Introduction

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.

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