzy's a devil--he, - What should I spare? - Trip him up cleverly, - Fair or unfair. - - Never mind arguments, - Tear up his Pargaments - (While the ink's scarcely dry, - Easy is blotting), - Honour and decency - Wholly forgotten. - - Talk of him scornfully, - Talk of him mournfully, - Treat him inhumanly. - Arguments failing. - Throw dirt, and try railing, - Spiteful and womanly. - - Make no deep scrutiny - Into past mutiny, - Rash and undutiful, - England's dishonour, - While I heap on her-- - Won't it be beautiful? - - Point out all slips of his, - Sneer at his family; - Closed are those lips of his, - He must bear silently. - Fear not excesses, - Only hit home. - The "Daily News" blesses, - While wonderment guesses - What next may come. - - Sneer at his father, - Jeer at his mother, - Is he a Christian? - Nay, I'll go further. - He's not an Englishman, - Only a Charlatan, - Worse than a murderer. - - Oh! for the rarity - Of Christian charity - Under the sun! - Oh! it was pitiful - To see a whole City full - Greet such an one. - - Countryfolk, citizens, - Foreigners, denizens, - Greetings combined! - Yet may such eminence, - Spite of such evidence, - By my malevolence, - Be undermined. - - When the lamps quiver - Over the river, - With many a light - From many a casement, - I'll seek his abasement; - And for his displacement, - I'll fight, yes, I'll fight. - - John Bull's cold glance - May make other men shiver, - But still I advance, - Implacable ever, - Mad from life's history. - This creature of mystery - Forth shall be hurled - Anywhere, anywhere, - Out of the world. - - In I plunged boldly, - No matter how coldly - Popular feeling ran, - Over the brink of it. - Picture it, think of it, - Dissolute man! - How can Heav'n wink at it? - It's more than I can. - - Dizzy's a devil--he, - Why should I spare? - Trip him up cleverly, - Fair or unfair. - Treats he me frigidly, - Formally, rigidly. - Decently kindly, - Can this compose me? - While his eyes pose me, - Staring so blindly! - - Dreadfully staring - Through that eye-glass of his, - Malice and daring - Point me--despairing-- - To Honour and Peace. - - Perish I gloomily - Spurned by contumely. - Soured humanity, - Yields to insanity. - As for the rest-- - When my name's perished, - Will his be cherished - By Englishmen blest? - - When History has measured - My evil behaviour, - His name shall be treasured - As his country's saviour! - -_They are Five_, by W. E. G. (David Bogue, London). - - * * * * * - - One more unfortunate - Author in debt, - Scorn'd and importunate, - Badger'd, beset. - - Lethe, I'd drink of it, - Die without fuss, - Picture it, think of it-- - Manager "Gus." - - HARRIETT JAY. - - _Old Drury Lane, Christmas Annual_, 1883. - - * * * * * - - -BOOTS OF SIZE. - - Take them up tenderly, - Lift them with care, - Fashioned so slenderly - "Twelves" never were. - - Touch them not scornfully, - Think of her mournfully - Who has to bear them. - Think of the pains of her-- - All that remains of her - Save what will wear them. - - How were her father's feet? - How were her mother's? - How were her sister's feet? - How were her brother's? - What had the maiden done - That she should merit it? - Was it a judgment? - Or did she inherit it? - - Alas for the rarity - Of Christian charity - Under the sun! - Oh, it is pitiful, - From a whole city full - Praise she has none. - - Sisterly, brotherly, - Fatherly, motherly - Feelings are changed; - Love goes with "pettitoes," - "Tootsie" and "pootsie" nose - Ever from feet like those - Turning estranged. - - Never the ballroom - (Save she had all room) - Could she be daring; - And if at croquet seen, - "Gracious! that huge _bottine_," - People would cry or mean, - Dreadfully staring! - - The bleak winds of March - Made her tremble and shiver; - Clothes raised in arch - Her huge "trotters" dis-_kiver_. - Oh, then, from scrutiny, - Comment or rootin' eye, - Swift to be hurl'd, - Anywhere, anywhere, - Out of the world. - Take them up tenderly, - Lift them with care, - Fashioned more slenderly - Buckets ne'er were. - - _Scraps_, 1884 - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE LINES. - - With Gradus dirty and worn, - With heavy and weary eyes, - A Freshman sat who had written an ode - For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. - Wait, wait, wait, - 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, - And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord - He sang the Song of the Lines. - - Wait, wait, wait, - When the bell is ringing aloof, - And wait, wait, wait, - When we leave our Grinder's roof, - And it's oh to be a Jib - In the Godless College of Cork, - Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize, - If this be Christian's work. - - Oh, Fellows with pupils dear, - Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons, - It is not paper you're tearing up, - But Senior Freshman's Duns, - For the Duns are growing rude, - Because of the Bills I owe, - Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude, - Jude and Kinsley and Roe. - - Wait, wait, wait, - Till term after term fulfils, - And wait, wait, wait, - As minors wait for wills, - Week after week in vain - We've looked at the College gate, - For how many days? I would hardly fear - To speak of ninety-eight. - - With Gradus dirty and worn, - With heavy and weary eyes, - A Freshman sat who had written an ode - For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. - Wait, wait, wait, - 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, - And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord, - (Would that its tones could reach the Board), - He sang the Song of the Lines. - - C. P. MULVANY. - -_Kottabos_, Dublin (William McGee), 1873. - - * * * * * - -The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in -_The Catholic Herald_ (Jersey), about forty years ago:-- - - -THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD. - - With body shrivelled and worn, - With eyeballs bloodshot and red, - A man in plight forlorn, - Lay moaning sore in bed. - Drink, drink, drink, - In poverty, fever, and pain, - And still he sang of his favourite drink - 'Mid the whirlings of his brain. - - Drink, drink, drink, - Oh! there's nothing like drink for man, - Drink, drink, drink, - Till the head reel round again. - It's oh! to be a beast, - Without a soul to save, - With no fear to stay the drunken feast, - And no Hell beyond the grave. - - Brandy, and gin, and rum, - Rum, and brandy, and gin, - 'Till wild delirium come, - And we rave in the pit of sin. - Oh! men with children dear, - Oh! men with starving wives, - It is not gin you are drinking there, - But your wives and children's lives. - - Drink, drink, drink, - Let them all be ragged and bare, - Drink, drink, drink, - Is the drunkard's only care. - Drink, drink, drink, - Our guzzling never flags, - And our wages go, and our homes are woe, - And our children skulk in rags. - - Forced by day to starve or steal, - By night a floor their bed, - And all their life is a life of vice, - And where are they when dead? - Drink, drink, drink, - Let us fight and curse and swear, - Drink, drink, drink, - 'Till our breath pollute the air. - - Brandy, and gin, and rum, - Rum, and brandy, and gin, - 'Till wasted frame and fever come, - And the sorrows of Hell begin. - Drink, drink, drink, - 'Till staggering home we go, - Drink, drink, drink, - 'Till we blast that home with woe. - - Drink, curses, murder, and shame, - Make up the drunkard's life, - With the rags and vice of a starving child, - And the groans of a sickly wife. - With body shrivelled and worn, - With eyeballs glaring and red, - A savage man in plight forlorn, - Lay, raving loud on his bed. - - Drink, drink, drink, - In racking fever and pain, - And still he raved of his murderous drink, - 'Mid the frenzies of his brain. - - * * * * * - -A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather -has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It -describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to -which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season:-- - - -THE SONG OF "THE PRICKLY HEAT." - -I. - - With fingers never at rest, - With cuticle measly red, - A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, - Itching from ankles to head-- - Scratch, scratch, scratch-- - At a rate few North-Britons could beat, - And still with a voice of dolorous pitch - Thus sang he of "Prickly Heat." - -II. - - "Itch, itch, itch, - Till my brain begins to swim, - And scratch, scratch, scratch, - Till I bleed in every limb. - Thighs, and body, and arms, - Back, and body, and thighs, - Till weary with scratching I fall asleep, - And scratch with sleep-sealed eyes. - -III. - - "Oh! white men banished here! - Oh! men all greedy of wealth! - It is not money your sweating out, - But your precious, precious health! - Itch, itch, itch, - Through years of monotonous rack, - Sowing at once with a double seed, - Disease as well as a Lakh! - -IV. - - "They say it is not disease, - This villanous pimply glow, - If not disease's tangible shape, - 'Tis deuced like it though-- - 'Tis deuced like it though, - If healthy skins are pale. - Oh, God! that suns should be so strong - And flesh and blood so frail. - -V. - - "Scratch, scratch, scratch, - My labour never flags; - And what are its wages?--a carcass raw-- - Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags, - This tortured head, and this body flayed, - Dyspepsia and gloom alway, - And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank - Who drones me through the day. - -VI. - - "Itch, itch, itch, - When good dinners glad the sight, - And scratch, scratch, scratch, - When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite, - When under silver roofs - Rich viands my servants bring, - As if to show me their dainty shapes, - And twit me for lingering. - -VII. - - "Oh! but to breathe the breath - Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, - Where the sky above one's head - Is not of this melting heat; - For only one short hour - To feel as I used to feel - Before I knew Calcutta's suns - Flay men as men the eel. - -VIII. - - "Oh! but for one short hour - A respite just to snatch! - No blessed leisure for love or lark-- - But only time to scratch. - Though goulard water might ease my pain - The antidote I dread, - An idle day might affect my pay, - And physic claims a bed." - -IX. - - With fingers never at rest, - With cuticle measly red, - A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, - Itching from ankles to head. - Scratch, scratch, scratch, - At a rate few North-Britons could beat, - And still with a voice of dolorous pitch - (Would that its tone could _cure_ the itch!) - Thus sang he of "The Prickly Heat." - - _The Calcutta Englishman_, 1859. - - * * * * * - -There was another parody of Hood's _Song of the Shirt_, written by Mr. -Clement Scott, entitled _The Song of the Clerk_. The Editor of this -collection would be glad to know when, and in what work it appeared. - - * * * * * - - -ABOUT THE WEATHER. - -(_A Fragment_). - - I remember, I remember, - Ere my childhood flitted by, - It was cold then in December, - And was warmer in July. - In the winter there were freezings-- - In the summer there were thaws; - But the weather isn't now at all - Like what it used to was! - - _The Man in the Moon_, Vol. 5. - - * * * * * - - -THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. - - 'Twas in the prime of summer time, - An evening calm and cool, - And four-and-twenty happy boys - Came bounding out of school: - There were some that ran and some that leapt, - Like troutlets in a pool. - - * * * * * - - That very night, while gentle sleep - The urchin eyelids kiss'd, - Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, - Through the cold and heavy mist; - And Eugene Aram walk'd between, - With gyves upon his wrist. - - THOMAS HOOD. - - * * * * * - - -THE FALL OF THE EMINENT I. - - 'Twas in the prime of autumn time, - An evening calm and cool, - And full two thousand cockneys went - To see him play the fool;-- - And the critics filled the stalls as thick - As the balls in a billiard pool. - - Away they sped when the play was done, - Scarce knowing what to say; - So they passed the butter boat around - In the simple, usual way. - Smoothly ran their glowing prose - In the daily press next day. - - The Eminent I. they raved about - Till their gush to columns ran; - Condoning a _fiasco_ great, - As friendly critics can; - And _he_ still strutted on the stage, - An over-rated man. - - He wore pink tights--his vest apart, - To clutch his manly chest; - And he went at the knees in his old, old way, - Whilst his brow he madly prest. - So he whisper'd and roared, and gasp'd and groan'd, - As with dyspepsia possest. - - Act after act he ranted through, - And he strode for many a mile, - Till some were fain to leave the house, - Too weary even to smile; - For acting the murderer's part so oft - Had somewhat marred his style. - - But he took six more hasty strides - Across the stage again-- - Six hasty strides, then doubled up, - As smit with searching pain; - As though to say, "See me create - The conscience-stricken Thane!" - - Then leaping on his feet upright, - Some moody turns took he - Now up the stage, now down the stage, - And now beside Miss B.; - And, looking off, he saw her ma, - As she read in the R. U. E. - - "Now, Mrs. B., what is't you read?" - Ask'd he, with top-lip curving. - "Queen Mary? A play by Mr. Wills, - Or something more deserving?" - Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance, - "It is 'The Fall of Irving!'" - - "His fall!" gasped he, "in sooth you jest! - O, prithee say what mean ye? - Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish, - And speak of his style as Kean-y? - On the modern stage he stands alone." - She murmur'd one word--"Salvini!" - - "Avaunt!" he cried; "that name again! - Its mention ne'er will cease; - Does he still dare my throne to share, - And threaten my fame's short lease?" - But here the call-boy came to say, - That his absence stopped the piece. - - * * * * * - - One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep - Had still'd the City's heart, - Two bill-stickers set out with paste - And play-bills in a cart, - And the Eminent I. had his name on them, - In a melodramatic part. - - _The Figaro_, October 9, 1875. - -When Mr. Henry Irving produced _The Iron Chest_, at the Lyceum Theatre, -the Editor of _The World_ offered two prizes for the best two parodies on -the subject, the model chosen being Hood's _Dream of Eugene Aram_. The -successful parodies were printed in _The World_, October 22, 1879:-- - - -FIRST PRIZE. - - 'Twas in the Strand, a great demand - For seats was quite the rule; - The pit and gallery were crammed, - The stalls and boxes full. - One man remained who could not find - A solitary stool. - - From gods to stall, he paced them all, - Unable to find rest; - A burning thought was in his heart, - Beneath his spotless breast. - He'd eaten pork, and knew full well - Pork he could not digest. - - With hollow sound the curtain rose, - And then he found a place, - Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see - The great tragedian's face-- - He was so prest, for the _Iron Chest_ - He hadn't any space. - - He saw how Irving walked the stage - With ill-dissembled care, - To keep the limelight on his brows - And on his flowing hair, - While all the rest were in the dark-- - You only heard them there. - - His voice was hollow as the grave, - Or like an eagle's scream-- - Murderers, you know, talk always so-- - His eyes like theirs did gleam-- - He'd done this sort of thing before. - But then 'twas in a dream. - - He showed how murderers start and gasp - When conscience pricks them sore; - He dragged his shirt-front out by yards, - And strewed it on the floor; - He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast-- - He'd done it all before. - - If anybody mentioned death - Or foul assassination, - He started up and groaned or shrieked - With obvious perturbation. - 'Twas very strange this sudden change - Provoked no observation. - - And when at last four acts were past - Of stares and glares and guggles, - And in the chest they found the knife - Which he so neatly smuggles-- - 'Twas ecstacy to see him die - Of aggravated struggles. - - Q. - - -SECOND PRIZE. - - The sky was clear; no ripple marked - The course of silver Tyne; - And all was still, save for the bells - On the necks of the grazing kine. - On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked, - Last of an ancient line. - - His face was fair, but it did not wear - The sign of a soul at rest; - Anon a shudder shook his frame, - A sigh broke from his breast; - He seemed as seems a man by some - O'ermastering woe oppressed. - - "And yet among thy peers is known - Than thine no prouder name, - And wealth is thine and friendship's joy, - A scutcheon void of blame; - All this is thine, Sir Edward; why - Thus bow thy head in shame? - - "Men call thee good, they know thee kind-- - Yet more, if aught beside - There lacks thy happiness to crown, - Thou hast a peerless bride; - Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head?" - A mocking demon cried. - - "Hell-hound! and art thou here to taunt - My last--Yet 'tis thy meed: - 'Twas thou that in this fevered breast - Wrath and revenge didst feed, - Till--woe unutterable!--I - Wrought the accursèd deed. - - "'Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt, - I learnt this lying art;-- - O God, that I--that I could stoop - To play this loathly part! - O God, that with a face so calm - I cloak so black a heart! - - Yet the end is gained and the secret sure: - They shall lay the tortured clod - Of this vile clay in the open day - With honour beneath the sod." - That night 'twas known that a felon's soul - Had gone to meet its God. - - PORTIONISTA. - -The following was also published:-- - - 'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit - (And, O, that pit was hot) - That several hundred folks did sit, - And I amongst the lot; - And some drank ale and some drank stout, - From mug or pewter-pot. - - We watched the jovial robber-crew, - The merry poaching clan, - Chasing the sportive deer about - As only robbers can; - While the keeper kept himself at home, - A conscience-stricken man. - - His hair was long and his dress was dark, - And he strode with Irving's stride; - A crime unconfessed he hid in the chest - Kept ever by his side; - Much painting had made him very pale - And wan and hollow-eyed. - - And he saw his secretarial clerk, - One Wilford (Norman Forbes), - Go prying about in the ancient room - Hung round with family daubs; - And he "went" forthwith for that timid clerk, - Whose name was Norman Forbes. - - "By hell!" he shrieked, and held him fast; - "Untrusty youth, unstable--" - He raved in his face and clenched his fists, - And chased him round the table. - "Wouldst read the secret? wouldst hear thy doom?" - "I would, an I were able!" - - "If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain! - But, 'fore I tell thee, swear--" - And he swore and he swore and he swore again, - Till on end arose our hair; - And I couldn't help thinking what fines he'd have paid - If there'd been a magistrate there. - - And that very night, when a somnolent snooze - Was exciting the murderer's nose, - Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away - In a scanty assortment of clothes; - And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk, - As we do when our "general" goes. - - And there he hid a fork and spoon - In a most ingenious way, - And a ring or so and a deed or two, - And Wilford was tried next day; - But the KNIFE had slipped in, and--ha, ha!--'twas found! - - * * * * * - - And that's the plot of the play! - - C. S. - - * * * * * - -The peculiar rhythm, and quaint conceits of fancy, in Hood's _Miss -Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg_ have been admirably imitated by Mr. H. -Cholmondeley Pennell in _The Thread of Life_. This poem (the last in _Puck -on Pegasus_) resembles its original also in the exquisite blending of the -pathetic and the humorous, of which, unfortunately, disjointed extracts -can give but a faint idea:-- - - LIFE! What depths of mystery wide - In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride, - That mingle in Tribulations tide, - To quench the spark--VITALITY! - What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope - Were "made strong" (without the use of rope) - In the thread--INDIVIDUALITY. - - LIFE! What marvellous throbs and throes - The Alchemy of EXISTENCE knows; - What "weals within wheels" (and woes without woahs!) - Give sophistry a handle; - Though Hare himself could be dipped in the well - Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell, - It would throw no more light on the vital spell - Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell, - Or the dip--a ha'penny candle. - - * * * * * - - Into being we come, in ones and twos, - To be kissed, to be cuff'd, to obey, to abuse, - Each destined to stand in another's shoes - To whose heels we may come the nighest; - This turns at once into Luxury's bed, - Whilst that in a gutter lays his head, - And this--in a house with a wooden lid - And a roof that's none of the highest. - - We fall like the drops of April show'rs, - Cradled in mud, or cradled in flow'rs, - Now idly to wile the rosy hours, - And now for bread to importune; - Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap, - One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap-- - And one, a "more kicks than ha'pence" chap, - For a slap--without the fortune! - - * * * * * - - Yet, laugh if we will at those baby days, - There was more of bliss in its careless plays, - Than in after time from the careful ways - Or the hollow world, with its empty praise, - Its honeyed speeches, and hackney phrase, - And its pleasures, for ever fleeting. - - _Puck on Pegasus_ (Chatto and Windus), London. - - * * * * * - - -A NICE YOUNG MAN FOR A SMALL PARTY. - - Young Ben he was a nice young man, - An author by his trade; - He fell in love with Polly-Tics, - And was an M. P. made. - - He was a Radical one day, - But met a Tory crew; - His Polly-Tics he cast away, - And then turned Tory too. - - Now Ben had tried for many a place - When Tories e'en were out; - But in two years the turning Whigs - Were turn'd to the right-about. - - But when he called on ROBERT PEEL, - His talents to employ, - His answer was, "Young Englander, - For me you're not the boy." - - Oh, ROBERT PEEL! Oh, ROBERT PEEL! - How could you serve me so? - I've met with Whig rebuffs before, - But not a Tory blow. - - Then rising up in Parliament, - He made a fierce to do - With PEEL, who merely winked his eye; - BEN wink'd like winking too. - - And then he tried the game again, - But couldn't, though he tried; - His party turn'd away from him, - Nor with him would divide. - - Young England died when in its birth: - In forty-five it fell; - The papers told the public, but - None for it toll'd the bell. - -_Punch_, June 1845. (This parody was accompanied by a portrait of Mr. -Benjamin Disraeli). - - * * * * * - - -A FEW WORDS ON POETS IN GENERAL, AND ONE IN PARTICULAR. - -BY THE GHOST OF T-- H--D. - -"What's in a name?"--_Shakespeare._ - -I. - - By different names were Poets call'd - In different climes and times; - The Welsh and Irish call'd him _Bard_, - Who was confined to rhymes. - -II - - In France they called them _Troubadours_, - Or _Menestrels_, by turns; - The Scandinavians called them _Scalds_, - The Scotchmen call theirs _Burns_. - -III. - - A strange coincidence is this, - Both names implying heat; - But had the Scotchmen call'd theirs _Scald_. - 'Twere title more complete. - -IV. - - For why call'd BURNS 'tis hard to say - (Except all sense to slaughter); - _Scald_ was the name he should have had, - Being always in _hot water_. - -V. - - For he was poor,--his natal hut - Was built of _mud_, they say; - But though the hut was built of mud, - _He_ was no _common clay_. - -VI. - - But though of clay he was (a fate - Each child of earth must share), - As well as being a child of earth, - He was a child of _Ayr_. - -VII. - - And though he could not vaunt his _house_, - Nor boast his birth's gentility, - Nature upon the boy bestow'd - Her patent of nobility. - -VIII. - - It needed not for him his race - In heralds' books should shine; - What pride of ancestry compares - With his illustrious _line_. - -IX. - - So he, with heaven-ennobled soul, - All heralds held in scorn, - Save one, the oldest of them all,-- - "The herald of the morn." - -X. - - Call'd by _his_ clarion, up rose he, - True liege of Nature's throne, - _Fields_ to invest, and mountain _crest_ - With _blazon_ of his own. - -XI. - - His _Vert_, the morning's dewy green, - His _Purpure_, evening's close, - His _Azure_, the unclouded sky, - His _Gules_, "the red, red rose." - -XII. - - His _Argent_ sparkled in the streams - That flash'd through birken bowers; - His _Or_ was in the autumn leaves - That fell in golden showers. - -XIII. - - Silver and gold of other sort - The poet had but little; - But he had more of rarer store,-- - His heart's undaunted mettle. - -XIV. - - And yet his heart was gentle, too,-- - Sweet woman could enslave him; - And from the shafts of Cupid's bow - Even Armour[6] could not save him. - -XV. - - And if that Armour could not save - From shafts that chance might wield, - What wonder that the poet wise - Cared little for a _shield_. - -XVI. - - And _Sable_, too, and _Argent_ (which - For colours heralds write) - In BURNS' uncompromising hands - Were honest _black and white_. - -XVII. - - And in that honest black and white - He wrote his verses bold; - And though he sent them far _abroad_, - Home truths they always told. - -XVIII. - - And so for "honest poverty" - He sent a brilliant page down; - And, to do battle for the poor, - The gauger threw his _gauge_ down. - -XIX. - - For him the garb of "hodden gray" - Than tabards had more charms; - He took the part of _sleeveless coats_ - Against the _Coats of Arms_. - -XX. - - And although they of Oxford may - Sneer at his want of knowledge, - He had enough of wit at least, - To beat the Heralds' College. - -XXI. - - The growing brotherhood of his kind - He clearly, proudly saw that, - When launching from his lustrous mind, - "A man's a man for a' that!" - -_Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns;_ by Ben Trovato (Routledge), London, -1859. - - * * * * * - - -THE HAUNTED LIMBO. - -_A May-Night Vision, after a Visit to the Grosvenor Gallery._ (_With -acknowledgment of a hint from_ HOOD.) - -I. - - A world of whim I wandered in of late, - A limbo all unknown to common mortals; - But in the drear night-watches 'twas my fate - To pass within its portals. - - Dusk warders, dim and drowsy, drew aside - What seemed a shadowy unsubstantial curtain, - And pointed onwards as with pain or pride, - But _which_ appeared uncertain. - - I entered, and an opiate influence stole, - Like semi-palsy, over thought and feeling, - And with inebriate haziness my soul - Seemed rapt almost to reeling. - - For over all there hung a glamour queer, - A sense of something odd the spirit daunted, - And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear, - "The place is haunted!" - -II. - - Those women, ah, those women! They were white, - Blue, green, and grey,--all hues, save those of nature, - Bony of frame, and dim and dull of sight, - And parlous tall of stature. - - _Ars longa est_,--aye, very long indeed, - And long as Art were all these High-Art ladies, - And wan, and weird; one might suppose the breed - A cross 'twixt earth and Hades. - - If poor Persephone to the Dark King - Had children borne, after that rape from Enna, - Much so might they have looked, when suffering - From too much salts and senna. - - Many their guises, but no various grace - Or changeful charm relieved their sombre sameness; - Of form contorted, and cadaverous face, - And limp lopsided lameness. - - Venus was there; at least, they called her so: - A pallid person with a jaw protrusive, - Who palpably had found all passion slow, - And all delight delusive. - - No marvel she looked _passé_, peevish, pale, - Unlovely, languid, and with doldrums laden. - To cheer her praise of knights might not avail, - Nor chaunt of moon-eyed maiden. - - _Laus Veneris!_ they sang; the music rose - More like a requiem than a gladsome pæan. - With sullen lip and earth-averted nose - Listened the Cytherean. - - _This_ Aphrodite? Then methought I heard - Loud laughter of the Queen of Love, full scornful - Of this dull simulacrum, strained, absurd, - Green-sick, and mutely mournful. - - A solid Psyche and a Podgy Pan, - A pulpy Cupid crying on a column, - A skew-limbed Luna, a Peona wan, - A Man and Mischief solemn; - - A moonlight-coloured maiden--she was hight - _Ophelia_, but poor _Hamlet_ would have frightened-- - A wondrous creature called the Shulamite, - With vesture quaintly tightened; - - These and such other phantasms seemed to fill - Those silk-hung vistas, which, though fair and roomy, - Nathless seemed straitened, close, oppressive, still, - And gogglesome and gloomy. - - For over all there hung a glamour queer, - A sense of something odd the spirit daunted; - And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear. - "The place is haunted!" - -III. - - I could no more; I veiled my wearied eyes. - I said, "Is this indeed the High Ideal? - If so, give me plain faces, common skies, - The homely and the real." - - But no, this limbo is _not_ that fair land, - Beloved of soaring fancies, hearts ecstatic; - 'Tis the Fools' Paradise of a small band, - Queer, crude, absurd, erratic. - - I turned, and murmured, as I passed away, - "Such limbos of mimetic immaturity - Have no abiding hold e'en on to-day, - Of fame no calm security." - - For over all there hung a glamour queer, - A sense of something odd the spirit daunted, - And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear, - "This place is haunted!" - - _Punch_, May 18, 1878. - - * * * * * - -FOOTNOTES: - -[Footnote 6: "Bonnie Jean's" maiden name.] - - - - -Bret Harte. - - -The humorous writings of this author are as widely read, and as keenly -appreciated, in England as in the United States, and when the prose -portion of this collection is reached his _Sensation Novels Condensed_ -will be fully considered. In these he has admirably hit off the -peculiarities of style of such varied writers as Miss Braddon, Victor -Hugo, Charles Lever, Lord Lytton, Alexander Dumas, F. Cooper, Captain -Marryat, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Brontë, and Wilkie Collins; whilst -in _Lothaw_ he produced a clever little parody of Lord Beaconsfield's -_Lothair_. - -Bret Harte has ably described both the comic and the pathetic sides of the -wild life of the Californian miners, with which he is thoroughly familiar; -and his best known poems deal with phases of life in that part of the -world, where the Chinese element enters largely into the population. For -convenience of comparison, the original "Heathen Chinee" is given below, -followed by the parodies:-- - - -PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. - -_Table Mountain_, 1870. - - Which I wish to remark-- - And my language is plain-- - That for ways that are dark, - And for tricks that are vain, - The heathen Chinee is peculiar, - Which the same I would rise to explain. - - Ah Sin was his name; - And I will not deny - In regard to the same - What that name might imply; - But his smile it was pensive and childlike, - As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. - - It was August the third, - And quite soft was the skies; - Which it might be inferred - That Ah Sin was likewise; - Yet he played it that day upon William - And me in a way I despise. - - Which we had a small game - And Ah Sin took a hand. - It was Euchre. The same - He did not understand; - But he smiled as he sat by the table, - With a smile that was childlike and bland. - - Yet the cards they were stocked - In a way that I grieve, - And my feelings were shocked - At the state of Nye's sleeve: - Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, - And the same with intent to deceive. - - But the hands that were played - By that heathen Chinee, - And the points that he made, - Were quite frightful to see-- - Till at last he put down a right bower, - Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. - - Then I looked up at Nye, - And he gazed upon me; - And he rose with a sigh, - And said, "Can this be? - We are ruined by Chinese cheap labour"-- - And he went for that heathen Chinee. - - In the scene that ensued - I did not take a hand; - But the floor it was strewed - Like the leaves on the strand - With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, - In the game "he did not understand." - - In his sleeves, which were long, - He had twenty-four packs-- - Which was coming it strong, - Yet I state but the facts; - And we found on his nails, which were taper, - What is frequent in tapers--that's wax. - - Which is why I remark, - And my language is plain, - That for ways that are dark, - And for tricks that are vain, - The heathen Chinee is peculiar-- - Which the same I am free to maintain. - - BRET HARTE. - - * * * * * - - -THE HEATHEN PASS-EE. - -_Being the Story of a Pass Examination._ - -BY BRED HARD. - - Which I wish to remark, - And my language is plain, - That for plots that are dark - And not always in vain, - The Heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, - And the same I would rise to explain. - - I would also premise - That the term of Pass-ee - Most fitly applies, - As you probably see, - To one whose vocation is passing - The "ordinary B.A. degree." - - Tom Crib was his name, - And I shall not deny - In regard to the same - What that name might imply, - But his face it was trustful and childlike, - And he had the most innocent eye. - - Upon April the First - The Little-Go fell, - And that was the worst - Of the gentleman's sell, - For he fooled the Examining Body - In a way I'm reluctant to tell. - - The candidates came - And Tom Crib soon appeared; - It was Euclid, the same - Was "the subject he feared;" - But he smiled as he sat by the table - With a smile that was wary and weird. - - Yet he did what he could, - And the papers he showed - Were remarkably good, - And his countenance glowed - With pride when I met him soon after - As he walked down the Trumpington Road. - - We did not find him out, - Which I bitterly grieve, - For I've not the least doubt - That he'd placed up his sleeve - Mr. Todhunter's excellent Euclid, - The same with intent to deceive. - - But I shall not forget - How the next day at two - A stiff Paper was set - By Examiner _U_-- - On Euripides' tragedy, Bacchæ, - A Subject Tom "partially knew." - - But the knowledge displayed - By that heathen Pass-ee, - And the answers he made - Were quite frightful to see, - For he rapidly floored the whole paper - By about twenty minutes to three. - - Then I looked up at U-- - And he gazed upon me, - I observed, "This won't do." - He replied, "Goodness me! - We are fooled by this artful young person." - And he sent for that heathen Pass-ee. - - The scene that ensued - Was disgraceful to view, - For the floor it was strewed - With a tolerable few - Of the "tips" that Tom Crib had been hiding - For the "subject he partially knew." - - On the cuff of his shirt - He had managed to get - What we hoped had been dirt, - But which proved, I regret, - To be notes on the rise of the Drama, - A question invariably set. - - In his various coats - We proceeded to seek, - Where we found sundry notes - And--with sorrow I speak-- - One of Bohn's publications, so useful - To the student of Latin or Greek. - - In the crown of his cap - Were the Furies and Fates, - And a delicate map - Of the Dorian States, - And we found in his palms, which were hollow, - What are frequent in palms--that is, dates; - - Which is why I remark, - And my language is plain, - That for plots that are dark - And not always in vain, - The Heathen Pass-ee is peculiar, - Which the same I am free to maintain. - - _Light Green_ (W. Metcalfe and Son) Cambridge. - - * * * * * - - -A KISS IN THE DARK. - - Which I wish to remark, - That a pleasure in vain - Is a kiss in the dark - When it leaveth a stain: - And a maid who strikes quickly her colours - When pressed, I shall never maintain. - - It was at a "surprise," - Where fair ladies are found - To kill time, while it flies, - With their beaux, who were bound - On having a social re-union, - At the cost of--well, more than a pound. - - Just here let me say - To the ladies below, - Who in polka display - Their fantastic light _tow_, - That their husbands, upstairs, also "poker" - Yes, ladies, you well may cry "Owe!" - - If the husbands but knew - How their wives flirt below, - They would sing to them--"Glou!" - For they'd stick to them so - That the popinjays all would look elsewhere, - Nor want for a trip of the toe. - - In the waltz I embraced - A fair maid with soft eyes; - O! the size of her waist - Made me waste many sighs: - And I likened her cheeks to red roses, - And whispered, "Sweet love never dyes." - - Then together we strayed - In the light of the moon, - Where I kissed that sweet maid; - She pretended to swoon, - But her faint was a feint, so I kissed her - Again, for I relished the boon, - - Back again on the floor, - With my sweetheart I danced, - While the people there wore - Merry smiles, as they glanced - At my partner, so stayed--in her manner, - And at me, so completely entranced. - - When my love turned around - I was shocked at the sight; - Where the roses were found, - One had met with a blight; - While a cheek was still blooming and rosy, - The other was fearfully white. - - From my good-looking lass, - Filled with fright, I straight flew - To a bad looking-glass, - Where I gazed: then I knew - That my nose, which was formerly turn-up, - Was radish--bright crimson in hue. - - Which is why I remark, - That a pleasure in vain - Is a kiss in the dark - When it leaveth a stain; - And a maiden who runs when you kiss her, - Is fast--which I'll ever maintain. - - _Merry Folks._ - - * * * * * - - -THAT GERMANY JEW - -London, 1874. - - Which I wish to remark-- - And my language is plain-- - That for ways that are dark, - And tricks far from vain, - The Germany Jew is peculiar, - Which the same I'm about to explain. - - Eim Gott was his name; - And I shall not deny - In regard to the same, - He was wonderful "fly," - But his watch-chain was vulgar and massive, - And his manner was dapper and spry. - - It's two years come the time, - Since the mine first came out; - Which in language sublime - It was puffed all about:-- - But if there's a mine called Miss Emma - I'm beginning to werry much doubt. - - Which there was a small game - And Eim Gott had a hand - In promoting! The same - He did well understand; - But he sat at Miss Emma's board-table, - With a smile that was child-like and bland. - - Yet the shares they were "bulled," - In a way that I grieve, - And the public was fooled, - Which Eim Gott, I believe, - Sold 22,000 Miss Emmas, - And the same with intent to deceive. - - And the tricks that were played - By that Germany Jew, - And the pounds that he made - Are quite well known to you. - But the way that he flooded Miss Emma - Is a "watering" of shares that is new. - - Which it woke up MacD----, - And his words were but few, - For he said, "Can this be?" - And he whistled a "Whew!" - "We are ruined by German-Jew Swindlers!"-- - And he went for that Germany Jew. - - In the trial that ensued - I did not take a hand; - But the Court was quite filled - With the fi-nancing band, - And Eim Gott was "had" with hard labour, - For the games he did well understand. - - Which is why I remark-- - And my language is plain-- - That for ways that are dark, - And for tricks far from vain, - The Germany Jew was peculiar,-- - But he won't soon be at it again. - - _Jon Duan._ - - * * * * * - - -ST. DENYS OF FRANCE (A.D. 272). - -_N.B._--_The following lay was composed in humble imitation of the popular -bard of Transatlantica._ - - Which I mean to observe-- - And my statement is true-- - That for ways that unnerve, - And for deeds that out-do, - St. Denys of France was peculiar, - And the same I'll explain unto you. - - Dionysius his name, - And none will deny - hat Denys the same - Does mean and imply; - And he fell in the hands of the pagans, - Who doom'd him a martyr to die. - - 'Twas century third, - As the history states, - That Denys incurr'd - This saddest of fates; - With one Eleutherius, deacon, - And Rusticus, priest, for his mates. - - Yet the woes that were laid - On those Christians three, - And the pluck they display'd - Were quite frightful to see, - And at first you would scarcely believe it, - But the same is asserted by ME. - - 'Twas one of their foes' - Diabolical whims, - To the flames to expose - The martyr's bare limbs. - But Denys, for one, didn't mind it, - He lay and sang psalms--likewise hymns. - - And then he was placed - In a den of wild beasts - With a preference of taste - For martyrs and priests; - But Denys, by _crossing_, so tamed them, - They turned from such cannibal feasts. - - Next Denys was cast - In a furnace of fire; - All thinking at last - He'd have to expire; - But the flame sank so low in a minute, - No bellows could make it rise higher. - - And when he'd been hung - On the cross for a spell, - St. Denys was flung - With his friends in a cell, - As narrow and close as a coffin, - And dark as H E double L. - - Said the judge, stern and curt, - "Bring the captives to me." - When he found them unhurt - He cried, "Can this be? - We are ruin'd by Christian endeavor;" - And he meant to destroy the whole three. - - On the Saints, who had long - Withstood such attacks, - The foe came out strong - With their tortures and racks. - At last, by the Governor's order, - Their heads were cut off with an axe. - - "Do we sleep? do we dream?" - All the witnesses shout; - "Are men what they seem? - Or is witchcraft about?" - For quickly the corpse of St. Denys - Rose up, and began to walk out! - - He took up his head, - Tuck'd it under his arm, - And the same, it is said, - Caused surprise and alarm; - Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd - As if by some magical charm. - - Cut down to his neck, - Like a flower to its stalk, - The Saint met a check - When he first tried to walk: - But soon he felt stronger than Weston - Or Webb--by a very long chalk. - - And angels, we're told, - Led his footsteps along; - While heavenwards rolled - Their chorus of song; - They led him two leagues from the city, - To see that he didn't go wrong. - - I hope you'll believe - That this story is fact, - For I scorn to deceive, - And refuse to retract; - For truth I've a great reputation, - And wish to preserve it intact. - - Which is why I observe-- - And my statement is true-- - That for ways that unnerve, - And for deeds that out-do, - St. Denys of France was peculiar, - And the same I have proved unto you. - -_Lays of the Saintly_, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly and Co.) London, 1882. - - * * * * * - - -THAT INFIDEL EARL! - -(_Plain Language from Artless Ahmed, Istamboul._) - -AIR--"That Heathen Chinee." - - SULTAN _sings_-- - - I--aside--may remark,-- - And I mean to speak plain,-- - That for games that are dark, - Masked by manners urbane, - That Infidel Earl licks me hollow-- - And _I_ am no novice inane. - - DUFFER-IN is his name, - But I'm bound to deny, - In regard to the same, - What that name might imply. - Though his smile is so pleasant and placid, - A Sheitan there lurks in each eye. - - Istamboul was the spot - Where we played, and you'd guess - That the Giaour got it hot-- - Found himself in a mess. - Yet he played it on me, did that Giaour, - In a way that was loathsome--no less. - - We sat down to the game, - DUFFER-IN took a hand; - I felt sure that the same - _He_ could not understand; - But he smiled as he sat at the table - With the smile that was placid and bland. - - _My_ cards were well stocked,-- - As no doubt you'll believe,-- - And I felt--_don't_ be shocked!-- - I'd "a bit up my sleeve." - For when playing with sons of burnt fathers - Our _duty's_ to dupe and deceive. - - But the hands which were played - By that dog DUFFER-IN, - And the tricks that he made, - Were a shame, and a sin, - Till at last I was "bested" completely, - And the Giaour scored a palpable win. - - Then I felt that _my_ guile - Was but simple and slight, - And he rose, with a smile, - And he said, "_That's_ all right! - Think I'll take the next turn with dear TEWFIK!" - And he started for Cairo that night. - - In the little game there - I may not take a hand; - But, my TEWFIK, beware! - He is gentle and bland, - Yet he'll probably give you a hiding,-- - Few games that he'll _not_ understand. - - Be the game short or long, - He's ne'er flurried nor stuck. - His lead is _so_ strong, - He has Sheitan's own luck; - And you'll find in this goose--as I thought him-- - What occurs to geese--_sometimes_--that's "pluck." - - Which is why I remark, - Though I own it with pain, - That for games that are dark, - Masked by manners urbane, - That Infidel Earl licks me hollow, - And I don't want to play _him_ again! - - _Punch_, November 11, 1882. - - * * * * * - - -FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. - - Do I sleep? do I dream? - Do I wander and doubt? - Are things what they seem? - Or is visions about? - Is our civilisation a failure? - Or is the Caucasian played out? - - * * * * * - - BRET HARTE. - - * * * * * - - -REMARKS ABOUT OTHELLO. - - Do I sleep? Do I dream? - Do I wonder and doubt? - Are things what they seem, - Or is libels about? - Has the Eminent I. scored a failure? - Or is the tragedian played out? - - Which questions is strong; - Yet I would but imply - That to them I much long - To get a reply-- - Seeing things is kinder mixed up so, - Or, leastways, they seem so to I. - - How he got up his name - I needn't relate; - Though, regarding that same, - He owed Colonel Bate- - Man some thanks for the way that he publish'd - The fact that his genius was great. - - Then 'twas said with one breath - Perfection was he, - From the "Bells" to "Macbeth" - He was as good as could be-- - He came, and he play'd, and he conquer'd-- - Like a melodramatic J. C. - - And all London went wild - O'er this Eminent I., - Save a party that smiled, - And thought it good fun; - But as for the late William Shakespeare, - He never had had such a run. - - And the public fell down - As though in a trance; - And the West-End of town - Booked their stalls in advance; - Whilst the critics wrote furlongs of praises, - His triumph to further enhance. - - And the management, gaily, - Its hand on its heart, - Did advertise, daily, - Its love of high art; - Whilst FIGARO smiled somewhat drily, - And murmured, "O here's a droll start!" - - But at last came a night-- - 'Twas "Othello" you'll guess; - And thought I (well I might), - "Ah! another success!" - But the papers next morning--O pizen! - They upset this view, I confess. - - For I dare not repeat - The things that were said:-- - Of a mop-stem on feet-- - In one weekly I read-- - With its arms like a pair of pump-handles, - And the mop dipped in ink for the head. - - And another remarked - That his voice wasn't clear, - And the more the Moor barked, - The less he could hear; - Whilst a third liken'd him in the death scene, - To a curate whose dreams had been queer. - - Scarce a paper I scann'd - Had the old-fashioned praise; - But on every hand - I read with amaze, - That the Eminent I. got a "slating" - Not frequently giv'n in these days. - - And, thought I, this is odd! - To turn round in this way: - One day he's a god-- - Or, so they all say-- - And the next night they call him eccentric, - Which isn't to my mind, fair play. - - He ain't a-gone wrong - Like this in a day; - He's been wrong all along - In the same kind of way; - And the faults they have damned in "Othello" - They praised in--well, "Hamlet," I'll say. - - So that's why I remark, - And would wish to maintain, - That for hair long and dark, - And a voice that was pain- - Ful, the Eminent I. was peculiar-- - But I don't think he'll try it again. - - _The Figaro_, March 4, 1876. - - * * * * * - -GALAHAD. "A superficial imitation is easy enough, but I shall certainly -fail to reproduce his subtle wit and pathos." (_Reads._) - - -TRUTHFUL JAMES'S SONG OF THE SHIRT. - - Which his name it was Sam; - He had sluiced for a while - Up at Murderer's Dam, - Till he got a good pile, - And the heft of each dollar, - Two thousand or more, - He'd put in the Chollar, - For he seed it was ore - That runs thick up and down, without ceilin' or floor. - - And, says he, it's a game - That's got but one stake; - If I put up that same, - It'll bust me or make. - At fifty the foot - I've entered my pile, - And the whole derned cahoot - I'll let soak for a while, - And jest loaf around here,--say, Jim, will you smile? - - Tom Fakes was the chum, - Down in Frisco, of Sam; - And one mornin' there come - These here telegram: - "You can sell for five hundred, - Come down by the train!" - Sam By-Joed and By-Thundered,-- - 'Twas whistlin' quite plain, - And down to Dutch Flat rushed with might and with main. - - He had no time to sarch, - But he grabbed up a shirt - That showed bilin' and starch, - And a coat with less dirt. - He jumped on the step - As the train shoved away, - And likewise was swep', - All galliant and gay, - Round the edge of the mounting and down to'rds the Bay. - - Seven minutes, to pass - Through the hole by the Flat! - Says he, I'm an ass - If I can't shift in that! - But the train behind time, - Only _three_ was enough,-- - It came pat as a rhyme-- - He was stripped to the buff - When they jumped from the tunnel to daylight! 'Twas rough. - - What else? Here's to you! - Which he sold of his feet - At five hundred, 'tis true, - And the same I repeat: - But acquaintances, friends, - They likes to divert, - And the tale never ends - Of Sam and his shirt, - And to stop it from goin' he'd give all his dirt! - - _Diversions of the Echo Club._ - - * * * * * - -The following admirable parody of Bret Harte's pathetic poems on miner's -life in California was written by Mr. Charles H. Ross, the Editor of -_Judy_. It is a favourite recitation with Mr. Odell, the popular actor:-- - - -THE BLOOMIN' FLOWER OF RORTY GULCH. - - It war Bob war the Bloomin' Flower, - They know'd him on Poker Flat; - He'd gouged a few down Gilgal way, - But no one complained o' that. - He scored his stiffs[7] on the heft of his knife-- - Forty I've heern 'em say; - It might have been more--Bob kept his accounts - In a loosish sorter way. - - Bob warn't a angel ter look at, - And the Bible it warn't _his_ book; - He swore the most oaths that war swor'd in the camp, - Or blarmedly I am mistook; - But he warn't a outen-out bad 'un, - And he'd got a heart you could touch; - And he never draw'd iron[8] on boy or man - As didn't pervoke him much. - - And you can't say fair as drinking - War counted among his sins; - For at nary a sittin' would he put down - More nor fifteen whisky skins. - But one day we was drinkin' and jawin', - Round Haggarty's bar, and I fear - That Haggarty riled him, bein' so slow, - So he jist sliced off Haggarty's ear. - - Then Haggarty went for him savage, - Instead of a-holding his jor; - And Bob went for his 'leven-inch knife, - And scatter'd Hag's scraps on the floor. - One of Hag's friends then drew upon Bob, - And shot Joe Harris instead; - And I take it the bar floor got at last - 'Bout knee-deep in red. - - But when the fun was over in there, - Bob ran a-muck in the street; - And he speared and potted each derned cuss - As he chanced to meet. - And quiet folks shut up their doors-- - They thought it safer, you see-- - All but a man with his wife and child, - That was settin' down to tea. - - Into their parlour rushed Bloomin' Bob, - To that father and mother's surprise: - Jobb'd his bowie through one, and took - The tother between the eyes. - Then he clutched the innocent slumb'rin' babe, - Jist meanin' to knock out its brains; - But at that moment there reach'd his ear - Some long-forgotten strains. - - * * * * * - - Some soft and touching music this, - Music solemn and sweet, - Played by a common organ-man - Down at the end of the street. - And it went straight home to the digger's heart, - And he did not squelch the child, - But lay it down in its little cot, - And rocked the same--and smiled! - - Talk soft! They say the angels - That night smole down on Bob; - And a sorter radiant halo - Gleamed brightly round his nob. - I can't swear to all this for certain, - And it do seem a queerish start; - But I won't set by and hear none o' you say - Bob hadn't a tender heart! - - * * * * * - -FOOTNOTES: - -[Footnote 7: Corpses.] - -[Footnote 8: To shoot.] - - - - -C. Wolfe's Ode. - - -Since Part VII. appeared, containing the parodies on the above, a -correspondent has kindly sent the following, which recently appeared in a -Durham newspaper:-- - - -A MOONLIGHT FLIT. - - Scarce a sound was heard, not a word was spoke, - As a van down the back way they hurried; - For some tenants were bolting, not paying their rent, - And looking confoundedly flurried. - - They'd packed up in silence at dead of night, - And, having no thought of returning, - Had nailed up the shutters to keep in the light - Of the paraffin-lamp left a-burning. - - But just as they'd got the loading done, - And with the last chair were retiring, - They heard the butcher (that son of a gun) - At the door for his money inquiring. - - Sharp and short was the answer he got-- - They told him "It gave them much sorrow; - It wasn't convenient to settle just then, - But they'd certainly do so to-morrow." - - Slowly and sadly they hurried away - From that snug little house of one storey, - Chucked the key in the water-butt, out of harm's way, - And left it alone in its glory. - - Loudly they'll talk of the tenants now gone, - And the landlords will say they were rum 'uns; - But little they'll care if he lets them alone, - And don't find them out with a summons. - - ANONYMOUS. - - * * * * * - -Two old parodies of the same original, on theatrical matters, may also, -for the sake of completeness, be inserted here. They are both taken from -_The Man in the Moon_, which was a small comic magazine, edited by the -late Angus B. Reach, with many funny illustrations by Hine, Sala, and -other humorous artists. _The Man in the Moon_ was started in 1847, and -five volumes in all were issued; its contents are now, of course, somewhat -out of date, but there are some clever parodies which will be inserted in -this collection--many of these parodies were, no doubt, from the facile -pen of Albert Smith, who was one of the principal contributors to the -magazine. - - -THE BURIAL OF PANTOMIME. - -_Stanzas of_ 1846-7. - - Not a laugh was heard, not a topical joke, - As its corpse to oblivion we hurried, - Not a paper a word in its favour spoke - On the pantomime going to be buried. - - We buried it after the Boxing night, - The folks from our galleries turning, - For we knew that it scarcely would pay for the light - Of the star in the last act burning. - - No useless play-bill put forth a puff, - How splendid the public had found it. - But it lay like a piece that had been call'd "Stuff," - With a very wet blanket round it. - - Stoutly and long all the audience hiss'd, - When they found neither sense nor reason; - But we steadfastly dwelt on the points we had miss'd - And we bitterly thought of next season. - - We thought, when we felt it was really dead, - As we pass'd old Covent Garden, - That Opera and Ballet would take up its place, - And we not be worth half a farden. - - Loudly old gentlemen still will prate, - As they always do, of past actors; - But we know that poor Mathews' and Howell's fate - Was as bad as a malefactors. - - Slowly and sadly we laid it down, - For we knew that we couldn't make bad well, - And we felt that the _prestige_ was vanish'd at last, - But we drank to the health of poor Bradwell. - - _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 1. - - * * * * * - - -THE BURIAL OF PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE. - -(_Princess's Theatre_). - - Not a house was drawn--not a five-pound-note-- - So his run to its closing we hurried; - Not a listener could follow his hazy plot, - So the dreary abortion we buried. - - We buried him, sadly, one Friday night, - For our hopes were gone past returning; - And the manager's pangs were a moving sight, - By the foot-lights dimly burning. - - All bare and exposed to the critics lash, - On that luckless stage we found him-- - On that stage where he deemed he should cut such a dash, - With armour and mobs around him. - - Few were the words which the manager said, - To soothe the tragedian's sorrow; - But they glared at each other with looks which made - Us hope they would fight on the morrow. - - They doubtless thought, though their tongues they held, - That of all the dreadful messes, - A sadder than Philip Van Artevelde, - Had never disgraced the Princess's. - - Loudly the manager told what he spent-- - And he said that Macready had made him-- - Ah! little attention the "Eminent" paid, - But coolly let Maddox upbraid him. - - But now was our dreary duty done-- - Our sleep-moving drama retiring, - From the distant jeer and the cutting pun, - Which the foe were constantly firing. - - Slowly and sadly we laid it down - That a poem, which is famed in story, - Be it writ in a book, be it carved on a stone, - Should be left there alone in its glory. - - _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 3. - - * * * * * - - -THE BURIAL OF THE BILLS. - -(_A Parody apropos to present circumstances, August_, 1884.) - - Not a joke was heard, not a troublesome vote, - As the bills into limbo they hurried; - Not e'en INGLIS discharged a farewell shot, - O'er the grave where the Jew-Bill was buried. - - They buried them darkly at dead of night, - For bed all the members yearning; - With the aid of the Speaker to keep them right, - And GREEN'S parliamentary learning. - - No vain discussion their life supprest, - Nor did truth nor talk confound them; - They passed a few, and as for the rest, - They burked them just as they found them. - - For most of the Session's task was done, - The supplies marked the hour for retiring; - And as August drew near, each son of a gun, - At the grouse, in his dreams, was a-firing. - - * * * * * - - So they settled the Bills--other folks' and their own-- - Never destined to figure in story; - They shed not a tear, and they heaved not a groan, - But they burked them alike, Whig and Tory! - - _Punch_, 1850. - - * * * * * - - -A TALE OF A TUB. - - Not a cackle was heard, or matitudinal crow, - As the cask to the orchard they barrowed; - And gently and tenderly laid him below, - Where some ground had been recently harrowed. - - The tears trickled slowly down Emma's fair check, - While Ned sobbed aloud in his fustian, - And Marian's feelings forbade her to speak - For fear of spontaneous combustion. - - They gazed on his coat of cerulean blue, - Ana silently gauged his dimensions, - Then covered him up with a hurdle or two - To balk the sly foxes' intentions. - - Then slowly and sadly they turned them away, - With their hearts overladen with sorrow: - Said Emma, "Bedad! he is safe for to-day." - Said Ned, "We must tap him to-morrow." - - Alas! Ere the dawn of another to-day, - There only was weeping and wailing; - That beautiful tub had been carried away, - Or had leaked through a gap in the pailing. - - And the Beaks, when applied to, just wagged their old heads, - And said, "Since for advice you must ask us," - Don't bury your casks in your strawberry beds, - Lest men take them by _Habeas Caskus!_" - - JOHN E. ALLEN. - -(The touching incident described in these affecting lines occurred to some -friends who, for fear of an explosion, buried a cask of paraffine oil in -their garden; a midnight robber despoiled them of their spirit, and they -could not make light of it.) - - * * * * * - - - - -Alfred, Lord Tennyson. - -POET LAUREATE. - - -THE first four parts of this collection were devoted to parodies of the -works of the Poet Laureate, a few examples being given of the imitations -of each of his more important poems. Numerous subscribers have requested -that the collection should be continued, so that the first volume might -contain as nearly a complete set of parodies on Tennyson's works as it -is possible to form. With this view many additional contributions have -been sent in; whilst some that have quite recently appeared, and a few -that were previously omitted as being too lengthy, will now be included. -Independently of the amusing nature of many of the parodies still to be -given, collectors of _Tennysoniana_ will appreciate the completeness thus -to be obtained, and it will be seen that very few of Tennyson's poems have -escaped parody. - -Although it may appear that the imitations now to be given will come -somewhat out of order, no inconvenience will eventually result, as the -index will show, in a tabulated form, under the head of each _original_ -poem every parody of it. The order adopted in the recent editions of -the Laureate's poems will be followed in this further collection, and -the parodies will illustrate Mariana; Circumstance; The Palace of Art; -Riflemen Form; Lady Clara Vere de Vere; The May Queen; The Dream of Fair -Women; "You Ask Me Why;" "Of Old Sat Freedom;" Tithonus; Locksley Hall; -Lady Godiva; The Lord of Burleigh; The Voyage; Enoch Arden; The Brook; The -Princess; Alexandra; In Memoriam; Maud; Hands All Round; and the Idyls of -the King. - - -THE HAYMARKET THEATRE ON THE OCCASION OF THE REVIVAL OF A DULL OLD -FIVE-ACT PLAY. - - With kindest friends, each private box - Was thickly peopled one and all; - The busy tongues fell at the knocks - The prompter gave against the wall. - The grand tiers' heads look'd old and strange, - Unresting was box-keeper's key, - For those who something came to see, - Within the dismal five-acts' range. - She only said, "It readeth dreary; - No pathos and no fun." - She said, "I am aweary, aweary, - Before it hath begun." - - Her yawns came with the first act even; - Her yawns came ere the third was tried. - She had been listening from seven, - With nought to praise, nor to deride. - After the friends forgot to clap, - Which very soon they ceased to do, - She drew the box's curtains too, - And thought, "I'll take a little nap." - She only said, "The play is dreary; - No pathos, and no fun," - She only said, "I am aweary, aweary, - I would that it were done." - - * * * * * - - The hazy nature of the plot; - The box locks clicking; and the sound - Which to the actors on the stage - The prompter made, did all confound - Her sense; but most she loathed the power - Which could get acted such a play, - When they would nothing have to say - To pieces of the present hour. - Then said she, "This is very dreary! - This must not be," she said; - "Sooner than feel again so weary, - I'd go right home to bed." - - _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 2, 1848. - - * * * * * - - -THE EXILED LONDONER. - -"Since I have been at this place I have lost as many as three copies of -_The Times_ in a week, while _Punch_ was as regularly stolen as it was -posted."--_Times_, January 10. - - With black _ennui_ the Exile sits, - Watching the rain-drops as they fall; - The bluebottle about him flits, - That ate the peach on the garden wall. - No _Times_ nor _Punch_, 'tis very strange; - Unlifted is the iron latch; - Of papers he's without the batch - That gives his days their only change. - At first he only said, "Oh deary! - The post is late," he said; - "Of waiting I am rather weary, - I would my _Punch_ I'd read." - - About the middle of the day - The postman's form its shadow cast, - The door he sought with footsteps gay, - The _Times_ and _Punch_ are here at last. - Out with them; but 'tis very strange, - The envelope is open torn-- - 'Tis but the _Herald_ of the morn; - His paper they have dared to change. - He only said, "The _Herald_'s dreary, - Dreary, indeed," he said; - "It's very look has made me weary; - It never can be read." - - Upon some stones--a hillock small, - The Londoner in exile leapt, - And over objects large and small - A telescopic watch he kept; - He saw the postman walk away, - He gazed till it was nearly dark, - Then only made this sad remark, - "Nor _Times_ nor _Punch_ will come to-day." - He only said, "'Tis very dreary - They do not come," he said; - "While I for want of them am weary, - They're elsewhere being read." - - And even when the moon was low, - And the shrill winds a game did play, - Blowing the sign-boards to and fro, - As if 'twould blow them right away; - He'd with the spider, as it climbs, - Hold converse--asking if 'twould tell - Whether the postman dared to sell - The weekly _Punch_ and daily _Times_. - He only said, "'Tis very dreary, - Dreary, indeed," he said; - "Of life I'm almost getting weary, - My _Times_ and _Punch_ unread." - - All day within the dreamy house - His shoes had in the passage creak'd; - The maid-of-all-work, like a mouse, - Out of her master's presence sneak'd, - Or from the kitchen peer'd about, - Or listen'd at the open doors, - To hear his footsteps tread the floors - With the short hurried pace of doubt. - She only said, "My master's weary, - And angry, too," she said; - She said, "Oh deary me! oh deary! - I wish he'd go to bed." - - The crickets chirrup on the hearth, - The slow clock ticking--and the sound - Of rain upon the gravel path - That hems the Exile's cottage round; - All these, but most of all the power - Of sleep after an anxious day, - Up-stairs had hurried him away. - He paced his chamber for an hour, - Then said he, "This, indeed, is dreary, - My _Times_, my _Punch_," he said, - "Without you I am always weary; - I'll tumble into bed." - - _Punch_, January 22, 1848. - - * * * * * - - -LORD TOMNODDY IN THE FINAL SCHOOLS. - - With blackest ink the books around - Were thickly blotted one and all; - The very nails looked half unsound - That held the pictures to the wall. - The dismal scene was wrapped in gloom, - Sported was the unsocial oak: - Seedy and torn and thick with smoke - The curtains hung athwart the room. - He only said, "The schools are dreary: - This Euclid racks my head. - Of Ethics I am very weary; - I shall be ploughed," he said. - - His sighs came with the lightening heaven, - And ever through the day he sighed. - He could not play in the Eleven, - Or coach the Eight at eventide. - After the shutting of the gates, - He drew his casement curtain by, - And watched along the gleaming High - The lovers strolling with their mates. - He only said, "The schools are dreary: - This Euclid racks my head. - Ethics are the reverse of cheery; - I shall be ploughed," he said. - - And half asleep he heard forlorn - The caterwauling on the roof; - The chapel bell rung out at morn - Came to him--but he held aloof. - In dreams he seemed to see the Halls, - And fatal precincts of the Schools: - To watch the crowd of ghastly fools, - Who tried in vain to pass their Smalls. - He only said, "The schools are dreary: - This Euclid racks my brain. - Of Ethics I am very weary; - I shall be ploughed again." - - He sat and darkened all the air, - With smoke up-wreathing from his weed: - All day, half-dreaming in his chair, - He sat and read--or seemed to read-- - Or from the window peered about. - His friends still hammered at his door; - He heard them on the upper floor; - Their voices called him from without. - He only said, "The schools are nearing; - I cannot come," said he. - "Although of Ethics I am wearying, - I shall be ploughed, you'll see." - - For hours he sat, without a pause, - And snored o'er Plato's sage debate - Of the Republic and the Laws: - Both these his brain did obfuscate - But most of all he loathed the power - Of _x_ + _y_, whose depths profound - Long-winded dons would oft expound, - And moralise on by the hour. - Then said he, "I am very weary, - This Euclid racks my brain. - Mansell and Mill are very dreary; - I shall be ploughed again!" - - H. C. I., QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD - -_College Rhymes_ (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1868. - - * * * * * - - -A FRAGMENT. - - They lifted him with kindly care; - They took him by the heels and head; - Across the floor, and up the stair, - They bore him safely to his bed. - They wrapped the blankets warm and tight, - And round about his nose and chin - They drew the sheets, and tucked them in, - And whispered: "Poor old boy, good-night!" - He murmured, "Boys, oh, deary, deary, - That punch _was_ strong," he said; - He said: "I am aweary, weary-- - Thank heaven, I've got to bed! - - _Australian Paper._ - - * * * * * - - -AUGUST THE TWELFTH. - -OVER-NIGHT. - -I. - - You must wake, and call me early--call me early--Willie Weir, - To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year; - The cockneys and the keepers will all be out of doors, - And I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie--I'm to shoot over the moors. - -II. - - There's many a pack of pointers, but none that point likemine; - There's Paragon and Pincher--there's Kit and Keelavine, - And my little Dandie Dinmont, that stands firm as any house, - So I'm to bag all the grouse, Willie--I'm to bag all the grouse. - -III. - - I sleep so soundly all the night that I shall never wake, - Unless you call me loudly when the dawn begins to break, - For I've to put on my philabeg and sporran's foxy tail, - To _look_ like a genuine Gael, Willie, to _look_ like a genuine Gael. - -IV. - - As I came up the valley, whom think you I should see? - Ben Moses of the Minories, he has rented Bonachree! - He wished to rent _my_ moor, Willie, but boggled at the price, - So I went in by telegram, and nailed it in a trice. - -V. - - Shelty Pony shall go to-morrow, to carry two fowls at least, - For a cockney on the hillside is a _very_ ravenous beast; - And you shall bring the saddlebags to hold the birds I spot, - For I'll get my worth of the moors, Willie, at least in the powder - and shot. - -VI. - - So you must wake me early--call me early, Willie Weir, - To-morrow is the glorious Twelfth, that comes but once a year. - From Cheapside unto Chelsea, they're envying me at home, - For I'm to shoot over the moors, Willie, as far as I can roam. - - -ON THE TWELFTH. - -I. - - I bade you wake me early, with my shaving-jug and brogues, - But Scotch and English servants are all a pack of rogues. - It's the only Twelfth of August in the Highlands I shall see, - Yet you snored on your truckle-bed, Willie, and never thought of me. - -II. - - Last night I saw the sunset, he looked both wroth and red, - As if he knew when dawning came I'd still be lay-a-bed. - From crag and scaur and heather I hear the popping shot, - And not a single bird, Willie, has fallen to my lot. - -III. - - What say you? "'Tis a soft day, the roads are runnin' burns, - "The heather's a' wet blankets, ye might droon ye in the ferns; - Ye canna see a hand forenent, the mist's sae white and chill, - Ye'd sune be bogged amang the muirs, and lost upon the hill." - -IV. - - There's not a sportsman on the hills, the rain is on the pane, - I only wish to sleep until the sunshine comes again. - I wish the mist would lift, and the light break out once more, - I long to kill a grouse, Willie, ere the Twelfth of August's o'er. - -V. - - I have been stiff and lazy, but I'll up and dress me now, - You'll fetch my breakfast, Willie, and my plaid before I go. - Nay, nay, you must not brush so hard, my very teeth you jolt, - You should not rub me down, Willie, as if I were a colt. - -VI. - - I'll bring back dinner, if I can, in a brace of cock and hen, - But if you do not see me, you will know I've dined with Ben. - If I cannot speak a sober word when I come back from the toddy, - Just tuck me into bed, Willie, like a canny Hieland body. - -VII. - - Good-bye, you rascal, Willie; call me earlier in the morn, - Or I'll thrash you into next week, as sure as you were born; - For I must get my money back from grouse and hare and deer, - So wake, and call me early--call me early, Willie Weir. - - _Will-o'-the-Wisp_, August, 1869. - - * * * * * - - -MALA-FIDE TRAVELLERS. - -(_Unlicensed by the Laureate._) - - Late, late, past ten, so dark the night and chill. - Late, late, eleven, but we can enter still. - Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! - - No thought had we the night was so far spent, - And, hearing this, the Bobby will relent. - Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! - - No beer, though late, and dark, and chill the night. - O let us in, and we will not get tight! - Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! - - A glass of gin to-night would be so sweet. - O let us in, that we may have it neat! - Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now! - - _Punch_, November 16, 1872. - -The following imitation of Tennyson is of interest as having appeared -forty years ago, when the poet was comparatively unknown:-- - - -A FRAGMENT--COMPOSED IN A DREAM. - -BY A. TENNYSON. - - In Hungerford, did some wise man - A stately bridge of wire decree, - Where Thames, the muddy river, ran, - Down to a muddier sea. - - Above the people rose its piers, - Their shadows on the waters fell; - Year after year, for many years, - All unapproachable! - - And filmy wires through æther spread, - From such proud piers' unfinished head, - Kept up a mild communication, - Worthy of their exalted station; - - And many gazers far below, - Wafted by the waveless tide, - Which 'neath those slender wires did flow, - Upturned their eyes, and sighed-- - - "If that _air_ bridge," they whispered low, - "Vos broad enough to let us pass, - Ve'd not av so much round to go, - As now ve av--alas!" - - * * * * * - - _Punch_, 1844. - - * * * * * - - -THE M.P. ON THE RAILWAY COMMITTEE. - -(_Dedicated to Alfred Tennyson_). - - With shareholders in anxious lots, - The rooms were crowded, one and all, - The Barristers stood round in knots,-- - And quite forsook Westminster Hall. - Sections and plans looked odd and strange; - And the M.P. at each new batch, - Weary and worn, looked at his watch, - In hopes the Counsel to derange. - He only said, "It's very dreary: - He'll never stop!" he said; - He said, "I'm a-weary--a-weary, - I would I were in bed!" - - The speech began before eleven, - And might go on till eventide; - He must be in the House at seven, - Upon a motion to divide. - The Barristers in white cravats - Unto each other gave the lie; - The M.P. sadly shut his eye - And thought of the Kilkenny cats. - He only said, "It's very dreary, - They'll never stop!" he said; - He said, "I'm a-weary--a-weary, - And must not go to bed." - - Until the middle of the night, - He'd heard the Irish Members crow; - The House broke up in broad daylight, - Heavily he to bed did go, - In hopes to sleep; but without change, - In dreams, he seemed to hear, forlorn, - The Barrister he'd heard that morn; - And saw, in slumber, sections strange. - He sighed, and said, "'Tis very dreary; - I cannot sleep!" he said; - He said, "I am a-weary--a-weary, - Both in and out of bed." - - * * * * * - - The hot sun beating on the roof, - The slow clock ticking, and the sound - Which in opposing lines' behoof - The counsel made,--did all confound - His sense: then longed he for the hour - When their report they came to lay - Before the Commons; and the day - On which he'd 'scape SIR ROBERT'S power, - Then said he, "This is far too dreary: - I will retire," he said; - He sighed, "I am so weary--a-weary, - I'll go to Jail instead." - - _Punch_, 1845. - - * * * * * - - -CIRCUMSTANCE. - - Two children in two neighbour villages, - Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; - Two strangers meeting at a festival; - Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; - Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; - Two graves, grass green, beside a gray church-tower, - Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; - Two children in one hamlet born and bred; - So runs the round of life from hour to hour. - - A. TENNYSON. - - * * * * * - - -CIRCUMSTANCE. - -(_After Tennyson_). - - Two children on Twelfth Night, all mirth and laughter, - Obliged to take two powders the day after. - Two strangers meeting at a morning call. - Two lovers waltzing at a country ball. - Two mouths to feed upon an income small. - Two "lists to be retained" of various things - Wash'd out of town to save home's direst curse. - Two babies quite too much for one young nurse; - So flies the time of life on rapid wings. - - _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 4, 1848. - - * * * * * - - -THE PALACE OF ART. - -(_A Parody, which it is requested may not occur to anybody during the -Inauguration of the Exhibition_, 1862). - - I built my Cole a lordly pleasure house, - Wherein to walk like any Swell: - I said, "O Cole, make merry and carouse, - Dear Cole, for all is well." - -(_Here follows an exquisite description of the said pleasure-house, also -known as the International Exhibition. After four hundred and ninety-seven -verses comes the last_). - - But Cole, C.B., replied, "'Tis long, your story, - And here's a Rummy Start; - Dilke walks in glory with a Hand that's Gory, - While I am _not_ a Bart." - - SHIRLEY BROOKS. - -The following parody graphically describes that singular phase of -modern English art, known as the Æsthetic School, originated by the -Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, namely, Dante G. Rossetti, Holman Hunt, J. E. -Millais, and Thomas Woolner. The works of the disciples of this school -have recently found a home in the Grosvenor Gallery, founded by Sir Coutts -Lindsay:-- - - -THE PALACE OF ART. - -(_New Version_). - -PART I. - - I built myself a lordly picture-place - Wherein to play a Leo's part. - I said, "Let others cricket, row, or race, - I will go in for Art!" - - Full of great rooms and small my Palace stood, - With porphyry columns faced, - Hung round with pictures such as I thought good, - Being a man of taste. - - The pictures--for the most part they were such - As more behold than buy-- - The quaint, the queer, the mystic over-much, - The dismal, and the dry. - - One seemed all black and grey--a tract of mud, - One gas-jet glimmering there alone; - Above, all fog; below, all inky flood; - For subject--it had none. - - One showed blue chaos flecked with falling gold. - Like Danaë's tower in dark; - A painter's splash-board might more meaning hold - Than this æsthetic lark. - - And one, a phantom form with limbs most lank, - Adumbrated in ink and soot; - The Genius of Smudge, with spectral shank - And unsubstantial boot. - - Nor these alone, but many a canvas bare, - Fit for each vacuous mood of mind, - The gray and gravelike, vague and void, were there - Most dismally designed. - - * * * * * - - Or two wan lovers in a curious fix, - Wreathed in one scarf by some queer charm, - Upon the margin of a caverned Styx - Stood shivering arm-in-arm. - - Or by a garden-prop, posed all askew - 'Neath apples bronze, with brazen hair, - A chalk-limb'd Eve and snake of porcelain blue - Exchanged a stony stare. - - * * * * * - - Nor these alone, but all such legends fair - As the vagarious Wagner mind - Would pick from Mythus' shadowy realm, were there, - With ample space assigned. - - To women weird and wondrous, long of jaw, - And lank of limb, and greenish as with mould, - And full-red lips and shocks of fulvous hair, - And raiments strange of fold. - - No raven so delighteth in its song, - Of sad and sullen monotone, - As I to watch those ladies lean and long, - And angular of bone. - - And to myself I said, "All these are mine. - Let the dull world take Nature's part, - 'Tis one to me; I hold no thing divine - Save this Brown-Jonesian Art, - - "Wherein no ROBINSON shall dare to plant - His Philistinish hoof, - Who feels no mystic mediæval want, - But paints in truth's behoof! - - "O Mediæval Mystery, be it mine - To clasp thee, faint and fain; - Sniffing serene at low souls that decline, - On sense and meanings plain." - - Then my eyes filled, my talk waxed large and dim - Of BOTTICELLI'S deathless fame: - "Quaint immaturity to reach with him," - I cried, "is Art's true aim. - - "To plunge, self-blinded, in the mystic past, - That makes the present small: - If eyes artistic be not backward cast, - Why have we eyes at all?" - - _Punch_, July 7, 1877. - - -PART II. - - YET oft the riddle of Art's real drift - Flashed through me as I sat and gazed. - But not the less some season I made shift - To keep my wits undazed. - - And so I mused and mooned; for three long weeks - I stood it: on the fourth I fell. - All trace of natural colour fled my cheeks, - And I felt--far from well. - - * * * * * - - Hollow-cheeked, hectic, rufus-headed dames, - With opiate eyes, and foreheads all - As wan as corpses', but with wings like flames, - Glared on me from each wall. - - Those fixed orbs haunted me; I grew to hate - Those square and skinny jaws, those high-cheek bones. - Nocturnes in soot and symphonies in slate - Moved me to sighs and groans. - - Queer convolutions of dim drapery - Inwrapt me like a Nessus-snare. - I seemed enmeshed in tangles hot and dry - Of copper-coloured hair. - - I loathed the pallid Venuses and Eves, - Nymph-nudity, and Sorceress and Thrall; - The Wings prismatic, the metallic Leaves-- - I loathed them one and all. - - I howled aloud, "I would no more behold - A witch, an angel, or a saint. - Aught mediæval-mystic, classic-cold, - Or _cinque-cento_ quaint. - - "It may be that my taste has come to grief, - But if the spectral, dismal, dry, - _Do_ constitute 'High Art,' 'tis my belief - High Art is all my eye." - - So when four weeks were wholly finishéd, - I from my gallery turned away. - "Give me green leaves and flesh and blood," I said, - "Fresh air and light of day. - I pine for Nature, sickened to my heart - Of the affected, strained, and queer. - What was to me Ambrosia of Art - Hath grown as drugged small-beer. - - "Yet pull not down my galleries rich and rare: - When Art abjures the crude and dim, - I yet may house the High Ideal there. - Purged from preposterous Whim!" - - _Punch_, July 14, 1877. - - * * * * * - -The following poem appeared in _The Times_ for May 9, 1859, and although -not included in the collected works of the Poet Laureate, it has been -generally ascribed to his pen. In its warlike promptings, and cheap -national bunkum, it resembles the other so-called patriotic songs of this -author, of whom nobody ever heard that he took up a rifle for his country, -or assisted the Volunteer movement in any way whatever:-- - - -THE WAR. - - There is a sound of thunder afar, - Storm in the South that darkens the day, - Storm of battle and thunder of war, - Well, if it do not roll our way. - Form! form! Riflemen, form! - Ready, be ready to meet the storm! - Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! - - Be not deaf to the sound that warns! - Be not gull'd by a despot's plea! - Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns? - How should a despot set men free? - Form! form! Riflemen, form! - Ready, be ready to meet the storm! - Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! - - Let your Reforms for a moment go, - Look to your butts, and take good aims. - Better a rotten borough or so, - Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames! - Form! form! Riflemen form! - Ready, be ready to meet the storm! - Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! - - Form, be ready to do or die! - Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's! - True, that we have a faithful ally,[9] - But only the devil knows what he means. - Form! form! Riflemen, form! - Ready, be ready to meet the storm! - Riflemen, riflemen, riflemen, form! - - T. - - * * * * * - - -INTO THEM GOWN.[10] - -_A Wicked Parody on_ - -RIFLEMEN FORM. - - There was a sound of "Town" from afar, - Town in the High that threaten'd a mill, - Storm of town, and thunder of gown, - And town have got with them "Brummagem Bill." - Gown! Gown! into the Town, - Ready, be ready to meet the clown, - Into them; into them; into them, Gown. - - Be not afraid of the peelers' staves, - Be not gulled by a proctor's plea, - Velvetty arms are for flunkies, my braves, - Why should a proctor stop our spree? - Gown! Gown! into the Town, - Ready, be ready to meet the clown, - Into them; into them; into them, Gown. - - Leave your wines for a moment or so. - Double your fists for the State and the Church, - Better the purple claret should flow, - Than "_La Belle Science_" be left in the lurch. - Gown! Gown! into the Town, - Ready, be ready to meet the clown, - Into them; into them; into them Gown. - - Sweep! march ahead, look about, take care, - Deal black eyes and the bloody nose; - True that we have an excellent mayor, - Butt him again, and down he goes. - Gown! Gown! into the Town, - Ready, be ready to meet the clown, - Into them; into them; into them, Gown. - - _College Rhymes_, 1861. - - * * * * * - -The Poet Laureate has been subjected to much ridicule for the change which -has of late years been apparent in the tone of his writings, and his poem, -"Lady Clara Vere de Vere," has especially been seized on as the vehicle -for many malicious parodies directed against the fulsome adulation of -Royalty, contained in his later poems. - -It must be remembered that "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" was written more than -fifty years ago, when Alfred Tennyson was young, unknown, and unpensioned. -Like many of his early poems, it contains uncomplimentary allusions to our -hereditary aristocracy, into whose ranks he has only recently procured -admission. - -The heartless coquette, Lady Clara, is "the daughter of a hundred Earls," -and in her name the poet actually selected one of the oldest in the -English nobility on which to vent his indignation. The Vere (or De Vere) -family is of great antiquity, once holding the ancient Earldom of Oxford, -and as far back as 1387 one of these Earls of Oxford was created Duke of -Ireland, and Marquis of Dublin. It is certain the De Veres were noble in -the time of William I., and their pedigree has even been traced to a much -earlier period. "De Vere" still survives as one of the family names of -the Duke of St. Albans. The first Duke of St. Albans (illegitimate son -of Charles II. and Nell Gwynn, the orange girl), married Diana de Vere, -eldest daughter and heiress of Aubrey de Vere, the 20th and last Earl of -Oxford. - - -CAPTAIN FALCON OF THE GUARDS. - -I. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - How nice you thought to do me brown; - You thought that I'd accept a bill - For discount, when you went to town. - At me you smiled, but unbeguiled - I saw the snare, and I retired: - The black-leg of a hundred "hells," - Your friendship's not to be desired. - -II. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - I know you thought to get my name; - Your cunning was no match for mine, - Too wide-awake to play your game. - Nor would I write for your delight - A name the Jews ne'er saw before-- - My simple name across a bill - Is worth a hundred pounds or more. - -III. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - Some softer pupil you must find, - For were you Colonel of your troop, - I'd shun you still, and all your kind. - You thought to've seen me jolly green; - A plump refusal's my reply: - The army agents in Craig Court - Are not more up to you than I. - -IV. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - You put strange memories in my head; - Not thrice the bill had been renewed - When I beheld young Pigeon fled. - Your crack turn-outs, your drinking bouts, - A fine acquaintance you may be; - But there was that across the bill, - That he had hardly cared to see. - -V. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - When first he met the gov'nor's view, - He had the passions of his kind-- - He spake some certain truths of you. - Indeed, I heard one bitter word - About a certain game at cards, - Which, should it e'er get noised abroad, - Would cook your goose at the Horse Guards. - -VI. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - There stands a bailiff in your hall; - Tradesmen are knocking at your door: - Pigeon no longer pays for all. - You held your course without remorse, - To make him trust his run of luck, - And, last, you fairly stripped him clean, - And sought some other bird to pluck. - -VII. - - Trust me, Falcon of the Guards, - That bill to pay he never meant; - The grand old Judge who tried the cause - Smiled at your claim for money lent. - Howe'er it be, it seems to me - These promised pounds are not bank-notes; - Gold sovereigns are more than words, - And copper pence than paper groats. - -VIII. - - I know you, Falcon of the Guards; - You're linked with many a scoundrel crew, - Whose nights are spent in playing deep-- - Would that your play was honest too! - Be rogue, you must; spurned with mistrust, - Cash is no longer raised with ease; - Your credit, has it sunk so low, - You needs must play such pranks as these? - -IX. - - Captain Falcon of the Guards, - If tin be needful at your hand, - Are there no money lenders left, - Nor any Jews within the land? - Oh! take the bill-discounters in, - Or try the legal shark to do; - Pray write a promissory-note-- - And let the foolish Pigeons go. - - _The Puppet Show_, July 8, 1848. - - * * * * * - - -THE RUSSIAN CZAR. - - Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! - On me you shall not play the fool; - You thought to make a tool of me - Before you occupied Stamboul. - You drew your plan _en gentleman_, - But I was not to be deceived; - A Russian Czar's a Russian Czar-- - You are not one to be believed. - - * * * * * - - Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! - Some softer envoy you must gloze, - For were you Emperor of the world, - I would not stoop to tricks like those. - You set a cunning trap for me, - But I was cunning in reply; - The monjeike at your palace gate - Was not more _down_ to you than I. - - * * * * * - - But trust me, ruthless Russian Czar! - Though heaven above be brightly blue, - 'Tis writ upon your palace walls-- - Dark is the doom prepared for you! - Howe'er it be, it seems to me - The truly great are truly good; - God watches o'er those minarets - When _Christian faith_ sheds Turkish blood. - - I know you, haughty Russian Czar! - You sigh to leave your frozen towers; - Short-sighted are your bloated eyes, - Which strain to feast on Moslem bowers. - You move by stealth through boundless wealth; - Your very nobles are o'erawed; - You do so little good at home, - You needs must play such pranks abroad. - - Oh, Russian Czar! oh, Russian Czar! - If power be heavy on your hands, - Are there no wretches in your realm, - Nor any slaves upon your lands? - Oh teach your monjeiks how to read, - Emancipate your serfs; but no-- - _First pray to have a human heart_, - And let the turban'd Moslem go. - - _Diogenes_, April, 1854. - -(This parody contained nine verses in all.) - - * * * * * - - -LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE; - -OR, RUSTIC ADMIRATION. - - Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - The country sun has made you brown, - And now they tell me that you start - To-morrow afternoon for town; - Ah! how I sighed when I descried - Your lovely form beside the stream - The other day when on my way - I passed with Farmer Jackson's team! - - Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - I wish that you would change your name - For such a humble one as mine: - But no--you'd think it quite a shame; - So I must be content to take - My choice of humbler maiden's charms-- - Must marry someone who can bake, - And has a sturdy pair of arms. - - Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - Some "Lord Dundreary" _you_ must find; - Our rustic bread and cheese and beer - Would hardly suit your taste refined. - If I should write you of _my_ love, - And wait outside for a reply, - The lion on your old stone gates, - Would talk of verdure in his eye. - - * * * * * - - Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - They say--and really p'rhaps they're right-- - That I had better give you up, - And marry pretty Sally White; - You are a swell--_she_ loves me well, - And then her cooking is so good-- - Jam tarts are more than coronets, - And elder wine than Norman blood! - - SPHINX, CHRIST'S COLL., CAMBRIDGE. - - _College Rhymes_, 1868. - - * * * * * - - -LADY CLARA IN THE SOUTH. - - "Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - You whom the Laureate makes attacks on, - If your papa were not a peer, - If you were not an Anglo-Saxon, - In short, if 'twere not too absurd, - To think of _you_ where aught of trade is, - I'd almost say, upon my word, - I'm looking at you now in Cadiz." - -Here follow five other verses descriptive of a Spanish coquette, -concluding:-- - - "Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - I don't believe _femme souvent varie_, - Your sex are all the same, I fear, - From Timbuctoo to Tipperary." - - MAXWELL REILLY. - - _Kottabos_, Dublin 1870. - - * * * * * - -Another parody of "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" appeared in _Funny Folks_, -April 10, 1875, entitled "The Vicar's Surplice." It was addressed to -a Rev. Mr. Mucklestone, who had declined to pay the charges of his -laundress, a lady rejoicing in the euphonious name of Gubbins, who resided -at Haseley, in Warwickshire. The subject is somewhat wanting in dignity -for poetical treatment. The following is the first of six verses:-- - - "Reverend Mr. Mucklestone, - Of me you shall not win renown; - You thought to have your surplice washed - For nothing, but it won't go down. - At me you smiled, but unbeguiled, - Each time your surplice had a 'rense,' - I charged, and felt quite justified, - The modest sum of eighteenpence." - - * * * * * - - -A MAY DREAM OF THE FEMALE EXAMINATION. - - If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, - For to-morrow in the senate-house at nine I must appear: - To-morrow for all womankind will be a glorious day, - And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. - - There's many a blue, blue stocking, but none so blue as I; - There's not a girl amongst them all with me can hope to vie: - There's none so sharp as little Alice, not by a long, long way, - And I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say, - - I lie awake all night, mother, but in the morn I sleep, - And dream of Virgil, Euclid, Dons, all jumbled in a heap, - And the letters in the Euclid dance about like lambs at play: - O, I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. - - As I came by King's Chapel, whom do you think I saw, - But Andrew Jones de Mandeville Fitzherbert Aspenshaw! - He thought of that hard problem I gave him yesterday; - For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. - - He thought me such a bore, mother, for he couldn't get it right, - To see him puzzle o'er it was such a funny sight; - But not on such a dolt as that I'd throw myself away! - For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o the list, they say. - - They say he is fond-hearted, but that can never be: - He can't get through his "Littlego," then what is he to me? - There's many a Senior wrangler who'll woo me in the May, - For I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. - - Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the gate, - And, till they give the questions out, at the window she must wait; - And when she's got them, back to you, mother, she'll haste away, - And I m to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. - - In the papers country parsons have been writing lots of trash: - They say this scheme for us, mother, is sure to come to smash; - And agèd Dons all shake their heads, and say it will not pay; - But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list, they say. - - If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, - I'd something more to say, mother, but my head is not quite clear; - For I always have a headache when I put my books away; - But I'm to be top o' the list, mother, top o' the list they say. - - * * * * * - - "I thought to have gone down before, but still up here I am, - And still there's hanging o'er me that horrible Exam. - They said I should be top, mother; but then I'd such bad luck, - Though I went in for honours--_I only got a pluck!_" - - -X. Y. B., CHRIST'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. - -_College Rhymes_, 1865. - - * * * * * - - -MRS. HENRY FAWCETT ON THE UNIVERSITY EDUCATION OF WOMEN, APRIL, 1884. - - "That large numbers of women--numbers that every year are - rapidly increasing--demand a University training is not a matter - of controversy; it is a simple fact. This training is already - offered to them by University College, London, and by Cambridge - University. The hall-mark of the degree is offered to them by the - University of London, and a certificate of having passed the Tripos - Examinations (almost as valuable as a degree) is offered to them by - the University of Cambridge. The last Census shows that there were - in Great Britain and Ireland more than 120,000 women teachers. To - many of these a University degree or certificate is of the highest - professional importance. This is a question to many women, not - of sentiment, but of bread. Those whose generosity has provided - scholarships, exhibitions, and a loan fund for women at Cambridge - could prove how invaluable to many a woman a University training - is. Equipped with her University certificate she can at once obtain - a situation, and command a much more adequate remuneration for her - services. Cambridge has had twelve years' experience of the presence - of women students resident in Newnham and Girton Colleges. They - number now in the two Colleges about 150. Nearly all the professors' - lectures are open to them; they attend some of the lectures given in - College rooms. When the experiment was first started at Cambridge - there is little doubt that the bulk of the residents thought the - presence of women students objectionable and alarming. But the - fears at first entertained were at Cambridge so entirely removed by - experience that when, in 1881, the question had to be decided by - the Senate of opening the Tripos examinations to the students of - Girton and Newnham, only thirty members of the Senate were found to - oppose it, while those who supported it were so numerous that it was - impossible to record all the votes within the time and under the - conditions prescribed. It was estimated that about 500 members of - the Senate came up to Cambridge to vote in favour of the proposal. - More than 300 actually voted. - - * * * * * - -The two Parodies, from which the following extracts are taken, appeared in -_The Porcupine_, a Liverpool comic paper. - -They refer to the Cart Horse procession held in Liverpool on May-day, and -describe, with tolerable accuracy, the scenes of rough revelry and noisy -merriment which this carnival gives rise to. These compositions are merely -quoted as curiosities, possessing, as they do, every attribute which -should be studiously avoided in a parody. They are slangy and vulgar, -more especially in the omitted verses, without being either humorous or -grotesque; they debase the memory of a really beautiful poem by the mere -trick of repetition of a catch-phrase and some slight imitation of its -metre. The subject chosen is low and commonplace, which might, perhaps, -have been excused, had the description of its unpleasant details been -enlivened by one spark of wit, or genuine originality. To the lovers of -an original poem such Parodies must be offensive; whilst to those who -delight in a really clever burlesque, such things as these can afford no -gratification, and only tend to bring _true Parody_ into disrepute. - - -THE DRAY QUEEN. - -_A Car-men on the May-day Carnival, after the Poet Lorry-ate._ - - YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear! - To-morrow'll be the liveliest time of all the glad New Year; - Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day, - For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - There'll be many a black, black eye, they say, and many a lively shine - With Margaret and Mary, and Kate and Caroline; - But none can lick this little Alice, in all the court, they say; - So I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake - If you do not call loud and give me, too, a jolly good shake; - As I must buy some bonnet-flowers and sky-blue ribbons gay, - For I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - As I came up our alley, whom think ye I should see? - But Robin leaning on Chisenhale Bridge, as screwed as he could be; - He had been cleaning his harness, mother, and drinking all the day; - But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - You know my Robin drives a dray, a heavy brewer's cart; - To-morrow with his handsome team of horses he will start - A-roaming up and down the streets, loafing about all day, - And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - To-morrow I'll get out of pawn my bran-new winsey frock, - For Robin he is sure to wear a reg'lar snow-white smock; - His dray is cleaned and painted up, and now looks very gay, - And I must be clean on the Dray, mother, I must be clean on the Dray. - - The horses' tails all nicely combed, with ribbons will be decked, - Upon the shining harness not a smirch you can detect, - The very brutes they seem to feel it is the first of May, - And I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - Upon the barrels I'll sit perched, the barrels all so full - Of smashing stuff they sell for beer, and give you the long pull. - My Robin rarely touches beer--for 'Rum's my drink,' he'll say-- - But I'm to be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Dray. - - Through Lime-street, Lord-street, we'll parade each leading - thoroughfare, - While the spectators rival teams and turn-outs will compare, - On brewers' and on millers' carts the brazen bands will play, - And I'll be Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be Queen o' the Dray. - - * * * * * - - For hours and hours we'll roam about, until the team it tires, - And Robin will imbibe more rum than he actually requires; - At many a 'public' he will stop a-moistening of his clay, - And I'll be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'll be the Queen o' - the Dray. - - * * * * * - - So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear. - If I don't seem to hear you, give me a smack upon the ear; - To-morrow'll be of all the year, the maddest, merriest day, - For I'm to be the Queen o' the Dray, mother, I'm to be Queen o' - the Dray. - - * * * * * - - -THE DRAY QUEEN. - -(_A Sequel to last May-day's Carol, by Our Own Poet Lorry-ate, Author of -"I'm A-float," &c._) - - IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, - For I would see the sun rise upon the carters' cheer; - It is the last of the turn-outs that I may ever see, - For Robin he lays me low with a kick--and thinks no more of me. - - Last May we had a reg'lar spree, we had such a jolly day, - And Robin, who drove a brewer's cart, he made me Queen o' the Dray; - And we danced and sung and got mad drunk on Walker's sixpenny hops, - Till the Charleys come at the row we made, and every one of us cops. - - And lugs us off to chokee, mother, and keeps us there all night, - As drunken and disorderlies--both women and men were tight-- - And Raffles, the beak, next morning, was in a terrible way-- - Ten shillin' we had to pay, mother, ten shillin' and costs to pay. - - And in default of payment,--our cash we had spent in ale,-- - That Raffles he gave us all a week within sweet Walton gaol, - Where soon we learnt to pick oakum (the skin's off my fingers still), - And Robin did "Sich a gettin' upstairs" upon the revolving mill. - - * * * * * - - The end of it was, he axed me, as I'd been Queen of his Dray, - If I would marry a scavenger as never did work by day, - And though his wages was but low--a matter o' twenty-five bob-- - Before the month o' May was out we settled the blessed job. - - At first my Robin was very kind and gentle, so to speak, - He never got drunk and kicked me--not more than twice a week, - And of his weekly wages, no matter what else he did, - He never would spend on pay-nights more than eighteen bob or a quid. - - * * * * * - - And after that--it's a month ago--my Robin got much worse, - 'Twould make your hair just stand on end to hear him swear and curse, - He never gets drunk as he used to do--that's once or twice in a week-- - He's never properly sober, on me all his rage he'll wreak. - - When he comes home of a morning, it's rarely he goes to bed, - He takes to drinking about all day, and hammerin' me instead, - And well I know my husband's hand, it's weight I often feel, - I wouldn't be lyin' so low, mother, if not for my husband's heel. - - The brewers' carts and the scavengers' to-morrow will be gay, - The horses all with ribands decked will walk in grand array, - The Corporation carters and their wives will have a spread, - And get their annual dinner 'neath the great Haymarket shed. - - * * * * * - - Good-night, dear mother, call me before the day is born; - I'd like to see the carters a-marching in the morn; - The pubs, are closing early, very early, mother dear, - So, if you've got any coppers left, just go for a quart of beer! - - * * * * * - - -THE MAY QUEEN. - -(_New Version, adapted to existing Climatic Conditions_). - -[CONSIDERING apology superfluous, Mr. Punch offers none, as the Poet -Laureate will doubtless approve the modification of his beautiful lines, -rendered needful by recent meteorological conditions.] - - YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; - To-morrow'll be the tryingest time of all the Spring, this year-- - Of all the Spring, this year, mother, the dreariest, dreadfullest day; - For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. - - There'll be many a red, red nose, no doubt, but none so red as mine; - For the wind is still in the East, mother, and makes one peak and pine: - And we're going to have six weeks of it, or so the prophets say say-- - And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. - - I sleep so sound all night, mother, I am sure I shall never wake. - So you'd better call me loud, mother, and perhaps you'll have to shake: - I shall want some coffee hot and strong, before I'm called away, - To shiver as Queen o' the May, mother, to shiver as Queen o' the May. - - As I was coming home to-night, whom think you I should see - But DOCTOR SQUILLS! And he saw that my nose was as red as red could be; - And he said the weather was cruel sharp, that I'd better stay away,-- - But I'm chosen Queen o' the May, mother, so I must be Queen o' the May. - - The honeysuckle round the porch is white with sleety showers, - And, though they call it the month of May, the hawthorn has no flowers; - And the ice in patches may yet be found in swamps and hollows gray,-- - Ain't it nice for the Queen o' the May, mother, so nice for the Queen - o' the May? - - The East wind blows and blows, mother, on my nose I follow suit, - For my influenza's so very bad, and I've got a cough to boot; - Perhaps it will rain and sleet, mother, the whole of the livelong day, - Yet, I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother; I must be Queen o' the May. - - I've not the slightest doubt, mother, I shall come home very ill, - And then there'll be bed for a week or more, and a long, long, - doctor's bill; - And with prices up and wages down however will father pay? - But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother--oh bother the Queen o' the May! - - So please wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, - That I may look out some winter wraps, fit for the spring this year. - To-morrow of this bitter "snap," I'm sure 'twill be the bitterest day, - For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May." - - _Punch_, May 12, 1877. - - * * * * * - -Truth had a long parody describing the visit in 1877 of Dom Pedro, Emperor -of Brazil, whose early rising, and insatiable appetite for sight-seeing -were the topics of conversation. Two verses are sufficient to indicate the -style:-- - - -THE SIGHT-SEEING EMPEROR. - - IF you're waking, call me early, "Boots," not later, please, than four, - And if you're passing earlier, pray rat-tat at my door; - But stay I have so much to do, that p'rhaps 'twill better be, - Not to depend on you at all, but call myself at three. - - * * * * * - - I cannot, though an Emperor, stay quietly at home, - Some impulse irresistibly makes me for ever roam; - Each week it holds me tighter still beneath its mystic thrall, - Till soon I am afraid I shall not eat or sleep at all. - - _Truth_, June 21, 1877. - -Another parody of the same original, called _The Business of Pleasure_, -appeared in _Truth_, May 9, 1878. - - * * * * * - - -THE PENGE MYSTERY TRIAL. - - YOU must come and dress me early, very early, Simmons, mind! - For to-morrow'll be the summing-up, and I must not be behind; - Of all this jolly trial, I'm told, to-morrow'll be _the_ day, - So be sure you call me early, Simmons; now attend to what I say! - - * * * * * - - The judge means hanging, so they say, and when the sentence's pass'd, - There's sure to be an awful scene, more curious than the last; - P'raps the men will have hysterics--_that_ would be fun to see! - And Alice Rhodes may have a fit. Oh! how jolly it will be! - - So you must wake and call me early, Simmons, call me early, Simmons, - mind! - Or I'll give you a month's warning if you are at all behind! - For to-morrow'll be, of all the trial, the awfullest jolliest day, - For I think all four will be hanged, Simmons; all four will be hanged, - they say! - - _Truth_, October 4, 1877. - - * * * * * - - -THE WELSHER'S LAMENT. - -(_On the Suppression of Suburban Race Meetings_). - -May, 1879. - - IF yer passin', knock me up, Bill; knock me up, old cock, d'yer yere; - For to-morrer's Kingsbury meetin', is the last there'll be, I fear; - Of all suburbin races, the werry last they say, - For that Anderson in Parlyment, 'as contrived to get 'is way. - It's ter'ble rough on us, Bill; on us, an' all our pals, - As 'asn't got no tickets for that bloomin' Tattersall's; - For 'ow without these meetin's our livin's were to get, - Is a rayther ticklish problim, as I 'avent worked out yet. - - _Truth_, February 21, 1878. - - * * * * * - - -THE MODERN MAY QUEEN. - -(_The Result of the First Fortnight_). - - DON'T wake and call me early, pray don't call me, mother dear, - To-morrow may be the coldest day of all this cold New Year; - Of all this wintry year, mother, the wildest stormiest day, - And we have had fires in May, mother, we have had fires in May. - - I sleep so sound at night, mother, that I don't want to wake, - With the horrid thermometer standing at what seems a sad mistake; - But none so wise as those who read the weather forecasts, they say; - Shall we have more fires in May, mother? must we have more fires - in May? - - A storm is coming across, mother, the _New York Herald_ has said, - And, if you please, I'd rather lie as long as I like in bed; - So bother the knots and garlands, mother, and all the foolish play, - If we're to have fires in May, mother, why--we must have fires in May. - - _Punch_, May 28, 1881. - -The following parody appeared originally in a clever little Cambridge -University Magazine, entitled _Light Green_, which has long been out of -print. _Light Green_ contained many excellent parodies, notable amongst -them being:--_The May Exam._, after Tennyson; _The Song of the Shirk_, -after Hood; _The Heathen Pass-ee_, after Bret Harte; and _The Vulture and -the Husbandman_, after Lewis Carroll. These, with several other amusing -pieces of poetry, have been reprinted in a small pamphlet, which can be -obtained from W. Metcalfe and Son, Trinity-street, Cambridge. - - -THE MAY EXAM. - -(_By Alfred Pennysong_). - - "Semper floreat - Poeta Laureate."--HORACE. - - YOU must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, - To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; - For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, - For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May! - - There's many a hot, hot man, they say, but none so hot as me; - There's Middlethwaite and Muggins, there's Kane and Kersetjee; - But none so good as little Jones in all the lot, they say, - So I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May! - - I read so hard at night, Filcher, that I shall never rise, - If you do not take a wettish sponge and dab it in my eyes: - For I must prove the G.C.M., and substitute for _a_, - For I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May. - - As I came through the College Backs, whom think ye should I see - But the Junior Dean upon the Bridge proceeding out to tea? - He thought of that Ægrotat, Filcher, I pleaded yesterday,-- - But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May. - - There are men that come and go, Filcher, who care not for a class, - And their faces seem to brighten if they get a common pass; - They never do a stitch of work the whole of the live-long day,-- - But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May! - - All the College Hall, my Filcher, will be fresh and clean and still, - And the tables will be dotted o'er with paper, ink, and quill; - And some will do their papers quick, and run away to play,-- - But I'm to be first in the May, Filcher, I'm to be first in the May! - - So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, - To-morrow 'ill be a happy time for all the Freshman's year; - For all the Freshman's year, Filcher, the most delightful day, - For I shall be in for my May, Filcher, I shall be in for my May! - - * * * * * - - -NEW-YEAR'S EVE. - - If you're waking call me early, call me early, Filcher dear, - For I'll keep a morning Chapel upon my last New-year. - My last New-year before I take my Bachelor's Degree, - Then you may sell my crockery-ware, and think no more of me. - - To-night I bade good-bye to Smith: he went and left behind - His good old rooms, those dear old rooms, where oft I sweetly dined; - There's a new year coming up, Filcher, but I shall never see - The Freshman's solid breakfast, or the Freshman's heavy tea. - - Last May we went to Newmarket: we had a festive day, - With a decentish cold luncheon in a tidy one-horse-shay. - With our lardy-dardy garments we were really "on the spot," - And Charley Vain came out so grand in a tall white chimney-pot. - - There's not a man about the place but doleful Questionists; - I only wish to live until the reading of the Lists. - I wish the hard Examiners would melt and place me high; - I long to be a Wrangler, but I'm sure I don't know why. - - Upon this battered table, and within these rooms of mine, - In the early, early morning there'll be many a festive shine; - And the Dean will come and comment on "this most unseemly noise," - Saying, "Gentlemen, remember, pray, you're now no longer boys." - - When the men come up again Filcher, and the Term is at its height, - You'll never see me more in these long gay rooms at night; - When the old dry wines are circling and the claret-cup flows cool, - And the loo is fast and furious with a fiver in the pool. - - You'll pack my things up, Filcher, with Mrs. Tester's aid, - You may keep the wine I leave behind, the tea, and marmalade. - I shall not forget you, Filcher, I shall tip you when I pass, - And I'll give you something handsome if I get a second-class. - - Good-night, good-night, when I have passed my tripos with success, - And you see me driving off to catch the one o'clock "express;" - Don't let Mrs. Tester hang about beside the porter's lodge, - I ain't a fool, you know, and I can penetrate that dodge. - - She'll find my books and papers lying all about the floor, - Let her take 'em, they are hers, I shall never use 'em more; - But tell her, to console her, if she's mourning for my loss. - That she's quite the dirtiest bedmaker, I ever came across. - - Good-night: you need not call me till the bell for service rings, - Through practice I am pretty quick at putting on my things; - But I would keep a Chapel upon my last New Year, - So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, Filcher dear. - - -CONCLUSION. - - I thought to pass some time ago, but hang it, here I am, - Having "muckered" in a certain Mathematical Exam. - I have been "excused the General," and my reverent Tutor thinks - I must take up Natural Science, which is commonly called "Stinks." - - O sweet is academic life within these ancient walls, - And sweet are Cambridge pleasures--boating, billiards, breakfasts, - balls; - But sweeter far about this time than all these things to me - Would be the acquisition of my Bachelor's Degree. - - * * * * * - - -THE PREMIER'S LAMENT. - - I'll be in the House quite early, you come later, Herbie dear, - This night will be the hardest in the Cabinet's career; - Of all our mad career, Herbie, the hardest, horridest night, - For the Vote of Censure's on us, and the Opposition fight. - - * * * * * - - O, sweet's the docile Liberal who never wants to rise. - And sweeter still the Radical who shuns the Speaker's eyes, - And sweet are dumb majorities, and men who silent stay, - For the hardest things to listen to are what our friends all say. - - * * * * * - - There's Parnell's lot, my Herbie, that wretched Irish crew; - Don't go and say I said so, this is confidence for you: - I've done my best to catch them, and gain their solid vote; - But Trevelyan's such a blunderer, he's always at their throat. - - * * * * * - - So I will go down early, you come down after, Herbie dear; - To-morrow may be the saddest day of this our sad fifth year. - I've felt some twinges sometimes of conscience and of gout; - But the painfullest of all would be to know that we're turned out. - - _The Evening News_, February 18, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE NEW LORD MAYOR. - -(_A long way after Tennyson_). - - You must mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, d'ye hear. - To-morrow'll be the nobbiest day of all this blessed year: - Of all this wonderful year, JOHN, the scrumptiousest I declare, - For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor! - - There's many an Aldermanic Swell, but none so great as me; - I scorn your Common Councillors, such men I will not see; - But none so grand as Alderman ELLIS the Liverymen all swear, - For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor! - - I sleep well after a heavy meal, and I shall never wake, - If you don't knock at my door, JOHN, when day begins to break; - And I must dress in my Sunday clothes, and titivate up my hair, - For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor! - - As I came up to the Mansion House, whom think ye I should see, - But FIGGINS and other Aldermen as glum as they well could be, - They thought of the coming pageantry, and how I should swagger there, - For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN, I'm to be made Lord Mayor! - - Then mind and call me early, call me early, JOHN, don't fear - To dig me in my illustrious ribs, and shout in my lordly ear; - And to-morrow will see me roll along, while all the people stare, - For I'm to be made Lord Mayor, JOHN! I'm to be made Lord Mayor! - - _Punch_, November 12, 1881. - - * * * * * - - -THE LORD MAYOR TO THE LADY MAYORESS. - -["If this bill becomes law, it will be our proud privilege to continue the -existence of the Lord Mayor for six months, until it comes into action on -the 1st of May, 1885."--_Sir W. V. Harcourt's Speech._] - - If you've read Sir Vernon's speech upon the City, daughter dear, - You will see that London's downfall from its great estate is near; - But one comfort you will gather--not November ends our sway, - For I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May! - - I have said that I will fight the bill, in clause, and line, and word. - I may not be the conqueror, but my protests shall be heard-- - Though that clause my office to extend for six months more may stay, - That I may be Mayor till May, daughter, I may be Mayor till May! - - They do not stop our banqueting, so that clause I don't condemn-- - Oh, the Ministers won't abrogate the feeds we give to them! - And that is about the only good they do not take away-- - But I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May! - - * * * * * - - Can Harcourt think to bribe me by this one continuance clause? - He'll see that I shall show the bill to be little else but flaws! - This "sop" as he may fancy it, won't affect what I've to say, - Tho' I'm to be Mayor till May, daughter, I'm to be Mayor till May! - - Now tell me your opinion on the matter, daughter dear, - For you will be Lady Mayoress as long as we are here; - And if it passes, recollect _we_ pass next "Lord Mayor's Day," - And I shall be Mayor till May, daughter, I shall be Mayor till May! - - _Funny Folks_, May 3, 1884. - - * * * * * - -The Prize Editor of _The Weekly Dispatch_ offered two guineas for the -best original parody of Tennyson's "May Queen," to consist of not more -than five verses, having some reference to current politics. The prize -was awarded to Mr. F. W. Binstead, 76, Ockendon road, Canonbury, N., for -the following poem, which was published in _The Weekly Dispatch_, May 4, -1884:-- - - -THE LAST LORD MAYOR TO HIS FAVOURITE BEADLE. - - You must wake and call me early, call me early, Bumble, dear, - I mean to fight with all my might each minute of this year; - For a play is in rehearsal now--a tragic, terrible play-- - And I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! - - I'll fight from morn till night, Bumble--my soul must never quake-- - For calipash and calipee and Corporation's sake; - And I must don the lion's skin, although I can but bray, - For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! - - When I was in the Commons, whom think ye I should see, - But Harcourt smiling on his seat, just close to William G.? - He thought not of the feed, Bumble, we gave him t'other day-- - But I will be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I will be Griffin at Bay! - - They want to wreck, with sinful hand, our great time-honoured powers, - And take away the wealth and might which have so long been ours; - But I will roar and bluster, in my old accustomed way, - For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! - - Go, summons all my aldermen, and bid them take their fill, - From terror free let them with me all gaily feast and swill; - Reform need have no fears for them, so bid them all be gay, - For I'm to be Griffin at Bay, Bumble, I'm to be Griffin at Bay! - - * * * * * - -Four other parodies, which had been sent in for competition, were also -printed:-- - - -THE EVE OF THE GENERAL ELECTION. - - We must wake and get up early, get up early, brother Grimes, - For to-morrow'll be the greatest day of all the modern times; - Of all the modern times, brother, the day so long delayed, - When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made. - - There's many a low, low lot, they said, but none so low as we, - So sunk in ignorance and vice, in want and penury; - But none so stupid as poor Hodge in all the land, they said; - But we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made. - - * * * * * - - So we'll rise and poll us early, poll us early, brother Grimes, - For to-morrow'll be the important day of all the glad new times; - Of all the glad new times, brother, the day so long delayed, - When we're to be freemen made, brother, we're to be freemen made. - - JAMES FRASER. - - -TORY LORD TO DITTO DITTO ON THE EVE OF THE INTRODUCTION OF THE FRANCHISE -BILL INTO THE UPPER HOUSE. - - If you're going, look in early, look in early, brother peer, - To-morrow we'll have the merriest fling we've had for many a year; - We've had for many a year, brother--Aha! hip, hip, hooray! - For "the measure" comes up, they say, brother, "the measure" comes - up, they say. - - The bishops will go with us, brother, and landlords fat and lean, - And they'll vote ditto, brother--the weak-kneed Whigs, I mean; - With quiddities and flow'ry quirks we'll whittle the bill away. - We'll whittle the bill away, brother, we'll whittle the bill away. - - And all the law-lords, brother, will use their subtle skill - By verbiage and amendment sly to mutilate the bill; - Our lordly mashers, too, brother, will meet in grand array, - For 'twill be as good as the play, brother, 'twill be as good as the - play. - - We thought to kick it out, brother, but we've found it wouldn't pay; - J. B. would never stand it, so we'll better tact display; - And we'll hocuss him, you see brother, and mar its clauses dear: - So, we'll be early, places taking, we'll be early, brother peer. - - GERMANICUS. - - -ON THE EVE OF A DEBATE ON THE FRANCHISE BILL. - - You must wake up! there'll be such a hurly-burly, Staffy, dear; - To-morrow'll be the merriest night the House has had this year; - Of all the nights this year, Staffy, the night to be marked with chalk, - For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. - - There's many a clack-clack cry, they say, but none so shrill as mine; - There's Peel and Gorst and Drummond, there's Balfour superfine; - But none so rare as little Randy in all the House for talk, - So I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. - - As I came through the lobby whom think ye should I see - But Gladdy poring o'er the bill to set the yokels free. - He caught my eye and shook, Staffy--I eyed him like a hawk! - But I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. - - The hinds may reap and sow, Staffy, but ere that measure pass, - The cows will get the franchise as they munch the meadow grass; - There will not be a vote for Hodge, if only the bill we baulk, - And I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. - - All the Tories, Staffy, will obstruct it with a will, - And the swift foot and the slow foot will mash and maul the bill; - And the G.O.M. will fret and fume like fizz when you draw the cork, - For I'm to be Cock o' the Walk, Staffy, I'm to be Cock o' the Walk. - - GOSSAMER. - - -THE PREMIER TO MRS. GLADSTONE. - - You must wake me in the morning, rouse me early, wifey, dear; - To-morrow'll be a ticklish time at Westminster, I hear; - At Westminster, the Franchise Bill will glide upon its way, - And I shall have something to say, deary, I shall have something to - say. - - There's many a black-legged Tory who would frustrate our design-- - There's Northcote and there's Goschen, who was once a friend of mine; - But none, I think, will stand their ground if I can get fair play, - For they know it is true what I say, deary, they know it is true - what I say. - - I sleep so light of late, wifey, that bedtime comes in vain, - They've bored me so with Gordon that I've Egypt on the brain: - Yet I'll regain these wasted hours--this loss of time won't pay-- - And show that I mean what I say, deary, show that I mean what I say. - - * * * * * - - JESSIE H. WHEELER. - -_The Weekly Dispatch_, May 4, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE PROMISE OF MAY! - -(_An Old Song re-set, and specially dedicated, for purposes of recitation, -to Mrs. Bernard-Beere, Manageress of the Globe Theatre_). - - YOU must call rehearsals early, call them early, KELLY dear! - November'll be the merriest month of our dramatic year; - November I have fixed it for the Laureate's new play, - And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May! - - There's many a chosen priestess in the wild æsthetic line. - There's ELLEN! and there's MARION! whose fingers intertwine! - But all the Grosvenor Gallery think none like me, they say; - So I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of May! - - I'm thinking of _the_ night, you know, both sleeping and awake, - And I hear them calling loudly till their voices seem to break; - But I must fashion lots of gowns in Liberty silks so gay, - For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May! - - I went down into Surrey--don't laugh, it is no joke-- - And found the great Bard dramatist wrapt in a cloak--of smoke! - He handed me his manuscript, and read it yesterday; - So I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May! - - He said I was ideal, because I kept it up, - This mixture of his _Dora_, and his _Camma_ in the _Cup_. - They call me a _replica_, but I care not what they say. - Now I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May! - - They say he's pining still for fame; but that can never be. - He likes to roar his lyrics, but what is that to me? - I'll fill the Globe with worshippers, in the old Lyceum way-- - For I'm to be Promise of May, my Friend, I'm to be Promise of May! - - My sisters of the _cultus_ shall attend me clad in green; - All the poets and the painters must hail me as their Queen! - The great dramatic critics of course will have their say, - Now I'm to be Promise of Maytime, I'm to be Promise of May! - - The Pit with wild excitement will tremble, never fear, - And the merry gods above them will greet me with a cheer! - There will not be a ribald line in all the Laureate's play, - For I'm to be Promise of May, you see, I'm to be Promise of May! - - All the Stalls will sit in silence, or with cynicism chill - Will pick the Bard to pieces, and work their own sweet will; - And HAMILTON CLARKE in the orchestra he'll merrily pose and play-- - For I'm to be Promise of May, my Lad, I'm to be Promise of May! - - So call rehearsals early, call them early, there's a dear! - Bid gipsy-tinted ORMSBY and VEZIN to appear. - November'll see what "gushers" call the "sweetest, daintiest play," - And I'm to be Promise of May, KELLY, I'm to be Promise of - May! - - _Punch_, November 4, 1882. - -As this parody refers to a nearly-forgotten play, the allusions in it may -best be explained by the reproduction of the Play-bill, which has now -become a literary curiosity. - - * * * * * - -The drama was a complete and melancholy failure; even George Augustus -Sala, most lenient and genial of critics, could not but condemn it, as -being as unactable a play as Shelley's "Cenci," or Swinburne's "Bothwell," -or Southey's "Wat Tyler," whilst it possessed none of the literary merits -of either of those compositions. He added, "It is finally and most -wretchedly unfortunate that an illustrious English poet has not by his -side some really candid and judicious friend, with influence enough, and -courage enough, to persuade him to desist from subjecting this disastrous -production to the ordeal of representation before a miscellaneous -audience." - -Bad as _The Promise of May_ was, it contained one leading idea, which, -from the very opposition it gave rise to, enabled the management to keep -the play on the boards much longer than could have been anticipated. The -plot had been foreshadowed in one of Tennyson's earliest poems, _The -Sisters:_-- - - "We were two daughters of one race: - She was the fairest in the face: - The wind is blowing in turret and tree. - They were together, and she fell: - Therefore revenge became me well. - O the Earl was fair to see!" - - - THE GLOBE THEATRE. - - Licensed by the Lord Chamberlain to Mr. F. MAITLAND, 26½, Newcastle - Street. - - _Under the Management of_ - MRS. BERNARD-BEERE. - - _On SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 11th, 1882_, - WILL BE PRODUCED - A NEW AND ORIGINAL RUSTIC DRAMA, IN PROSE, - BY - ALFRED TENNYSON (POET LAUREATE), - ENTITLED, THE - PROMISE OF MAY, - IN THREE ACTS. - - THE WHOLE PRODUCED UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF - MR. CHARLES KELLY. - - _At_ 8.45 BY - _THE PROMISE OF MAY_. _ALFRED TENNYSON_. - The town lay still in Farmer Dobson Mr. CHARLES KELLY. - But a red fire woke in the - the low sun-light, Edgar Mr. HERMANN VEZIN. - heart of the town, - Farmer Steer, _Dora's Father_ .. Mr. H. CAMERON. - Mr. Wilson, _a Schoolmaster_ .. Mr. E. T. MARCH. - The hen cluct late James } {Mr. H. HALLEY. - And a fox from the glen ran - by the white farm gate, Dan Smith} {Mr. C. MEDWIN. - away with the hen, - Higgins } _Farm_ {Mr. A. PHILLIPS. - The maid to her dairy Jackson } _Labourers_ {Mr. G. STEPHENS. - And a cat to the cream, and a - came in from the cow, Allen} {Mr. H. E. RUSSELL. - rat to the cheese, - - The stock-dove coo'd Dora Steer Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE. - And the stock-dove coo'd till - at the fall of night, Eva, _her Sister_ MISS EMMELINE ORMSBY. - a kite dropped down, - _By permission of Mr. Wilson Barrett._ - - The blossom had open'd Sally} _Farm Servants_. {Miss ALEXES LEIGHTON. - And a salt wind burnt the - on every bough. Milly} {Miss MAGGIE HUNT. - blossoming trees. - - The whole produced under the direction of - O joy for the promise of May, Mr. CHARLES KELLY. - of May. - O grief for the promise of May, - of May, - - ACT I.--STEER'S FARM. - O joy for the promise of May. _Six years are supposed to have elapsed - between Acts_ 1 & 2. O grief for the - promise of May. - ACT II.--THE BRIDGE BY THE HAY FIELD. TENNYSON. - ACT III.--THE UPPER HALL IN STEER'S FARM. - - _Music composed by_ .......... Mr. HAMILTON CLARKE. - _Dances arranged by_ .......... Mr. J. D'AUBAN. - _Rustic Dresses by_ .......... Mrs. NETTLESHIP. - _Scenery by_ ............ Messrs. HANN, SPONG, & PERKINS. - _Acting-Manager_--Mr. CHARLES J. ABUD. - -Assuming that Mrs. Bernard-Beere, as _Dora Steer_, speaks these lines, -we have the counterpart of the villainously seductive Earl in _Philip -Edgar_, a thankless part, which was admirably played by Mr. Hermann Vezin. -This _Edgar_, having ruined and abandoned one sister, returns, after an -interval of five or six years, to the scene of his former conquest, and -lays siege to the heart of the other sister; confidentially informing -the audience that he intends to marry _Dora_ as an atonement for the -injuries he has inflicted on the luckless _Eva_. The shouts of derisive -laughter with which this announcement (the culmination of absurdity), -was met on the first night, led Mr. Hermann Vezin to somewhat modify his -language on the following evenings, but he was still compelled to inflict -on the audience the most tedious and extraordinary soliloquies touching -Communism, Free-love, Agnosticism, and other wholly undramatic topics. -For Tennyson had, with characteristic bigotry, chosen to assume that a -Freethinker must necessarily be a villain; and with a view of generally -condemning opinions distasteful to him, had burdened poor Edgar with the -task of proclaiming himself at once as a seducer, a hypocrite, a liar, a -coward, a Freethinker, an Agnostic, a Secularist, a Democrat--and all this -in speeches of a contradictory and decidedly tiresome description. - -On the third representation of the drama the Marquis of Queensberry, who -occupied a seat in the stalls, rose, and loudly protested against the -Laureate's misrepresentation of the principles of freethought as a gross -caricature, especially in regard to Edgar's sentiments about the law of -marriage. - -He subsequently addressed a letter to _The Globe_, containing the -following explanation:-- - - -"THE PROMISE OF MAY." - -TO THE EDITOR OF THE GLOBE. - - "SIR,--In reply to Mr. Hermann Vezin's letter, which appears in your - issue of to-day, may I be allowed to make a few remarks? He says - that on the first night 'some one started a hiss, which soon grew - into a storm,' &c., and he continues to say, 'it is to be presumed - that this opposition came from professing orthodox Christian - people. On the third night the Marquis of Queensberry, a professed - Freethinker, rose in his stall, and loudly protested against what he - considered a caricature of his own sect.' Not a caricature against - my own sect, Sir, which is Secularism, but against an infamous libel - to the whole body of people who have been designated by that name - of Freethinkers. Mr. Hermann Vezin says, here we have a curious - spectacle of the most outspoken opposition from both extremes, and - that neither party has quite caught Mr. Tennyson's meaning. Whether - two separate parties spoke (or only one, as I expect is the case) - it would be as well if Mr. Tennyson himself would explain what his - meaning is; for, coming so soon after the poem, which he issued to - the public a short time ago, entitled 'Despair,' we Freethinkers - can have but one opinion as to what his meaning is, and that is to - caricature and to misrepresent what the outcome of freethought has - led to in its secession from orthodoxy. My object the other night - in causing an 'interruption' at the theatre was not only to make - a public protest against the supposed sentiments of a Freethinker - (on marriage), but to attract public attention to that protest, - and I consider that the end justified the means, considering - the difficulty that we have in getting a hearing from those who - oppose us, and not only who oppose us, but who misrepresent us. - Freethinkers may not be satisfied with the present marriage law--as - I explained the other day in my letter to the _Daily News_--but that - is no reason that they should not respect marriage, and we cannot be - attacked on a more tender point, from the very delicacy there is to - speak on the subject.--Yours faithfully, - - "QUEENSBERRY. - - "45, Half Moon-street, Piccadilly, November 20, 1882." - -This led to a discussion in the newspapers on Tennyson's muddled -metaphysics and absurd theories; public curiosity was thus aroused, and -the management was enabled to run the play much longer than could have -been expected from its original reception. - -_Punch_ (November 25, 1882) had a long and elaborate criticism of the -play, giving a humorous analysis of the plot. The opening and closing -paragraphs are much to the point, especially as they include two amusing -parodies. - - -NEITHER RHYME NOR REASON; - -_Or, Promise of May, and Performance of November at the Globe._ - - "THE sources of literary ambition are proverbially obscure, and - it is scarcely worth while to enquire why the Laureate, who has - spent a lifetime in filling the world with his verse, should, at - the eleventh hour, have conceived the idea of emptying the Globe - with his prose. If there could be any doubt that he had not only - done so, but also had set himself to the business with a right good - will, the hearty and sympathetic jeers of the not unkindly audience - that attended the first performance of his _Promise_ the other - evening must have settled the matter. Indeed, some of the Poet's own - lines--or something like them--seemed to occur to everybody. Even - his staunchest admirers could be heard in the lobbies between the - acts respectfully quoting to each other-- - - 'I hold it truth that he who flings - His harp aside, to try the bones, - Will somehow find that paving stones, - Are levelled at his neatest things.' - - By the way, the management might even now take a hint from a rival - establishment, and try this on a poster. - - "The plot of the piece is simplicity itself, and if the talented - author had merely contented himself with working out his pretty - little idyl in some ordinary and unpretentious fashion, there could - hardly have been any doubt about the result. But he went further - than this, and in some inspired moment appears to have conceived the - brilliant and happy idea of spicing his whole story, from beginning - to end, with the wildest and most boisterous fun. - - "Not that his purpose was distinctly apparent on the first go off - of his piece in a Lincolnshire farm; for the serious utterances of - several gloomy rustics for a few moments filled the house almost - with awe. - - "However, with so much genuine pantomime go for the finish in - reserve, very possibly the author knew what he was about. And he was - not at fault. He must have realised what depths of quiet fun would - be stirred when placing Mrs. BERNARD-BEERE over the dead body of - _Eva_, he made her, in so many words, courteously request _Farmer - Dobson_ and the comic agnostic _Edgar_ to consider themselves quite - at home, and not mind the corpse, as she had a few general remarks - to make that wouldn't take her much more than five-and-twenty - minutes. - - "But there,--the matter really defies sober criticism, and, taking - his own charming lines from the bill, the story is soon told:-- - - 'The Town booked well for the opening night, - The Pit was full, an evident pull, - The Grand Old Man had a box of his own, - And VEZIN behind said it looked all right, - And the critics in front took an excellent tone. - There's a chance for _The Promise of May, of May_, - There's a chance for _The Promise of May_. - - 'But a sly wink woke in the eye of the Town, - And a frivolous fit got hold of the Pit, - And KELLY a pitchfork, and VEZIN a roar, - And the stock chaff followed the Curtain down; - And the Critics they did--as they've done before-- - They slaughtered _The Promise of May_, _of May_, - They slaughtered _The Promise of May!_' - - "The Laureate cannot write a playable play. _The Falcon_ at the St. - James's was saved by the acting; _Queen Mary_, nothing could save; - _The Cup_ was the success of Miss ELLEN TERRY, Mr. IRVING, the - scene-painter, and the stage management. - - "But _The Promise of May_ must be an Utter Frost, with, we are sorry - to think, no Promise to Pay in it; and nothing, except the spasmodic - curiosity of the Public to see what the Laureate can't do, can set - this unfortunate Humpty-Dumpty up again." - - * * * * * - - -THE LAUREATE'S LATEST. - - The "town" ran off to the Globe one night, - For a play was played then from the Laureate's pen; - But they soon said, "How dare he?" and kicked up a "row," - And pooh-poohed the drama--and serve it right, - For that it deserved it I think you'll allow. - Yea, they jeered at "The Promise of May,"--of May-- - Annoyed at "The Promise of May." - - But stay; we'd better, maybe, leave that song, - Yea, leave its "hen," its "fox," its "cat," and "cheese"-- - For where is he who can burlesque burlesque? - And this strange playwright, mystic, wonderful, - Loved stage plays with a love that was his doom! - For lo! this "Promise" played by Bernardbeere - Has gained, at least, this very doubtful fame-- - Hereafter, through all ages--"'Twas no good!" - - The critics, o'er its threadbare plot, - Ere long grew "crusty"--one and all. - Said they, "'Twill fail; such awful rot - Will on the public quickly pall. - The leading character is strange, - The rest are all a prosy batch, - The audience they'll never catch-- - The programme they must shortly change. - - "A. T.," they said, "'tis weak and dreary. - A lot of bosh," they said. - "It makes the audience aweary; - Soon it will be dead!" - - Besides the forced and feeble plot, - Full soon did men discover - The scientific "snob" was not - A pleasant sort of lover. - - Of speech he had an awful flow-- - Which Tennyson thought clever-- - And he soliloquised as though - He meant to jaw for ever! - - And then unto the critics and reviewers, - Irresponsible critics and reviewers, - Thus, Alfred (not in metre of Catullus-- - But more in "In Memoriam" sort of measure): - - "The critics prattle on amain-- - That envious and grumbling race - Declare my play is commonplace, - And rather full of chaff than grain. - - "I hold it true--although they bawl, - And I may heavy find the cost-- - 'Tis better to produce a 'frost' - Than ne'er to write a play at all." - - And then unto the Queen (s'berry) he hymned - This little lay; for he, the noble "Q.," - Cried out at Edgar's "Maxims of the Mud." - Then Alfred and fair Bernardbeere were glad, - And rested well content that all was well. - - "You jeered, O, "Q," and you were bold - To treat my great prose-play with mirth; - But your advertisement was worth - No end of praise and lots of gold. - - "For _now_ the town will haste to see - My 'Edgar' that made _you_ so ill; - And so they'll keep it in the bill - Since that advertisement from thee." - - * * * * * - - Shall it not be scorn for me to harp upon this mouldy thing? - For surely in a week or two it will have taken wing. - - "Weakness to be wroth with weakness"--that this play is weak, 'tis - plain. - I have seen much better dramas founded by a shallower brain. - From the programme of the Globe, then, sweep this foolish thing away. - Better fifty Meritt-mixtures than this sickly, stupid play! - - CARADOS. - -_The Referee_, November 19, 1882. - - * * * * * - - -A DREAM OF GREAT PLAYERS. - - I read one night, while lying on the down, - In L. T. Annual[11] of the current year-- - Tho' unpretending volume, bound in brown-- - Great deeds recorded were. - - At length, methought that I had wandered far - Through the long path that runs beside the line, - And found myself before the entrance-door, - And knew I was in time. - - I knew the stands, I knew the nets, I knew - The smooth, green level of the well-rolled lawn, - And thought, "Here many an athlete anxious grew, - Dreading the fateful dawn." - - A voice from out the ticket-office came-- - From overworked collector in his prime-- - "Pass quickly through, the seats are all thine own - Until the end of time." - - Close by a player, leaning on the rail, - Clasping a racket, Tate-made, in his hand-- - A champion among men, who made me hail, - And led me to the stand. - - His cigarette from out his mouth he drew: - Blew out white clouds, then said, with courteous smile-- - "Hast come to see great players? Good! Then you - Had best stay here awhile. - - "I am the champion! ask thou not my name; - Not to know me argues thyself unknown. - Many played here, and fell; whene'er I came - All men were overthrown." - - "No marvel," I made answer; "In fair field - Myself before such skill had doubtless quail'd, - As all men must." Then, turning, I appealed - To one who merely wailed-- - - As he with forced perpetual smile averse, - To his full height his stately figure draws-- - "My youth," he said, "is blighted with a curse-- - This stripling is the cause. - - "For seven years The Cup I strove to win, - But ever, when it seemed within my grip, - He, rising o'er all others, entered in, - And dashed it from my lip." - - His words of grief fell idly on my ear, - As thunderdrops fall on a sleeping sea. - Sudden I heard a voice that cried--"Come here, - That you may look on me. - - "I am ex-champion, now three years displaced, - And since that time I find it very slow; - I have no _men_ to conquer in this waste, - I war with fairer foe." - - He paused in gloom, and towards the others faced, - To whom the Smiler--"Oh! you tamely died; - You should have stood well to the back, and placed - The ball along the side." - - "Alas! alas!" a low voice, full of care, - Murmured beside me--"Champion I might be, - But for this injured member which I bear - I had gained victory." - - I gazed upon him, then became aware - Of some one coming hastily in wrath, - Reminding his twin-brother--"We're the pair - Chosen to play the North. - - "_Do_ hurry up, our foes await us there; - The stem, black-bearded form, the referee, - Ejaculating, as he tears his hair, - 'Where can the players be?'" - - Then seized his arm, and drew him from the spot. - I, feeling tired and thirsty, strolled away; - The day becoming most extremely hot, - I cared to see no play. - - _Pastime_, February 13, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. - - Listen to the doleful story - Of a juvenile M.P., - He was but a voting Tory, - And a farmer's daughter she. - - Spake he in his wisest manner - (Whereat people often smiled), - "You must give up your piano, - You are but a farmer's child. - - "Straight forget each foreign tongue, dear, - And, to further my desire, - All the songs you ever sang, dear-- - For a tenant is your sire." - - So she sells her dear piano; - With the cash her bargain yields - Buys she Gibbs's best guano, - Which she scatters o'er the fields. - - Then forgets each well-bred accent, - Foreign, native, just the same, - All her modern books are back sent - To the stores from whence they came. - - Then he marries her and makes her - Thus a lady of renown, - And with condescension takes her - To his house by Stamford town. - - From the gate his crest depended, - Which the owner's breeding shows; - Hand with fingers wide extended - Stretching from a lordly nose. - - Waves the flippant owner's pennant - O'er the keep's embattled brow, - Though her sire was but a tenant - She is Lady Burleigh now. - - Long she lived in stately manner - 'Mid the highborn and the grand, - But she pined for her piano - Scattered on the teeming land. - - Then she grew and ever thinner, - And she murmured, "O that he, - At that agricultural dinner, - Had not ever counselled me." - - So she drooped and drooped before him, - And at last, with anguish bent, - To his freedom did restore him, - Following her dear instrument. - - He survived in state and bounty, - Lord of Burleigh, young and free, - Not a lord in all the county - Was so great a fool as he. - - CECIL. - -_The Kettering Observer_, March 21, 1884. - -When Lord Burghley, M.P. (son of the Marquis of Exeter), took the -English farmers to task for allowing their daughters to play the piano, -and to learn a few of the polite little accomplishments of the day, -his remarks were generally resented as impertinent, and his name lent -itself irresistibly to the ridicule contained in the preceding parody of -Tennyson's "Lord of Burleigh." Inasmuch as Tennyson's poem was founded on -incidents connected with the courtship and marriage of the first Marquis -of Exeter, to Sarah Hoggins, the daughter of a small yeoman farmer at -Bolas Magna, in Shropshire. The marriage took place in October, 1791, and -the lady died in January, 1797, leaving two sons, of whom the elder became -the second Marquis of Exeter, and was the grandfather of the Lord Burghley -above referred to. - - * * * * * - - -THE FAITHLESS PEELER. - - Skulking slily down the area, - He to her his mind doth tell-- - "I feel somewhat dry, my Mary, - And some beer would be as well." - She replies, by way of feeler, - "La, who'd thought of seeing thee?" - He is but a smart young peeler, - And a maid-of all-work she. - - He to lips that do not falter, - Raises up the half-pint mug; - Vows his love will never alter-- - Eyeing hard the empty jug. - "I can pick that bone of pheasant, - Little care I for a knife-- - Love, it makes our duty pleasant, - Luncheon love I dear as life." - - He across the kitchen going, - Sees two lordly bottles stand; - "India pale" within them glowing, - And he grasps one in each hand. - From deep thought himself he rouses, - Says to her that loves him well, - "I could pop these in my trousers' - Pocket, and no one might tell." - - This he doth by her attended, - And they lovingly converse - Of the toothsome things that tended - To bind so close his heart to hers. - Leg of pork, with sauce of apple, - Fowl and bacon and broad beans; - cold roast beef, with which he'd grapple, - Sooner than with warmed-up greens. - - What she gives him makes her dearer, - Such she hopes to be the case; - Hopes his beat will still be near her, - Should she ever change her place. - Oh! but he doth love her truly; - He shall have a cup of tea-- - She will bring it to him duly, - Some time after half-past three. - - And her heart rejoices greatly, - Whenever peeler she discerns, - Past the small boys pacing stately, - While they mimic him by turns. - Thinks he looks far more majestic - Than he ever looked before-- - Fears he winked at the domestic - Higher up at Number Four; - - Hears him speak in gentle murmur, - Knows he's answering her call, - While he treads with footstep firmer, - Leading past the garden wall. - All at once the colour flushes - His false face from brow to chin; - As it were with shame he blushes, - While she vows she's "been took in." - - Then unable to conceal her - Love, she murmurs, "Oh, that he - Were once more that faithful Peeler, - Which did win my heart from me." - He but begged she'd no more bore him, - When she falls flat at his side; - Gathered soon a crowd before him, - Whilst to lift her up he tried; - - And one came to raise her bonnet, - And he looked at him and said, - "Bring a chair, and place her on it, - For I fear she's hurt her head." - Home they took her, and next morning, - By her mistress she's addressed, - "Mary, you have a month's warning-- - This time, mind. I'm not in jest. - - _The Puppet Show_, July 29, 1848. - - * * * * * - - -THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. - -(_Slightly altered from the Poet Laureate_). - - To the Bill he whispers gaily, - "Land Bill, I the truth must tell-- - You're a nuisance; but believe me - That I really love you well!" - She replies, that Irish Maiden, - "No one I respect like thee." - He is Lord of ancient Hatfield, - And a simple Land Bill she. - So most kindly he receives her - Merely with _two_ hours' reproof, - Leads her to the Lords' Committee, - And she leaves her GLADSTONE'S roof. - - "I will strive to guard and guide you, - And your beauty not impair; - Only add a few amendments, - Prune a section here and there. - Let us try these little clauses - Which the wealthy Lords suggest; - No connection with FITZMAURICE, - Or with HENEAGE and the rest!" - All he tells her makes her queerer, - Evermore she seems to yearn - For her Commons and her GLADSTONE, - And the moment of return. - And while now she wonders wildly - Why she feels inclined to sink, - Proudly turns the Lord of BURLEIGH, - "I have _drawn your teeth_, I think!" - - Then her countenance all over - Pale and (emerald) green appears, - As he kicks her down the staircase, - 'Mid their Lordships' wicked jeers. - But her GLADSTONE looked upon her, - Lying lifeless, worn, and spent, - And he said, "Your dress is ragged-- - These must be arrears of _rent_." - Deeply mourns the Lord of BURLEIGH, - No one more distressed than he, - When the PREMIER moved the Commons - With the Peers to disagree. - And they gathered softly round her, - Did the Commons, and they said, - "Bring the dress we sent her forth in-- - _That_ will raise her from the dead!" - - _Punch_, August 13, 1881. - -_The Figaro_ of January 22, 1873, contained a long parody (eleven verses), -entitled, "The Lord of Burleigh," but it is not now of sufficient interest -to warrant its reproduction. - - * * * * * - - -A BURLINGTON HOUSE BALLAD. - -(_With Apologies to Our Lordly Laureate_). - - In her ear he whispers sadly, - "I've a grief upon my soul, - And I want you very badly - Just to take a little stroll." - She replies, in accents fainter, - "Anywhere, my love, with thee." - He is but a budding painter, - And his fair _fiancée_ she. - To her chamber straight she scurries, - Lest delay should bring reproof, - Pops her bonnet on and hurries - With him from her father's roof. - So she goes, by him attended, - Hears him absently converse, - As with spirits all unmended - He controls his steps to hers. - Faring thus, she wonders greatly, - Till a gateway she discerns - With armorial bearings stately, - And beneath the gate she turns. - Sees a building most majestic - In a simple maiden's eye; - Pays he then a smug domestic, - And the turnstile clicks them by. - All around are paint and glitter - High and low upon the wall, - While he treads with feelings bitter, - Leading on from hall to hall. - And as now she freely utters - Rapture it were vain to hide, - Fiercely turns he round and mutters, - "_There's my picture--it is 'skyed!_'" - - _Funny Folks_, May, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE MAY QUEEN OF 1879, - -AS SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. - - Well, you waked and call'd me early on the first, my mother dear, - As though't had been the jolliest time of all the glad new year, - For as you were aware, mother, in spite the wretched day, - I had to be Queen o' the May, mother, I had to be Queen o' the May. - - You did your best for me, mother, I must say that of you; - You had my waterproof prepared, and my goloshes too; - You lent me your own muff, mother, my chilblains were so sore, - And made dear Robin bring the cover'd cart close to our door. - - And yet the May-day games, mother, were not a great success; - And I, for I was Queen, alack!--got in the greatest mess; - The mud was over all our boots--it hail'd, too, as it chanced, - And I fell in a puddle, mother, while I with Robin danced. - -(_Five verses omitted_). - - "So, on the whole, I cannot say I'm glad--no more can you, - You call'd me early on the first, though then I begg'd you to; - In truth, could I have known, it would have been so cold and wet, - I'd have told the lads and lasses, mother, another Queen to get. - - "But, there, it is too late to fret--the thing is over now, - But not again will your poor child thus play the fool, I vow; - Another year, if spring is late, I'll stay in bed all day, - Rather than get up early, mother, and be the Queen o' the May." - - _Truth_, May 22, 1879. - - * * * * * - - You ask me why, tho' ill at ease, - Within this region I subsist, - Whose spirits falter in the mist, - And languish for the purple seas? - - * * * * * - - TENNYSON. - - * * * * * - - -THE NEW UMBRELLA. - - You ask me why, though ill at ease, - And chilled with rain, my gentle Stella, - I stand beneath the dripping trees, - With shivering hands and shaking knees, - But do not use my umbrella. - - The reason I can soon explain, - Succinctly, simply, and precisely: - If once I used it in the rain, - I could not fold it up again, - Or roll it up so smooth and nicely. - - No, precious slender staff! no hand of mine, - With ruthless hate or foolish gaming, - Shall mar thy symmetry divine-- - The curved diagonal of line - That circles round thy wooden stamen. - - The skill that wrapped thee up so tight - And fastened up the ring and button - Is rarer far than second-sight, - The art of catching fish at night, - Or carving any joint of mutton. - - * * * * * - - (Two verses omitted). - - _The Cambridge Meteor_, June 13, 1882. - - * * * * * - - "OF old sat Freedom on the heights, - The Thunders breaking at her feet: - Above her shook the starry lights: - She heard the torrents meet." - - * * * * * - - TENNYSON. - - * * * * * - - -PAM UPON THE HEIGHTS. - -[Lord Palmerston was appointed Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports, March, -1861]. - - NOT old, stood Pam upon the Heights, - The Commons roaring at his feet, - And Beadledom, with antique rites, - Did him the homage meet. - - _Punch_, in his place did much rejoice, - Not for the title then assigned, - But glad to hear the brave old boy's - Name shouted on the wind. - - Admiring much his British pluck, - His ready tongue, his cheery jest, - His never downing on his luck, - But hoping for the best. - - His hate of humbug, saving such - As should to humbugs still be flung, - His speeches, void of artist touch, - Yet suiting English tongue. - - His deeper hatred for the gang, - Who, prating of some Right Divine, - Doom freedom's friends to starve, or hang, - Or in foul dungeons pine. - - Cheer for the Constable! Our foes - Find him the nightmare of their dreams; - We, the wise Englishman, who knows - The Falsehood of Extremes. - - _Punch_, 1861. - - * * * * * - - -LORD BEACONSFIELD AS TITHONUS. - - THE Whigs decay, the Whigs decay, and fall, - The Obstructives drag our Senate through the mire; - Parliaments cumber earth, then pass away; - E'en this one, after many a session, dies; - While I, secure of immortality, - Take my calm saunter, propped by Monty's arm, - Along the highways of the busy world, - A noted figure, roaming, in my dream, - All sorts of places in my Favourite East, - The gleaming halls and splendours of Lothair. - Alas for that grand piece of statesmanship, - That glorious work, the Berlin settlement! - So highly lauded by my chosen print - The _Daily Telegraph_. Almost I seemed - To its great heart none other than a god! - Bulgaria asked for independency; - 'Twas granted with a few strokes of the pen. - Some people really don't care what they grant. - But the strong Russ, indignant, worked his will, - Pared down and minimised my settlement; - And though he could not end it, left it maimed, - The veriest of hashes. Can fine words - From Salisbury make amends? Though even yet - Our faithful organs in the daily press - Are tremulous with praise, weep tears of joy - To hear us. Come, let's go; we've had enough - Of Government. How can a man desire - To mix with Irish members, rowdy lot, - Who never mind the ruling of the Chair, - But pass beyond the Speaker's ordinance, - Which all obey--or ought to, if they don't? - - A black cloud hovers o'er the Cape: there come - Glimpses of dark men we have made our foes. - Once more I hear the rumour steal abroad - Of an election-time approaching near; - And who can tell the upshot? Will the rout - Whom I enfranchised not so long ago - Shake off the yoke of Tory Government, - And bring the Liberals in instead? Who knows? - - Fain would I get me to the gorgeous East! - I wonder how my constitution stands - The rigours of this chilly English clime, - This so-called summer, wretched, cold, and wet. - I shiver by the fireside, while the steam - Floats from the damp fields round my country seat, - And racks my agèd bones with rheumatism. - Place me upon some Asiatic throne, - Give me an empire in the realms of morn, - Thither I'd hasten from this _bourgeois_ court - On a triumphal car with silver wheels. - - V. A. C. A. - -_The World_, July 30, 1879. - - * * * * * - - -WHAT LOCKSLEY HALL SAID BEFORE HE PASSED HIS OXFORD RESPONSIONS, - -(_Vulgo_ SMALLS). - - OH the misery of "Smalls!" the cark, the turmoil, and the grind! - Oh the cruel, cruel fetters which are wreathing round my mind! - There is grammar, there is _Euclid_, and far worse than all of these, - Arithmetical refinements, with their stocks, and rules of threes, - With their discount and their practice, and their very vulgar - fractions, - Smashing up the one ideal into many paltry factions. - Square root makes the head to ache, the decimals the tear to start, - For they're ever circulating round the fibres of my heart-- - Learning grammar is like putting water in a leaky pot, - And its memory is only like the days remembered not; - Verbs in "M I" are aggravating, _Euclid_ makes the foot to stamp, - Only lucid when enlightened by a moderator lamp, - The old spider and his cobwebs! would that I could sweep them out - From the dust and must of ages with a triumph and a shout; - Shall I spurn him with my foot, or shall I scorn him with mine eye? - Shall I tear him into pieces? SOUTHEY burnt him--so will I. - - C. C. - -B. N. C. _College Rhymes_, 1861. - -These lines also appeared in _Punch_. - -There was also an early parody of "Locksley Hall" in _Punch_, describing -the Railway Mania of 1845. This parody was rather technical in its -language, not very amusing, and is now quite out of date. - - * * * * * - - -BATTUE SHOOTING. - - Gather round, my noble comrades; hardy sportsmen, gather where, - Placed in yonder shaded corner, stands for each an easy chair; - Close behind are well-packed hampers, and attendants duly wait - To reload your deadly weapons while you sit and shoot in state. - Amply fed and reared, my pheasants--tame they'll answer to your call, - But, like whirling leaves in winter, soon you'll see them thickly fall. - Hark, the beaters drive them forward. Now, prepare--the time is nigh, - We shall soon reduce their numbers. Peste! they're far too fat to fly! - See the startled hares and rabbits vainly shelter safe have sought, - Headlong rushing, mad with terror--surely this is noble sport! - Eh! what say you? Let go at them, now's the time to try your skill; - Crawling wounded, lame and fluttering, down they go the bag to fill. - Warmish work, and quite fatiguing--let's refresh ere we renew. - Vulgar hinds may sneer and welcome. Vive, say I, the good battue! - - * * * * * - - Surely those who so love slaughter might, when close time comes - for grouse, - Find congenial occupation if they donned the butcher's blouse. - - D. EVANS. - -_The Weekly Dispatch_, August 31, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -GODIVA. - -(_A Pose Plastique_, by Madame Warton, _before_ the forthcoming picture by -Edwin Landseer, R.A.) - - -OR, THE PEEPING GENT OF COVENTRY STREET. - - _I waited in the street named Coventry; - I hung outside the 'bus from Putney Bridge, - To watch the three short fares; and there I shaped - The last new "Tableau Vivant" into this._ - - NOT only we, the smartest blades on Town, - Fast men that with the speed of an express - Run down the slow, not only we, that prate - Of gents and snobs, have loved the genus well, - And loathed to see them unamused; but she - Did more, and undertook, and overcame, - The Venus of the _Tableaux Vivans_--Madame - Warton, Queen of the Walhalla, near the street - Of Coventry: for when there was nought up - To take the Town, the Gents all came to her, - Clamouring, "If this last, we die of slowness!" - She sought a painter, found him where he strode - About the room, among his dogs, alone, - His beard shaved close before him, and his hair - Cropped short behind. She told him the Gents' fears, - And prayed him, "If this last, they die of slowness!" - Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, - "What would you have _me_ do--an animal painter-- - For such as _these?_" "A _Tableau_ paint," said she. - He laughed, and talked about Sir Peter Laurie.[12] - - Then chucked her playfully beneath the chin; - "O, ay, ay, ay, you talk!" "Talk! yes!" she said. - "But paint it, and prove what I will not do." - And with a sly wink there was no mistaking, - He answered, "Ride you as the famed Godiva," - And I will paint it," she nodded, and in jest - They parted, and a cabman drove her home. - - All was arranged. The boardmen in the street, - As curs about a bone, with snarl and blow - Made war upon each other for a board: - The best man won. She sent bill-stickers forth, - And bade them cover over every hoarding - With large placards, announcing she would please - Her favourite gents; who, as they loved her well, - From then till Monday next, in crowds should come - And gaze at her,--each one his shilling paying - For seats within the public promenade. - - Then went she to her dressing room, and there - Unhooked the wedded fastenings of her gown, - Some soft one's gift; but every now and then - She lingered, looking in her toilette glass, - Rougeing her cheek: anon she shook herself, - And showered the rumpled raiment 'neath her knee; - Then clad herself in silk; adown the stair - Stole on; and like a bashful maiden slid - Through passage and through passage, until she reached - The platform; there she found her palfrey trapt - With pewter logies and mosaic gold. - - Then rode she forth, clothed all in silken tights: - The fiddles played beneath her as she rode, - And the reserved seats hardly breathed for fear. - The little wide-mouthed heads beyond the stalls - Had cunning eyes to see: the crimson rouge - Made her cheek flame: a fast man, winking, shot - Light horrors through her pulses: the saloon - Was all in darkness; though from overhead - The flickering gas-light dimly flared: but she - Not less through all bore up, till, last she gave - The signal to the workmen in the flats, - And round upon the pivot slow she turned. - - Then rode she back, clothed all in silken tights: - And one low Gent, decked out in Joinville tie, - The certain symbol of a Gentish taste, - Using an ivory opera-glass he'd hired, - Peeped--but the glasses, ere he had his fill, - Were shivered into pieces, and the curtain - Was dropt before him; so that the deposit - Left on the glass was forfeit to the Jew; - And he that knew it grieved: Now all at once, - With twelve great shocks of sound, the interlude - Was scraped on cat-gut from a dozen fiddles, - One after one, for neither did keep time, - Nor play in tune: and Madame Warton gained - Her chamber; whence re-issuing, as "Venus - Rising from the Sea," the ennui passed away, - And she made everlasting lots of tin. - - _The Puppet Show_, April 1, 1848. - - * * * * * - - -THE VOYAGE. - - We hired a ship: we heaved a shout: - We turned her head towards the sea; - We laugh'd and scull'd, and baled her out, - We scream'd and whistled loud for glee: - We scull'd, we scream'd, we laugh'd, we sang, - Beneath the merry stars of June: - Went flute tu-tu, and banjo bang: - We meant to sail into the moon! - - Far off a boatman hail'd us high: - "My boat is named the Bonny Bess; - Old Jack will charge you more than I, - For I will charge you sixpence less: - My boat is strong, and swift, and taut, - But Jack's--she is not worth a cuss." - We held his terms in scorn, for what - Was sixpence or a crown to us? - - We bang'd; we baled; we scull'd; we scream'd; - The water gain'd upon us fast. - We looked upon the moon: she seem'd - As far as when we saw her last. - We look'd: no terror did we show; - We did not care a button, we; - We knew the good ship could not go - _Beyond_ the bottom of the sea. - - But one--at best he was a lout-- - The same, we guess, was short of chink-- - Exclaim'd in terror, "Let me out, - I am quite sure the ship will sink. - The leak is quickly gaining height; - 'Twill soon be half-way up the mast." - And through the hatch that starry night - We let him out, and on we pass'd. - - Slight skiffs aslant the starboard slipt, - And jet-black coal-boats, stoled in state, - And slender shallops, silvern tipp'd, - And other craft both small and great. - But we nor changed to skiff or barge, - Or slender shallops, silvern-peak'd; - We knew no vessel, small or large, - Was built by mortal hands, but leak'd. - - Beyond the blank horizon burn'd; - The moon had slid below the main; - About the bows we sharply turn'd, - And scull'd the good ship home again. - Before us gleam'd the hazy dawn; - We scull'd, but ere we shockt the lea, - And paid old Jack, the ship had gone - Down to the bottom of the sea. - - Above the wreck the sad sea breaks, - And many a pitying moonlight streams; - And o'er the yeasty water flakes - The snow-white sea-gull, sliding screams. - If any goods be wash'd ashore, - Or cash--if any cash be found-- - To us, and not to Jack, restore: - But then--you cannot; we were drowned. - - S. K. C. - -_Kottabos_ (William McGee), Dublin, 1875. - - * * * * * - - "Break, break, break, - On thy cold gray stones, O sea! - And I would that my tongue could utter - The thoughts that arise in me." - - * * * * * - - TENNYSON. - -It seems hard to believe that the weather was even hotter in New York -during last June than it was in London during certain days of July and -August. An American poet thus records his impressions:-- - - Hot, hot, hot, - Is the blistering breath of June, - And I would that my throat could utter - An anti-torridness tune. - O well for the Esquimau - That he sits on a cake of ice! - O well for the Polar bear - That he looks so cool and nice! - But the scorching heats pours down - And blisters both head and feet! - And O for a touch of vanished frost, - Or the sound of some hail and sleet! - - * * * * * - - -THE LAY OF THE DRENCHED ONE. - -(_Time_, 11.45 P.M.) - - Pelt, pelt, pelt, - On the cold wet earth, thou Rain! - While my tongue is about to utter - The anger that swells in my brain. - - Oh, well for the waterproof'd gent, - As he walks in his shiny array: - Oh, well for the dandified swell, - As he drives in his cabriolet. - - And the last lone 'bus rolls on, - As full as its guard can fill; - But oh for the sight of a vanish'd cab, - And the sound of a wheel that's still! - - Pelt, pelt, pelt, - On the damp, drench'd streets, O Rain; - But the tender bloom of a dress-coat spoilt - Will never return again. - - JOHN COLLETT. - -"But, says the _Sporting Times_, Calcutta is a rough place for a -'stony-broke,' for there is no comfortable workhouse for Europeans, such -as would remind one of Tennyson's well-known 'Workhouse Song.'"-- - - "Break, break, break, - All these cursed stones I see, - For that is the task they've set me, - And _I wish that I wasn't me_." - - * * * * * - - Wake! wake! wake! - In thy Northern land so free, - And our eloquent leader utters - A protest for you and me. - - Oh, well for Midlothian's sons - That they shout with him in the fray, - Oh, well for our British lads, - For we know he will gain us the day. - - And the Franchise war goes on, - Though the Lords would have us be still; - But, O for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man, - When the people have their bill. - - Wake! wake! wake! - To the war-cry of "Liberty!" - And slav'ry's old despotic days - Shall never return to thee. - - RICHARD H. W. YEABSLEY. - -_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition). - - * * * * * - - -RHYME FOR ROGERS. - - Howe'er it be, it seems to me - A House of Peers can be no good: - Mob caps are more than coronets, - And Hyde Park crowds than Hatfield's brood. - - _Punch_, September 6, 1884. - - * * * * * - -Tennyson's "Enoch Arden" has been less frequently parodied than most of -his poems; some years ago the Australian Punch had a clever burlesque of -it, and a "continuation" of Enoch Arden was privately printed in 1866. -This very scarce little pamphlet consisted of twelve pages, in a blue -wrapper, and had no printer's name or place on it. As it is now eagerly -sought after by collectors of Tennysoniana, it is here given in full:-- - - -ENOCH ARDEN, - -(CONTINUED) - -BY - -C. H. P. - - Not by the "LAUREAT,"--but a timid hand - That grasped the Poet's golden lyre, "and back - Recoil'd,--e'en at the sound herself had made." - -1866. - - -ENOCH ARDEN - -(_Continued_). - - So Enoch died, as he had lived so long. - Alone--alone! for Miriam Lane had pass'd - To an adjoining chamber; but she heard - Those joyous dying words, "A sail! a sail! - I'm sav'd," and hurried back to comfort him; - But wist not that the "sail" his spirit saw - Was God's own ark, propell'd by angel wings - Towards the Ocean of Eternity. - "Ah well!" she said; "poor Enoch! he is gone; - God rest his soul: give him more joy in Heaven - Than he had found on earth,--at least of late: - I thought he had not long to linger here, - The sea made such a moaning all the night: - It sounded like his death-wail; and methought - I saw the corpse-light dancing in the fen. - Now will I tell the neighbours who he was: - They'll wonder how Dame Miriam knew the truth, - But kept it close, because she loved her friend - Enoch:--they cannot call me gossip now." - It chanced that day, that Philip left his mill - Earlier than wont: the nutting-time was come,-- - That season of the year so closely link'd - To Philip's destiny;--it seem'd to stir - His pulse to quicker beat, and send a thrill - Of strange mysterious feeling thro' his veins. - He knew not how, or why: but Philip hurried on - That he might keep the promised holiday - With all the children--his, and hers, and theirs-- - All dear to him; nor least the bonny Ralph, - That last wee prattler, climbing to his knee. - And all were ready with their nutting crooks; - And Annie Ray, his own, his wife at last,-- - His "beam of sunshine," as he called her oft. - But as he left his mill, the passing-bell, - With its first startling boom, tolled on his ear. - It is a sound that enters at the brain, - A saddening augury of woe, and strikes - The inmost chord of sympathising hearts - That fondly breathe an echoing sigh of pain. - Sudden it falls, chilly as winter's frost, - Turning to icicles the heart's warm blood. - Spoke Philip to the comrade at his side, - "Know you for whom that passing-bell is struck? - Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll." - "Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's; - I heard that he was dying yester-e'en. - The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out; - Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore - Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away." - Then came they to a little knot of men - (Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests) - Hard by "the idle corner,"--so 'twas called,-- - The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers, - As Philip pass'd along, hushed their voices. - Could he have read their looks, he might have known - Some dark o'er-clouding sorrow was at hand, - More nigh than he could think for, and more hard. - Then passed a woman from the ale-house door, - And, all unwitting Philip was so near, - Cried, "Have you heard who died just now? - 'Twas Enoch Arden,--lost, but late returned; - And Miriam Lane has known it all along!" - As if some hand had struck a sudden blow, - Philip seemed stunned: the blood forsook his cheek, - The big cold drops stood out upon his brow, - As on the victim's, stretched upon the rack. - His comrade laid his hand on Philip's arm, - And uttering no word (what could he say?) - Led him, as one half-blinded, step by step, - Until they reached the home, where Annie Ray, - Poor widow-wife, sat watching his return; - He stagger'd towards her, caught her in his arms: - God help me,--kiss me darling,--wife look up! - "My wife--his wife--I know not what I say: - If we did sin it was unwittingly; - O, Annie! darling, one more fond embrace, - E'er it be said our wedded love was wrong." - Then, as she wonder'd, gazing on his face, - And twined her loving arms around, he told,-- - Yes, told her all--how Enoch had returned. - Then Philip's comrade, who had linger'd near, - Beckon'd the children out, and closed the door: - There Miriam met them, with the lock of hair: - But, loth to interrupt the sorrowers, - She led the children to the house of death; - And took a key from off the wooden peg, - Beside the settle, where she used to hang - The skeins of twine to mend the fishing nets: - Then gently led them up the narrow stair, - That creaked beneath their stealthy-moving tread. - Sacred the silence that we ever keep, - When death is in the house! we speak, we walk, - With muffled tone and step, as if the dead - Could be disturb'd, and waken out of sleep. - Then Miriam turn'd the key;--that jarring click! - How harsh it grated on the children's ear! - As do the pebbles on the boat's sharp keel. - Cold thro' the open casement came the breeze: - There stood the bed--and on the sacking lay, - Distinct beneath the sheet, a rigid form-- - The feet so prominent, the arms close down!-- - The children clung together, half afraid, - While Miriam turned the coverlid aside. - They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face; - But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room. - Once they had seen their brother, as he lay - Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd - So beautiful asleep, you might have thought - Death's angel had but gently turned him round, - To rest more quietly: the tiny hands - Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down, - As resting on the pillow--not like this,-- - So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone. - Now, as the twilight fell the second day, - Another mourner came: she spoke no word: - Miriam had put the key within her hand, - Turning aside, to dash away her tears: - The widowed woman went up-stairs alone. - One moment gazing on her Enoch's face, - She stoop'd to kiss it, putting back the hair, - As she had done in life: then kneeling down - She pray'd,--"forgive me,--pity me,--Oh God." - She touch'd his marble-cold, pale, hand with hers, - That bore e'en then the double wedding rings. - She laid her aching head upon his breast,-- - When from her lips came forth a cry,--a shriek, - Like to a hare's when shot: and Miriam came, - And bore her senseless from the room of death. - 'Twas strange how quick the widow's glance had caught - Each little circumstance of the chamber, - And noted in her loving memory,-- - How on the table lay his Bible--closed: - No need had Enoch now of Holy Writ, - No need of Gospel Message; for he stood - In presence of his SAVIOUR, and his GOD. - But had she open'd where the much-worn page - Told of the frequent reading, she had seen - The marks of blistering tears upon that text, - "Whose shall she be in Heav'n? there they marry - Not, nor give in marriage, but are angels." - There was a fly upon the window pane - Whose low monotonous hum she scarcely heard, - And that unconscious; but in after years - The buzzing of a summer fly recall'd, - E'en in her happiest hours, _that_ day, - That lonely visit to the bed of death; - And cast a moment's shadow o'er her heart. - More keenly she remarked the remnant store - Of lulling anodynes: ah! bootless all - To soothe the fever of his aching brain: - The Wise Physician healed him with a touch, - (E'en as we lay our hand on ringing glass - To still the sound that careless fingers make), - And sent a loving angel as his guide - Through the dark valley to the realms of joy. - There lay his watch, his big round silver watch, - Whose constant tick had sadly echoed "Home" - In all his wanderings; now its pulse was hushed: - No need of Time for him: he had Eternity. - - * * * * * - - Then Philip left the village for awhile: - And when once more the nutting-season came, - And yellow "rust-spots" on the autumn leaves, - He and his Annie were again at home! - They'd learnt the lesson God had set them, "Wait:" - And now the time of their reward was come: - In _Faith's_ strong soil _Patience_ had taken root, - And brought forth _Hope_ and _Joy_, as bloom and fruit. - - * * * * * - - -ENOCH'S "HARD 'UN." - -PART I. - - In a fair village on the English coast - There dwelt a lad--they called him Hunky Sam. - He was but young--three years, or may be four, - But manly for his age; his appetite - For bulls'-eyes, "coker"-nuts, and such light fare - Was something awful, even for a boy; - But better far than even coker-nuts, - He loved a maiden of surpassing grace-- - Of humble parentage, but very fair, - Whose name euphonious was Susan Ann. - The parents of these twain were fisher-folk - Of low degree, but honest to a fault. - They would not steal the veriest pin, unless - They were quite certain they would not be caught. - Now Hunky's love for peerless Susan Ann - Was felt by her, and given back to Hunk; - And as the twain upon the yellow sands - Would play, young Sam would say, "Now let us be, - As grown-up folks, and we'll pretend we are - A wedded pair, and I will be a man, - And you, dear Susan Ann, my little wife; - And you, go sit within yon gloomy cave, - Which we will make believe to be our house, - And I'll come staggering in like daddy does, - And you can belt me on my flaxen head - With this small stick, which we will call a broom-- - For that's the way my dad and mammy do." - And so they played upon the seashore sand - Till Susan Ann had got the thing down fine. - And time sped on, and Sam and Susan Ann - Were married, and the twain became one flesh. - - -PART II. - - Sam went to sea, and whilst upon a voyage, - He read of Enoch Arden and his woes; - And so he soon resolved to do the same - As in the book he read that Enoch did. - To carry out his plan he sent word home, - By trusty shipmate, to his Susan Ann, - That he was drowned. He really did not care - A great deal for his once-loved Susan Ann, - Who, when the knot had but been tied a year, - Had clearly showed that she could be the boss. - So time sped on, and artful Hunky Sam - In foreign climates had a jolly time - For several years. "I think I'll homeward sail," - One day he said, "and see how Susan Ann - Gets on; like Enoch, I will softly glide - Towards the cottage there upon the cliff, - And see how she makes out with her new man, - For she is doubtless wedded once again, - Just like that Mrs. Arden in the book." - Away he sailed across the sounding surge - (A good expression that, but not my own), - And soon he reached his village on the coast. - 'Twas night. He crept towards the little cot - Where once he'd dwelt. A light was burning clear; - He peered in through the window. Susan Ann - Was there, but t'other fellow was away. - His wife glanced up: she saw the faithless Sam; - She sprang towards him--grabbed him by the hair - And held him there, whilst with her other arm - She dealt him myriad thwacks with broomstick stout. - "You would," she cried--"you would say you were dead, - And with your foreign gals go cuttin' up; - And leave me here to take in washing--eh? - You wretch! take that, and that, and that, and that!" - Each "that" being followed by a sickening thud. - - -PART III. - - The curtain falls on this delightful scene, - As space is precious and will not permit - Of further details; but this goes to show - That things don't always turn out just the same - As those we read about in poets' yarns. - Another thing it shows--that Susan Ann - Had learned a trick when playing at being wed - Upon the seashore in her youthful days - That stood her in good stead in after years-- - The wielding of the broomstick here is meant. - - _Scraps_, August 1884. - - * * * * * - - -AFTER TENNYSON'S "GRANDMOTHER." - - And Willy, with Franchise horn, is gone to blow in the North! - Sturdy, though white, and strong on his legs, bravely holding forth; - And Willy's wife is with him--she ever was true and wise, - Always a wife for Willy--he often takes her advice. - - For madame, you see, is clever; she loves her Franchise Bill, - And he can talk so ready, and manage the Scots with skill. - Pretty enough, very pretty! I won't say against it for one. - Eh! but my Lords shall fear him--when Willy his task has done. - - Willy, my beauty, my chieftain true, the flower of the flock, - Never a lord can move him, for Willy stands like a rock. - He has always a word for the weak, for crofter and fellaheen too; - There ne'er was his like in the land, since Eighteen-thirty-two. - - Strong for the right, and strong in the fight, strong still in his - tongue; - And peers shall go down before him, though the "feller" is not young. - Welcome him back, my brothers, from the North land far away, - Soon shall we liberty see, brothers, when Willy has won the day. - - JAMES G. MEAGHER. - -_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. - -(Parody Competition). - - * * * * * - - -KEEPING TERM AFTER COMMEMORATION. - -(_Not by_ A.--T., Esq.) - - I steal by lawns, to check the train - Of meditations started - By seeing duns that come in vain - For happy men departed. - - By empty rooms I hurry down, - So stumbling down the staircase; - The cads within the sleepy town - Think mine a very rare case. - - I hail a boat, and down I row - Along the lonely river, - For other lucky men may go, - But I seem here for ever. - - I murmur under moon and stars, - I feel in lunar phrenzy, - I chide the cursèd fate that bars - My exit from B. N. C. - - I slope, I slouch, I speed, I stop, - And scan the empty High Street, - I turn me into Boffin's shop, - To cheer me with an ice-treat, - - Till ice and sad reflection slow - My diaphragm make quiver, - For other lucky men may go, - But I seem here for ever. - - I roam about, and in and out - Poke eyes with envy yellow, - And here and there I spy a scout, - And here and there a fellow. - - And here and there a good mamma, - Her squalling baby nursing, - Looks on me pitying, with an "Ah, - Poor fellow, how he's cursing!" - - For, sailor like, I storm and "blow - My eyes" and "timbers shiver," - That other lucky men may go, - But I seem here for ever. - - BRASENOSE COLLEGE, Oxford. - -_College Rhymes_, 1870. - - * * * * * - - -THE MAIDEN'S LAMENT. - -_After Tennyson_ (_and a long way after, too_). - - With many a care my life's beset, - My charms are growing mellow, - And I have not secured as yet - An eligible fellow. - I sing, I play, and through the dance - I skim like any swallow; - The ladies look at me askance, - And say I'm vain and shallow. - I chatter, chatter as I go, - And some pronounce me clever. - But the men that come they're awfully slow, - And pop the question _never_, _never_. - Pop the question never, never, - Pop the question never. - - I gad about, and in and out - My hopeless fate bewailing; - And think with secret pain and doubt - Of youth and beauty failing. - A youth there is for whose dear sake - To distant lands I'd travel; - I thought he would an offer make - One evening on the gravel. - He spoke in accents soft and low, - But word of love came never. - The men that come are sure to go, - And some take leave for ever, - Some take leave for ever, ever, - Some take leave for ever. - - I strive by many cunning plots, - Their feelings to discover, - And sometimes sweet forget-me-nots - Present to backward lover; - And though with costly gems from far, - I deck my shining tresses, - And though I sing of love and war, - And sport becoming dresses, - 'Tis all in vain this idle show, - I'll gain their favour never. - For men may come and men may go, - But I'm stuck fast for ever, - I'm stuck fast for ever, ever, - I'm stack fast for ever. - -_The Harborne Parish Church Bazaar News_ (Birmingham), September 26, 1874. - - * * * * * - - Flow down, old river, to the sea, - Thy tribute-muck deliver! - But lake this comfort, Thames, from Me, - _This shan't go on for ever!_ - - _Punch_, August 23, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -OUR RIVER (A TENNYSONIAN IDYLL). - -OLD FATHER THAMES, _loq._ - - "'I come from haunts of coot and hern,' - From 'neath green ferns I sally; - But into me they quickly turn - The sewage of my valley! - - "By fifty sewer mouths I pass-- - My surface black with midges; - And bubbles huge of sewage gas - Float down beneath my bridges. - - "When first I babble o'er the lea, - As crystal clear I chatter; - But twenty towns soon poison me - With foul organic matter. - - "Till last by Barking Creek I go, - A thick, pestiferous river; - And tides may ebb, and tides may flow, - But I smell on for ever! - - "I fill with scum my little bays, - I coat with slime my pebbles; - The mud I leave on winter days - The summer drought soon trebles. - - "With many a stench the air I fill, - With many an odour fetid; - And epidemics I distil - Throughout the dog-days heated. - - "I churn contagion as I go, - A foul, filth-sodden river; - For tides may ebb, and tides may flow, - But I smell on for ever! - - "I wind about, and in and out, - With here a dead cat floating, - And here a party seized, past doubt, - With sickness whilst they're boating. - - "And Water Companies extract - My water as I travel, - Till I for miles am nought, in fact, - But banks of mud and gravel. - - "In short, if they thus pump me dry, - And list to reason never, - Whilst Londoners are talking, I - Shall just flow _off_ for ever! - - "As 'tis, the fish are well nigh killed - In all my urban reaches; - And places once with gudgeon filled - Are now too dry for leeches. - - "I ruin lawns and grassy plots - By foul deposits spreading; - I blight the sweet forget-me-nots - From Twickenham to Reading. - - "I crawl, I creep, I smell, I smear, - Amongst my oozy shallows; - I so pollute the atmosphere - It quite knocks-up the swallows. - - "I grow each season more impure, - As every one's remarking; - I am an open running sewer - From Teddington to Barking. - - "And so upon my course I go, - A foul, pestiferous river, - And tides may ebb, and tides may flow, - But I smell on for ever!" - - _Truth_, July 31, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE (NORTH) BROOK. - -(_Some Way After Tennyson_). - - 'Tis an ill wind thus blows me out, - From home I must be sailing, - Whilst here the rest will chase, no doubt, - The grouse with zest unfailing. - - * * * * * - - I'm sent to watch by Nile's swift flow. - Confound that ancient river! - M.P.'s may come, M.P.'s may go; - Must I toil on for ever? - - _Punch_, August 16, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -PEERS, IDLE PEERS. - -"The House of Lords sat last night somewhat less than a quarter of an -hour, during which no business was done." - - Peers, idle Peers, I know not what they do. - Peers from the depths of their luxurious chairs - Rise in the Clubs, and saunter into the House, - In-looking on the happy Hugh, Lord Cairns, - And thinking of the Bills that are in store. - - Sure as the hammer falling at a sale, - That makes us travel by the Underground, - Sad as the feeling when our bargains prove - Not quite the treasure which we hoped to find; - So sad, so sure, the Bills that are to bore. - - Ah, sad (not strange) as on dreary winter morns. - The surliest knock of half-impatient dun - To drowsy ears, ere, watched by drowsy eyes, - The tailor slowly goes across the square; - So sad, so very sad, the bills that are in store. - - Drear as repeated hisses at your Play. - And drear as dreams by indigestion caused - To those that take hot suppers; dull as law, - Dull as dry law, and lost without regret; - O House of Lords, the Bills that are a bore. - - _Punch_, March 7, 1868. - - * * * * * - - "Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; - The cloud may stoop from Heaven and take the shape, - With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; - But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? - Ask me no more." - - * * * * * - - TENNYSON (_The Princess_). - - * * * * * - - -TO AN IMPORTUNATE HOST. - -(_During Dinner, and after Tennyson_). - - Ask me no more: I've had enough Chablis; - The wine may come again, and take the shape, - From glass to glass, of "Mountain" or of "Cape;" - But, my dear boy, when I have answered thee, - Ask me no more. - - Ask me no more: what answer should I give, - I love not pickled pork nor partridge pie; - I feel if I took whisky I should die! - Ask me no more--for I prefer to live: - Ask me no more. - - Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed, - And I have striven against you all in vain. - Let your good butler bring me Hock again: - Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield, - Ask me no more. - - ANONYMOUS. - - -SONG. - -To the tune of Tennyson's "Home they brought her warrior dead." - -(General Hill fell in the battle before Petersburg, and was the last man -buried with military honours on the eve of the evacuation). - - Lay the stern old warrior down, - Deeply in his narrow bed, - Ere the conqueror sack the town, - Ere the foeman o'er him tread. - - They who checked the battle-tide-- - Hoary warriors weeping said, - "Foremost where the bravest died, - Foremost where his country bled." - - Low they laid the Pride of War, - Soldiers sternly round him mourned: - "Glorious was our battle-star, - Glorious when the battle burned." - - Loudly crashed the fierce farewell-- - _This_ of all his toil the crown: - Falling where his country fell, - Falling by the fallen town. - - Turning from the warrior's side, - Spake a chieftain often proved: - "Nobly for our land he died, - Nobly for the land he loved." - - A. R. - _Exeter Coll._, Oxford. - -_College Rhymes_, 1865 (J. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford). - - * * * * * - - -SONG. - - Home they brought her husband--"tight," - She nor moved, nor uttered cry, - But the Peeler, winking said, - "Won't he get it by-and-bye." - - Then they placed him on the bed, - Called him "Jolly dog," "old boy!" - Placed the pillows 'neath his head-- - Yet she showed nor grief, nor joy. - - Stole her daughter from her seat - Up to where her father slept, - Pulled the boots from off his feet, - Yet she neither moved nor wept. - - Then the "Bobby" took his purse, - Placed it empty on her knee, - Rose her voice as if to curse-- - "Not one sixpence left for me!" - -_Vagrant Leaves_, Part I, October, 1866. (A clever little illustrated -magazine, of which only three numbers were issued; they are now -exceedingly scarce). - - * * * * * - - Home the "worrier" comes! We read - All his words, nor uttered sigh; - But the Tories, sneering, said, - "He must talk or he would die." - - Then we praised his speeches long, - Called them worthy to be heard-- - Brilliant thoughts and language strong; - Still the Tories cried, "Absurd!" - - Stole Lord Random from his place, - Lightly to the "worrier" stept; - Tried to fool him to his face-- - Back into his hole he crept. - - Came a host of stupid peers, - Swore the franchise should not be; - Like rolling thunder rose our cheers-- - Grand Old Man, success to thee! - - ALFRED C. BRANT. - -_The Weekly Dispatch_, September 14, 1884. (Parody Competition). - - * * * * * - -"The Charge of the Light Brigade" is still one of the most popular of -Tennyson's poems, in spite of its many faults, and defective construction. -Some of its lines are, indeed, ridiculous, whilst many are ungrammatical, -but the metre is pleasing, and the words have the ring of the battle about -them. Tennyson, however, can claim no credit for these merits, having -boldly appropriated them from Michael Drayton's poem on the Battle of -Agincourt, in which the following lines occur:-- - - "They now to fight are gone, - Armour on armour shone: - Drum now to drum did groan; - To hear was to wonder; - That with the cries they make, - The very earth did shake, - Trumpet to trumpet spake, - Thunder to thunder." - -Several parodies of "The Charge of the Light Brigade" remain to be quoted, -in addition to those already given; indeed, this poem appears to possess a -peculiar attraction for imitators. - - * * * * * - -The following parody was written on the occasion of a lecture on "Light" -having been given in Horncastle by the late Dr. H. G. Ward:-- - - -THE "LIGHT" CAVALIER'S CHARGE. - - With half a score, - Half a score, - Half a score rings bedight, - Through the great lecture room - Staggered Professor Light. - He had been asked to speak - Fifth of December bleak, - Could he deny his squeak? - Had he not heaps of cheek? - As on the dais - Swaggered Professor Light. - - Kinsfolk to right of him, - Kinsfolk to left of him - "Buttons" in front of him, - Listened and wondered! - Conceited without a doubt, - Sing-song he brought it out, - Had he not learnt to spout, - Rolling his eyes about, - Amongst the two hundred. - - Was not the lecture good, - His for great minds the food! - See how erect he stood. - Teaching his Townsmen, - Whilst Horncastle wondered! - Surrounded by Kith and Kin, - Did he not give it in? - "Light" was the very thing - Whereon our faith to pin. - Misled by Forbes Winslow, - The Doctor who blundered-- - Then he sat down amid - Cheers from two hundred. - - Kinsfolk to right of him, - Kinsfolk to left of him, - No one behind him - Listened and wondered. - Other orbs, great and small, - Took fresh light, one and all, - In the great lecture hall - From Light's special envoy. - These were but few, indeed, - Of the two hundred. - - Honour Professor bold, - Long shall the tale be told; - Aye, when our babes be old, - How he enlightened us! - - * * * * * - - -THE CHARGE OF THE COURT BRIGADE. - -I. - - Half a yard--half a yard-- - Half a yard onward, - Through the first crush-room - Pressed the Four Hundred. - Forward--the Fair Brigade! - On to the Throne, they said: - On to the Presence Room - Crushed the Four Hundred. - -II. - - Forward, the Fair Brigade! - Was there a girl dismayed? - E'en though the chaperons knew - Some one had blundered. - Theirs not to make complaint, - Theirs not to sink or faint, - Theirs--but words cannot paint - Half the discomfiture - Of the Four Hundred. - -III. - - Crowds on the right of them, - Crowds on the left of them, - Crowds all in front of them, - Stumbled and blundered: - On through the courtier-lined - Rooms--most tremendous grind-- - Into the Presence-Room, - Leaving their friends behind, - Passed the Four Hundred. - -IV. - - Flushed all their faces fair, - Flashed all their jewels rare, - Scratched all their shoulders bare, - Thrusting each other--while - Outsiders wondered: - Into the Presence Room, - Taking their turn they come,-- - Some looking very glum - O'er trains sore-sundered:-- - Kiss hand, and outwards back, - Fagged, the Four Hundred! - -V. - - Crowds to the right of them, - Crowds on the left of them, - Crowds all in front of them, - Stumbled and blundered-- - Back through more courtier-lined - Rooms--O, tremendous grind!-- - _Débutantes_ thirsty pined - For ice or cup o' tea: - No sofas horse-hair lined, - Not a chair or settee, - Poor dear Four Hundred! - -VI. - - Mothers to rage gave vent, - Husbands for broughams sent, - While at mismanagement - Both sorely wondered. - Not till the sun had set, - Not till the lamps were lit, - Home from the Drawing Room - Got the Four Hundred. - -VII. - - Some, I heard, in despair - Of getting stool or chair, - Took to the floor, and there - Sat down and wondered. - Now, my Lord Chamberlain, - Take my advice. Again - When there's a Drawing-room, - Shut doors, and don't let in - More than Two Hundred. - - _Punch_, May 30, 1874. - - * * * * * - - -THE BATTLE OF BARTLEMY'S. - - Snowballs to right of them, - Snowballs to left of them, - Snowballs in front of them, - Shattered and sundered. - "Forward the Blue Brigade! - Run 'em in! Who's afraid?" - Less easy done than said: - Not in the least dismayed, - Every bold student stayed, - And at the Blue Brigade - Volleyed and thundered. - Flashed every truncheon bare, - Helmets were tossed in air, - Robert gets quite a scare, - While every student there - Hooted and pelted. - - * * * * * - - Stormed at with jeer and yell, - Truncheon and helmet fell, - Back rushed they all, pell mell,-- - How the force wondered; - Many a pretty maid, - Down in the area shade, - Weeps for her Bob betrayed, - Weeps for her Blue Brigade, - Knowing they blundered. - - _Funny Folks_, December 25, 1875. - - * * * * * - - -CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. - -(No. 2.) - -(_At the Alexandra Palace Banquet, given to the survivors of the Baltic of -Balaclava, on October_ 25, 1875). - - Paying sight! Left and right, - Crowds pressing onward,-- - Sharp Alexandra Board - Dines the Two Hundred! - "Free passes grant them all!" - Veterans, short and tall-- - Sharp Alexandra Board-- - (Profits will not be small)-- - Dines the Two Hundred! - - "Go it, the Light Brigade!" - Toast-Master, sore dismayed, - Queered by those heroes' chaff, - Boggled and blundered. - Theirs not to speechify, - Still less to make reply; - Theirs but to drain all dry,-- - Into the drinkables - Walked the Two Hundred! - - Bottles to right of them, - Bottles to left of them, - Bottles in front of them, - While the band thundered; - They knew no "Captain Cork"-- - Boldly they went to work, - After the eatables - Fell to their knife and fork,-- - Thirsty Two Hundred! - - _À La Russe_ might surprise, - Still they knew joints and pies, - Clearing the dishes there, - _Relevés_ and _entrées_, while - Scared waiters wondered; - Then, plunged in 'bacca smoke, - Glasses and pipes they broke-- - Comrades long sundered, - Big with old lark and joke, - Gleefully met again-- - Jolly Two Hundred! - - Trophies to right of them, - Trophies to left of them, - CARDIGAN'S charger's head, - Piously sundered! - Back they reeled, from the spread, - Straight as they could, to bed-- - They that had dined so well-- - Nothing to pay per head-- - Happy Two Hundred! - - When shall their glory fade? - O, what a meal they made! - Cockneydom wondered. - Honour the Charge they made-- - Bravo the Light Brigade! - Hearty Two Hundred! - - _Punch_, November 6, 1875. - - * * * * * - - -ON THE RINK. - - Half a mile, half a mile, - Half a mile onward, - On to the skating rink - Came the fair trio. - "Skates for the fair trio, - Oil them well before they go," - Over the smooth rink - Slide the fair trio. - - Forward the fair trio! - Was a false step made? No! - Not tho' they all knew - Some one had tumbled. - Theirs but to give a sigh, - Theirs but to let him lie, - Theirs but to pass him by, - Away o'er the rink - Glide the fair trio. - - Admirers to right of them, - Admirers to left of them, - Admirers in front of them, - Wonder'd and wonder'd. - "Outside edge," and never fell, - Boldly they skate and well, - "Treble threes and Q.'s." - Any step you choose,-- - Over the smooth rink - Glide the fair trio. - - Flash'd all their eyes so bright, - Flash'd as they turned in air, - Wounding every fellow there, - With a glance to left and right, - Other girls envying. - "Waltzing" and "Mercury stroke," - Straight through the line they broke, - Whirling and twirling, - Light as the fairy folk, - Twisting and turning,-- - Then they skate back, but not, - Not alone the fair trio. - - Admirers to right of them, - Admirers to left of them, - Admirers on all sides of them, - Wonder'd and wonder'd. - Refreshed with coffee and tea, - Sweet cake, but no "Cherry B." - They whom none excel, - They who deserve so well, - They who no scandal tell, - Away o'er the rink - Glide the fair trio. - "When can their beauty fade?" - Oh! the grand show they made, - All the rink wonder'd; - Applaud all the skill displayed, - Admire the fair trio, - Charming fair trio. - - _The Figaro_, April 10, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -HOW A HUNDRED GUESTS MET THEIR DEATH. - -"There seems to be hardly a single ailment not traceable to the poulterer -or butcher."--_Daily Paper._ - - "Half a duck, half a duck, - Guests do not shirk ye; - Eat, 'tis the Christmas luck, - Eat a whole turkey!" - Little thought they of pain, - Killed they the plate again, - Why would ye not refrain? - On to death, onward! - - Death was to right of them, - Death was to left of them, - Death right in front of them, - Death in that conger! - Long did they feast, and well, - _How_ long I cannot tell, - Till they began to yell, - "Cannot eat longer!" - - Ate they the tables bare, - Swept they the platter clear, - While the host wondered. - Wrapped in the pudding's smoke, - Right through its midst they broke, - Mince pies were sundered! - Then sank they back; but not-- - Not the same hundred. - - _Judy_, January 16, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA. - -(_As the Laureate might have adapted it to the opening of the Alexandra -Palace_). - - Muswellian Palace far over the lea, - ALEXANDRA! - Eastern and Western and South are we, - But all of us North in our welcome of thee, - ALEXANDRA! - Welcome it, _Times_ and _Telegraph_ fleet; - Welcome it, _Echo_, that sells in the street; - Break, _Daily News_, into rhetoric's flower; - Make "copy," O _Standard_, and new budded _Hour!_ - Blazon advertisements, concert and play, - Ballet, with Lancers, sportive and gay; - Bertram and Roberts, famed for supply, - Cut from the joint, or savoury pie, - Ices and jellies and nourishing things; - Speckman's wonderful Hall of the Kings; - Warble, O bugle, and trumpet blare, - Flags flutter out upon turrets and towers, - Clash, ye bells, in the rainy May air-- - Welcome, welcome, this Palace of ours! - Palace of corridor, vestibule, hall, - Lofty in roofing, with pillars so tall, - Meet for dining and dancing; and, O! - Fireworks--the brightest that mortal may know; - Reach to the roof sudden rocket, and higher, - Melt into stars for the crowd's desire; - Flash, ye rockets, in showers of fire, - Flaming comets shoot swift on the wire-- - Welcome it, welcome it, land and sea; - O joy to the populace yet unknown, - We come to thee, love, and make thee our own-- - For Camden, Camberwell, Bloomsburee, - Highgate, Belgravia, or Battersea, - We are all of us Muswell in welcome of thee, - ALEXANDRA! - - _Funny Folks_, May 15, 1875. - -After Tennyson's - - -"Flower in the Crannied Wall." - - Terrier in my Granny's hall, - I whistle you out of my Granny's; - Hold you here, tail and all, in my hand, - Little terrier: but if I could understand - What you are, tail and all, and all in all, - I should know what "black and tan" is. - - C. - -_Kottabos_, Dublin, 1870. - - * * * * * - -There have been numerous imitations of _In Memoriam_, and Mr. -William Dobson, in his "Poetical Ingenuities," speaking of parodies, -observes:--"One appeared in _Punch_ a number of years ago, called -'Ozokerit,' a travesty of Tennyson's 'In Memoriam,' which has been -considered one of the finest ever written." It is unquestionably very -clever. Singularly enough it did not appear in the body of _Punch_ at -all, but on the outside wrapper, as an advertisement, so that many people -who have bound sets of _Punch_ will not find the parody, which was as -follows:-- - - -OZOKERIT. - -(By A. T., or some one who writes as well as _he_). - - Wild whispers on the air did flit, - Wild whispers, shaped to mystic hints, - When bright in breadths of public prints - Shone that great name "Ozokerit." - - And much the people marvelled when - That embryon thing should leap to view! - And "what is it," and "whereunto?" - Rang frequent in the mouths of men. - - "This babbler! is he not to blame? - Or will he, in the cycled course - Of Time, with circumstance and force - Invest this nothing of a name?" - - And one his thought would thus declare, - "Our fooling makes this fellow blithe, - He joys to see conjecture writhe - And flutter in the wordy snare." - - Thereat one wiselier--"Watch and see - (When Time be ripe, which now is rathe) - His Titan-touch unfold the swathe - That darkly wraps the great 'To be.'" - - Shine forth yet undiscovered star! - Shed largess of all precious balms! - We dimly grope with vacant palms - And wondering wait thy Avatar. - - Thou cam'st by Prejudice withstood - In vain, and lulling doubt to sleep: - But one--yet two in one--the cheap - Divinely wedded to the good. - - A thing of beauty, form combined - With soul phlogistic, sent to cloy - Our Æon, with Promethean joy:-- - A joy from central darkness mined. - - Of regions haunted by the Hun; - Thence baled with cost of countless gold - To Lambeth's marish, and in mould - Of seeming-waxen tapers run: - - Whose radiance is as that of moons - Innumerous, making day of night; - With most intensity of light, - Emblazing fashion's gay saloons. - - When sound of midnight morrice rings - On floor and roof, and all is noise, - Of jubilant Ophicleids, hautboys, - Clear twanging harp, and fiddle strings. - - And shapes of silver-bosomed girls, - In bacchant revel wheeling, trace - The waltz with sweet disordered grace - Of twinkling feet and flashing curls. - - * * * * * - - -IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM. - - I count it true which sages teach-- - That passion sways not with repose, - That love, confounding these with those, - Is ever welding each with each. - - And so when time has ebbed away, - Like childish wreaths too lightly held, - The song of immemorial eld - Shall moan about the belted bay, - - Where slant Orion slopes his star, - To swelter in the rolling seas, - Till slowly widening by degrees, - The grey climbs upward from afar, - - And golden youth and passion stray - Along the ridges of the strand-- - Not far apart, but hand in hand-- - With all the darkness danced away! - -_Vere Vereker's Vengeance._ By Thomas Hood, the younger, 1865. - - * * * * * - - -A NEW CHRISTMAS SONG. - -(Adapted to the Times from In Memoriam). - -_Apropos of the wet winter of_ 1872. - - Wring out the clouds in that damp sky, - Which all this year so drear have made, - If, for the weather's clerk, her trade - A weather-washerwoman ply. - - Wring out the old, wring in the new, - Wring, weather-washerwoman, so, - That wet shod if the Old Year must go - The New may damps and dumps eschew. - - Wring out the wet that stands in clay, - Rots the potatoes in their bed, - Fingers and toes gives swedes instead - Of bellies in the usual way. - - Wring out my mouchoir, damp with flow - Of constant cold through warp and woof, - Bring in a patent waterproof, - Through whose seams raindrops will not go. - - Wring out the shirts, wring out the skin, - To which I've been wet many times; - Ring out the raindrops' pattering chimes, - And bring some drier weather in! - - _Punch_, December 28, 1872. - - -A NEW RING. - - Ring out, glad bells! with clappers strong; - Ring out the year that dies to-night! - Ring in the new year with the light! - Ring in the right, ring out the wrong. - - Ring out the squabbles at the Zoo! - Ring opera boxes in my reach, - And "natives" at a penny each! - Ring out Ward Hunt, whate'er you do. - - Ring out the tax collector's knocks-- - The Hebrew usurer--the dun! - Ring coals in at a pound a ton, - Ring out the women's "tie-back" frocks! - - Ring out th' oppressors of the poor-- - The rinderpest and Ouida's books! - Ring in some housemaids and some cooks, - Ring out the Reverend Edward Moore. - - Ring out all rates without delay! - Ring in the Law Courts, if you can! - Ring out, ring out, the _Englishman!_ - Ring out Kenealy, right away! - - _O. P. Q. P. Smiff_, in _The Figaro_, January 5, 1876. - - * * * * * - - -THE COMING MANNIKIN. - -Mr. Punch, having heard that many Conservatives looked upon Lord Randolph -Churchill as the "Coming Man" of their party, expressed himself as -follows:-- - - Ring out fools'-bells to limbo's dome, - Which copes the neo-Tory clique! - The man is coming whom they seek! - Ring out fools'-bells, and let him come! - Ring out the old, ring in the new. - Ring jangling bells a Bedlam chime; - 'Tis the true _Simon Pure_ this time; - Ring in the chief of Gnatdom's crew! - - * * * * * - - Ring out old pride in race and blood, - That kept the fierce old fighters right; - Ring in crude slander and small spite, - The urchin love of flinging mud. - Ring out the gentleman! Ring in - The narrow heart, the rowdy hand. - Ring out the brave, the wise, the grand! - Ring in the Coming Mannikin! - - _Punch_, November 19, 1881. - - -The parody of _In Memoriam_, mentioned on Page 61 as having appeared in -the _St. James's Gazette_ of June 18, 1881, was written by Mr. H. D. -Traill, and has since been re-published, by Messrs. Blackwood and Sons, in -a volume entitled _Recaptured Rhymes_. Parodies of D. G. Rossetti, A. C. -Swinburne, and Robert Browning are contained in the same volume, and will -be quoted when the works of these authors are reached. - -Detached portions of Tennyson's _Maud_, have frequently been parodied, but -the only case in which any attempt appears to have been made to imitate -all its varying styles, and phases of thought, occurs in a small volume -published in 1859, entitled _Rival Rhymes in Honour of Burns_. - -Unfortunately, the mere trick of imitating the metre only does not -constitute a good parody, and this one lacks both in interest and humour. -It is, besides, very long. The following are some of its best verses:-- - - -THE POET'S BIRTH: - -A MYSTERY. - -_By the P--t L--te._ - -I. - - I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the dirty town, - At the corner of its lips are oozing a foul ferruginous slime, - Like the toothless tobacco-cramm'd mouth of a hag who enriches the - crown - By consuming th 'excised weed,--parent of smuggling crime! - -II. - - 'Tis night; the shivering stars, wrapt in their cloud-blankets - dreaming, - Forget to light an old crone, who to cross the hollow would try; - But watchful Aldebaran, in Taurus's head swift gleaming, - Like a policeman, to help her, turns on his bull's-eye. - -III. - - There's a hovel of mud, and the crone, mudded and muddled, - Knocks, and an oxidized hinge creaks a rusty "Come in." - There are now in the hovel,--a woman in bed-gear huddled, - A careworn man, and a midwife, her functional fee to win. - -IV. - - Midwives are hard as millstones: Expectant father's emotions - Are dragg'd by the heart's wild tide, like seashore shingle, - Shrieking complaint, when the fierce assaults of the ocean - Beat them all round, without an exception single. - - * * * * * - - 1. Darkness! Darkness! Darkness! - Ebon carved idol of wickedness! - Guilty deeds do love thee, - Innocent childhood fears thee; - Therefore these do prove thee - An unbless'd thing!--Who hears thee, - Grisly, gaunt, and lonely,-- - Darkness! Darkness! Darkness! - Thy brother Silence only! - - 2. Lightness! Lightness! Lightness! - Great quality in small things, - A pudding, above all things! - Great quality in great things, - And, not to understate things, - Thou art the essence of sunshine, - Lightness! Lightness! Lightness! - Whose brightness-- - And whiteness-- - Are but lackness - Of blackness. - - Therefore, Darkness! Darkness! - Ebon-carved idol of wickedness! - Let those who love you - And Silence, prove you - And seek! - Not I! - For why?--for why?--for why? - I'll speak! - - * * * * * - - Falling is the snow, - Every frosty flake - Making the round world - Like a wedding-cake. - What is't makes the snow? - Is it frost? No, no! - Petals of the rose - That in the heaven grows, - Thrown by angels down, - In Elysian play, - Make the snow, I say, - To produce a crown - For the bridal day. - - * * * * * - - _Rival Rhymes, in Honour of Burns_, 1859. - - * * * * * - - -MAUD, AND OTHER POEMS. - -By A. T. (D.C.L.) - -SONG. - - Chirrup, chirp, chirp, chirp twitter, - Warble, flutter, and fly away; - Dicky birds, chickey birds--quick, ye bird, - Shut it up, cut it up, die away. - - Maud is going to sing! - Maud with the voice like lute strings, - (To which the sole species of string - I know of that rhymes is boot-strings). - - Still, you may stop, if you please; - Roar as a chorus sonorous, - Robin, bob in at ease; - Tom-tit, prompt it for us. - - Rose or thistle in, whistlin', - (What a beast is her brother!) - Maud has sung from her tongue rung; - Echo it out, - From each shoot shout, - From each root rout-- - "She'll oblige us with another." - - * * * * * - - -Midsummer Madness, - -A SOLILOQUY. - - I am a hearthrug-- - Yes, a rug-- - Though I cannot describe myself as snug; - Yet I know that for me they paid a price - For a Turkey carpet that would suffice - (But we live in an age of rascal vice). - Why was I ever woven, - For a clumsy lout, with a wooden leg, - To come with his endless Peg! Peg! - Peg! Peg! - With a wooden leg, - Till countless holes I'm drove in. - ("Drove," I have said, and it should be "driven" - A hearthrug's blunders should be forgiven, - For wretched scribblers have exercised - Such endless bosh and clamour, - So improvidently have improvised, - That they've utterly ungrammaticised - Our ungrammatical grammar). - And the coals - Burn holes, - Or make spots like moles, - And my lily-white tints, as black as your hat turn, - And the housemaid (a matricide, will-forging slattern), - Rolls - The rolls - From the plate, in shoals, - When they're put to warm in front of the coals; - And no one with me condoles, - For the butter stains on my beautiful pattern. - But the coals and rolls, and sometimes soles, - Dropp'd from the frying-pan out of the fire, - Are nothing to raise my indignant ire, - Like the Peg! Peg! - Of that horrible man with the wooden leg. - - This moral spread from me, - Sing it, ring it, yelp it-- - Never a hearth-rug be, - That is if you can help it. - - * * * * * - - -AN EXTRACT (NOT) FROM TENNYSON'S "MAUD." - - Birds in St. Stephen's garden, - Mocking birds, were bawling-- - "Lord, Lord, Lord, John!" - They were crying and calling. - - Where was John? In a fix! - Gone to Vienna, whither - They'd sent him out of the way,-- - Tories and Whigs together. - - Birds in St. Stephen's sang, - Chattering, chattering round him-- - "John is here, here, here, - Back too soon, confound him!" - - They saw his dirty hands! - Meekly he bore their punning; - John[13] is not seventy yet, - But he's very little and cunning. - - He to show up himself! - How can he ever explain it? - John were certain of place, - If shuffling could retain it. - - * * * * * - - Look, a cab at the door, - Dizzy has snarled for an hour; - Go back, my Lord, for you're a bore, - And at last you're out of power. - - _Our Miscellany._ - -(Which ought to have come out, but didn't). - - * * * * * - - -GRANNY'S HOUSE. - - Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn, - Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the dinner horn. - 'Tis the place, and all about it, as of old, the rat and mouse - Very loudly squeak and nibble, running over Granny's house;-- - Granny's house, with all its cupboards, and its rooms as neat as wax, - And its chairs of wood unpainted, where the old cats rubbed their - backs. - Many a night from yonder garret window, ere I went to rest, - Did I see the cows and horses come in slowly from the west; - Many a night I saw the chickens, flying upward through the trees, - Roosting on the sleety branches, when I thought their feet would - freeze; - Here about the garden wandered, nourishing a youth sublime - With the beans, and sweet potatoes, and the melons which were prime; - When the pumpkin-vines behind me with their precious fruit reposed, - When I clung about the pear-tree, for the promise that it closed. - When I dipt into the dinner far as human eye could see, - Saw the vision of the pie, and all the dessert that would be. - In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; - In the spring the noisy pullet gets herself another nest; - In the spring a livelier spirit makes the ladies' tongues more glib; - In the spring a young boy's fancy lightly hatches up a fib. - Then her cheek was plump and fatter than should be for one so old, - And she eyed my every motion, with a mute intent to scold. - And I said, "My worthy Granny, now I speak the truth to thee,-- - "Better believe it,--I have eaten all the apples from one tree." - On her kindling cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, - As I have seen the rosy red flashing in the northern night; - And she turned,--her fist was shaken at the coolness of the lie; - She was mad, and I could see it, by the snapping of her eye, - Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do thee wrong,"-- - Saying, "I shall whip you, Sammy, whipping I shall go it strong." - She took me up, and turned me pretty roughly, when she'd done, - And every time she shook me, I tried to jerk and run; - She took off my little coat, and struck again with all her might, - And before another minute, I was free, and out of sight. - Many a morning, just to tease her, did I tell her stories yet, - Though her whisper made me tingle, when she told me what I'd get; - Many an evening did I see her where the willow sprouts grew thick, - And I rushed away from Granny at the touching of her stick. - O my Granny, old and ugly, O my Granny's hateful deeds, - O the empty, empty garret, O the garden gone to weeds, - Crosser than all fancy fathoms, crosser than all songs have sung, - I was puppet to your threat, and servile to your shrewish tongue, - Is it well to wish thee happy, having seen thy whip decline - On a boy with lower shoulders, and a narrower back than mine? - Hark, my merry comrades call me, sounding on the dinner-horn, - They to whom my Granny's whippings were a target for their scorn; - Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string? - I am shamed through all my nature to have loved the mean old thing; - Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's spite, - Nature made them quicker motions, a considerable sight. - Woman is the lesser man, and all thy whippings matched with mine - Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine. - Here at least when I was little, something, O, for some retreat - Deep in yonder crowded city where my life began to beat, - Where one winter fell my father, slipping off a keg of lard, - I was left a trampled orphan, and my case was pretty hard. - Or to burst all links of habit, and to wander far and fleet, - On from farm-house unto farm-house till I found my Uncle Pete, - Larger sheds and barns, and newer, and a better neighbourhood, - Greater breadth of field and woodlands, and an orchard just as good. - Never comes my Granny, never cuts her willow switches there; - Boys are safe at Uncle Peter's, I'll bet you what you dare. - Hangs the heavy-fruited pear-tree: you may eat just what you like. - 'Tis a sort of little Eden, about two miles off the pike. - There, methinks, would be enjoyment, more than being quite so near - To the place where even in manhood I almost shake with fear. - There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing - space. - I will 'scape that savage woman; she shall never rear my race; - Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive and they shall run; - She has caught me like a wild-goat, but she shall not catch my son. - He shall whistle to the dog, and get the books from off the shelf, - Not, with blinded eyesight, cutting ugly whips to whip himself. - Fool again, the dream of fancy! no, I don't believe it's bliss, - But I'm certain Uncle Peter's is a better place than this. - Let them herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of all glorious gains, - Like the horses in the stables, like the sheep that crop the lanes; - Let them mate with dirty cousins--what to me were style or rank, - I the heir of twenty acres, and some money in the bank? - Not in vain the distance beckons, forward let us urge our load, - Let our cart-wheels spin till sundown, ringing down the grooves of - road; - Through the white dust of the turnpike she can't see to give us chase: - Better seven years at Uncle's than fourteen at Granny's place. - O, I see the blessed promise of my spirit hath not set! - If we once get in the wagon, we will circumvent her yet. - Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Granny's farm; - Not for me she'll cut the willows, not at me she'll shake her arm. - Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, - Cramming all the blast before it,--guess it holds a thunderbolt: - Wish't would fall on Granny's house, with rain, or hail, or fire, or - snow, - Let me get my horses started Uncle Pete-ward, and I'll go. - - _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. - - Boston, United States, 1854. - - * * * * * - - -THE SQUATTER'S 'BACCY FAMINE. - - In blackest gloom he cursed his lot; - His breath was one long, weary sigh; - His brows were gathered in a knot - That only baccy could untie. - His oldest pipe was scraped out clean; - The deuce a puff was left him there; - A hollow sucking sound of air - Was all he got his lips between. - He only said, "My life is dreary, - The Baccy's done," he said, - He said, "I am aweary, aweary; - By Jove, I'm nearly dead." - - The chimney-piece he searched in vain, - Into each pocket plunged his fist; - His cheek was blanched with weary pain, - His mouth awry for want of twist. - He idled with his baccy knife; - He had no care for daily bread:-- - A single stick of Negro-head - Would be to him the staff of life. - He only said, "My life is dreary. - The Baccy's done," he said. - He said, "I am aweary, aweary; - I'd most as soon be dead." - - Books had no power to mend his grief; - The magazines could tempt no more; - "Cut gold-leaf" was the only leaf - That he had cared to ponder o'er. - From chair to sofa sad he swings, - And then from sofa back to chair; - But in the depths of his despair - Can catch no "bird's-eye" view of things. - And still he said, "My life is dreary. - No Baccy, boys," he said. - He said, "I am aweary, aweary; - I'd just as soon be dead." - - His meals go by, he knows not how; - No taste in flesh, or fowl, or fish; - There's not a dish could tempt him now, - Except a cake of Caven-dish. - His life is but a weary drag; - He cannot choose but curse and swear, - And thrust his fingers through his hair, - All shaggy in the want of shag. - And still he said, "My life is dreary. - No Baccy, boys," he said. - He said, "I am aweary, aweary; - I'd rather far be dead." - - To him one end of old cheroot - Were sweetest root that ever grew. - No honey were due substitute - For "Our Superior Honey-Dew." - One little fig of Latakia - Would buy all fruits of Paradise; - "Prince Alfred's Mixture" fetch a price - Above both Prince and Galatea. - Sudden he said, "No more be dreary! - The dray has come!" he said. - He said, "I'll smoke till I am weary,-- - And then I'll go to bed." - -_Miscellaneous Poems_, by J. Brunton. Stephens. (Macmillan and Co., -London), 1880. - -This book contains several other amusing parodies of the poems of -Swinburne, E. A. Poe, and Coleridge, which will be quoted in future parts -of the collection. They all relate to Colonial life, and are now difficult -to meet with, as all the unsold copies of the book have been returned to -the author, who resides in Australia. - - * * * * * - - -THE VOICE AND THE PIQUE. - -(Amended Edition, by the P-- L--.) - - The Voice and the Pique! - It was once a beautiful Voice - From a girl with roseate cheek, - Who made my heart rejoice. - - But the Voice--or the girl--ah, which? - Against me took a Pique, - Because I was not so rich - As she thought--and the voice grew a squeak. - - Hast thou no voice, O Pique? - Thou hast, uncommonly shrill: - And I know that a Maiden meek - May grow to a wife with a will. - - Ah, misery comes, and miscarriage, - To all who wear fleshly fetters; - She's made a Capital marriage-- - I mourn in Capital Letters. - - _Punch_, October 17, 1874. - - * * * * * - - -THE PLAINT OF THE PLUMBER AND BUILDER. - -(In the case of Dee v. Dalgairns, the plaintiff, a plumber by trade, sued -the defendant Dalgairns, a Civil Engineer, for the sum of thirty pounds -for the erection of a lavatory. The defendant made a counter claim of one -hundred and twenty pounds, on the ground that the work being improperly -done, sewer gas escaped into the house, and caused the illness of six -members of the household, and the death of his son. He, therefore, claimed -the doctor's bill and other expenses. The Judge struck out the plaintiff's -claim, and gave judgment for the defendant). - - -SOLO BY THE PLUMBER. - - "I scamp the joints. I scamp the drains. - I am an artful Plumber; - You'll feel my hand in winter's rains, - You'll sniff it in the summer." - - "I dig, I delve, I patch, I pry, - And lay the pipes so badly, - That even bland Surveyors sigh, - And tenants chatter madly." - -(_Here the Jerry Builder breaks in with his Jeremiad_). - - "I build my floors on rags and bones, - Or lush organic matter; - Or where the grass in swampy zones - Grows greener and grows fatter." - - "My doors are sure to warp in time, - My slates let in the water; - Take equal parts of dust and slime. - And there you have my mortar." - - "I build my wall with many a trick, - So shrewd as to astound one; - With here and there a rotten brick, - And here and there a sound one." - -_The Artful Plumber resumes his plaint;_-- - - "The sewer-pipe I love to lay, - Connecting with the cistern; - And where's the law that dares to say, - The tenant should have _his_ turn?" - -_Finale by the Pair:_-- - - "Why, here's a Judge who would restrain - Our right to scatter fever! - Should this decision stand, 'tis plain - We _can't_ scamp on for ever!" - - _Punch._ - - * * * * * - - -LIBERAL LYRICS. - -(_Apropos_ of Mr. Gladstone's visit to Scotland). - -A LONG WAY AFTER LORD TENNYSON'S "BROOK." - - I've spouted o'er the land o' Burns, - I've made a gushing sally, - Although I fear, with true Returns, - My speeches will not tally, - - From town to town I've hurried down, - I've talked on hills and ridges; - At railway stations played the clown, - And gabbled from their bridges. - - I've chattered over stony ways. - I've chattered through the heather, - I've doused and soused the Rads with praise, - To keep myself together. - - I chatter, chatter, my words flow - As fast as any river; - Tho' some men's language may be slow, - I can talk on for ever. - - I wind about, and in and out, - I bolster up each failing; - But though I wheedle, brag, and shout, - There's nothing like plain sailing. - - Oh! bless me, what a lot of plots - My tongue elastic covers; - Though Tories ain't forget-me-nots, - Nor Rads precisely lovers. - - The Franchise is my party cry, - The Lords my latest craze is, - And till they both are settled--why, - All things may go to blazes! - - Yet, still my eloquence shall flow - Like some loquacious river; - For men may come and men may go, - I gabble on for ever. - - _England_, September 27, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE TRAIN. - - I come from haunts of Smith and Son, - I agitate the vapours, - I take in Judy, Punch, and Fun, - And all the morning Papers; - And all the magazines besides, - Since Chambers's began, - And all varieties of guides, - And all degrees of man. - - I roll away like "thunder live," - With half a ship the freight of; - Six hundred miles a day at five - Times ten an hour the rate of. - Twice twenty streets I intersect, - And flash o'er twenty runnels. - With many loops the towns connect, - And vanish in the tunnels. - - And out again I curve, and so - Pursue my destination; - For men may come and men may go, - And stop at any station. - I echo down the mountain pass, - I pass fine ruins over, - As light as harebell in the grass, - Or leveret in the clover. - - Like Orpheus the trees I charm, - And set the hedgerows dancing; - With here a forest, there a farm - Retiring and advancing. - I draw them all along, and thread - The counties everywhere, - As men must have their daily bread, - So I my daily fare. - - _Chambers' Journal._ - -Another imitation (and a very long one) of the same original, appeared in -_Punch_, October 11, 1884, and a parody entitled _The Mill_ was in _Judy_, -April 26, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -SONG SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY MR. BURNE-JONES. - - "Come into my studio Maud, - If you've chalk'd your face, my own; - Come into my studio, Maud, - I am here at the easel alone; - And the _pot-pourri's_ odour is wafted abroad, - And the scent of the patchouli blown. - - "For I've shut the bright morning out, - With a saffron yellow blind; - And I've thrown my brick-dust velvet about, - And the sage-green curtain untwined; - So haste, my darling, the sun to flout - In your rust-red robe enshrined. - - "All night, as you may have heard, - I've toss'd in a _fantaisie_, - Whether to paint my dear little bird - As a 'Nocturne' or 'Symphony;' - But now I have pass'd my æsthetic word, - An 'arrangement' you are to be. - - "I said to the corpse: 'There is to be one - Who'll be ghastly as your cold clay; - Aye, bluer than you before I have done, - And with hair like glorified hay.' - Come, Maud, it is time that we had begun, - So hasten, my love, I pray, - Or we shan't be able to keep out the sun; - Don't bismuth yourself all day. - - "I said to our surgeon: 'You often go - Where women suffer and pine, - But I bet that a painted face I'll show - Of a love-sick model of mine, - That will beat them all for hopeless woe - And cadaverous design! - - "And our surgeon said, 'No doubt you will, - For the epicene women you paint - Are bilious ghosts in want of a pill, - With undoubted strumous taint; - So hollow-eyed and cheek'd, no skill - Could save them from feeling faint.' - - "Queen Corpse of my graveyard garden of girls, - Come hither, o'er carpets dun, - In your rust-red robe and you're soot-black pearls; - Queen, spectre, and corpse in one! - Shine out, corpse candles, above her curls, - And be the picture's sun! - - "Oh, come! for I've managed to mix - A charnel-house-ish hue; - Oh, come! that your lord may fix - This cholera-morbus blue! - The patchouli whispers: 'She's near, she's near!' - And her musk-drops say: ''Tis true!' - And the creak of her slippers, I hear, I hear, - They're the colour of liquid glue. - - "She is coming, my bilious sweet; - I can see her tawny head; - Her footsteps are far from fleet, - She's tied back till she scarce can tread; - But yet shall her face yours meet, - When the months of the winter have fled, - On the walls of the Grosvenor hung complete - In dissecting-room blue and red!" - - _Truth_, December 26, 1878. - - * * * * * - - -COME INTO "THE GARDEN," MAUD! - -_A very Ideal Idyl of the (we hope not very remote) Future._ - - Come into "the Garden," MAUD! - For the Mudford blight is flown; - Come into "the Garden," MAUD! - I am here by the "Hummums" alone; - No garbage stenches are wafted abroad, - And the slime from the pavement's gone. - - For a breeze of morning blows, - Yet my hand is not compelled - To hold up my handkerchief close to my nose, - As it had to be always held, - When the shops in the market of old would unclose, - And the cry of the porters swelled. - - All night have the suburbs heard - The wheels of the waggons grind; - All night has the driver, with seldom a word, - His horses nodded behind; - And your waggoner is as early a bird - As in Babylon one may find. - - I say to myself, "No, there is not one - To block up the street and stay - Till the hum of the City hath well begun." - I chortle in joyaunce gay. - "Now half to the Southern suburbs are gone, - And half to the North. Hooray! - Low on the wood, and loud on the stone - The last wheel echoes away." - - I say, this _is_ better now, goodness knows, - Than it was but a short time syne. - Oho! my Lord Duke, I am glad to suppose - That much of the credit is thine, - And that I need not go softly and hold my nose, - Or feel sick like a man on the brine. - - No scent of rank refuse goes into my blood - As I stand in the central hall; - And long in "the Garden" I've strolled and stood, - Without feeling qualmish at all. - And I say, "This is really exceeding good, - An improvement that's far from small." - - The paths, roads, and gutters are almost sweet, - And the stodge, like fœtid size, - That used to impede one, and foul one's feet, - No longer offends one's eyes. - 'Tis a pleasantish place for two lovers to meet-- - Quite an urban paradise. - - So, sweetest, most sensitive-nostril'd of girls, - Come hither!--the stenches are gone. - Foul dust blows no more in malodorous whirls, - No cabbage-leaves rot in the sun, - Damp-reek from choked gutter won't straighten your curls, - So come--'twill be really good fun! - - _Punch_, December 16, 1882. - -_Punch_ has long been calling attention to the disgraceful condition of -Covent Garden Market, but hitherto without the slightest success. The -Duke of Bedford appears to totally ignore the fact that property has its -duties, as well as its privileges; and it seems probable that even the -simplest remedies and improvements on his estate will be neglected, until -public attention is drawn to the foul market and its adjacent slums, by -the outbreak of some epidemic. - -There was another parody of "Come into the Garden, Maud," in _Punch_, May -23, 1868. - - * * * * * - - -ANGLING IN THE RYE. - -(A wicked parody on Tennyson's "Old and New Year.") - - I STOOD by a river in the wet, - Where trout and grayling often met, - And waters were rushing and rolling; - And I said: "O Fish, a dainty dish, - Is there aught that is worth the trolling?" - Fishes enough there are rising, - Nibbles so often cajoling, - Matter enough for surmising, - But aught that is worth the trolling? - Waves at my feet were rolling, - Winds o'er the Rye were sailing, - But, alas! for all my trolling - For wily trout and grayling! - - E. H. RICHES, L.L.D. - -_College Rhymes_, 1868 (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford. - -The following scientific _jeu d'esprit_ is wafted to us all the way from -San Francisco. Professor O. C. Marsh, of Yale College, is a champion of -Darwinism. He has, however, few followers in America, where Agassiz, -Dawson, and other men of science, hold more orthodox views. - - -A PARODY. - -(Addressed to Professor O. C. Marsh, by a Non-uniformitarian.) - - Break, break, break - At thy cold, grey stones, O. C.! - And I would that my tongue could utter - The thoughts that arise in me. - - O well for the five-toed horse! - That his bones are at rest in the clay: - O well for the ungulate brute! - That he roams o'er the prairie to-day. - - Thy rocks bear the record of life, - Evolved from Time's earliest dawn. - But O for the view of a vanished form, - And the link that is missing and gone! - - Break, break, break - At thy fossils, and stones, O. C.! - But the gentle charm of Uniform Law - Can never quite satisfy me. - - * * * * * - - -TEARS, IDLE TEARS. - -(The Right Hon. Spencer Walpole, Home Secretary, shed tears when he heard -that the Hyde Park Railings had been pulled down by the people to whom he -had denied access to the Park). - - Tears, idle tears--a sweet sensation scene-- - Tears at the thought of that Hyde Park affair - Rise in the eye, and trickle down the nose, - In looking on the haughty EDMOND BEALES, - And thinking of the shrubs that are no more. - - (_Three verses omitted_). - - _Punch_, August 25, 1866. - - * * * * * - -In one of the early Christmas numbers of _Fun_ there appeared a parody -entitled "The Dream of Unfair Women." It concluded thus:-- - - "A maid, blue-stockinged, broke the silence drear, - And flashing forth a winning smile, said she: - 'Tis long since I have seen a man, come here, - Play croquet now with me!'" - - "She spooned, and cheated, and had ancles thick. - I let her win, the game was such a bore, - Her bright ball quivered at the coloured stick, - Touched--and--we played no more." - -The trick of Tennyson's blank verse, as displayed in some of his early and -lighter poems, was admirably imitated by Bayard Taylor in the "Diversions -of the Echo Club," (now published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus). The -parody is entitled "Eustace Green; or, the Medicine Bottle." - -In the second volume of "Echoes from the Clubs" several instances are -given of plagiarisms committed by Tennyson; whilst in "The Figaro" of -October 27, 1875, whole passages from his tragedy of Queen Mary are shown -to have been borrowed. - -Long extracts from the second scene, of the second act, are printed side -by side with similar passages taken from the twenty-eighth chapter of -Ainsworth's old novel, "The Tower of London," showing conclusively that -Tennyson had either appropriated from Ainsworth without acknowledgment, or -that both authors had gone to the same source for inspiration. Again, the -beauties of "The Idylls of the King" are generally insisted on without any -mention being made of the fact that in all the main incidents the poems -simply retell the old "History of King Arthur, and of the Knights of the -Round Table," as compiled by Sir Thomas Malory more than four centuries -ago. Indeed, some of the most pathetic passages of the old original have -been utterly marred; their simple charm and quaint pathos being lost in -the over elaboration of detail affected by the Laureate. The beauty of his -blank verse is admitted, and the Idylls have been frequently parodied. -Unfortunately, most of the parodies are too long to quote in full in this -Part. - - -AN IDYLL OF PHATTE AND LEENE. - - The hale John Sprat--oft called for shortness, Jack-- - Had married--had, in fact, a wife--and she - Did worship him with wifely reverence. - He, who had loved her when she was a girl, - Compass'd her, too, with sweet observances; - His love shone out in every act he did; - E'en at the dinner table did it shine. - For he--liking no fat himself--he never did, - With jealous care piled up her plate with lean, - Not knowing that all lean was hateful to her. - And day by day she thought to tell him o't, - And watched the fat go out with envious eye, - But could not speak for bashful delicacy. - - At last it chanced that on a winter day, - The beef--a prize joint!--little was but fat; - So fat, that John had all his work cut out, - To snip out lean in fragments for his wife, - Leaving, in very sooth, none for himself; - Which seeing, she spoke courage to her soul, - Took up her fork, and, pointing to the joint - Where 'twas the fattest, piteously she said: - "O, husband! full of love and tenderness! - What is the cause that you so jealously - Pick out the lean for me? I like it not! - Nay! loathe it--'tis on the fat that I would feast; - O me, I fear you do not like my taste!" - Then he, dropping his horny-handled carving knife, - Sprinkling therewith the gravy o'er her gown, - Answer'd, amazed: "What! you like fat, my wife! - And never told me. O, this is not kind! - Think what your reticence has wrought for us: - How all the fat sent down unto the maid-- - Who likes not fat--for such maids never do-- - Has been put in the waste-tub, sold for grease, - And pocketed as servants' perquisite! - O, wife! this news is good; for since, perforce, - A joint must be nor fat nor lean, but both; - Our different tastes will serve our purpose well; - For, while you eat the fat--the lean to me - Falls as my cherished portion. Lo! 'tis good!" - So henceforth--he that tells the tale relates-- - In John Sprat's household waste was quite unknown; - For he the lean did eat, and she the fat, - And thus the dinner-platter was all cleared. - - _The Figaro_, February 12, 1873. - - * * * * * - - -THE PASSING OF M'ARTHUR. - -(_An Idyll of the Ninth of November_). - - So through the morn the noise of bustle roll'd - About the precincts of the Mansion House, - Until at last M'Arthur, the Lord Mayor, - Was with his Secretary left alone. - - Then Mayor M'Arthur to Sir Soulsby spake: - "The sequel of to-day doth terminate - The goodliest series of civic jaunts - Whereof my mind holds record. Of a truth, - It was a glorious time! I think that I - Shall never more, in any future year, - Delight my soul with welcoming to feasts, - And taking chairs, as in the year just gone; - For my Chief Magistracy perisheth. - But now delay not! to the window run, - Watch what thou see'st, and lightly bring me word." - - Then did the bold Sir Soulsby answer make: - "No call have I to follow thy behest; - Look for thyself--thine eyes are good as mine!" - - To whom replied M'Arthur, much in wrath: - "Ah, miserable and unkind, and untrue, - Ungrateful Secretary! Woe is me! - Authority forgets the late Lord Mayor, - When he lies widow'd of official pow'r - That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art; - Thou think'st with thine old master to have done, - And wouldst neglect him for the new forthwith. - Yet, for a man may fail in duty once - And presently repent him, get thee hence: - But if thou spare to go and bring me word, - I will arise and clout thee with my hands." - - Then quickly rose Sir Soulsby, and he ran - To the great window by the street, and cried: - "Your lordship, I perceive a gallant coach, - Drawn by four glossy horses, waits below, - With well-fed coachman sitting on the box. - And gold-laced lackeys hanging on behind." - - Then groaned M'Arthur, "Take me to the coach," - So to the coach they came. There lackeys three - Leap'd to the ground, and seized his Lordship's arms, - And hitch'd him up, and closely shut the door. - - Then loudly did the bold Sir Soulsby cry: - "Ah! my Lord Mayor M'Arthur, dost thou go? - Shall I not show my sorrow in my eyes? - For now I see thy glorious time is dead, - When every morning brought some famous scheme, - And every scheme resulted in success. - Such time hath not been since I first became, - A sort of fixture in the Mansion House. - But now thy term of office hath expired, - And I no longer serving thee, must stay - To travail 'mong new faces, other minds." - - Slowly M'Arthur answer'd from the coach: - "The old Mayor changeth, yielding place to new, - Lest one good citizen have all the fun. - Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? - My reign is o'er, nor may it do thee harm - If thou dost never see my face again. - But now farewell. I am going a long way - With these thou see'st--if, indeed, we can - (For narrow and becrowded is the route)-- - Before the new Lord Mayor to Westminster, - Where many worthies are awaiting us; - Thence the brave Show must citywards return - To be dissolved at the famed Guildhall, - And I at length in limbo shall repose-- - Limbo of Aldermen who've passed the chair." - - So said he; and the gallant coach-and-four - Moved off, like some prodigious equipage - That seems quite natural in pantomime, - But strange in real life. Sir Soulsby stood - Long meditating, till the gold cock'd hats - Those lackeys wore, looked like a single spark, - And down Cheapside the cheering died away. - - _The St. James's Gazette_, November 9, 1881. - - * * * * * - - -GARNET. - -(_An Idyll of the Queen_). - - GARNET the Brave, GARNET the Fortunate, - GARNET the Victor, made by Ashantee, - Heard once again War's summons to the East, - Heard and rejoiced, and straightway set himself - To strenuous strife, and subtle shift, to toil - All-various, and the crowning of his fame, - - For from the sand-flats hard by Nilus' shore - Arose Rebellion's clamant voice, rang out - The cry of slaughtered Britons, echoed soon - By thunderous bellowing of brave BEAUCHAMP'S guns. - Then peaceful GLADSTONE sudden stood and smote - With rounded fist the Council-board, as though - It were the Commons' Table, and his foe, - DIZZY, once more before him, smote and cried, - "By Jingo, this _won't_ do!!!"--lapsing in heat - To passing invocation of a name - Late odious in his ears. Whereon arose - Conflicting chorussings of praise and blame-- - This atrabilious, half-ironic that-- - From doubting Tories, dubious Liberals, - Much-gibing GREENWOOD, pert, implacable; - And peevish PASSMORE, sourly posing sole - As Abdiel--with the hump. - But GARNET, glad - With a great gladness Sand-boys may not match, - And cheer beyond the chirping cricket's, set - His face toward far Pharaoh-land, where still, - Pyramid-perched, the Forty Centuries - Of the thrasonic Corsican looked down, - Twigging the coming Pocket-Cæsar. - - * * * * * - - _Punch_, October 7, 1882. - - * * * * * - - -JACK SPRATT. - -(_After Tennyson_). - - Within the limits of well-ordered law - They lived, this thrifty squire and eke his spouse; - No discord marred the genial dinner hour, - Where union rooted in dis-union stood, - And tastes divergent served the end in view; - What he would not, she would, what she not, he; - So in all courtesie the meal progressed - And soon the viands wholly passed from sight. - - J. M. LOWRY, 1884. - - * * * * * - -The plot of the Idyll, "Gareth and Lynnette," was given, in burlesque -style, by Mr. Martin Wood in "The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette" shortly -after the appearance of the original. - -"The Quest of the Holy Poker," a parody in blank verse appeared in -_Punch_, March 5, 1870. - -Three long Idyllic parodies, entitled "Willie and Minnie" appeared in -_Kottabos_, a Trinity College magazine, published in Dublin by Mr. W. -McGee, in 1876. - -_The St. Paul's Magazine_ of January, 1872, contained a most amusing -political Idyll, entitled "_The Latest Tournament_"--an Idyll of the Queen -(respectfully inscribed to Alfred Tennyson, Esq., Poet Laureate). This -parody, which consists of nearly 400 lines, describes, in a mock-heroic -style, all the principal political celebrities of the day, its satire -being aimed at the supposed Republican tendencies of the Liberal party. - -"The Prince's Noses," a modern Idyll, by W. J. Linton, a parody of -Tennyson's blank verse, appeared in _Scribner's Monthly Magazine_, April, -1880. - -_Punch_, May 27, 1882, contained a poem entitled "On the Hill; or, -Tennysonian Fragments, picked up near the Grand Stand." This was an -imitation of style only. - -"Tory Revels" (_slightly altered from Tennyson_) in _Punch_, August 26, -1882, commenced thus:-- - - "SIR GYPES TOLLODDLE, all an Autumn day, - Gave his broad, breezy lands, till set of sun, - Up to the Tories." - -and described a Conservative political picnic. It concluded:-- - - "Then there were fireworks; and overhead - SIR GYPES TOLLODDLE'S aisles of lofty limes - Made noise with beer and bunkum, and with squibs." - -_The Wheel World_, October, 1882, contained a long parody, entitled -"London to Leicester; a Bicycling Idyl, by Talfred Ennyson (Poet Laureate -to the Mental Wanderers, B.C.)" This is written in very blank verse, and -is chiefly interesting to 'Cyclists. - -_Pastime_, June 29, 1883, contained "TENNIS, a Fragment of the Lost -Tennisiad," and July 27, 1883, "The Lay of the Seventh Tournament," both -being parodies of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King." - -The small detached poems which Lord Tennyson has written for the magazines -of late years, have been the cause of numerous and very unflattering -parodies. - -The following "Prefatory Poem," by Alfred Tennyson, appeared in the first -number of the "Nineteenth Century," published in March, 1877, by Messrs. -Henry S. King and Co., London:-- - - Those that of late had fleeted far and fast - To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill - Of others their old craft, seaworthy still, - Have charter'd this; where mindful of the past, - Our true co-mates regather round the mast; - Of diverse tongue, but with a common will, - Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil - And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast; - For some descending from the sacred peak - Of hoar, high-templed faith, have leagued again - Their lot with ours, to rove the world about; - And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek - If any golden harbour be for men - In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt. - -Upon which Mr. John Whyte (of the Public Library, Inverness) wrote the -following:-- - - "I felt sure on reading the above lines that I had seen among my - papers something nearly as prosy. The following is, I consider, not - only quite as stiff as the foregoing, but it seems to me to prove - beyond question that the one was suggested by the other. Whether the - Poet Laureate or the author of 'The Last Hat' is the plagiarist, I - leave others to decide. - - -THE LAST HAT LEFT. - - Those low-born cubs who sneaked away so fast, - Have picked all the best hats, and left the worst - To others. For their craft may they be cursed - Who left me this! I mind me of the past-- - I stalked along, and felt tall as a mast, - In my new beaver; with this bashed old pot, - Under the shining moon, like seedy sot, - I must go creeping forth, or brave the blast - Bareheaded. Should I chance to meet the _beak_, - I swear by faith, I'll send him on their trail; - The lot we'll follow the old world about, - Among their wilder comrades, sworn to seek - And find the thief; their doom be, if we fail-- - Disease and death--long years of mumps and gout!" - - * * * * * - - -THE CITY MONTENEGRO. - -(_One More Sonnet for the Laureate's New Book_). - -(_Apropos_ of the hideous obstruction which marks the site of old Temple -Bar, and remarkable as being a very close parody of Tennyson's sonnet on -"Montenegro," which appeared in the Nineteenth Century, May, 1877). - - I rose to show them a half-sovran tail, - To turn to chaff their "freedom" on this height, - Grim, comic, savage; worse by day and night - Than any Turk: yet here, all over scale, - I watch the passer as his footsteps fail, - With dauntless hundreds struggling main and might - To cross,--the one policeman out of sight,-- - And reach this haven where the strongest quail. - - O, smallest among steeples! Precious throne - Of Freedom! Why, I merely swell the swarm - That surge and seethe in curses and in tears! - Great Gog and Magog! Never since thine own - Odd dodges drew the cloud and brake the storm, - Have you produced a mightier crop of jeers! - - _Punch_, December 11, 1880. - - * * * * * - - -RIZPAH, 1883. - -(_Written expressly for this collection_). - - Railing, railing, railing, the crowd from town and lea, - When William's voice was heard, "O poet a peer to be!" - "Why should he call me, I wonder, in that high-born house to go, - For my politics won't bear searching, and my creed's rather mixed, - you know? - - "We should be laughed at, my William, 'twould be the jest of the town; - Even the knights would jeer, and the press sure to cry it down. - Why, I can but rule my own land; when I tried awhile for the stage, - I only drew empty houses, in this cynical latter age. - - "Anything failed again? Nay, what is there left to fail?-- - 'Harold,' or 'Mary,' or 'May,' or even the 'Lover's Tale?' - What am I saying, and why? fails!--that must be a lie! - Fails--what fails?--not my faith in play writing, not I. - - "Why will you call up here?--who are you?--what have you heard - That you all sit so solemn and quiet?--nobody's spoken a word. - O, to make of me--yes, his lordship! none of the scribbling crew - Have crept in by their rhymes before, as I have dared to do. - - "Ah! you that have lived so soft, what do you know of the spite, - The cutting and slashing critiques that the wretched papers write? - I have known it; when you were amused in the stalls the first - night of a play, - And chattered and gossipped together, and forgot it the very next day. - - "Nay, but it's kind of you, William, to gild my declining life, - And make me a peer, a baron, above all this petty strife; - But I haven't left off scribbling, and shall not--no, not I; - But I'll write whenever I will, for the public's sure to buy. - - "I whipt Miss Bulwer for jeering, and gave it him, slightly riled, - For mocking at me, or my poems, has always driven me wild. - To be idle--I couldn't be idle--I do not write for a whim, - And a guinea a line is better than a short "Italian Hymn." - - "So, William, I thank you gladly; I think you meant to be kind; - And I will not heed the mob, whilst they'll very quickly find - The poems will read as well by a Lord as ever they did before, - And the publishers sell more copies, and more, and more, and more. - See how it reads for yourself, to be stuck up on every wall, - Lord Tennyson's Poems complete, in a specially printed Vol." - - W. - -_The Nineteenth Century_ for November, 1881, contained a very -uncomfortable kind of poem, by Tennyson, entitled "DESPAIR, a Dramatic -Monologue." The argument of the poem was that "a man and his wife having -lost faith in a God, and hope of a life to come, and being utterly -miserable in this, resolve to end themselves by drowning. The woman -is drowned, but the man is rescued by a minister of the sect he had -abandoned." - -_The Fortnightly Review_ of the following month contained a parody which -not only turned inside out the arguments of the original poem, but was so -exquisitely worded as a burlesque that it was by many attributed to the -pen of no less a poet than Mr. A. C. Swinburne. - - -DISGUST: A DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. - - (A woman and her husband, having been converted from free thought to - Calvinism, and being utterly miserable in consequence, resolve to - end themselves by poison. The man dies, but the woman is rescued by - application of the stomach-pump). - -I. - - PILLS? talk to me of your pills? Well, that, I must say is cool. - Can't bring my old man round? he was always a stubborn old fool. - If I hadn't taken precautions--a warning to all that wive-- - He might not have been dead, and I might not have been alive. - -II. - - You would like to know, if I please, how it was that our troubles - began? - You see, we were brought up Agnostics, I and my poor old man. - And we got some idea of selection and evolution, you know-- - Professor Huxley's doing--where does he expect to go! - -III. - - Well, then came trouble on trouble on trouble--I may say, a peck-- - And his cousin was wanted one day on the charge of forging a cheque-- - And his puppy died of the mange--my parrot choked on its perch. - This was the consequence, was it, of not going weekly to church? - -IV. - - So we felt that the best if not only thing that remained to be done - On an earth everlastingly moving about a perpetual sun, - Where worms breed worms to be eaten of worms that have eaten their - betters-- - And reviewers are barely civil--and people get spiteful letters-- - And a famous man is forgot ere the minute hand can tick nine-- - Was to send in our P.P.C., and purchase a packet of strychnine. - -V. - - Nay--but first we thought it was rational--only fair-- - To give both parties a hearing--and went to the meeting-house there, - At the curve of the street that runs from the Stag to the old Blue - Lion. - "Little Zion" they call it--a deal more "little" than "Zion." - -VI. - - And the preacher preached from the text, "Come out of her." Hadn't - we come? - And we thought of the Shepherd in Pickwick--and fancied a flavour of - rum - Balmily borne on the wind of his words--and my man said, "Well, - Let's get out of this, my dear--for his text has a brimstone smell." - -VII. - - So we went, O God, out of chapel--and gazed, ah God, at the sea. - And I said nothing to him. And he said nothing to me. - -VIII. - - And there, you see, was an end of it all. It was obvious, in fact, - That, whether or not you believe in the doctrine taught in a tract, - Life was not in the least worth living. Because, don't you see? - Nothing that can't be, can, and what must be, must. Q.E.D. - And the infinitesimal sources of Infinite Unideality - Curve in to the central abyss of a sort of a queer Personality. - Whose refraction is felt in the nebulæ strewn in the pathway of Mars - Like the pairings of nails Æonian--clippings and snippings of stars-- - Shavings of suns that revolve and evolve and involve--and at times - Give a sweet astronomical twang to remarkably hobbling rhymes. - -IX. - - And the sea curved in with a moan--and we thought how once--before - We fell out with those atheist lecturers--once, ah, once and no more, - We read together, while midnight blazed like the Yankee flag, - A reverend gentleman's work--the Conversion of Colonel Quagg. - And out of its pages we gathered this lesson of doctrine pure-- - Zephaniah Stockdolloger's gospel--a word that deserves to endure - Infinite millions on millions of Infinite Æons to come-- - "Vocation," says he, "is vocation, and duty duty. Some." - -X. - - And duty, said I, distinctly points out--and vocation, said he, - Demands as distinctly--that I should kill you, and that you should - kill me. - The reason is obvious--we cannot exist without creeds--who can? - So we went to the chemist's--a highly respectable church-going man-- - And bought two packets of poison. You wouldn't have done so. Wait. - It's evident, Providence is not with you, ma'am, the same thing as - Fate. - Unconscious cerebration educes God from a fog, - But spell God backwards, what then? Give it up? the answer is, dog. - (I don't exactly see how this last verse is to scan, - But that's a consideration I leave to the secular man). - -XI. - - I meant of course to go with him--as far as I pleased--but first - To see how my old man liked it--I thought perhaps he might burst. - I didn't wish it--but still it's a blessed release for a wife-- - And he saw that I thought so--and grinned in derision--and threatened - my life - If I made wry faces--and so I took just a sip--and he-- - Well--you know how it ended--he didn't get over me. - -XII. - - Terrible, isn't it? Still, on reflection, it might have been worse. - He might have been the unhappy survivor, and followed my hearse. - "Never do it again?" Why, certainly not. You don't - Suppose I should think of it, surely? But anyhow--there--I won't. - - * * * * * - -There still remain a great many parodies of Tennyson's poems to be quoted, -and every day increases their number. It will, therefore, be necessary -to return to this author in some future part of this collection; the -following references are given to some of the more easily accessible -parodies, which space will not now permit me to quote in full:-- - -"Edinburgh Sketches and Miscellanies." By Eric. Edinburgh and Glasgow: -John Menzies and Company, 1876, contains _Codger's Hall_, a long and -humorous parody of _Locksley Hall;_ Once a Week, Echoes from the Clubs, -and The Weekly Dispatch, October 19, 1884, also contained parodies of the -same poem. - -_Lady Clara Vere de Vere_ was the subject of an advertising parody, of -which the best verse ran:-- - - "Lady Clara Vere de Vere, - You put strange fancies in my head! - Do you remember that rich silk - You wore last year at Maidenhead? - Now "velveteen" is all the go; - 'Tis richer far, and costs much less, - The lion on your old stone gates - Is not more ancient than that dress." - -whilst the Charge of the Light Brigade was thus imitated by a Birmingham -tea-dealer:-- - - "Half a League! Half a League! - Half a League, onward! - Into Gant's tea shop - Walk many hundred. - Tea is the people's cry, - Which is the kind to buy? - Gant's at Two Shillings try, - Say many hundred! - Tea-men to right of us, - Tea-men to left of us, - Grocers all round us, - Find they have blundered." - -There was another parody on the Charge of the Light Brigade, in _Punch_, -December 19, 1868. - -"The Song of the 'Skyed' one, as sung at the Academy on the first Monday -in May," was a parody, in ten verses, commencing:-- - - Awake I must, and early, a proceeding that I hate, - And cab it to Trafalgar Square, and ascertain my fate; - For to-morrow's the Art-Derby, the looked-for opening day - Of the Fine Art Exhibition, yearly shown by the R.A. - -This appeared in _Punch_, May 11, 1861. - -_The May Queen_ was also imitated in a poem contained in _Modern Society_, -March 29, 1884. It was entitled "Baron Honour," and was a very severe, and -rather vulgar, skit on Lord Tennyson's adulation of the Royal Family. - -In _The Weekly Dispatch_, September 9, 1883, five parodies were printed -in a competition to anticipate the Poet Laureate's expected poem in -commemoration of the late John Brown; a subject on which, however, Lord -Tennyson has not as yet published a poem. In the same newspaper six -parodies of _Hands All Round_ were inserted on April 2, 1882. - -These were very entertaining, and were severally entitled: "Pots all -Round;" "Tennysonian Toryism Developed;" "Drinks all Round;" "Cheers all -Round;" "Hands all Round (with the mask off)"; and "Howls all Round." - -_Truth_, February 14, 1884, contained a parody entitled "In Memoriam; a -Collie Dog." _Punch_ also had a parody with the title "In Memoriam" on -July 9, 1864. - -"The Two Voices, as heard by Jones of the Treasury about Vacation time," -was the title of a long parody in _Punch_, September 7, 1861. - -There was also a political parody, on the same original, in _Punch_, May -11, 1878. - -"Recollections of the Stock Exchange," a long parody of _Recollections -of the Arabian Nights_, and dealing with the topic of Turkish Stocks, -appeared in _Punch_, December 18, 1875. - -"The Duchess's Song," after Tennyson, was in _Punch_, September 3, 1881; -and _British Birds_, by Mortimer Collins (1878), contained, amongst -others, a capital parody of Tennyson. - - * * * * * - - -THE POETASTERS: A DRAMATIC CANTATA. - -_Chorus of Poetasters._ - - An itch of rhymes has seized the times - Till every cobbler's turned a poet, - And he who taught the secret ought - In justice to be made to know it. - Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, vast odes and epics vaster, - And post them to the Master, Master, Master. - - Bards, pour your benison on Baron Tennyson, - Who vulgarised the art of rhyming, - And set the twaddle that fills each noddle - In endless jingle-jangle chiming: - Rhyme, brothers, rhyme, each puling poetaster, - And inundate the Master, Master, Master. - - _Recitative and Aria: Lord Tennyson._ - Bards, idle bards, I know not what ye mean! - Words powerfully expressive of despair - Rise to my lips and flash from out my eyes - In looking o'er the reams each post-bag yields. - But, mark me, I'll return the stuff no more. - - When morning sees the groaning board - With my baronial breakfast spread-- - With bacon crisp and snow-white bread, - And fragrant coffee freshly poured. - - I greet with joy the cheerful sight, - When, hark! there comes the postman's knock: - I thrill as with a lightning shock - And bid adieu to appetite. - - For song and stave and madrigal - Make dark to me the opening day, - And sonnet, ode, and roundelay - Sink on my spirit like a pall. - - And lunch-time brings another host, - At each delivery they throng, - While any hour may bring along - Three tragedies by parcels-post; - - And twelve-book epics ton on ton, - Each with its laudatory ode - Of drivelling dedications, load - The vans of Carter, Paterson. - - I can nor eat, nor drink, nor sleep - In peace; I vow that from to-day - I'll have them carted straight away - Unopened to the rubbish-heap. - - Call in the dustman!--Lo! 'tis done! - The contract signed, I breathe again. - Come, load at once thy lingering wain - Blest henchman of oblivion! - - _Finale: Chorus of Poetasters._ - Not return nor e'en acknowledge! - Dares he treat our verses thus? - Knows he not the might malignant - Of a poetaster's "cuss?" - Dreads he not our "spiteful letters," - Epigrams, satiric skits? - Let him learn that would-be poets - Also shine as would-be wits. - Who is he to scorn our verses? - British taxpayers are we; - Is he not the Poet Laureate? - Don't we stand his salary? - Straightway we'll transfer allegiance - To some other, blander bard, - Whom no paltry peerage renders - Uppish, arrogant, and hard. - Mr. Browning, for example, - Won't treat brother poets thus. - Though we may not understand him, - Doubtless he'll appreciate us; - He'll return with mild laudation - Our effusions every one. - Poetasters, snap your fingers - At the played-out Tennyson! - - W. A. - - _St. James's Gazette_, June 24, 1884. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[Footnote 9: Alluding to Napoleon III.] - -[Footnote 10: Suggested by a paragraph in _The Times_, November, 1859.] - -[Footnote 11: The Lawn Tennis Annual.] - -[Footnote 12: Sir Peter Laurie had endeavoured to put down the sale of -plaster casts of nude figures by the Italian image boys in the streets.] - -[Footnote 13: Lord John Russell.] - - - - -The Reverend Charles Wolfe. - - -Since the June and July parts were published containing parodies on "The -Burial of Sir John Moore," _Truth_ has had a Parody Competition with that -poem as the selected original. The Editor of _Truth_ published no less -than twenty-four parodies, many of which were very amusing. - -Some of the best are given complete, with a few extracts from the -remainder:-- - - -PARODIES OF "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE." - - -THE DEATH OF THE "CHILDERSES." - - Not half-sovereigns were we, but ten-shilling bits, - The thin, jaundiced children of Childers; - To name us the public were put to their wits, - As some called us "Guilders," some "Gilders." - - We buried our heads in our cradle, the Mint, - And were sparingly fed by our nurses; - In our life, which was brief, we received without stint - Abuse, imprecations, and curses. - - No useless retorts did we ever return - To those who so coldly received us: - But we patiently bore each contemptuous spurn, - Till sweet death in his mercy relieved us. - - Few and short were our moments on earth, - And they were brief snatches of sorrow; - Our parents were told at the time of our birth, - We were only for idiots to borrow. - - We thought, as we lay in our embryo mould, - Of the fun we should have when grown older; - But we learnt that all glittering things are not gold, - That a "gilder" is hardly a "golder." - - Lightly they talked of our humble alloy, - And how we were base and degraded; - And tried in all possible ways to annoy - Our lives, which already were faded. - - Though half our heavy blows and kicks, - We never thought once of returning; - We passed over the "Styx" without passing the "Pyx," - Or the wonders of life ever learning. - - Slowly but gladly, too tired to laugh, - We made room for the use of our betters; - Heavy our grave-stone, and our epitaph - Was a column of newspaper letters. - - DALETH. - - -THE BURIAL OF THE SEASON. - - Not a "drum" was given, nor dance of note, - From the "course" at fair Goodwood we'd hurried; - Not a soul here but uttered farewell, and shot - Out of town, looking jaded and worried. - - * * * * * - - And lightly they'll talk of the "Master" that's gone, - And o'er his own "Hashes" abuse him; - But little he'll reck, if they'll let him sail on - In the yacht which was built to amuse him! - - But half of our heavy trunks were down, - When the clock struck the hour for departing; - And we heard the distant discordant groan - Of the engine ready for starting! - - Slowly and smoothly we glided out - Of the station so grim and so gritty; - We cared not a doit, and we raised not a doubt, - For we'd left care behind in the "city!" - - ORCHIS. - - -THE BURIAL OF MY FELLOW LODGER'S BANJO. - - Not a "strum" was heard, not a tune or a note, - As his chords to the damp earth I hurried; - Not a soul there was by when I stripped off my coat, - O'er the grave where the banjo I buried. - - I buried it darkly at dead of night, - The sods with a fire shovel turning. - My heart throbbing fast with a wild delight, - And revenge in my heart fiercely burning. - - No useless fingers I close to it pressed, - Not as much as once did I sound it, - But I laid it gently down to its rest, - With a _Daily News_ wrapped round it. - - * * * * * - - Quickly and gladly I laid it down - To a place where no more it could worry, - I stirred not a twine and I raised not a tone, - But I silently left in my glory. - - GARRYOWEN JACK. - - -THE FATE OF GENERAL GORDON. - - Not a drum was heard, not a martial note, - As our Gordon to Khartoum was hurried; - But into the desert our hero we shot, - And there in the desert he's buried. - - No useful soldiers were with him sent, - Neither horseman nor footman we found him; - But alone, on a camel, our warrior went, - With the foe and the desert all round him. - - Few and short were the prayers he made, - Not a word of complaint or of sorrow; - But we coldly declined to give him our aid, - And told him to wait--till "to-morrow!" - - And he thought as he lay on his anxious bed, - Or the foe-threatened city defended: - "'Tis plain that the men who are over my head - Have ideas I've not quite comprehended." - - And lightly men talk of his fanatic ways, - Because life and wealth he nought reckons; - But little he recks of their blame or their praise, - And goes straight where his own honour beckons. - - Not half of his heavy task is done, - That of "rescuing and retiring"-- - He will not retire, for he has rescued none, - And thousands upon him are firing. - - Slowly and sadly I lay my pen down, - 'Tis a mean and pitiful story; - God grant we mayn't have to carve on his stone, - "England left him alone in his glory." - - GUINEA PIG. - - -THE FUNERAL OF ONE MORE VICTIM AT MONTE CARLO. - - Not a franc he had, not a louis nor note, - As forth from the tables he hurried; - Resolved to discharge one fatal shot, - And leave his corpse to be buried. - - They buried him deeply at dead of night, - The soil with their mattocks turning; - When the sinking moon refused her light, - And the lamps had ceased from burning. - - A useful coffin enclosed his breast, - Which the Administration found him; - And he lay like a suicide sadly at rest, - With none of his friends around him. - - * * * * * - - Silent and secret they left him there, - The wound in his head fresh and gory; - Replaced all the plants and the shrubs as they were, - And hoped to discredit the story. - - JANE KENNEDY. - - -THE BURIAL OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. - - THE drums were heard, and the funeral notes, - As his corpse to the City was carried; - The soldiers discharged their farewell shots, - Near the grave where our hero we buried. - - We buried him grandly in noon's full light, - The clay to earth's bosom returning; - With the cheerful sunbeams shining bright, - And within the lantern burning. - - Three costly coffins encased his breast, - (In sheet and in shroud they had wound him); - And he lay like a conqueror taking his rest - With his marshal compeers round him. - - Many and long were the prayers we said, - And we murmured last words of sorrow; - As we steadfastly gazed on the grave of the dead, - And we sighed, "Who will lead us to-morrow?" - - We thought as they filled in his narrow bed, - Of his struggles across the billows; - And we dreamt that all ages would honour the dead, - As a Captain above his fellows. - - Lightly men speak of him now that he's gone, - And grudge e'en the recompense paid him: - But little he'll reck if they'll let him sleep on, - In the tomb where a grateful land laid him. - - At length our grievous task was done, - And the masses were slowly retiring, - And the clangour ceased of the minute gun, - That for hours had been steadily firing. - - Solemnly, sadly, we left him alone, - With his roll of deeds famous in story; - We carved him a trophy, we praised him in stone, - And to-day--we've forgotten his glory! - - OBSERVER. - - -THE BURIAL OF THE BACHELOR. - - NOT a laugh was heard, not a frivolous note, - As the groom to the wedding we carried; - Not a jester discharged his farewell shot - As the bachelor went to be married. - - We married him quickly that morning bright, - The leaves of our Prayer-books turning, - In the chancel's dimly religious light; - And tears in our eyelids burning. - - No useless nosegay adorned his chest, - Not in chains, but in laws we bound him; - And he looked like a bridegroom trying his best - To look used to the scene around him. - - Few and small were the fees it cost, - And we spoke not a word of sorrow; - But we silently gazed on the face of the lost, - And we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought as we hurried them home to be fed, - And tried our low spirits to rally, - That the weather looked very like squalls overhead - For the passage from Dover to Calais. - - Lightly they'll talk of the bachelor gone, - And o'er his frail fondness upbraid him; - But little he'll reck if they let him alone, - With his wife that the parson has made him! - - But half of our heavy lunch was done - When the clock struck the hour for retiring; - And we judged from the knocks which had now begun, - That their cabby was rapidly tiring. - - Slowly and sadly we led them down, - From the scene of his lame oratory; - We told the four-wheeler to drive them to town, - And we left them alone in their glory! - - YELRAP. - - -THE MARRIAGE OF SIR FREDERICK BOORE. - - NOT a laugh was heard, not a time-worn jest, - In the brougham in which we were carried; - Not one displayed himself at his best, - For our friend was going to be married. - - * * * * * - - Calmly and sadly we stood that day, - To the sorrowful end of the story; - But when all was o'er he hurried away, - And left us alone in our glory. - - HOCKWOOD. - - -A VISIT OF WORKING MEN TO THE HEALTH EXHIBITION. - - NOT a grumble was heard, not a guttural note, - As we off to the Healtheries hurried; - Not a cove of the party, but paid his shot, - Though the seedy young man appeared flurried. - - * * * * * - - Slowly and sadly we dawdled down - From the Doultons, and dresses, and dairies, - We carved not a name, we grazed not a stone, - But went straight to our alleys and "aireys." - - BOB RIDLEY. - - -THE REMOVAL OF THE HOUSE OF LORDS. - - NOT a sound was heard but a general drone, - As remorselessly onwards we hurried; - Not a soul but discharged a farewell groan - For the House where those zeros erst worried. - - * * * * * - - But after our pleasant task was done, - When the clock struck the hour for assembling, - We stood in the distance and scanned the fun, - As the Lords came suddenly trembling. - - Joyously, gladly, we heard them bemoan - The fate of their famed upper storey; - We'd moved every stick and we'd razed every stone, - And bereft them of home and of glory. - - ESTRELLA. - - -THE SPINSTER HOUSEHOLDER MARTYR, OR THE MAN IN POSSESSION. - - NOT a sigh was heard, not a funeral note, - As the malice of Gladstone she parried: - "No taxes from me; I pay not a shot!" - So her furniture off was carried. - - They carried it darkly--a deed of night, - For desk, tables, and chairs oft returning, - By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, - And a lantern dimly burning. - - The man in possession ate, drank of her best, - In well-aired holland sheets he wound him; - And he lay like a warrior taking his rest, - With his pipe alight--confound him! - - Few and short were the prayers he said, - And he spoke not a word of sorrow; - And he steadfastly smoked till Jane wished him dead, - As she bitterly thought of the morrow. - - He chaffed the girl thus: "When you makes my bed, - And smoothes down my lonely pillow, - Don't you go for a stranger, nor wish me dead, - If you don't want to wear the willow." - - Lightly he talked when the "spirits" were gone, - For pipe-ashes why should she upbraid him? - But little he'd spy if she'd let him smoke on, - In the bed where Britannia had laid him. - - But half of the tyrant's task was done, - When the clock told the hour for retiring; - The minion quailed at the sound of the gun, - Which to signal her triumph was firing. - - Of that spinster householder martyr's crown, - O, never shall perish the story: - Her friends paid her taxes, she had the renown-- - Thus we leave her alone in her glory! - - J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN. - -All the above are from _Truth_, July 31, 1884. - - -THE MURDER OF A BEETHOVEN SONATA. - -(Executed by Miss----) - - SUCH a strum was heard--not a single right note, - When to make you play every one worried; - Yet I would not discharge one satirical shot - As to the piano you hurried. - - You hurried so quickly, 'twas scarcely right, - I knew not the piece you'd been learning; - But I saw by the flickering candle-light - Your cheeks were with nervousness burning. - - No useless music encumbered the rest; - No pieces had any one found you; - But you played it by heart, no doubt doing your best, - Though the people would talk around you. - - Dreary and long was the thing you played, - And we listened in suffering sorrow; - And I thought to myself that, if any one stayed, - You'd have finished, no doubt, by the morrow. - - Lightly they'll talk of the piece when it's done, - And wonder whoe'er could have made it; - But nothing she'll reck if they let her strum on - At the piece till she's thoroughly played it. - - When you'd made but some fifty mistakes, or more, - And no more such torture requiring, - I managed to get to the open door, - And succeeded in quickly retiring. - - I've but one thing more in conclusion to say, - Though you no doubt will think it a story; - 'Tis this, that no matter wherever you play, - You will get neither money nor glory! - - MOZART. - - -THE BURIAL OF THE PAUPER. - - NOT a knell was heard, not a requiem note, - As his corpse to the churchyard we hurried; - Not a mourner had donned his sable coat, - By the grave where our pauper we buried. - - We buried him quickly at shut of night, - The sods with our keen shovels turning; - By the closing day's last glimmering light, - And the lantern palely burning. - - No oaken coffin enclosed his breast, - In a sheet for a shroud we wound him: - And he lay as a pauper should, taking his rest, - With his four deal planks nailed around him. - - Few and short were the prayers we said, - And we shed not a tear of sorrow; - But we carelessly looked on the face of the dead, - And we heedlessly thought of the morrow. - - We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, - And smooth'd down its green turf billow; - That haply a stranger would lay a wan head - To-night on his tenantless pillow. - - Lightly they'll talk of the poor soul that's gone - At the "House," and maybe they'll upbraid him, - But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on - In the grave where his parish has laid him. - - But half of our thankless job was done, - When the cold sky grew sullen and low'ring; - And the raindrops came pattering one by one, - And soon all the heavens were pouring. - - Swiftly and smoothly we sodded him down, - In his last bed of shame, gaunt and hoary; - We raised not a cross, and we scored not a stone, - But we left him to earth with his story. - - SEFTON. - -"These gentlemen (the Tory party) can really get no sleep at night, owing -to their burning anxiety to enfranchise their fellow men."--_Vide_ Sir -Wilfrid Lawson's Speech. - - Not a snore was heard, not a slumberous note, - For my Lords are too awfully worried; - Not a Peer but bewails the Bill's sad lot, - Tho' he feels that it musn't be hurried. - - They think of it sadly, at dead of night, - The thing in their mind's eye turning, - By the somewhat foggy, misty light - In their noble bosoms burning. - - No useless logic confused their heads, - 'Tis but little they ever heed it; - But they tossed and they turned on their sleepless beds, - And one and all they d----d it. - - "Few and short were the prayers they said"-- - The fact I record with sorrow; - They thought of the day when the Bill would be read, - And they wished there were _no_ to-morrow. - - They thought of the words Mr. Gladstone had said-- - Each word was a thorn in their pillow-- - Of laurels that still would encircle _his_ head, - While they would be wearing the willow. - - Nightly they burn for their brothers to be - Enfranchised, as they would have made 'em; - And little they'll reck, till the "rustic" be free, - Of how a cold world may upbraid 'em. - - But half of the weary night was gone, - And my Lords were still busy enquiring, - "The deuce, now! the deuce! what IS to be done? - And they found that the effort was tiring. - - Slowly and sadly they laid them down, - And they murmured the old, old story, - "We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, - But we MUST have a share in the glory!" - - DARBY. - - -A MEMBER OF A DEFEATED CRICKET ELEVEN _loq._ - - NOT a ball was missed, not a catch uncaught, - As the course 'tween the wickets we scurried; - Not a fielder but was a famous shot, - At the stumps, whither, backward, we hurried, - - We slogged the ball wildly with all our might, - The sods with our willow-bats turning: - But the leather was caught, and held so tight, - And our cheeks with shame were burning. - - No useless figures my scoring blest, - Not in cut or in drive I found them; - But they lay like the egg of the duck in a nest, - With a line drawn all around them. - - Few, too few, were the runs we could claim, - And we spoke many words of sorrow, - And we steadfastly gazed on the state of the game, - As we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought as we watched how our wickets fell, - And reckoned the meagre scoring, - That the foe and the stranger would thrash us all well, - And we, far behind them, deploring. - - Lightly they'll think of the runs we've put on, - And o'er a cold luncheon upbraid us; - But little we'd reck if bad weather came on, - And the rain further playing forbade us. - - But half of our heavy task was done, - When the clock struck the hour for refraining; - And we saw by the distant and setting sun, - That the light was steadily waning. - - Slowly and sadly did we disappear, - From the field of our shame-laden story; - We gave not a groan, we raised not a cheer, - But we left them alone to their glory. - - FRIAR TUCK. - -The above are from _Truth_, August 7, 1884. - - * * * * * - - -THE MARRIAGE OF SIR JOHN SMITH. - - Not a sigh was heard, nor a funeral tone, - As the man to his bridal we hurried; - Not a woman discharged her farewell groan, - On the spot where the fellow was married. - - We married him just about eight at night, - Our faces paler turning, - By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, - And the gas-lamp's steady burning. - - No useless watch-chain covered his vest, - Nor over-dressed we found him; - But he looked like a gentleman wearing his best, - With a few of his friends around him. - - Few and short were the things we said, - And we spoke not a word of sorrow, - But we silently gazed on the man that was wed, - And we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought, as we silently stood about, - With spite and anger dying, - How the merest stranger had cut us out, - With only half our trying. - - Lightly we'll talk of the fellow that's gone, - And oft for the past upbraid him; - But little he'll reck if we let him live on, - In the house where his wife conveyed him. - - But our heavy task at length was done, - When the clock struck the hour for retiring; - And we heard the spiteful squib and pun - The girls were sullenly firing. - - Slowly and sadly we turned to go,-- - We had struggled, and we were human; - We shed not a tear, and we spoke not our woe, - But we left him alone with his woman. - - _Poems and Parodies_, by Phœbe Carey. - - Boston, United States, 1854. - - * * * * * - - We buried him slyly on Monday night, the sods with our - shooting-sticks turning, for he wrote a new poem, and read it with - might, in spite of the Editor's warning. - - QUADS. - - * * * * * - - - - -Thomas Hood. - - -THE SONG OF THE HORSE. - - With shins all hash'd and torn, - With carcases skin and bone, - Two nags with a 'bus hung on at the square, - With hunger almost gone-- - "Ya hip--hip--hip!" - Shouted one on the dicky borne, - "Should we pick up a fare now, my five-year-olds, - To-morrow you _may_ get corn." - - * * * * * - - Trot, trot, trot! - Till our giddy brains run round! - Trot, trot, trot! - And that on Christian ground! - Run, gallop, and trot, - Trot, gallop, and run, - Till we weary and weary over again - That our dreadful task were done. - O! others of our race - More favoured than we two! - You little think in your day of grace, - That this fate may come to you! - Soft, soft, soft! - You sleep without a throe! - Hard, hard, hard! - We struggle through drifted snow! - - (_Eight verses omitted_). - - J. M. CRAWFORD, Greenock, March, 1844. - - * * * * * - -Many years ago _The New York Herald_ had a long parody of the "Song of the -Shirt," entitled _The Lament of Ashland_. It commenced:-- - - "With brows all clammy and cold, - With face all haggard and wan, - The "Hero of Bladensburgh" sat in his chair, - And uttered a fearful groan; - - Wake, wake, wake! - Ye Whigs from your drowsy bed; - And wake, wake, wake! - Ere my hopes are all perished and fled." - -There were seven more verses, but as the parody was of purely local -interest, they are not here quoted. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE POST. - - With "Bluchers" cobbled and worn, - With post-bag heavy alway, - A postman tramped on his twentieth round, - On good St. Valentine's day. - Rat-tat! rat! tat! - At every knocker almost, - Each time, in a voice that was somewhat flat, - He sang the "Song of the Post!" - - Tramp! tramp! tramp! - When the sweep is up the flue; - And tramp! tramp! tramp! - Till the supper beer is due. - It's oh! to be a slave, - Along with the barbarous Turk, - Where Scudamore can verse outpour - For Britons, besides his work! - - Trudge! trudge! trudge! - Till I'm trodden down at heel; - Trudge! trudge! trudge! - Till I'm faint for want of a meal. - Bell, and knocker, and box, - Box, and knocker, and bell; - Till over the letters I all but nod, - And drop them in a spell. - - Oh, girls with lovers fond! - Oh, men who want to get wives! - It's not a mere custom you're keeping up; - You're wearing out postmen's lives! - If you must send Valentines, - Don't post them by tens and twelves; - Or, if you do, I would pray of you - To deliver them yourselves! - - But why do I pray of you, - Whose hearts so hard must be, - Since your scented rhymes you'll not post betimes, - In spite of Lord M--'s decree? - In spite of Lord M--'s decree, - In your tardy ways you keep; - Oh, crime! that boots should be so dear, - And Valentines so cheap! - - * * * * * - - Tramp! tramp! tramp! - Through street, and terrace, and square. - Rap! rap! rap! - Valentines everywhere! - Maid, and master, and miss, - Miss, and master, and maid; - There are some for them all, as they come at the call - Of the knocker, so long delayed. - - * * * * * - - There's none too poor or base - A Valentine to send-- - A halfpenny buys an ugly one - That will serve to spite a friend. - They are sent by the high and the low-- - By the noble, and many a scamp, - Who has to steal the envelope, - And cadge for the penny stamp! - - * * * * * - - Oh! could I but finish my task! - That I for my _feet_ might care, - And my neck that's gall'd by the heavy weight, - I've had this day to bear. - Oh! but for one short hour, - To feel as I used to feel, - Before I'd developed such terrible corns, - Or was trodden so down at heel. - - * * * * * - - With "Bluchers" cobbled and worn, - With post-bag heavy alway, - A postman tramped on his twentieth round, - On good St. Valentine's day. - Rat-tat! tat! tat! - At every knocker almost; - And still, in a voice that was somewhat flat, - (Many wondered whate'er he was at), - He sang the "Song of the Post!" - - (_Fourteen verses in all_). - - _Truth_, February 8, 1877. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE DANCE. - -"It really seems the ambition of each fashionable woman to render her -dress more like a skin than that of her neighbour, besides exhibiting as -large a portion of the real flesh as can be done without the apology for -raiment absolutely dropping off!"--_The World_, January 31, 1877. - - With arms a-wearied of fanning herself, - With eyelids heavy and red, - A wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair, - Wishing herself in bed. - Turn, twirl, and turn, - With hop, with glide, and prance; - And still, as she sleepily gazed on that throng, - She muttered the "Song of the Dance." - - Dance, dance, dance, - Till I hear the milkman's cry; - Dance, dance, dance, - Till the sun is seen on high. - It's O to be a nigger, - Nor mind to clothless feel, - If civilised folk will try how little - They need their bodies conceal! - - Dance, dance, dance, - Till the heat is horrid to bear; - Dance, dance, dance, - Till I long for a cushioned chair. - Waltz, gallop, and waltz; - A lancer, a stray quadrille, - Till the whirl and the music make me doze, - And dreaming I watch them still. - - O men with wives and sisters, - Have ye no eyes to see - That the scanty dress of the ballet-girl - By your kin ne'er worn should be? - Twirl, turn, and twirl; - Morality, where art thou? - The dance and the dress of the stage--and worse-- - Are those of the ball-room now! - - But why do I talk of morality - Since Fashion its morals makes? - What Fashion does is never wrong, - So Purity never quakes. - For Purity only takes - Her sip of the cup that Fashion fills; - And we know that cup is made of gold, - And that gold will cover a thousand ills. - - Dance, dance, dance; - They never tired appear: - And all in hopes that a wished-for vow, - May fall on their foolish ear, - Alas, how the morn will show, - The work of the midnight air; - And the paint will trace on many a face, - And show false locks of hair! - - Dance, dance, dance; - How sweetly they keep time, - As they dance, dance, dance, - In a measure quite sublime! - They waltz, waltz, waltz, - Keep time to the glorious band; - But, ah! there is many a blushing look, - And pressure of many a hand! - - Thus wearied out with fanning herself, - With eyelids heavy and red, - This wallflower sat on a stiff-backed chair, - Wishing herself in bed. - While all were swinging with turn and twirl, - With hop, and glide, and prance, - She muttered this song to herself, and said, - "Alas", where is morality fled, - Since true is my "Song of the Dance?" - - CECIL MAXWELL LYTE. - -_London Society_, November, 1877. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER'S SHIRT. - -(In 1879 it was announced that the wages of the women working at the Army -Clothing Department, Pimlico, had been reduced from 20 to 25 per cent.) - - With fingers weary and worn, - With eyelids heavy and red, - A woman sat 'neath a Government roof, - Plying her needle and thread. - As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd, - 'Twas plain she was most expert; - And she sang to herself in a voice low-pitch'd, - The "Song of the Soldier's Shirt." - - Work! work! work! - There's no rest in youth or age! - And alas! I have now to work - For a cruelly lessen'd wage! - I sit at my task all day, - And never my duty shirk, - But slop-shop prices would better pay - Than this cheap Government work. - - Work! work! work! - My labour never flags, - And yet with my pittance I scarce can buy - A crust of bread--and rags. - I work for the greatest Power, - That ever the world has known, - Yet my pay's so small that I cannot call - My body and soul my own. - - * * * * * - - Oh! is there no other way - Of bringing expenditure down? - Must they needs reduce _our_ paltry pay - Of all who serve the Crown? - Heaven grant that they yet may see - Some way the wrong to redress, - For every penny they take from me - Means a slice of bread the less! - - * * * * * - - As she stitch'd, stitch'd, stitch'd, - 'Twas plain she was most expert; - And she sang in a voice that was low and sweet - (Oh! that it may reach to Downing Street!) - This "Song of the Soldier's Shirt." - - _Truth_, May 1, 1879. - - * * * * * - - -THE SONG OF THE PEN. - - With a weary, swimming brain, - With a throbbing aching head, - Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone, - Driving a goose-quill for bread. - A well-smoked briar was in his hand, - He'd filled it again and again, - And between the whiffs, in a quavering voice, - He sang this "Song of the Pen." - - Write! write! write! - Though my head is ready to split; - Write! write! write! - Though I fall asleep as I sit. - Write! write! write! - When the summer sun is high! - Write! write! write! - When the stars light up the sky. - - Write! write! write! - For my pen must never tire; - First I've a railway smash to do, - And then the report of a fire. - I must put in a word of praise for those - Who rendered efficient aid; - And, if time enough, I must give a puff, - To the chief of the Fire Brigade. - - Write! write! write! - I'd need be a writing machine; - For unlike the workers on _Once a Week_, - I've no Leisure Hour between, - But it's write! write! write! - Though my inkstand is nearly dry, - Like a government office, I must contract - With MORRELL for a fresh supply. - - Now I must haste to the gallows tree, - To see them strangle a sinner; - And write a report the saints may read, - As they take their breakfast or dinner. - Then concoct a puff for some wonderful pill, - Or marvellous sarsaparilla; - And hurry away to hear PUNSHON preach, - Or SPURGEON on the gorilla. - -(_Three verses omitted._) - - With a weary, swimming brain, - With a throbbing, aching head, - Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone, - Driving a goose-quill for bread. - Write! write! write! - They're asking for "copy" again; - While his goose-quill over the foolscap flew, - He thought of the troubles each author knew, - And sang this "Song of the Pen." - - ANONYMOUS. - - * * * * * - - Transcriber notes: - - P. 4. 'Athough this poem' changed 'Athough' to Although'. - P. 5. 'See hears' changed 'See' to 'She'. - P. 7. 'well know song', changed 'know' to 'known'. - P. 10. 'thinks on earth', changed 'thinks' to 'things'. - P. 13. 'it this were done?" changed 'it' to 'if'. - P. 24. 'In Memmoriam', changed 'Memmoriam' to 'Memoriam'. - P. 33. 'Note... Robort Southey', changed 'Robort' to 'Robert'. - P. 38. 'Bold y he spoke,' changed 'Bold y' to 'Boldly'. - P. 41. 'baek to' changed to 'back to'. - P. 62. 'On greening glass', changed 'glass' to 'grass'. - P. 64. 'Leattle Intelligencer' changed to 'Seattle Intelligencer'. - p. 78. 'corpuleut' changed to 'corpulent'. - P. 86. 'On your poor occiput alight, - We fell so sore!', changed 'fell' to 'felt'. - P. 95. Completed the poem with a full-stop "In these lines replies - discover.", rather than a semi-colon. - P. 98. 'Le me cross', change 'Le' to 'Let'. - P. 108. 'a corse' changed to 'a corpse'. - P. 119. 'late Ssssion', changed 'Ssssion' to 'Session'. - P. 156. Last stanza of poem, 'Promise May', changed to 'Promise - of May'. - Fixed various punctuation. - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Parodies of the Works of English and -American Authors, Vol I, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PARODIES *** - -***** This file should be named 62396-0.txt or 62396-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/3/9/62396/ - -Produced by Chris Curnow, Jane Robins and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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