Introduction

Introduction

Ye who love the haunts of Town-Life, Love the kennel and the gutter, Love the doorway of the gin-shop, Love the mud about the kerb-stones, And the drippings from the houses, And the splashing of the rain-spouts Through their palisade of gratings, And the thunder of the coaches, Whose innumerable echoes, Roar like sea-waves on the shingle;-- Listen to these wild traditions, To this song of Drop o' Wather! Ye who love a nation's legends, Love the ballads of a people, That like voices from afar off Call to us to stop and listen, Speak in tones so hoarse and roopy, Scarcely can the ear distinguish Whether they are hummed or shouted;-- Listen to this London Legend, To this song of Drop o' Wather!

I.

DROP O' WATHER'S CHILDHOOD.

Downward through the darkening twilight, In the days long time ago, now, In the last of drunken stages, By the Half-Moon fell poor Norah, On the pavement fell poor Norah, Just about to be a mother. She'd been tippling with some women, Just within the Wine-Vaults' swing-door, When her Gossip, out of mischief, Partly idle, partly spiteful, Pushed the swing-door from behind her, Pushed in twain the Wine-Vaults' door-flap, And poor Norah tumbled backward, Downward through the darkening twilight, On the gangway foul, the pavement, On the gangway foul with mud-stains. "See! a wench falls!" cried the people; Look, a tipsy wench is falling!" There amidst the gaping starers, There amidst the idle passers, On the gangway foul, the pavement, In the murky darkened twilight, Poor drunk Norah bore a boy-babe. Thus was born young Drop o' Wather, Thus was born the child of squalor. He was named, by those who knew him, Out of joke, and fun, and larking, For what's called an Irish reason, Or, by folks who sport the Classics, A lucus a non lucendo, Like, for all it is so unlike, Hold a thing to be another, For the sake of contradiction, Or the sake of droll connection; So the folks who knew our hero, Gave his nickname for this reason,-- 'Cause his mother never touched a Drop of Water in her lifetime. At the door on fine spring evenings, Played the little Drop o' Wather; Heard the cry of "Buy my inguns!" Heard the cry "Young raddyshees, yere" Calls of cadger, costermonger; "Bilin'-apples!" said the huckster; "Pies-all 'ot!" still said the pieman. Saw the pot-boy, Wall-eyed Tommy, Trudging through the dusk of evening, With the shrillness of his whistle Piercing all the courts and alleys. And he sang the song of street-boys. Sang the song the pot-boy taught him;-- "Wall-eyed Tommy, he's the cove, boys! He's the ranting, roaring blade, boys! He's the lad, the daring fellow! He's the chap, to carry ale-cans, Pots of beer, and all them 'ere boys!" Saw the balls at the pawnbroker's, Balls alike, and three in number, Saw the gold and burnish on them, Bawled, "What are those? I say, mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "Once a cricketer, when angry, Seized his ball, and bowling, threw it Up against the shop times threefold, Right against the shop he threw it; 'Tis its tri-ghost that you see there." Saw the gallows near the prison, In the morning sky, the gallows; Bawled, "What is that? I say mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "'Tis the gallows-tree, the gibbet; All the naughty boys of London, All the wicked ones and careless, When in town they steal and pilfer, Hang on that 'ere tree above us." When he heard the thieves at midnight, Hooting, laughing in the alley, "What is that?" he cried half frightened; "What is that? Now tell me, mother!" And the fuddled Norah answered, "That's the thieves and prigs together, Talking in their own cant language, Hoaxing, chaffing one another." Then the little Drop o' Wather Learned of all the thieves their language; Learned their slang and learned their by-words, Twigged their nicknames, knew their lodgings, Where they hid themselves from justice; Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Drop o' Wather's Cronies." Of all prigs he learned the language, Learned their gag, and all their secrets. Found out all their haunts and dodges, Picked up where they hid their booty, How they packed the swag so closely, Why they fought so shy and wary; Talked with them whene'er he met them, Called them "Drop o' Wather's Brothers."

II.

DROP O' WATHER AND PUDGY-WHEEZY.

Out of childhood into manhood Now had grown young Drop o' Wather, Skilled in all the craft of filchers, Learned in all the slang of robbers, In all ways and means of cribbing, In all knowing arts and dodges. Swift of foot was Drop o' Wather; He could pitch a pebble from him, And run forward with such fleetness, That the pebble fell behind him! Strong of arm was Drop o' Wather; He could fling ten pebbles upward, Fling them with such strength and swiftness, That the tenth had left his fingers Ere the first to ground had fallen. He had bludgeon, Millemlikefun, Good strong bludgeon, made of ash-wood; When into his hand he took it, He could smite a fellow's head off, He could knock him into next week. He had ankle-boots so jemmy, Good strong ankle-boots of calf-skin; When he put them on his trotters, When he laced them up so tightly, At each step three feet he measured. From his lair went Drop o' Wather Dressed for roving, armed for plunder; Dressed in shooting-jacket natty, Velveteen, with pearl-white buttons; On his head a spick-and-span tile, Round his waist a vest of scarlet; In his mouth a sprig of shamrock, In his breast a dashing brooch-pin, Gold mosaic, set with sham stones; With his bludgeon, Millemlikefun, With his ankle-boots so jemmy. Warning said old fuddled Norah, "Go not forth, son Drop o' Wather, To the quarter of the West-End, To the regions, Hyde-Park, May Fair, Lest they nab you (chaps from Bow-street), Lest they clap you into prison." But the daring Drop o' Wather Heeded not her woman's warning; Forth he went along the alley, At each step three feet he measured; Tempting looked the shops about him, Tempting looked the things within them; Bright and fine the showy jewels, Smart and gay the newest fashions, Brown and smooth cigars in boxes, All that set his heart a-longing, Longing with the wish to crib them.

* * * * *

XIII.

DROP O' WATHER'S DEPARTURE.

Now remains for me to tell of How he ended, Drop o' Wather; What befell him, after all his Knowing doings in the course of His career, his life in London. He had run his rigs so clever, He had risked so very closely, He had just avoided Newgate, He had narrowly 'scaped hanging; And a dream he had one midnight, Brought him to a sense of danger. Thus he dreamed; 'twas really awful. Not far off from Bedford Bury, By the muddy Big-Thame-Water, At the doorway of his lodging, Thought he stood one rainy morning, Thought he stood there, lounging idly, Watching fall the sooty raindrops From the eaves and roofs of houses, Watching fill the dirty puddles, Splashed and speckled with the drizzle; Flowed in filthy streams the gutters, Flowed the spouts as they ran over; Pouring, pelting, came the shower.

* * * * *

Through the alley, sudden, briskly, Something in the hazy distance, Something in the misty morning, Came along the dripping pavement, Now seemed hurrying, now seemed hasting, Coming nearer, nearer, nearer. Was it Dingledong, the dustman? Was it Twopenny, the postman? Or the cobbler, Shoe-shoe-mender, Or the milkman, Water-well-it, With the raindrops dripping, dashing Profitably in the milk-cans? It was neither milkman, dustman, Cobbler, postman, none of those men, Coming on that misty morning; But a set of sturdy fellows, Fast advancing up the alley, Striding, splashing through the raindrops, Come with warrant strictly formal, From the distant Police-office, From Marlborough Street that morning, Come with magistrate's command to Apprehend and promptly take up Drop o' Wather for his trial. Then he thought he dreamed the scene of His conviction, condemnation; How he saw the Court dense crowded, Crowded with indignant faces; How he saw the dock, where he stood, How he saw the Bench, where Judge sat, How he saw the box for jury, Where the twelve sat looking fateful; Saw the Judge rise up and cover With black cap his hair of silver; Heard the word of solemn verdict,-- "Guilty!" Words of fearful sentence,-- "Hanged by neck," and "dead, dead, dead," last. Thought he fainted quite away there, And was carried straight to Newgate; In the dreary cell of felon, In condemned cell chained with fetters, There to 'wait the time appointed For his final execution. Dreamed he saw the black-robed Chaplain Come to speak of consolation; Dreamed he heard the words of comfort Sounding strangely (Ah, how strangely!-- Sad to think how very strangely Come those words to ear of culprit, Never taught to seek their lessons, Never taught to know their meaning!) Dreamed he saw the fatal gibbet, Dreamed he saw the upturned faces Of the multitude below him; Dreamed he felt Jack Ketch's fingers Busy round his neck, adjusting Noose of rope that was to hang him Like a dog, not human creature! Dreamed that in that awful moment, Came a shout, a cry, a calling; Dreamed he heard "Reprieve!" loud shouted. Dreamed he heard of transportation Being his commuted sentence. This last thought possessed him wholly When he woke, and found he'd dreamed all. Grave he pondered, till it struck him, That he'd carry out the substance Of that portion of his dreaming, Where he felt relieved from terror. He resolved to seek his fortune In a fresh new scene of action; He determined on the scheme of Nothing less than transportation, Voluntary transportation, Willing, prompt, self-transportation, Most transporting transportation,-- In words other,--emigration. And he said to mother Norah, To his wife his Minnie Wather, Better half, his Frisky-Whisky, "I've made up my mind to try and Live a new life, life more dacent; So let's go and try what turns up In the New World over yonder." On the deck stood Drop o' Wather, Turned and waved his hat at parting; On the deck of the good vessel, Outward bound for the long voyage, Stood and waved his hat at parting From the dear old Mother Country.

* * * * *

Then a pause; and then he shouted, Shouted loudly Drop o' Wather: "Southward! Southward! now then, Southward!" And the ship went sailing forward On her way of trust and promise, Southward, southward; Drop o' Wather Looking steadfastly before him, As confronting firm the future. And his people gave a loud cheer, Just to cheer him up at parting, As the ship sailed southward, southward; And they cried, "Good-bye, my boy, then! Good bye, Norah! Good-bye, Minnie! Take good care of yourselves, darlints! Let us know how you all get on! Best of all good luck go wid' ye! So God bless ye! and God speed ye!" Thus departed Drop o' Wather, Drop o' Wather, the fine fellow, With his trust of doing better, With, at least, that firm intention. To the regions of the New World, Of the Bay entitled Bot'ny, To the Island of New Holland, To another "New" New South Wales, To the land of hope, Australia!

This clever parody is followed by amusing burlesque notes, the first of which thus explains the origin of The Song of Drop o' Wather.

"This London Legend--if it may be so called--has been suggested by an interesting Indian tradition, given to the world in the form of a beautiful poem. The picturesque scenery, vivid description, and glowing imagery to be found in that production, are fully felt; while their charm is no more disparaged by the present sportive trifle, than the sublimity of Shakespeare has been lessened by the burlesques and parodies that have been made from time to time upon his great dramas. The tragedy of Hamlet is exalted, not lowered, by Mr. Poole's admirably clever travestie. The mere fact of burlesquing a work avouches its excellence--certainly its popularity."

It is much to be regretted that the author of this amusing work should remain unknown.

* * * * *

Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's Puck on Pegasus (Chatto and Windus) has gone through so many editions, and is such a favourite book, that his imitation of Hiawatha is familiar to most people. The author has recently somewhat modified its opening lines. As thus altered it will shortly appear in a selection of Mr. H. C. Pennell's poems, and he has kindly allowed me to include it in this collection.

The original poem in Puck on Pegasus commenced thus:--

SONG OF IN-THE-WATER.

When the summer night descended, Sleepy, on the White-witch water, Came a lithe and lovely maiden, Gazing on the silent water-- Gazing on the gleaming river, With her azure eyes and tender,-- On the river glancing forward, Till the laughing wave sprang upward, Upward from his reedy hollow, With the lily in his bosom, With his crown of water-lilies-- Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple As he sprung into the starlight, As he clasped her charmed reflection Glowing to his crystal bosom-- As he whispered, "Fairest, fairest, Rest upon this crystal bosom!"

* * * * *

In the new version the title has been changed, and some of the opening lines altered, but from the point where the above extract closes to the end of the poem, the two versions are very similar, and the later one is quoted in full:--

SONG OF LOWER-WATER.

When the summer Moon was sleeping On the Sands of Lower-Water-- By the Lowest Water Margin-- At the mark of Dead Low Water,-- Came a lithe and lovely maiden, Crinolina, Wand'ring Whiteness, Gazing on the ebbing water-- Gazing on the gleaming river-- With her azure eyes and tender,-- On the river glancing forward, Till the laughing Wave sprang upward, From his throne in Lower-Water,-- Upwards from his reedy hollow, With the lily in his bosom, With his crown of water-lilies-- Curling ev'ry dimpled ripple As he leapt into the starlight, As he clasped her charmed reflection Glowing to his crystal bosom-- As he whisper'd "Wand'ring Whiteness, Rest upon my crystal bosom! Join this little water party."... Yet she spoke not, only murmured:-- Down into the water stept she, Lowest Water--Dead Low Water-- Down into the wavering river, Like a red deer in the sunset-- Like a ripe leaf in the autumn: From her lips, as rose-buds snow-filled, Came a soft and dreamy music, Softer than the breath of summer, Softer than the murm'ring river, Than the cooing of Cushawa,-- Sighs that melted as the snows melt, Silently and sweetly melted; Sounds that mingled with the crisping Foam upon the billow resting:--

Still she spoke not, only murmured.

From the forest shade primeval, Piggey-Wiggey looked out at her; He the most Successful Squeaker-- He the very Youthful Porker-- He the Everlasting Grunter-- Gazed upon her there, and wondered! With his nose out, Rokey-pokey-- And his tail up, Curley-wurley-- Wondered what could be the matter,

Wondered what the girl was up to-- What the deuce her little game was....

And she floated down the river, Like a water-witch'd Ophelia.... FOR HER CRINOLINE SUSTAINED HER.

* * * * *

THE WALLFLOWERS.

Two belated men from Oxford, Members of a nameless college-- Pip, the philosophic smoker, And his friend they called the Fluffer-- Men belated in the country, Lost their way geologising; Reached the city after midnight, After lawful hour of entry, By the gateway of the college. And they did not rouse the porter, For they knew the dean was wrathful, And had vowed a weighty vengeance, If a man knocked in belated. But they gat them round a back way, Where a wall divides the college From intrusion of the vulgar. Stole they down a lonely footpath, And they halted where a sapling Very near the wall was growing; And above an ancient elm-tree Stretched a downward arm in welcome, To embrace the little sapling. Each in turn his toe adapted, Where a crevice in the stonework, In the worn and ancient stonework, Gave a short precarious foothold While they climbed the little sapling. Pip had scaled the wall, and sitting, Helped the Fluffer struggling upwards, When a Bobby, a policeman, Irreproachable policeman, Came upon them round the corner, And remarked, "Gents, I have caught you; You're a pretty pair of wallflowers!" Then the Fluffer answered briefly, Answered, "Bobby, you have caught us," And the careful Pip, the smoker, From his seat upon the wall-top, Echoed, "I believe you've caught us." But the Bobby, the policeman, Said, "I have not seen you do it-- Seen you over any wall get; And perhaps I should not see you, If I happened to be looking In an opposite direction, With my back turned right upon you." Nothing further said the Bobby, Irreproachable policeman, Only grinned, and seemed to linger. Quick then Pip pulled up the Fluffer, And inquired, "Old fellow, Fluffer, Have you any coin about you?" And the Fluffer from his pockets, Brought the bob, the silver shilling, And the piece of six, the tizzy, And the piece of four, the joey, And the double bob, the florin. Down he threw them on the pathway; Then the Bobby, the policeman, Irreproachable policeman, Picked them up, and whispered softly, Somebody had dropped some money; He was lucky to have found it. After that did Pip, the smoker, And his friend they called the Fluffer, Get across the wall securely; But the Bobby, the policeman, Irreproachable policeman, Did not see them get across it; For he happened to be looking In an opposite direction, And his back was turned upon them.

Odd Echoes from Oxford, by A. Merion, B.A.

J. C. Hotten, 1872.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF NICOTINE.

SHOULD you ask me why this meerschaum, Why these clay-pipes and churchwardens, With the odours of tobacco, With the oil and fume of "mixture," With the curling smoke of "bird's eye," With the gurgling of rank juices, With renewed expectorations As of sickness on the fore-deck? I should answer, I should tell you, From the cabbage, and the dust-heaps, From the old leeks of the Welshland, From the soil of kitchen gardens, From the mud of London sewers, From the garden-plots and churchyards, Where the linnet and cock-sparrow Feed upon the weeds and groundsel, I receive them as I buy them From the boxes of Havana, The concocter, the weird wizard. Should you ask how this Havana Made cigars so strong and soothing, Made the "bird's eye," and "York-river," I should answer, I should tell you, In the purlieus of the cities, In the cellars of the warehouse, In the dampness of the dungeon, Lie the rotten weeds that serve him; In the gutters and the sewers, In the melancholy alleys, Half-clad Arab boys collect them, Crossing-sweepers bring them to him, Costermongers keep them for him, And he turns them by his magic Into "cavendish" and "bird's-eye," For those clay-pipes and churchwardens, For this meerschaum, or he folds them, And "cigars" he duly labels On the box in which he sells them.

From Figaro, October 7, 1874.

* * * * *

The following is an extract from a long parody contained in Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)

THE BUMP SUPPER.

"Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero Pulsanda tellus."

You shall hear how once our college, When our boat had done great wonders, And had bumped all boats before it, Gave a great and grand bump-supper. First the scouts, the sherry-swiggers, And the scouts' boys, beer-imbibers, Spread the things upon the table.

* * * * *

And they placed upon the table Champagne-cup and rosy claret. When the lamp-black night descended Broad and dark upon the college, When the reading man, the bookworm, Grinding, sat among his Greek books, With his oak securely sported, And his tea-cup on the table, From their rooms in groups assembled Many guests to this great supper. Came the boating men in numbers, Came the cricketers in numbers, Came the athletes clothed with muscle, Came the singers, and the jesters, And the jokers, funny fellows; Came the active gymnast Biceps, Also Pugilis, his comrade, Very clever with the mittens; Came our sturdy plucky boat's crew, Remex Princeps, and his comrades, And the steerer, Gubernator. All were hungry, all were merry, Full of repartee and laughter. First they ate the slippy oyster, Native oyster, cool and luscious, And the ruddy blushing lobster, And the crab so rich and tasty; Then they ate the cold roast chicken, And the finely flavoured ox-tongue, And the cold roast mutton sheep's flesh, And the pigeon-pie, the dove-tart, And the well stuffed duck and turkey, With the sausages around it. Thus the guests, the mutton munchers, Played the noble game of chew-chew, Game of knife and fork and tumblers, Very popular in Oxford.

* * * * *

Then a man, who came from Cornwall, Sang a song that clearly stated If a person named Trelawny, Should by any hap or hazard, Leave the world by death untimely, Many people in the south-west Part of England would insist on Knowing wherefore he had left it. Then the cheeky smiling Ginger Sang of lovely Angelina, Lady with the Grecian bend, and Of the maiden dressed in azure, With both eyes and hair of darkness. Then the guests said, "Sing some more songs; Sing to us immortal Ginger, Songs of laughter quaint and comic, With a merry roaring chorus, That we all may be more noisy. And the sleeping dons may waken."

* * * * *

All was shouting, noise, confusion, Till at last the guests exhausted, All departed hot and dizzy, Thus the entertainment ended, Thus the great bump-supper ended, Long to be discussed and talked of, Long to be remembered by the College in the days hereafter.

* * * * *

THE LEGEND OF KEN-E-LI.

(From Figaro, August 11, 1875.)

* * * * *

High among the tribes of Jon-buls, Was a tribe they called the Lor-yahs; Very cunning were the Lor-yahs: They could talk and twist and double Till the other tribes of Jon-buls Scarcely knew if they were standing On their heads or on their sandals.

Chief among these learned Lor-yahs Was the great and good Ken-e-li. Brave and handsome, kind and gentle, Soft in voice and smooth in manner, Wise yet simple, strong yet tender, Was the mighty chief Ken-e-li. But the blind and stupid Jon-buls Could not see his many virtues; When he spake they shouted, "Bun-kum!" And they scoffed at good Ken-e-li.

* * * * *

The poem then describes the gentle manners of the inhabitants of the district An-lee, their mild sports and pastimes, and how they chose the great Ken-e-li to be their talking Em-pee in the council of their nation, and the manner in which he was received there.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE BEETLE.

[The following graceful effusion, by a well-known Longfellow-countryman of the Colorado insect, should be hailed with delight by the British public. As it contains an accurate description of the Beetle, we would suggest that it should be learned by heart by the Rector of Hitcham's school-children, with a view to preventing entomological mistakes.]

Should you ask me of the Beetle, Of the Colorado Beetle!-- Properly the _Doryphora Decemlineata_ christen'd-- I should answer, I should tell you, "He's a beggar for potatoes, Quite a glutton at potatoes-- For he 'wolfs' the common 'murphy.' The Solanum tuberosum. (Thus the savans named the tater!")

Should you ask me if the Beetle Were at all like other beetles-- Like the 'chafer, for example, Him whom boys impale on pin-point-- I should straight reply in this wise: "He, when young, is like the insect Whose abode is always burning, She whose children are departed.[4]

But when fourteen days have glided, Then the Beetle is much longer; Very much more pointed-taily, Sharp as to his latter ending, Red thus far has been his colour, Red, the hue of guardsman's tunic, Red, the tint of postal pillars. But, as time and trouble try him, This our insect grows much paler, Fades and fades till he is yellow-- Yellow e'en as one dyspeptic, Yellow with black stripes upon him."

Should you further ask the poet, How to treat the little stranger? I should answer, I should bid you, "Stamp on him, where'er you find him! In the garden--in the pig-sty-- In the parlour or the bed-room-- In the roadway or the meadow-- Squash the little wretch, confound him! That's the way that I should answer,-- That's the sort of man that I am."

From Funny Folks.

In 1879 the editor of The World offered two prizes for the best parodies on Longfellow's Hiawatha, the subject selected being The Hunting of Cetewayo. There were 135 competitors, the first prize was awarded to Floreant-Lauri, whose poem will be found, with the three next best, in The World for October 8, 1879.

The prize poem commenced as follows:--

Very wrath was Wolsey-Pullsey When he landed at Fort Durban, Hearing all the depredations Of the cunning Cetewayo; Called his captain Giffey-Wiffey, Saying, "Catch this Cetewayo, Muzzle thou this mischief-maker; Not so tangled is the jungle, Not so dark the deepest donga, But that thou canst track and find him." Then in hot pursuit departed Giffey-Wiffey and his soldiers, Through the jungle, through the forest; But they found not Cetewayo-- Only found his bed and blanket. From the farthest dingey-donga Cetewayo looking backward, Placed his thumb upon his nostril, Made the sign, the Snookey-Wookey, Made the gesture of derision, Pulling bacon, piggey-whiggey, Hurling at them his defiance. Then cried Giffey-Wiffey loudly, "When I catch you, you black rascal, Cat-o'-nine tails, pussey-wussey, You and she shall be acquainted," Mockingly came back the answer: "When you catchee, when you catchee!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE HUNTING OF CETEWAYO.

Full of anger was Sir Garnet When he came among the Zulus, And found them in a precious muddle, Heard of all the wicked doings, All the luckless Zulus slaughter'd By the savage Cetewayo. Fuming in alarming fashion, Through his thick moustache he mutter'd Dire words of blood and thunder, Raging like an angry tiger-- "I will nobble Cetewayo, Bag this horrid rascal," said he; "Not so wide the realm of Zulus, Not so terrible the bye-ways, That my anger shall not nail him, That my vengeance shall not spot him!" Then in hot pursuit departed Marter and the mighty hunters On the trail of Cetewayo. Through the bush where he had hidden, To the hut where he had rested-- But they found not Cetewayo; Only in the charcoal embers And the smell of bad tobacco, Found the spot where he had halted; Found the tokens of his presence. Through the bush and brake and forest Ran the cunning Cetewayo, Till a lonely kraal he entered In the middle of the forest! Then the corpulent old sinner Heard the tramp of many footsteps, Heard the sound of many voices, Saying, "He, the white man's coming!" Got into a funk and shivered. Then came Marter, mighty Major, He, of all Dragoons the boldest, To the hut door riding straightway, Saying, "Where is Cetewayo, For his Majesty is wanted?" Then came forth the noble savage, On his breast a scarlet blanket, Proudly wearing à la toga, Gave himself to mighty Marter; Pass'd a captive 'twixt the soldiers! Ended now his strange adventures, Ended all his wily dodges, All his plottings and his schemings, And his hecatombs of Zulus!

From Snatches of Song, by F. B. Doveton, 1880.

* * * * *

HIAWATHA'S PHOTOGRAPHING.

Author's Preface.

("In an age of imitation, I can claim no special merit for this slight attempt at doing what is known to be so easy. Any fairly practised writer, with the slightest ear for rhythm, could compose, for hours together, in the easy running metre of 'The Song of Hiawatha.'")

From his shoulder Hiawatha Took the camera of rosewood. Made of sliding, folding rosewood, Neatly put it all together. In its case it lay compactly, Folded into nearly nothing; But he opened out the hinges, Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges, Till it looked all squares and oblongs, Like a complicated figure In the Second Book of Euclid. This he perched upon a tripod-- Crouched beneath its dusky cover-- Stretched his hand, enforcing silence-- Said, "Be motionless, I beg you!" Mystic, awful was the process. All the family in order, Sat before him for their pictures; Each, in turn, as he was taken, Volunteered his own suggestions, His ingenious suggestions. First the Governor, the Father, He suggested velvet curtains Looped about a massy pillar; And a corner of a table, Of a rosewood dining-table. He would hold a scroll of something, Hold it firmly in his left hand; He would keep his right hand buried (Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; He would contemplate the distance With a look of pensive meaning, As of ducks that die in tempests. Grand, heroic was the notion: Yet the picture failed entirely-- Failed because he moved a little, Moved, because he couldn't help it."

* * * * *

Next to him the eldest daughter: She suggested very little, Only asked if he would take her With her look of 'passive beauty.' Her idea of passive beauty Was a squinting of the left eye, Was a drooping of the right eye, Was a smile that went up sideways To the corner of the nostrils."

After having taken each member of the family in succession, with the most dismal results:--

Finally my Hiawatha Tumbled all the tribe together, ('Grouped' is not the right expression), And, as happy chance would have it, Did at last obtain a picture Where the faces all succeeded: Each came out a perfect likeness. Then they joined, and all abused it, Unrestrainedly abused it, As 'the worst and ugliest picture They could possibly have dreamed of.'

* * * * *

But my Hiawatha's patience, His politeness and his patience, Unaccountably had vanished, And he left that happy party. Left them in a mighty hurry, Stating that he would not stand it, Stating in emphatic language What he'd be before he'd stand it. Thus departed Hiawatha.

From Rhyme? and Reason? by Lewis Carroll, 1883.

These disjointed extracts give but a poor idea of this most amusing poem, the comical effects of which are much heightened by Mr. A. B. Frost's humorous illustrations.

* * * * *

THE LAWN-TENNIS PARTY AT PEPPERHANGER.

(A fragment in the metre of Longfellow's "Hiawatha.")

I was sitting in my wigwam, Looking from my lofty wigwam, On the fir-clad hill of Dryburgh, O'er the vale of Pepperhanger. Suddenly there came a rapping, [Sidenote: The Postman's knock.] Double rapping, double tapping, Sounding through the little wigwam, Startling quiet Pepperhanger. Thus the Government Messénjah, [Sidenote: Heathen Mythology.] Mercury of brazen buttons, Crimson-collared, azure-coated, Blue as when some ancient Briton, As enlightenment came o'er him, Thinking skin was rather shabby, [Sidenote: History of England.] Went and put a coat of Woad on. He, the carrier of all letters, He the bearer of all tidings To the lofty hill of Dryburgh, To the vale of Pepperhanger. Swiftly then I took the letter; Eagerly I read the message From a hospitable lady Of the vale of Pepperhanger, "Come at four o'clock to tiffin, If no better action urges; In the cool of Tuesday evening, Come and play a game of Tennis On my lawns at Pepperhanger." Thus her letter: then I sallied To her almost hidden wigwam. Which from East and rude Sou'-wester Evergreen the pine-tree shelters; Took my Tennis shoes of rubber, Mocassins of Indian rubber, Racket, too, of Horace Bayley, To the tournament of Tennis On the lawns of Pepperhanger. [Sidenote: Lodge's Peerage.] Came the lordly Tennyslornah. Came the Reverend B. A. Kander, [Sidenote: Clergy List.] Came the cute 'un, Charley Pleycynge, Came the smasher, young de Vorley, Came the great Sir V. O. Verandah, Came the warrior, Foragh Biscoe, [Sidenote: Sludgeborough-in-the-Marsh.] Strangers from a distant countrie, To the tournament of Tennis In the vale of Pepperhanger. There we had a game at Tennis, Outdoor Tennis let us call it, Lest the lords of real Tennis Should invoke a curse upon us; Hotly smote the fierce back-hander, Volleyed toward, also froward, Till the speeding ball appeared as One continuous flash of lightning: Shouted loudly cries of Tennis, "Forty-thirty" and "advantage," Giving fifteen, owing thirty For a bisque, anon half-thirty Owing, giving, taking, wanting, Till the brain was almost reeling, [Sidenote: Colenso's Arithmetic.] Handicapping calculations All too hard for Pepperhanger! Presently the tea-bell sounded Through the pine-tree-shelter'd gardens To the ne'er inebriating Ever cheering goblet summons.

From Pastime, August 24, 1883.

* * * * *

The late Mr. Shirley Brooks composed a number of clever parodies, many of which were contributed to Punch during his Editorship of that journal. Three of the longest and most amusing of these were The Very Last Idyll, after Tennyson; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, after Coleridge; and The Song of Hiawatha, after Longfellow. A quotation from The Very Last Idyll was given on page 44; and the parody on Coleridge will be quoted when that author is reached; the parody of Longfellow, which appeared in Punch as far back as 1856, commenced thus:--

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA.

(Author's Protective Edition.)

You, who hold in grace and honour, Hold as one who did you kindness When he published former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter, Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward for the accents Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, Longus Comes-- Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conceptions Of the manly, nervous diction Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemmed the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it-- Don't you wish that you may get it?

* * * * *

Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this metre, And embalming the traditions, Tables, rites, and superstitions Of the various tribes of Indians.

* * * * *

I should answer, I should tell you Shut your mouth and go to David, David, Mr. Punch's neighbour, Buy the Song of Hiawatha. Read and learn, and then be thankful Unto Punch and Henry Wadsworth, Punch and noble Henry Wadsworth. Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting From his friend, great Punch, who loves him.

* * * * *

The following is a list of the names of some famous advertisers of thirty years ago, taken from Hiawater, a parody contained in "The Shilling Book of Beauty," by Cuthbert Bede (J. Blackwood, 1853):--

"Howlawaya, the quack doctor; Mosieson, the cheap slop seller; Mechisteel and Warrenblacking; Camomile, the Pillofnorton; Marywedlake, oaten bruiser; Doctorjong, the great cod liver; Revalenta, the Dubarrie, Rowlandskalidore, and Trotman's Doubledupperambulator."

Another scarce parody on the same original was entitled Milk-and-Watha, and an amusing skit was also contained in Gilbert's libretto to Princess Toto.

There is also a parody in Edmund Yates's Our Miscellany (G. Routledge and Co., 1857), and "Revenge, a Rhythmic Recollection," appeared in Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1877.

* * * * *

SHORTFELLOW SUMS UP LONGFELLOW.

Miles Standish, old Puritan soldier, courts gal Priscilla by proxy; Gal likes the proxy the best, so Miles, in a rage, takes and hooks it. Folks think he's killed, but he ain't, and comes back, as a friend, to the wedding, If you call this ink-Standish stuff poetry, Punch will soon reel you off Miles.

Shirley Brooks on "The Courtship of Miles Standish."

* * * * *

THE WAGNER FESTIVAL.

(By an admirer of Longfellow's "Evangeline," who sorrowfully sat through the six concerts.)

This is the music primeval. The festival singers from Bayreuth, Solemn and stern, with their shirt fronts studded, and swallow-tailed garments, Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms, Loud from its ligneous caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring organ Moans, and in accents disconsolate answers the orchestra wailing.

This is the music primeval, and when it is ended, Herr Wagner Is called to the front, and is crowned with a wreath by the Madame Materna; Then there is hugging and kissing and weeping with Wagner Wilhelmj, And Richter, to whom is presented a bâton--brand new, silver-mounted; But where are the beautiful maidens who solemnly sat in the boxes? Where are the men--tawny swells--who talked of clubs, races, or billiards, Silenced from time unto time by thunders and earthquakes orchestral? Empty are boxes and stalls, the occupants all have departed, And the critic goes--glad to survive the music primeval of Wagner.

Funny Folks.

Another parody of Evangeline, entitled Picnicaline occurs in "Mirth and Metre," 1855.

EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed, A youth, who bore 'mid snow and ice, A banner with this strange device, Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung, The accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior!

It is possible that Longfellow had the motto of New York, "Excelsior," in his mind when he composed this hackneyed poem, which has served as the model for hundreds of parodies, and particularly for advertising purposes. A few of the more amusing only can be inserted.

EXCELSIOR IN "PIDGIN ENGLISH."

The following article is from Pro and Con, December 14, 1872.

"Pidgin English is the name given to an absurd patois which is used in conversation between the Chinese celestials, and the outer barbarians. It appears to be a physical impossibility for a Chinaman to pronounce the letter r as in rough, cry, or curry, which he turns into lough, cly, and cully, as young English children often do. V, he turns into W, th into f, and to most words ending with a consonant, he adds a final syllable, as in find findie, catch catchee, &c. I, me, my, and mine, are all expressed by one word, my. The vocabulary consists of a few words of French origin, such as savey, one or two from the Portuguese, many common Chinese expressions, such as chop-chop for quick; man-man, which means stop; maskee, never mind, or do not mind; chin-chin, good-bye; welly culio, or muchee culio, very curious; Foss-pidgin-man, a priest; and Topside Galah, hurrah for the top, or Excelsior. There is also a plentiful use of the word pidgin, which is simply a corruption of our word business, but it appears to be applied with the utmost impartiality, to a variety of most incongruous phrases. As an example of every day talk, a lady telling her nurse to bring down her little girl and boy to see a visitor would say,--'Aymah, suppose you go topside catchee two piecee chiloe, bull chiloe, cow chiloe, chop chop.' From a gentleman well acquainted with China and the Chinese, we have received the following clever imitation of Excelsior, which is pronounced a very fair specimen of Pidgin English":--

TOPSIDE GALAH!

"That nightee tim begin chop-chop, One young man walkee, no can stop, Maskee colo! maskee icee! He cally that flag wid chop so nicee Topside Galah!

"He too muchee solly, one piecee eye Look see sharp--so fashion--allo same my, He talkee largee, talkee stlong, Too muchee culio-allo same gong-- Topside Galah!

"Inside that housee he can see light, And evely loom got fire all light. Outside, that icee largee high, Inside he mouf, he plenty cly, Topside Galah!

"Olo man talkee, 'No can walkee!' Bimeby lain come-welly darkee, Hab got water, too muchee wide! Maskee! my wantchee go topside-- Topside Galah!

"'Man-man,' one galo talkee he, What for you go topside look see?' And one tim more he plenty cly, But allo tim walkee plenty high, Topside Galah!

"'Take care that spilem-tlee young man! Take care that icee!'" He no man-man; That coolie chin-chin he 'Good night,' He talkee, 'My can go all lite!' Topside Galah!

"Joss Pidgin man chop-chop begin That morning tim that joss chin-chin, He no man see, he plenty fear, Cause some man speakee, he can hear Topside Galah!

"That young man die--one largee dog see, Too muchee bobbely, findee he; Hand muchee colo, allo same icee, Have piecee flag wid chop so nicee, Topside Galah!

MOLAL.

"You too much laughee! what for sing? I tink you no savey what ting! Supposee you no b'long cleber inside, More better you go walkee topside, Topside Galah!"

Another, but, on the whole, inferior version of the above parody appeared in Harper's Magazine, and is quoted at page 122 of Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentricities, by W. T. Dobson (Chatto and Windus, 1882.)

* * * * *

The shades of night were falling fast, When through the spacious High there passed A form in gown of strange device, Who uttered in a tone of ice, "Your name and college!"

His brow was black, his eye beneath Shone like a wrathful bull-dog's teeth; And still amid the darkness rung The accents of his well-known tongue; "Your name and college!"

"Try not the High," the porter said, "Dark lowers the proctor, bull-dog led." But forth in "loud" illegal dress The youth went, crying "Let him guess My name and college!"

(Half-an-hour elapses.)

"O stay," his comrade said, "and rest Thy wearied limbs and panting chest!" To gain their wind the fliers try, When lo! a figure gliding nigh, Cries, "Name and college!"

"Beware the proctor's sacred paunch, Beware the rushing bull-dog's launch!" This was the porter's last good-night; A voice replied, "It serves me right For cutting college!"

Next morn, as tolled the stroke of nine, Two youths, in dread of penal fine, Slunk silent through the awful gate, And "hoped they were not much too late, They'd run from college!"

There, like a mouse awaiting cat, Awful and calm the proctor sat; And, like a death-knell booming far, A voice fell stern: "This week you are Confined to college!"

College Rhymes, 1863.

* * * * *

EXEXOLOR.

The shades of night had fallen (at last!) When from the Eagle Tavern pass'd A youth, who bore, in manual vice, A pot of something monstrous nice-- XX--oh lor!

His brow was bad--his young eye scann'd The frothing flagon in his hand, And like a gurgling streamlet sprung The accents to that thirsty tongue, XX--oh lor!

In happy homes he saw them grub On stout, and oysters from a tub,-- The dismal gas-light gleamed without, And from his lips escaped a shout, "XX--oh lor!"

"Young man," the Sage observ'd, "just stay, And let me dip my beak, I say, The pewter is deep, and I am dry!" "Perceiv'st thou verdure in my eye? XX--oh lor!"

"Oh stop," the maiden cried, "and lend Thy beery burden here, my friend--" Th' unbidden tear regretful rose, But still his thumb-tip sought his nose; XX--oh lor!

"Beware the gutter at thy feet! Beware the Dragons of the street! Beware lest thirsty Bob you meet!" This was the ultimate remark; A voice replied far thro' the dark, "XX--oh lor!"

That night, by watchmen on their round, The person in a ditch was found; Still grasping in his manual vice, That pot--once fill'd with something nice-- XX--oh lor!!!

From Mr. H. Cholmondeley-Pennell's Puck on Pegasus (Chatto and Windus.)

* * * * *

THE THEATRE.

"Nam quae pervincere voces Evaluere sonum referunt quem nostra Theatra?"

I.

The theatre was filling fast, As through the open door there passed A stranger with a scarlet tie, That instantly provoked the cry Of "Turn him out!"

II.

His nose was red, his lips beneath, In frequent smiles disclosed his teeth, And upward when he turned his eye, In ceaseless hubbub came the cry, "Ugh! Turn him out!"

III.

"Stay, stay," a master said, "and rest, The 'Vice' cares little how you're dressed," But loud from undergraduate lung The cry continually rung, "Ugh! Turn him out!"

IV.

The public orator began To spout his Latin like a man; His lips moved fast, but not a word Was audible; we only heard, "Ugh! Turn him out!"

V.

The Gaisford and the Newdigate And Stanhope shared no better fate; No single voice could drown the cry That roared out from the gallery, "Ugh! Turn him out!"

VI.

The 'Vice' rose up from off his chair, And raised his finger in the air, And gently strove the noise to quell, But louder came the ceaseless yell, "Ugh! Turn him out."

VII.

I left the place with aching brain, And deafened ear that throbbed again, And as I sauntered down the High, Upon the breeze I heard the cry, "Ugh! Turn him out!"

Lays of Modern Oxford (Chapman and Hall, 1874.)

EXCELSIOR.

The price of meat was rising fast, As to his daily duty passed A toiler who, with bitter laugh, Had read upon his Telegraph, Excelsior!

His brow was sad; because it bore A costlier hat than e'er before: His feet were sadder; he'd to pay For boots that quickly wore away, Excelsior!

In oyster shops he saw the shells Wherein the luscious bivalve dwells, But had no chance of shelling out, And murmured, as he dreamt of stout, Excelsior!

"Try this rump-steak!" the butcher said; "At Tillyfour the ox was bred; Juicy it is, M'Combie's pride, And only one-and-six." He sighed-- Excelsior!

"Stay!" cried a maiden of the bar, "A shilling buys a good cigar-- Ten more some icy dry champagne." He shook his head and cried again, Excelsior!

"Take comfort," said a Hebrew mild; "I love to help a Christian child. My moderate terms are cent. per cent. 'Twas sixty once," he thought, and went-- Excelsior!

At dead of night that wayward youth, So saddened by the eternal truth, Was by a pious peeler found, Who kindly raised him from the ground, Excelsior!

He uttered words that can't be told, Said eating game was eating gold, Showered maledictions on the souls Of those who raise the price of coals-- Excelsior!

When morning shone upon the town, He had to pay five shillings down, And blessed the rulers of the skies The price of Justice does not rise, Excelsior!

MORTIMER COLLINS.

The London Magazine, February, 1876.

* * * * *

"CLEAN YOUR DOOR-STEP, MARM?"

The shades of night were some time past, And snow had fallen thick and fast; A youth, who broom and shovel bore, Was heard to call outside the door, "Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright, The singing kettle brightly shone-- Again, again, his well-known tone-- "Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

His brow was sad--his chilly nose, Like fiery coals, glow'd in the snows, And, as the kitchen bell he rang, In accents clear he loudly sang, "Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

"Oh, stay," the girl said, "while I see, As I takes up the toast and tea; And if your charge is not too high"-- "A tanner's all," the poor boy's cry, "To clean your doorstep, Marm?"

He set to work with all his might, But suddenly went out of sight;-- Half-buried in the coals was found The youth who sang that piteous sound, "Clean your doorstep, Marm?"

Some rascal in the night had twigged, The coal-iron loose, which he had prigged, "If I'd a know'd a hole was there, I would o' coorse ha' took more care Cleaning your doorstep, Marm?"

* * * * *

YE MAYDEN AND YE EGGE.

The shades of night were gone--at last, As, all agog to break her fast, A maiden sat, 'mid kith and kin, While bent, impatient to begin, Egg-shell she o'er.

Ye Paterfamilias. His brow was staid; his eyes beneath Were closed. Not so his lips and teeth, Whence, like a copper clarion rung "Grace before meat." Still, listening, hung Egg-shell she o'er.

Hys remonstrance. "Try not the egg!" the "old man" cried, "Dark lowers some prodigy inside! What if fowl play?"--no more he said, For her protecting fingers spread Egg-shell she o'er.

Ye Mayden--her Prayer. "Stay, Pa!" the maiden said, "let's test Your query, ere upon this breast You anguish pile." Her moistening eye Here drooped, and struggled with a sigh, Egg-shell she o'er.

Ye Fynde. At break of shell, as chickenward (For aught she knew) her spoon she stirred, A something stubborn claimed a stare. "My brooch!" cried with a startled air, Egg-shell she o'er.

Ye Ende. There in the middle--so they say-- Hard, but albuminous it lay. And, when she grew serener, far, Fished the thing up, with "dear old star!" Egg-shell she o'er.

This ingenious but rather mad parody appeared in The Figaro of May 6, 1876.

THOSE HORRID SCHOOLS.

I.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through the quad a gownsman passed, Whose seedy look and sunken cheek Bespoke as plain as words could speak, "Those horrid schools!"

II.

His coat was worn; his bags beneath Were quite too short his legs to sheath, While like a penny trumpet rung The treble of that mournful tongue, "Those horrid schools!"

III.

In happy homes he left the light Of household fires both warm and bright; Before the spectral "Great Go" shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, "Those horrid schools!"

IV.

"Try but to pass," his tutor said, "A class is not within your head. The yawning gulf is deep and wide!" But still that treble voice replied, "Those horrid schools!"

V.

"Oh stay!" the maiden said, "and rest Thy learned head upon my breast!" A tear stood in his sunken eye, He blushed, and answered, looking shy, "Those horrid schools!"

VI.

"Beware tobacco's withered plant! Beware of vinous stimulant!" This was the gov'nor's last good-bye, A voice replied, from out the fly, "Those horrid schools!"

VII.

At break of day, as through the gloom The scout when going from room to room, Uttered the oft repeated call, A voice came from the bedroom small, "Those horrid schools!"

VIII.

The poor young sap asleep quite sound, Half buried in the sheets was found, Still grasping, nibbled by the mice, An Ethics with the strange device, "Those horrid schools!"

IX.

There in the twilight, cold and grey, Dirty, unwashen, there he lay, While from his scout the sentence flowed, "Oh drat those books--them schools be blowed, "Them 'orrid schools!"

College Rhymes, 1861

THAT THIRTY-FOUR.

(The following parody was selected for a prize in a competition, by the editor of Truth, and appeared in that paper on November 25th, 1880. It refers to the American puzzle, called "Thirty-four," which was then very popular).

Chill August's storms were piping loud, When through a gaping London crowd, There passed a youth, who still was heard To mutter the perplexing word, "That Thirty-four!"

His eyes were wild; his brow above Was crumpled like an old kid glove; And like some hoarse crow's grating note That word still quivered in his throat, "That Thirty-four!"

"Oh, give it up!" his comrades said, "It only muddles your poor head; It is not worth your finding out." He answered with a wailing shout, "That Thirty-four!"

"Art not content," the maiden said, "To solve the 'Fifteen' one instead?" He paused-his tearful eyes he dried-- Gulped down a sob, then sadly sighed, "That Thirty-four!"

At midnight, on their high resort, The cats were startled at their sport, To hear, beneath one roof, a tone Gasp out, betwixt a snore and groan, "That Thirty-four!"

* * * * *

TOBACCO SMOKE!

The clouds or smoke were rising fast, As through a college room there passed A youth who bore, 'spite sage advice, A "baccy"-pouch with strange device, "Tobacco smoke!"

His brow was sad; his eye beneath Stared on a pipe, laid in its sheath, And in his ears there ever rung The accents of the donor's tongue, "Tobacco smoke!"

* * * * *

"Try not the shag!" the old man said, It is o'er strong for thy young head, Dire its effects to those untried Heedless he was, and but replied, "Tobacco smoke!"

"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and test Our Latakia--'tis the best!" He grasped his packet of birds'-eye, And only muttered with a sigh, "Tobacco smoke!"

"Beware; don't set your room alight-- The college might object--good-night!" Such were the words the scholar spoke, And scarcely heard through closing oak, "Tobacco smoke!"

That Freshman by his scout was found Lying all prone upon the ground, And still his hand grasped like a vice The "baccy"-pouch with strange device, "Tobacco smoke!" * * * * * R. C., Oxford.

College Rhymes, 1864.

* * * * *

"OBSTRUCTIONISTS."

(By a Lover of Longfellow, after spending Twenty-six Hours in the House of Commons.)

The shades of night were falling fast, As through St. Stephen's portals passed An Irish band, not over nice, Whose banners bore the strange device-- "Obstructionists!"

Each brow was sad, each eye beneath Glared at Cavan, Dungarvan, Meath; And soon in Erin's brogue was heard Again their policy absurd-- "Obstructionists!"

* * * * *

"Tempt not the Commons," Northcote said, "Dark lowers the tempest overhead; Too long its rules have been defied;" But still the Irish rowdies cried-- "Obstructionists!"

* * * * *

"Beware the Ministerial branch-- Beware the Tory avalanche!" Was Biggar's caution, and he smiled, When for a nap he left the wild "Obstructionists!"

At noon that day O'Donnell craved A respite, but the Commons braved The contest, and their only prayer Was to demolish then and there-- "Obstructionists!"

The chaplain came his usual round, The Commons sitting still he found, Using each possible device To crush that band, not over nice-- "Obstructionists!"

But late on that eventful day The "stumbling blocks" were kicked away; South Africa rejoiced afar, And Biggar moaned, "It's done we are!"-- "Obstructionists!"

Funny Folks.

* * * * *

ENDYMION.

The shades of night were falling fast Round Hughenden,--for some time past A Statesman, working day and night, A flowery fiction did indite-- Endymion.

His hair was dark, and you could trace A soupçon of an ancient race; And still, in quite his early way, He wrote of Lords and Ladies gay-- Endymion.

"Tempt not the Press," Lord Rowton said. "Of critics have a timely dread: They skinned you when you wrote Lothair." He answered, with his nose in air, "Endymion!"

"Oh stay," the Tory said, "and make That wicked GLADSTONE writhe and quake." A twinkle flash'd from out his eye: "I'll give him rope," he said, "and try Endymion!"

"Beware the day they may begin To break the Treaty of Berlin!" This was the Tory's last appeal. He only said, "I will reveal Endymion!"

And so, when Ireland was aflame, The Eastern Question just the same, Conservatives beheld with doubt Their Leader bring his novel out-- Endymion.

And all who waded through the book, Met Titles, Tailor, Prince and Dook: What wonder it is all the rage? For epigram adorns thy page, Endymion!

There, in the twilight, cold and grey, Serene in Curzon Street he lay. "This cheque from LONGMANS' will go far," A voice said. "Now for a cigar!" Endymion!

Punch, December 4, 1880.

* * * * *

A "COMMON" GRIEVANCE; OR, OUR OPEN SPACES AND OUR ÆDILES.

The summer day was waning fast, As o'er a London heath there pass'd A youth who walked with steps precise, And murmured, more than once or twice, "The Heath is ours!"

His eyes flashed brightly in his head, Till, as the notice-boards he read, His cheeks for one short moment blenched, but soon he cried, with fingers clenched, "The Heath is ours!"

Then he recalled the large amount The people'd paid that they might count That Heath their own, and then again He shouted out, with might and main, "The Heath is ours!"

As thus he cried, a keeper came, And roughly said, "Young man! Your name? I'll summons you for spouting here!" "Bah," cried the youth, "I have no fear-- The Heath is ours!"

The liveried myrmidon but jeered, "Well, that's the queerest tale I've heerd; This 'eath's been taken by our Board." Much moved, the youth in answer roared, "The Heath is ours!"

"Rouse not his ire," an old man said; "You have not, p'rhaps, the by-laws read? Alas! he's might upon his side." "Go to!" the eager youth replied, "The Heath is ours!"

"O stay!" a maiden said, "nor pass In that mad way across the grass! You will be fined. Oh, please don't go!" "Thanks!" cried the youth, "but I must show The Heath is ours!"

* * * * *

Then, rising 'gainst crass Bumble's yoke, He every stupid by-law broke, And when stern keepers asked his name, Still loud the self-same answer came: "The Heath is ours!"

As evening fell, a tottering form, All heedless of the gathering storm, Defied each notice-board he passed, And cried--determined to the last: "The Heath is ours!"

* * * * *

A youth, when next the sun came round, Buried in summonses was found; Still gasping, as yet more were served, In accents, feeble and unnerved: "The Heath is ours!"

* * * * *

There to the Police Court brought next day, He'd many pounds and costs to pay; And from his lips no more was heard That cry he'd learned was so absurd: "The Heath is ours!"

Truth, August 2, 1883.

* * * * *

The following description of an unpleasant nocturnal adventure has been written especially for this collection:--

The shades of night were falling fast, One mile from town was Knightsbridge passed, We found ourselves (it was not nice) Tripped up by two men in a trice, And felt so sore!

Our brow was muddy, as beneath Their pressure we could scarce draw breath, Our "withers" seemed to be unwrung. As we were in the gutter flung, And felt so sore!

We never shall forget that night Rising in pitiable plight, We found our jewellery gone, Ourselves a sight to look upon, We felt so sore!

"Try not to pass!" they might have said. Alas! they tripped us up instead. Such warning was to us denied, And stretched upon the pavement wide, We felt so sore!

"Oh, stay a moment, that arrest May police vigilance attest," Was what we were inclined to cry, But we could only heave a sigh-- We felt so sore!

Beware a court, where the roads branch, Be wary, lest an avalanche Of blows should, when out late at night, On your poor occiput alight, We felt so sore!

They ran away with watch and guard, And left us on the pavement hard, Whilst we to follow did not dare, Because we had no breath to spare-- We felt so sore!

No passers by to make a sound, And not a "peeler" to be found. Still gasping from their hands of vice, Glad to escape at any price, We felt so sore!

Then all at once we cried "hooray!" Here comes a "Bobby" on his way. A LONG FELLOW we spied afar, And mentally exclaimed, "Ha! ha!" Excelsior.

T. F. DILLON CROKER.

* * * * *

A courteous correspondent has forwarded a little pamphlet, which was issued by Enoch Morgan, Sons, and Co., New York, about three years ago. It has some quaintly comical silhouette illustrations, beneath each of which is one of the following verses:--

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Eastern village passed A youth who bore, through dust and heat, A stencil plate, that read complete-- SAPOLIO!

His brow was sad, but underneath, White with "Odonto" shone his teeth. And through them hissed the words, "Well, blow Me tight if here is 'ary show!" SAPOLIO!

On household fences, gleaming bright, Shone "Gargling Oil," in black and white. Once "Bixby's Blacking" stood alone, He straight beside it clapped his own-- SAPOLIO!

"Try not my fence," the old man said, "With 'Mustang Liniment' 'tis spread, Another vacant spot thar ain't," He answered with a dash of paint-- SAPOLIO!

"O, stay," the maiden said, "a rest Pray give us! What with 'Bixby's Best,' And 'Simmons' Pills,' we're like to die." He only answered, "Will you try-- SAPOLIO?"

"Beware them Peaks! That wall so bright Is but a snow bank, gleaming white, Your paint won't stick!"; came the reply, "I've done it! How is that for high?" "SAPOLIO."

One Sabbath morn, as heavenward White mountain tourists slowly spurred, On ev'ry rock to their dismay, They read that legend strange, alway "SAPOLIO."

There on the summit, old and fat, Shameless, but vigorous he sat, While on their luggage as they passed, He checked that word, from first to last, "SAPOLIO."

* * * * *

Advertising parodies of Excelsior abound. Extracts from a few of the best are given below:--

13, CROSS CHEAPING.

The shades of night were falling fast, As through the ancient city passed, A youth who scorned to pause or stop, Until he reached that noted shop, 13, CROSS CHEAPING.

In happy homes he saw the light, Of household fires gleam warm and bright; He heeded not the cheerful coal, But strode straight onward to his goal, 13, CROSS CHEAPING.

"Beware of rain," an old man said, "Dark lowers the tempest overhead," The youth made quite a little speech, "I fear no rain if once I reach 13, CROSS CHEAPING."

"Oh stay," a maiden said, "and rest; Put not your strength to further test," A smile lurked in his bright blue eye, And merrily he made reply: "13, CROSS CHEAPING."

"Once safely there, I shall forget My tired feet, and dread of wet; Whilst buying where I've bought before; Whilst choosing from that well-filled store, 13, CROSS CHEAPING."

"Their BOOTS have richly earned their fame; Their SHOES have gained an envied name; What matters mud, however thick, When once your feet are shod by DICK, 13, CROSS CHEAPING."

PILOSAGINE.

The shades of night were falling fast, When on the word his eyes he cast-- That word which struck him with amaze-- Couched in the adverts' meant to praise. PILOSAGINE.

Sleep from his eyelids fastly fled, As to himself he wondering said: "If it be true that I can buy What will produce a beard, I'll try PILOSAGINE."

* * * * *

"Tempt not the trash," in tones full rough, His father urged, "Like other stuff That you have oft and often tried 'Tis sure to prove." The youth replied, "PILOSAGINE."

PILOSAGINE at once applied, The wished-for three for which he sighed, Imperial, beard, moustache, soon felt; And thankful is he that e'er he spelt PILOSAGINE.

* * * * *

I.

The drizzling rain was falling fast, As thro' the streets of London passed A youth who bore a neat and nice Umbrella with the strange device, "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

II.

His step was firm, erect his form, As heedless of the gathering storm He homeward hied with dauntless mien Beneath that elemental screen-- "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

III.

He saw umbrellas creased and torn, By wet and angry persons borne, And sorrowing o'er their wretched plight, He pitied those who lacked that night "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

IV.

"Best try a cab," an old friend said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. The rain will faster fall anon;" But still that youth relied upon "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

V.

"O stay," a maiden said, "I'd fain Ask a brief shelter from the rain." The astonished youth gazed at the fair, And gently answered, "You may share, "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

* * * * *

OZOKERIT.

(By a Long-way-after-a-Fellow-Poet.)

The shades of night were falling fast, When through a western suburb passed A man who bore upon his back A placard, with this word in black-- "OZOKERIT."

His brow was dark, his eye beneath Gleamed like a lantern o'er his teeth, Which gnashing ceaselessly he sung That fragment of an unknown tongue-- "OZOKERIT."

In humble homes he saw the light Of candles--if anything less bright Above, the glimmering gas lamps shone, The contrast wrung from him a groan. "OZOKERIT."

"Trust not the gas," the old man said, "Dingy and dull the lamps o'er head-- The illumination is ill supplied," But loud that sandwich bearer cried, "OZOKERIT."

"O stay," the maiden said, "or rest Until your mystery is guessed!" A wink obscured his cunning eye, As still he mentioned in reply-- "OZOKERIT."

Beware the peeler, stern and staunch, With bull's-eye pendant at his haunch. This was the pleasant last "Good-day," A voice replied, some streets away, "OZOKERIT."

At break of day, while reeled along, Shouting their oft repeated song. Some "Jolly Dogs," with blinking stare, They heard a voice ring through the air, "OZOKERIT."

The speaking, tracing by the sound, They, sitting on a doorstep, found A man, who bore upon his back A placard, with that word in black, "OZOKERIT."

There on the doorstep, cold and flat, Puzzled by pondering he sat; And with the hoarseness of catarrh, He sighed, "I wonders what it are!" "OZOKERIT."

From Fun, October 22, 1870.

* * * * *

CURFEW.

I.

Solemnly, mournfully Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll.

Cover the embers, And put out the light, Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night.

Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire, Sound fades into silence,-- All footsteps retire.

No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall! Sleep and oblivion Reign over all!

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

CLOSE OF THE SEASON.

I.

Suddenly, joyfully, Leaving the Row, The London Belle Is beginning to go.

Cover the couches And shut out the light, Calls cease in the morning, And parties at night.

Closed are the windows, And out is the fire. The knockers are silent All footmen retire.

No groom in the chambers, No porter in hall: Dust and brown holland Reign over all!

II.

The season is ended, And closed like the play, And the swells that adorned it Vanish away.

Dim grow its dances, Forgotten they'll be, Like the ends of cigars, Thrown into the sea.

Squares lapse into silence, The Railways are full The windows are papered, The West End is dull.

Fewer and fewer The people to call Sweeps and the charwoman, Reign over all.

* * * * *

THE END.

Tuesday, September 7, 1880.

(A Vague Reminiscence of Longfellow.)

Tardily, wearily, Reacheth its goal The Session of '80, Tired old soul!

Cover the benches, And put out the light; Divisions are over, And sittings all night.

The bells are all dumb, And idle the wire; Rant sinks into silence, Reporters retire.

Fewer and fewer The few footsteps fall; Quiet and Constables Reign over all!

Punch, September 18, 1880.

* * * * *

THE BRIDGE.

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark-church tower.

* * * * *

How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on the bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!

LONGFELLOW.

THE BRIDGE (By Longus Socius.)

I stood on the bridge at midday, And the crowd was striking in power, And the roar rose from the City, And the docks about the Tower.

And I made a bright reflection On the waters under me, Like a muddy highway flowing With steamers to the sea.

* * * * *

How often, oh, how often, In omnibus or fly, I have crossed the bridge at midday, When you hardly could get by.

How often, oh, how often I have wished the crowd beside Were at Jericho or elsewhere, Or the pathways were more wide.

For my heart was hot and restless, And my mind was full of care, Lest the train I wished to go by Might start 'ere I got there.

* * * * *

And I think how many thousand Of crowd-encumbered men, Each striving to stem the current, Have missed their trains since then.

I see the long processions Of the cabs and the 'busses go, And the eager people restless, Because they must walk so slow.

And for ever, and for ever, For all that a party knows, As long as the cabs and the 'busses Must pause with their frequent "whoas,"

To cross it in either direction Will take an hour or near, So you simply must start at eleven, If by twelve you would cross it clear.

Fun, November 3, 1866.

* * * * *

THE RINK.

Respectfully Dedicated to the Author of "The Bridge."

I sat in the Rink at midday; The clocks were striking the hour, But you would not have known, for the April sun Was quenched in a copious shower.

I saw the raindrops falling In puddles in the street, And I envied the throng that was passing along With wet, but unrollered feet.

And far in the hazy distance Of that dripping April day, My snug hearth fire gleam'd redder and higher, Because I was far away.

The rattle of wheels rang round me, With a quaint and wooden roar, And groups of the fair, with dishevelled hair, Were lying about on the floor.

E'en I, in a moment of madness, Had snatched at the fatal cup. And my rollers were on, but I sat all alone, For alas! I could not get up.

And like those rinkers rolling Amongst their woodon piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had waltzed in that room at midnight, With a fixed and a vacant eye.

How often, oh, how often, I had wished that a cab from afar, Would bear me away in its bosom To my rooms, and a mild cigar.

For my limbs were hot and restless, And my boots a serious care, And the burden of mild flirtation, Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it is changed and vanished, It has fallen over the brink; Before, we were sad, but now we are mad, And the ball-room is turned to a rink.

Yet whenever I watch these rinkers Amongst their wooden piers, Like the sound of April raindrops, Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands Of skate-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of ladies, Have rinked on this floor since then.

I see the long procession, Still tottering to and fro, The young feet clumsy and rapid, The old feet clumsy and slow.

And for ever, and for ever, As long as the raindrops fall, As long as we've angling ladies, (And angular too) at all,

The Rink and its ceaseless rollers, And its broken limbs, shall appear As the symbol of Bedlam's madness And its accurate image here!

KIT NUBBLES

The Figaro, June 14, 1876.

* * * * *

THE WHITEFRIARGATE BRIDGE.

I.

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As "Travis" was striking the hour; And the moon rose o'er the city Aslant the Dock Co.'s tower.

II.

I stood and recalled how savage, In the day that's just gone by, I was stopped by that bridge at midday, And watched it raised on high.

III.

For my heart was hot and restless, My business full of care; And the check thus put upon me Seemed longer than I could bear.

IV.

And I thought how many thousands Of work-encumbered men, On hearing the bell a-ringing, Have cursed this bridge since then.

V.

I see the long procession Still pacing to and fro-- The master, the clerk, the workman; The Dockmen, officious and slow.

VI.

And forever, and forever, As long as the Company goes, As long as we brook the fashion Of transit, and bow to our woes.

VII.

So long we shall lose our appointments, So long by our spouses be told That we're ten minutes late as usual, And our dinner is getting cold.

The Whitefriargate Papers, Hull, February 17, 1872.

* * * * *

SUNSET.

(An Imitation.)

I stood on the shore at even, And I looked out into the west, Out over the pathless ocean, As the sun sank down to rest.

I saw him dip into the billows, And the sea was one blaze of light, As if day's expiring effort Was to blacken the darkness of night.

From my feet to the far horizon Was a golden sparkling road, A type of the path that leads us From earth to God's abode.

As darkness fell on the waters, I heard the sea-birds' cry, And the mighty ocean answered With its waves in an endless sigh.

Then I thought how like the sunlight We find our hopes depart, And the ocean's endless sighing Found an echo in my heart.

F. W. D., St. Alban Hall.

College Rhymes (T. Shrimpton and Sons, Oxford), 1873.

* * * * *

THE SLAVE'S DREAM.

Beside the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand, Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land

* * * * *

The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty: And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That be started in his sleep, and smiled At their tempestuous glee.

He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away!

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE SWELL'S DREAM; OR, WHAT HIS HEIR WOULD LIKE TO BRING ABOUT.

(Dedicated by a Shortman to a Longfellow.)

I.

Beside an untouched ice he lay, An eighteenpenny cigar in his hand, He shook his hair with an angry air At the sound of a distant band. Then he dreamt in the mist and shadow of sleep He was a beggar in the Strand.

II.

Wide through his frock-coat's gaping seams His fancy shirting showed; He had no gloves, no crutchy cane, No nosegay a la mode; And he saw a man, with a tinkling pan, Crying m-u-lk all down the road!

III.

He felt quite sore, and very lean, His face was sadly tanned; His bones stuck out on both his cheeks, And he could hardly stand. A tear dropped from the sleeper's lids, His Havanna from his hand.

IV.

And then the dismal vision showed The way in which he sank; From golden chains, to aches and pains, With no balance at the bank. For this woe he could feel, and it caused him to reel, He had but himself to thank.

V.

From a popular man, dubbed a wit and a wag, To a pauper without a sous; From morn till night, like an unhappy wight, Cut or shunned by all he knew. And this was his fate, by stopping up late, And losing his money at "loo!"

VI.

How he had wasted his time and his tin By keeping and driving a team. The care and the cash he had spent on his weeds, All this he saw in his dream. And, as his thoughts sped, the blood in his head Curdled up like so much cream.

VII.

He thought of the good he might have done For love and charity; And with anguish bowed, he cried out aloud A word that began with a "d!" He started and woke--and exceedingly riled, Rang the bell for a Soda and B.

VIII.

How did he feel as he took out his watch, And consulted the time of day? Had he learnt a lesson from the Land of Sleep? I hope for my sake he may! And I think the moral did reach its goal, For he's got quite stingy they say.

From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones and Piggott, Cambridge, 1883).

* * * * *

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

Into the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land?

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

SONG OF THE IRISH LAND!

(After Longfellow and Salis.)

Into the Irish Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the Western sky less darkly gather, And household wrecks less thickly dot the strand. Who leads us with a friendly hand, Thither, oh thither, Into the Irish Land?

O Land! O Land! For which poor Pat hath plotted, GLADSTONE, mild herald by kind fate allotted, Beckons, and with his blessed Bill doth stand, To lead us with a friendly hand Into the Land whence we've long been parted, Into the Irish Land!

Punch, August 13, 1881.

In Punch of October 21, 1882, there was another parody of this poem, entitled "Song of the Oyster Land," by a Longing Fellow, commencing--

"Into the Oyster Land! Ah! Who shall lead us thither?"

* * * * *

THE NORMAN BARON.

In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; Loud without the tempest thundered, And the castle-turret shook. In this fight was Death the gainer, Spite of vassal and retainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book.

* * * * *

Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, "Amen!" Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal. Mingling with the common dust. But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust.

LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE REPENTANT BARON.

A Lay of Berlin.

(After Professor Shortfellow.)

In his chamber, mine adjoining, Was the German Baron dining. Loud his voice with passion thundered, And with fear the kellner shook. As I listened it was plainer That he bullied this retainer, Forasmuch as he had blundered; Or it might have been the cook.

Just outside, upon the Linden, On an instrument (a wind 'un) Played a minstrel most demurely, Dismal as the parish waits. And so loud he kept on getting, While his frau stood by him, knitting, That I thought, "The Baron, surely, Will demolish all the plates."

"Spare a groschen, princely stranger! May you never be in danger Of the want of means to spare 'un, Or a couple, if so be." Then the minstrel went on playing, Not a single word more saying; And exclaimed the shuddering Baron, "Miserere Domine!"

Tears upon his eyelids glistened While in agony he listened To the instrument (a wind 'un) Which the minstrel he did play. Then unto the kellner ready, "Take this double thaler," said he, To the minstrel of the Linden, Begging him to go away."

In that hour of deep contrition He beheld with double vision All the sins he had committed, And he said in accents thick To the kellner, "Loo' here, kellner, You're a 'spec'ble kind o' felner; I'm a felner to be pitied; I'm a mis'ble felner! Hic.

"Can you feel for one in sorrow? I shall make my will to-morrow; I shall leave you all my money, Every single thing that's mine. Watch--repeater; ring--carbuncle; Kellner you're my long-lost uncle. Just discovered this--how funny! Fesh another bolowine."

Many hours the clock has numbered Since the German Baron slumbered; And his boots are at the portal Of his chamber, free from dust; And an instrument (a wind 'un) Sounds again upon the Linden, Waking that unhappy mortal From the snorings of the just.

GODFREY TURNER.

Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1871.

* * * * *

Longfellow's ballad, The Skeleton in Armour commences thus:--

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?"

its metre was admirably imitated by the late C. S. Calverley, in his

ODE TO TOBACCO.

Thou who, when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back, Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet when they've cleared away Lunch, and at close of day Possibly sweetest. I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know are told, Not to thy credit.

* * * * *

Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!

From C. S. Calverley's Verses and Translations (George Bell and Sons).

* * * * *

THE DERBY WEEK.

(A Long Way After a Longfellow.)

Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how precious are thy pleasures! Not hymned alone in summer-time With hoarse enthusiastic rhyme, Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, but hailed in pewtern measures!

Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how coarse the cads who "put on" Their three half-crowns for Insulaire, Or intimate Sir Joseph's "square." Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week--as if I cared a button!

Saturnian feasts, Saturnian feasts, you ape, despite Dame Grundy. We laugh until the dread bell rings, But oh, the aches to-morrow brings, And Derby week, and Derby week, that reckoning on the Monday!

The welsher's book, the welsher's book, is mirror of thy glories: It's ready when their horse comes in, But somewhat muddled when you win. The welsher's book, the welsher's book, whips Black's in point of stories!

So Derby week, oh, Derby week, your usual style, we think, errs, In ending in too cheerful nights, Headaches and debts, green veils and fights, And Derby week, oh, Derby week, Dutch dolls and British drinkers.

Funny Folks, June 8, 1878.

* * * * *

The following are parodies of the "Saga of King Olaf," contained in Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn":--

QUEEN SIGRID THE HAUGHTY.

(A Longfellow Cut Short.)

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, In her chamber that looked over meadow and croft; She held in her hand a ring of gold That was brought to her by a henchman old. King Olaf had sent her that wedding gift; But knowing King Olaf was prone to thrift, She gave the ring to her goldsmiths twain, Who smiled as they handed it back again. Then Sigrid the Queen in her haughty way, Asked, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, pray?" They answered, "Queen, if the truth be told, The ring is Brummagem--'t isn't gold!" The colour flushed over forehead and cheek, She simply stamped--but she did not speak. A footstep rang on the outer stair, And in strode Olaf with royal air. He kissed her hand, and he whispered love, And (just for the rhyme) he murmured "Dove!" She smiled with contempt as she said "Oh, king! Step it--and get five bob on that ring!" The face of King Olaf was dark with gloom, He swore as he strode about the room. She raised her brows and looked at the King-- "To swear before ladies is not the thing!" "Why should I wed thee," he cried, "old maid? A faded beauty, a heathen jade!" He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp, And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp. They placed the King in a dungeon vault, Because he was guilty of an assault, With Tupper for supper, and hot cross buns They slowly starved him, those savage ones, And his only drink was Petrole_um_-- And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Rum!

A SHORTFELLOW.

* * * * *

THE SAGA OF THE SKATERMAN.

Down by the Serpentine, Found I the Skaterman-- Found him a-wiping his Eyes with his ulster-sleeve, Eyes full of scalding tears, Red with much blubbering. Red was his nose likewise-- Deeply I pitied him.

"Cheer up, O Skaterman! Never say die!" says I. "Cheer up, my hearty!"--so Tried I to comfort him, Slapping his back, whereby Coughed he like anything, Forth went my heart to him, Lent him my wipe, I did, Dried his poor nose and eyes, Sitting aside of him Holding his hand. "Hark to the Skald!" I says, "Tell him what's up with thee; Thor of the Hammer will Come to thine aid!" Then spake the Skaterman, Rumbling with muttered oaths Deep in his diaphragm, Grumbling at Thor: "Blow Thaw and Scald!" he cried; "Blow heverythink!" he cried, Salt tears a-rolling down Alongside his nose. "See these here 'Hacmes,' Sir, New from the Store they are, Never been used afore, Twelve-and-six thrown away! Friga the Frigid came, Friga, great Odin's wife, Bound up the river-gods, Laid out an icy floor Mete for the Skaterman. Then I began to hoard. Weekly and weekly hoard, All of my saving to Buy these here things-- Came Thaw, the thunder-god, Brake up the Ice-bound stream-- Twelve-and-six thrown away, That's what's the matter, Sir-- Thaw, he be blowed!" Then, with a wild shriek, he Upped with his knobby stick, Smote on the Acme steel, Smote with a mighty stroke, Smote it and broke it up Into small flinderkins, Banged it and smashed it up Into smithereens. Shocked, then I left him there, Grumbling at Thor!

Punch's Almanack, 1884.

Another long parody of the same original was contained in Punch, September 20, 1879. It was entitled "A Modern Saga," and consisted of nine verses, describing Professor Nordenskiöld's travels and discoveries concerning the North-East passage.

* * * * *

It is now a good many years since a well-known American author, Mr. Bayard Taylor, produced a clever little book, entitled "Diversions of the Echo Club." The late Mr. John Camden Hotten published it in London, and it has since gone through several editions. The scheme of the book is thus given by the author:--"In the rear of Karl Schäfer's lager-beer cellar and restaurant--which everyone knows, is but a block from the central part of Broadway--there is a small room, with a vaulted ceiling, which Karl calls his Löwengrube, or Lions' Den. Here, in their Bohemian days, Zoïlus and the Gannet had been accustomed to meet, discuss literary projects, and read fragments of manuscript to each other. The Chorus, the Ancient and young Galahad gradually fell into the same habit, and thus a little circle of six, seven, or eight members came to be formed. The room could comfortably contain no more: it was quiet, with a dim, smoky, confidential atmosphere, and suggested Auerbach's Cellar to the Ancient, who had been in Leipzig.

Here authors, books, magazines, and newspapers were talked about; sometimes a manuscript poem was read by its writer; while mild potations of beer and the dreamy breath of cigars delayed the nervous, fidgetty, clattering-footed American Hours. The character which the society assumed for a short time was purely accidental. As one of the Chorus, I was present at the first meeting, and, of course, I never failed afterwards. The four authors who furnished our entertainment were not aware that I had written down, from memory, the substance of the conversations, until our evenings came to an end, and I have had some difficulty in obtaining their permission to publish my reports."

These so-called "Reports" describe the proceedings at eight meetings of the Club, and the conversation is devoted to criticisms of the most famous modern poets. The members next proceed to draw lots as to whose works they shall imitate, the result being a series of parodies, or, more correctly speaking, comical imitations of style, many of which are exceedingly amusing.

The principal poets thus parodied are William Morris; Robert Browning; E. A. Poe; John Keats; Mrs. Sigourney; A. C. Swinburne; R. W. Emerson; E. C. Stedman; Dante G. Rossetti; Barry Cornwall; J. G. Whittier; Oliver Wendell Holmes; Alfred Tennyson; H. W. Longfellow; Walt Whitman; Bret Harte; J. R. Lowell; Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning; and several less known authors.

Amongst the minor poets are included several American writers, whose works are almost unknown to English readers.

On the Fifth night Zoilus draws Longfellow, and his comrades caution him to beware how he treats an author, already a classic, whose works have been complimented by many ordinary parodies. He composes the following imitation of Longfellow's hexameters:--

NAUVOO.

This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat! Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple. Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions, Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit, Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums, Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion, Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at Newport, Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipestone, Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso, So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo.

Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded, Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin. Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod, Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates, That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy. Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor, Balder, or Freya, Quetzalcoatl, Perun, Manabozho, Verily, though to the sense theologic it might be offensive, Great were the gain to the pictured, flashing speech of the poet.

Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers, Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine-trees, Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham. Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal, Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer; So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter, Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,--the Kingdom of Zion. Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar, Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit, Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo.

All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol, Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake. Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer, Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of ten-pins,-- Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep, Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco. Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet, Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar: Also--for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral-- Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient. Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer! Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present! Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never!" Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo, So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise!"

This poem does not altogether meet with his comrades' approval; Zoïlus retorts that "it is no easy thing to be funny in hexameters; the Sapphic verse is much more practicable."

The Gannet hereupon asserts that he could write an imitation of Longfellow's higher strains--not of those which are so well known and so much quoted--which would be fairer to the poet, and after a short interval produces--

THE SEWING-MACHINE.

A strange vibration from the cottage window My vagrant steps delayed, And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo, I paused beneath the shade.

What is, I said, this unremitting humming, Louder than bees in spring? As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming, Shed from Sandalphon's wing.

Is this the sound of unimpeded labour, That now usurpeth play? Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor, Ghittern and virelay?

Or, is it yearning for a higher vision, By spiritual hearing heard? Nearer I drew, to listen with precision, Detecting not a word.

Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do, Myself the while unseen, I marked a maiden seated by the window, Sewing with a machine.

Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle, Her gentle hand the seam: My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle Those shirts, as in a dream!

Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar Some imperceptible taste; The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar, By beauty is embraced.

O fairer aspect of the common mission! Only the Poet sees The true significance, the high position Of such small things as these.

Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges, Deform the maiden's hand; Her implement its soft sonata merges In songs of sea and land.

And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton, Blent with her rhythmic tread, Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten, And troubadours are dead.

It may be said of "Diversions of the Echo Club" (now published by Messrs. Chatto and Windus), that whilst many of the parodies are amusing, none are either vulgar or ill-natured; the criticisms on the various poets are generally just, thoughtful, and keenly perceptive.

* * * * *

Before leaving Longfellow there are two amusing imitations of Hiawatha to be quoted; Unfortunately, the very clever Song of Big Ben is too long to quote in full, but it is easily accessible:--

THE SONG OF BIG BEN.

Should you ask me why these columns Filled with words of many speakers-- Why this record of their doings, With their frequent repetitions, Their inane deliberations, And their aggravating dulness? I should answer, I should tell you, "That I write them as I hear them, As I hear, and as I see them;-- That the world may learn what happens In the painted, gilded chamber, In the chapel of St. Stephen's, At the House of Talkee-Talkee, Where, upon the woolsack, patient, Lolls the Chancellor, hard-headed, Where, enthroned above the table, Sadly sits and broods the Speaker." Should you ask me why he sits there? I should answer, I should tell you, "'Tis because the people will it; 'Tis because they send up members Who will talk for moons together; Nought accomplishing, yet spouting, Like the dolphin, Mishe-no-zha, Weak and watery stuff for ever." If still further you should ask me, Saying "But what do these members, And the many like unto them, In the House of Talkee-Talkee?" I should answer your enquiry Straightway in such words as follow:-- "Much they love to hear their voices Talking rubbish at all seasons: Many 'mongst them seize all chances For the riding of their hobbies; Ride them late and ride them early, Ride them through the Standing Orders; Ride them without bit or bridle, Knowing not, nor caring whither." And if once again you query, Saying, "Is this all they do there?" I should answer your fresh query, I should meet your new conundrum Right away in some such fashion As the following, for instance, I should tell you, "There are many Who will bide their time with patience, Knowing that to them by waiting Will come all the things they long for. That M.P. means oft More Power; That 'twill bring them briefs and clients, Make them 'guinea-pigs' and chairmen, Knight them, maybe, in the future; Or ennoble them if only They will spend their money freely For the party they belong to." If you really had the conscience To make any more enquiries, I would answer, I should tell you Not to ask more leading questions, But to wait and read these columns. In these records find your answers, In these lines replies discover.

THE LORDS.

To the gilded, painted chamber Of the House of Talkee-Talkee, Comes a crowd of various people, Comes a flock of noble ladies, Painted most, and all decolletees; Come the Bishops and the Judges, Gravely taking up their places; Clad in their state robes, the Judges, Like to agéd washerwoman; In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops, Fussy, like the hen that cackles Over new-laid egg or chicken; Come diplomatists by dozens, Blazing with their numerous orders, Which they gladly take, like bagmen; Come with their vermilion buttons And their petticoats of satin, Wond'ring much, the Chinese Envoys:-- Wond'ring why it is the ladies Care to sit squeezed up like herrings? How it is their faces glow so With the ruddy hues of nature? Wond'ring why it is the nobles Moon about with hideous cloaks on, Making them appear round-shouldered, Mute-like, "Jarvie-ish," ungainly? Why it is Lord Coleridge carries 'Neath the folds of his the head-gear Known in slang phrase as a "stove-pipe!" Why in swallow-tail of evening Mr. Pierrepoint walks at noon-day? Why the Primate greets profusely Fezzed Musurus when he enters? Why the latter comes to gaze on These ill-fated dogs of Christians That his former masters cheated? And their wonderment continues As they hear the charivari, See the entrances and exits, Watch staid men in green and silver, Rushing here and running thither. Others, clad in velvet small-clothes, Pottering in among the benches, Nought effecting but confusion.

* * * * *

Entered are at last the household, And the Queen comes through the doorway, Sits she in her dress of velvet On the throne, and all is silent. Only for a minute's space though, For, from down a distant lobby, Comes the sound of pattering footsteps, Like the rush of many waters, By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big Sea Water. Nearer, nearer, comes the pattering, Louder, louder grow the voices, More pronounced the hurried scuffling. Now it seems as though the sound wave Rolled close to the chamber's portal, And, 'midst loud complaints and laughter, Plainly heard by all who sat there, Comes unto the bar the Speaker; At his heels are Stafford Northcote, And Ward Hunt, the Tory giant, After them the deluge! Members Fight and push, and pull and scuffle; Loudly wrangle for their places, And protest with scanty measure Of politeness or good breeding; Whilst their premier, safe translated, Smiles a smile that's cold and selfish.

But at length the Commons settle Into order as behoves them. And the Chancellor upstanding Mounts the throne's wide steps, and kneeling To his sovereign he offers Her own speech, which she declining, He unrolls, and then distinctly With a voice and tone majestic (Picked up in his constant practice), Read it in this way and this wise:-- "Listen to these words of wisdom Sounding much but meaning little, That with much elaborate caution, In the Cabinet we hit on.

Oh, my faithful Lords and Commons, As it is so far from likely That you read the daily journals, As it is so very certain You've heard nothing that has happened, I will tell you what you cannot By remotest chance have heard of: Know ye then, my trusted children, There has been a war in Turkey, And my Ministers have written Some despatches on the subject; So if, later on, my Commons Should find out the vote for foolscap And for ink and quills is swollen, They will know the cause and pass it; But let me haste on to tell you In thrice twenty lines the items That for weeks have been known fully Through the papers to the people. Know ye then, my Lords and Commons (This is likewise news important, I have journeyed far to tell you), We joined Europe in a Conference, And we sent our trusty cousin, Robert Cecil, Salisbury's Marquis, To take part in its discussions? Know ye not that Robert Cecil, Lordly master he of Hatfield, Went and saw, but did not conquer-- Went and talked, but did not manage Well his coaxing or his bluster; Nay, came back completely vanquished, And must do without his dukedom? Need I add, my knowing children, How his failure grieved his colleagues-- How Lord Derby wept to hear it-- How Lord Beaconsfield has felt it? Still bewails it much in private, And in public should his lips curl, That is merely force of habit. Know ye too, my legislators, My most able statute-makers, That my Indian subjects vastly Liked the squibs let off at Delhi, By my dreamy poet-Viceroy; And, about to die of famine, They enjoyed the show immensely. All the Colonies are prosp'rous! Which, if I am not mistaken, Will be news to many of them, Say, for instance, to Barbadoes.

Gentlemen, who pull the purse-strings, I presume you will, as usual, Vote sufficient of the needful. Go, then, and in these great labours May the spirit of the Master, Gitche Manito, the Mighty Aid you, lest they should o'erwhelm you."

Then uprose the Queen, and vanished, And a hubbub fills the Chamber: Peers take off their robes of velvet; Ladies cover up their shoulders, And the throng is quickly scattered; Yet was very full the chamber-- Full of Lords, and full of strangers, All come down, and feeling curious How the Earl and eke the Marquis Would get on when brought together; Some there were who thought the Marquis Would upon the Earl his back turn; Some who thought the Earl would curl his Upper lip, and snub the Marquis; Others that the Marquis, smarting With the knowledge that he'd been offered Coolly on the Eastern altar, That he had been made a victim; Had been sent to wreck his prestige, 'Mongst the diplomatic breakers, Would dig up the buried hatchet From the Quarterly's shut pages, Would dash down the friendly peace-pipe, And his tomahawk turn wildly On his former foe, Ben Dizzy; But it did not come to pass so, For on Thursday all was quiet, And the Salisburian lion Lay down with the Dizzian lambkin. And the Marquis keeps his vengeance For a more convenient season, If, indeed, he has not hopes still Of a dukedom for his failure. After this they talked for four hours, But the talk meant simply nothing!

THE COMMONS.

As the "brave" re-seeks his wigwam, Left deserted in the autumn, When the early spring-tide tempts him To return and hunt the bison-- To return and trap the beaver-- To return and scalp the "pale-face"-- To return, in short, and do for Many beasts and birds and fishes; So unto their long-left places, To their worn and padded places, Where they sought for reputation-- Where they strove for loaves and fishes-- Where they hounded down the helpless-- Where they vexèd those in office-- Where they howled and snored and hooted-- Where they quite wore out the Speaker, Harried Adderley and Holker, Tried in vain to draw Ben Dizzy, And gave forth such endless rubbish-- Came the M.P.'s for the Session. Came in state, too, Mr. Speaker With the mace and with his chaplain;-- Gold the mace, and Byng his chaplain; Whereupon did Captain Gossett, In his normal tights and ruffles, "Tile" the door till prayers were over. Thus all present fell to praying, Let us hope they prayed in earnest, For delivery from envy, Spite and malice and Kenealy. Prayed for sense (God knows most want it), Prayed for very frequent count-outs, And for early dissolution. [Left Praying.

Now the mace is on the table From his oaken throne the Speaker, In his hand the Queen's speech holding, Tries to read it, but half through it, Something ails him, and he falters. May we not trace his emotion To the thought of what's before him? How can he fail to remember That the bores have re-assembled. Stronger both in lung and purpose, That when they left town last August. And he knows he can't escape them, That his eye perforce will caught be By the Lewises and Lawsons, By the Biggars and the Whalleys, By the Newdegates and Parnells, This is why his voice completely Fails him and prevents his reading, This is why his accents die out, Like the last song of Pu-kee-wis, Of the dying swan, Pu-kee-wis; This is why they have to bring him Of the water from his cistern (Let us hope it first was filtered), Which he drinks, and so recovers; Drinks, and so concludes his reading.

Then, since there is no amendment, One would think that when the mover And the seconder had spoken That the House would straightway scatter; Little do they know, who think so, Of the ways of Mr. Gladstone! Little do they understand him, If they think he can keep silence When the Eastern question's talked of! Could they fancy Whalley speechless, With the Jesuits on the tapis? Could they picture Doctor "Dewdrops" Dumb upon the Magna Charta? Or the Common Serjeant henceforth Dropping his deceased wife's sister? Could they e'en think Holker clever? Couple modesty and Jenkins? Take from Lewis his white waistcoats, Or from Plimsoll his last hobby? Could they do all this? it's doubtful, Even then, if Mr. Gladstone Could be really kept from speaking. When the Eastern question's mentioned, He is always running over With a tide of verbal fulness; At a moment's notice ready To break through his lips or flow out In a pamphlet from his study, Just as when the cat, Me-aw-nee, Sees a mouse she pounces on it; As the buffalo, Shu-shu-kah, At the sight of crimson's maddened; As the sturgeon, Minhe-nah-ma, Meets a mackerel, but to bolt it, As the 'possum, Pau-ku-kee-wis, When it finds a gum-tree, climbs it, So does this M.P. for Greenwich Seize upon the Eastern question, Be it in, or out of, season, Be it apropos or useless, Be it positively dangerous To allude to it in public; So on Thursday seized he on it, Even though he knew the time was Not yet come to talk upon it, Poured his stream of words upon it, Swamped it with his fluent diction; And when he had talked a column, Was informed by Gathorne Hardy, That the questions he'd propounded Would be answered in the blue-books; That the information asked for Would be printed in the blue-books; That, in short, his speech was useless-- Verba et præterea nihil. Whereupon the Speaker vanished, And the House broke up its sitting.

Truth, February 15, 1877.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF PAHTAHQUAHONG.

"The REV. HENRY PAHTAHQUAHONG CHASE, hereditary Chief of the Ojibway tribe, President of the Grand Council of Indians, and missionary of the Colonial and Continental Church Society at Muncey Town, Ontario, Canada, has just arrived in England, on a short visit."--The Standard.

Straight across the Big-Sea-Water, From the Portals of the Sunset, From the prairies of the Red Men, Where Suggema, the mosquito. Makes the aggravated hunter Scratch himself with awful language; From the land of Hiawatha, Land of wigwams, and of wampum, Land of tomahawks and scalping, (See the works of J. F. COOPER), Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG, Comes the Chief of the Obijways. Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome, After manner of the Pale Face, Show him all the old world's wonders, Griffins in the public highways, Gormandising corporations, And the Market of Mud-Salad. Show him, too, the dingy Palace, And the House of Talkee-Talkee; Where the Jossakeeds--the prophets-- And the Chieftains raise their voices. Like Iagoo the great boaster, With immeasurable gabble, Talking much and doing little, Till one wishes they could vanish To the kingdom of Ponemah-- To the Land of the Hereafter! We will show him all the glories Of this land of shams and swindles, Land of much adulteration, Dusting tea and sanding sugar, And of goods not up to sample; Till disgusted PAHTAHQUAHONG, Till the Chief of the Obijways, President of Indian Council, Missionary swell, and so forth, Cries, "Oh, let me leave this England, Land of Bumbledom and Beadles, Of a thousand Boards and Vestries; Let me cross the Big-Sea-Water, With Keewaydin--with the Home Wind, And go back to the Ojibways!" Punch, March 12, 1881.

* * * * *

A jeu d'esprit somewhat in the nature of The Rejected Addresses has recently been published by Mr. George Dryden, of Lothian Street, Edinburgh. It is entitled "Rejected Tercentenary Songs, with the comments of the Committee appended." Edited by Rolus Ray.

It will be remembered that the Edinburgh University has just been celebrating its Tercentenary, and the contents of this amusing little sixpenny pamphlet consist of the Poems supposed to have been sent in, by matriculated students of the University, in competition for a prize of Ten Guineas, offered by the Tercentenary Committee for the best song in honour of the occasion.

It contains numerous Latin and Macaronic verses, a long parody of Walt Whitman, one of Gilbert, and two of Longfellow, which I venture to quote. The first is incomplete:--

"I stood in the quad at midnight, As the bells were tolling the hour; And the moon shone o'er the city, Behind the Tron Kirk tower."

"Among the black stone gables The ghostly shadows lay; And the moonbeams from the rising moon, Falling, made them creep away."

"With weary brain and mind opprest, I stood in the quad and pondered--"

Here it breaks off abruptly; the other is a very fair parody of the Song of Hiawatha, although, of course, some of the allusions are only of local interest. The poem is entitled--

PIAMATER.

By Alfred Longcove.

Should you ask of what I'm writing, With the scented smoke of segars Curling around my weary head, With the odours of the class-rooms, And its wild reverberations Of the many interruptions Of its bands of many students, Rankling in my ears and nostrils? Why my head I scratch so often? Why I ask my muse to aid me With her bright poetic fire? Why I burn the gas at midnight? Why I have so many books-- Poetry books on prosy subjects, Books of songs by Burns and Moore, Ponderous books for words referring, Webster's Unabridged and Walker's Poet's Rhyming Dictionary-- Strewed around me on the table? I should answer, I should tell you, "'Tis because I am composing A natal song to Alma Mater."

'Tis thy year, O Alma Mater, Of thy great Tercentenary. Time, thy years three hundred measures With his glass; the mighty Hour-glass Marks thy seconds, passing quickly, With grains of sand for e'er falling Through its glassy neck so slender, Let us sing to her, O students, A pæan song of natal greetings, Let us spread our banquet-tables In the halls of Edina's town. Let us drain to her good welfare Many bottles filled with good wine From the vineyard of the Loire, From the Spanish town of Xeres, From the town of great Oporto, From the country of the Deutchers, From the flow'ry land of Champagne; Let us drain the pewter tankards, Filled with Bass's bittery beer And with Dublin's triple X stout; Let us drain our glassy goblets, Filled with the wine of Gooseberry, Filled with clarets made in London, And with other imitations; Let us brew the Festive Toddy From the whisky, great Tanglefeet, On that morn--her natal morning! Sons and daughters of old Scotland, Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky, Don your costumes made for Sunday; O ye students of Edina, Put your "go-to-meetings" on you; O ye Dons, that festal morning, Don ye your gowns and mortar boards; Let the Billirubin warble One of his impromptu ditties, Physiologic songs of praise-- Sing the praise of Alma Mater; Let the great, her mighty surgeon, Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen Of his intellect most massive, In a speech of his own making, Stock full of jokes and anecdotes-- Speak the praise of Alma Mater; Let them all, her swell Professors, Puff her up above the skies. From the Gardens to the Meadows, From the Loch--great Duddingston-- To the station of Haymarket, From the Place of the Lunatics To the town of Portobello-- Where the many donkey-riders Ride along its dirty sands; Where the fellows go on Sunday For a walk, and drink the Ozone Wafted round promiscuously; Where they go to meet their damsels, And walk with them along the strand-- From Merchiston to Warriston, Let merry songs of praises ring On that day, her happy birthday. Now join with me, ye students all, Wish her now, your Alma Mater, Greatest wealth and prosperity. Hail to thee, O Alma Mater, School above schools upon this earth! Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist! Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture! Hail to thee, O Parenchyma! Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet! Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter! Hail to thee, O Billirubin! Hail to thee, O Wells of Water! Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon! Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic! Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver! Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker! Hail to thee, her Story-teller! Hail to thee, the great Dissector! Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer! Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder! Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller! Hail to thee, O Afterglower! Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer! Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew! Hail to thee, the Magna Charta! Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy! Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer! Hail to thee, no Small Pertater! Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder! Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer! Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain! Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal! Hail to thee, O Science Gossip! Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver! Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner! Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer! Hail to thee, O great Lunatic! Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper! Hail to ye, her famous Children! Hail to ye, O Students' Council! Hail to ye, her many Students! Hail to me, her Song Composer! Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends, And Near Relations, on that day! All hail to our Alma Mater On her natal morn be given!!![5]

* * * * *

The author of The Dagonet Ballads has produced so many pathetic poems, descriptive of the terrible miseries of our London poor, that one is rather apt to overlook the humorous poetry proceeding from the same pen. But, like all true masters of pathos, this poet of the people has the power to summon up smiles through our tears. It was well said of Tom Hood "that the blending of the grave with the gay which pervaded his writings, makes it no easy task to class his poems under the heads of 'serious' and 'comic.'" This remark applies with equal force to the poems of George R. Sims, and were it possible to anticipate the verdict of posterity we might expect to find the names of Hood and Sims classed together; indeed, so far as practical results are concerned, the philanthropical efforts of the younger poet are likely far to exceed anything that was achieved by the author of The Bridge of Sighs and The Song of the Shirt.

But this is not the place to consider Mr. Sims' position as a serious writer, although, indeed, even the following poem has a moral:--

A PLUMBER.

(An Episode of a rapid Thaw.)

The dirty snow was thawing fast, As through the London streets there passed A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice, Exclaimed, "I don't care what's the price-- A Plumber!"

His brow looked mad, his eye beneath Was fixed and fierce--he clenched his teeth, While here and there a bell he rung, But found not all the shops among A Plumber.

He saw his home, he saw the light Wall-paper sopped--a gruesome sight. He saw his dining-room afloat, He cried, "I'll give a fi' pun note-- A Plumber!"

"O stop the leak!" his wife had said; "The ceiling's cracking overhead. The roaring torrent's deep and wide"-- "I'll go and fetch," he had replied, "A Plumber."

"Pa ain't at home," the maiden said, When to the plumber's house he sped. He searched through London low and high, But nowhere could he catch or spy A Plumber.

Next morn, a Peeler on his round, A mud-bespattered trav'ller found, Who grasped the "Guide to Camden Town" With hand of ice--the page turned down At "Plumbers."

They brought a parson to his side, He gently murmured ere he died-- "My house has floated out to sea, I am not mad--it's not d. t.-- It's Plumbers."

This parody is to be found in a small volume entitled The Lifeboat and other Poems, by George R. Sims (John P. Fuller, Wine Office Court, London, 1883).

By the author's kind permission I am also enabled to quote the very funny, although slightly incoherent, remarks of--

THE POETS ON THE MARRIAGE WITH A DECEASED WIFE'S SISTER BILL.

It comes as a boon and a blessing to men When your missus as was disappears from your ken.

ANONYMOUS.

When from the wife you get a parting benison, Her sister will console you--

ALFRED TENNYSON.

When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief, You mourn Maria in your handkerchief, Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief.

AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS.

Beneath the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands-- With Mrs. Smith it's all U P, She's gone to other lands. But he goes on Sunday to the church, And hears her sister's voice; He leaves his scruples in the lurch, And she makes his heart rejoice. The morning sees his suit commenced, The evening sees it done-- Next day the Parson ties the knot, And Pa and Aunt are one.

LONGFELLOW.

O blood-bitten lip all aflame, O Dolores and also Faustine, O aunts of the world worried shame, Lo your hair with its amorous sheen, Meshes man in its tangles of gold; O aunts of the tremulous thrill, We are pining--we long to enfold The Deceased Wife's Fair Relative Bill.

SWINBURNE.

Although the above lines were written several years ago, they may be appropriately quoted now that the House of Commons has once again carried, and by a large majority, a resolution in favour of the repeal of the law prohibiting marriage with a deceased wife's sister.

(In a division in the House of Commons on May 6, 1884, Mr. Broadhurst's motion was carried by 238 to 127, or a majority of 111 in favour of the repeal.)

* * * * *

DYSPEPSIA.

The dinner hour had come at last, The evening sun was sinking fast; I sat me down in sorry mood, And darkly look'd upon the food. Dyspepsia!

My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd, And o'er the steaming potage gleam'd; Alas! not mine to find relief In whitebait's flavour bright and brief. Dyspepsia!

"Try not the duck," my conscience said; 'Twill lie upon your chest like lead; Delusion all, that bird so fair; The sage and onions are a snare. Dyspepsia!

"Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd A portion of a chicken's breast; I view'd the fowl with longing eye, Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh, Dyspepsia!

I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare A brace of pheasants and a hare; A tear stood in my bilious eye, When helping friends to pigeon-pie. Dyspepsia!

"Beware the celery, if you please; Beware the awful Stilton cheese." This was the doctor's last good-night; I answered feebly, turning white, "Dyspepsia!"

The scarcely-tasted dinner done, Old Port and walnuts next came on; I kept my mouth all closely shut; But how I long'd for just one nut! Dyspepsia!

Some nuts I had, at early day, (Morn was just breaking cold and grey), I, starting up, with loud ha! ha! Felt falling, like a falling star. Dyspepsia!

The Mocking Bird, by Frederick Field (John Van Voorst, London, 1868.)

THE FATE OF THE WINTER RIDER.

(By a young lady aged fourteen).

The shades of night were falling fast, As through a lonely village passed A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice A two-wheeled thing of strange device-- A Bicycle.

His brow was sad, his eye below Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow, While like a silver clarion rung A bell, which on the handle hung-- Of the Bicycle.

In cosy sheds he saw the light Of bicycles well cleaned and bright; Along the road deep ruts had grown, And from his lips escaped a moan-- "My Bicycle!"

"Try not that road," the old man said, "'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head; The farm pond, too, is deep and wide;" But loud the bicyclist replied, "Rot! Bicycle!"

"Beware the oak-tree's withered arm, Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!" This was the peasant's last good-night; A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right-- Vive Bicycles!"

At break of day, as in a brook A passenger did chance to look, He started back, what saw he there? His voice cried through the startled air, "A Bicycle!"

A bicyclist, upon the ground, Half buried in the dirt, was found Still hugging, in his arms of ice, That two-wheeled thing of strange device, The Bicycle.

There in the twilight cold and grey, Helpless, but struggling, he lay, While, now no longer bright and fair, His bicycle lay broken there-- Poor Bicycle!

Whizz; the Christmas number of The Bicycling Times, 1880.

* * * * *

THE SETTLER'S VERSION OF EXCELSIOR.

The shades of night were a coming down swift, Upidee, Upida. The snow was heapin' up, drift on drift, Upidee, Upida. Through a Yankee village a youth did go, Carrying a flag with this motto-- "Upidee, Upida."

On his high forehead curled copious hair, He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair, A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash, And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache, Upidee, Upida!

About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper; He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'-- "Upidee, Upida."

"Oh take care," cried an old man, "stop; It's blowing gales up there on top; You'll be blown right off the other side," But the humorous stranger still replied, "Upidee, Upida."

"Beware the branch of the sycamore tree, And rolling stones, if any you see;" Just then the farmer went to bed, And a singular voice replied overhead, "Upidee, Upida."

"Oh, stay!" the maiden said, "and rest, Your weary head upon this breast." On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum, "Upidee, Upida!"

About a quarter to six in the next forenoon A man accidentally going up too soon Heard repeated above him, as much as twice, Those very same words, in a very weak voice, "Upidee, Upida."

The very same man about a quarter to seven (He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven), Found buried up there, among the snow and ice, That youth with the banner with the strange device, "Upidee, Upida."

He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt, The lamp of his life was quite gone out, On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin', There was no more use for him to be sayin', "Upidee, Upida!"

* * * * *

The shades of night were falling fast, As through the streets of London passed A party with a packet nice, On which was seen the strange device-- Exitium.

"Hi, stay!" the Bobby cried, "you man." Says he, "You'll catch me if you can." Three rapid strides, and he was gone; From Bobby's lips escaped a groan-- Exitium.

At break of day, as in a fright, The Bobbies came from left and right, Each murmured, starting in a scare; A crash resounded through the air-- Exitium.

There in the twilight cold and grey-- In ruins stately buildings lay, And o'er the land the news is spread: "Another Fenian escapade!" Exitium.

Scraps, 14 May, 1884.

* * * * *

Use not the coke, the old man said, The stove must be by small coal fed. The heap of slack is deep and wide, But still their saucy voices cried, Don't bother us!

Printer's Devil, Northampton, 1884.

WHAT IS IN AN AIM.

(After "The Bridge.")

I went to bed at eleven, At the sign of the Azure Boar, And I knew that my room was seven, For I'd seen it upon the door.

With a flickering, flaring candle, That glimmered like sickly Hope, I found out my way to the handle, And I flung the portal ope,

When a gentleman--not to my thinking-- Was placed in the door upright; It was evident he had been drinking, For he hiccuped out in the night;

And he spoke in a language mighty, That rang through the chill and gloom; And he asked me, "Highty-tighty," "What the deuce do you do in my room?"

And never of warning mildly A word had the stranger said, Ere he took up a bootjack wildly, And hurled it at my head;

And down with a noise and clatter It fell o'er the winding stair, And some one cried, "What's the matter?" And I said, "I am not aware!"

And whenever I feel dyspeptic, And whenever my soul's unwell, And whenever I've got lumbago, And whenever my eyelids swell,

I see the man with the bootjack, He swears as he used to swear, And I hear the implement falling And clattering down the stair;

And I say to myself at twilight, A vindictive person's a brute; I'd rather have been on the skylight Than down at the staircase foot!

For whatever evil you suffer, The words of the sage rehearse, "Though things may be bad, you duffer, They might be a good deal worse."

The Story of a Railway Tavern, by Professor Long, Fellow of the Learned Societies, contained in Vere Vereker's Vengeance, by Thomas Hood, 1865.

* * * * *

Reference was made, on page 80, to Edmund H. Yates's parody on Evangeline, it is to be found in "Mirth and Metre," by F. E. Smedley and E. H. Yates, 1855.

It commences thus:--

PICNIC-ALINE.

These are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance-- Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows-- Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with black things. Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened. These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone? Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins, Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions? Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love--even marriage, All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic; And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped, And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining! Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic, Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business, List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden-- List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad!

EDMUND H. YATES.

* * * * *

TOWN AND GOWN.

Brightly blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November, Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College, Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker." Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses, Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows. There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors, There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid; There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors, Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" _in futuro_, Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres. Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean, Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly," "Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless ditty. But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is), A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted. Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle, Out to the noise, and the din, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics, Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brimfull of the valour of Holland, Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric, As flashes the pheasant's tail when he hears the first gun in October. Now with a yell and a spring the cads came up to the onset, Cursing and swearing amain, and throwing their arms out like thunder. Stopping before All Saints' the hideous work of Dean Aldrich, Stopping De Whyskers made emphatic the sign for the battle, Thereon he let fall a blow swift like an armourer's hammer, Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains, Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura. Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter, Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden; Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm. Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful, Even to Worcester the slow, or Botany Bay, as they call it, Down by Trinity Gates, and Balliol beloved of the scholar, Down by the temple of Tom, whence the Curfew rings in the gloaming Thundered the fray till the rain came down on the scene as a damper.

College Rhymes (T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.)

The great "Town and Gown" rows that used to occur annually on the Fifth of November, between the undergraduates and the townspeople, have been gradually dying out, but the memory of them still lingers in many old College Rhymes and traditions. They are most vividly described in Verdant Green, an Oxford Freshman, a light-hearted clever little work, by the Rev. E. Bradley, Rector of Lenton, better known under his pseudonym of Cuthbert Bede. Mr. Bradley, although himself a Cambridge man, was intimately acquainted with Oxford.

* * * * *

A VOICE FROM THE FAR WEST,

Hailing the Centenary Birthday of Burns.

Happy thy name, O BURNS! for burns, in thy native Doric, Meaneth the free bright streams, exhaustless, pellucid, and sparkling, Mountain-born, wild and erratic, kissing the flow'rets in passing, Type of thy verse and thyself--loving and musical ever; And the streams by thy verse made immortal are known by our giant rivers, Where the emigrants sing them to soothe the yearnings for home in their bosoms, And the Coila and gentle Doon, by the song of the Celtic wanderer, Are known to the whispering reeds that border the great Mississippi. Thou wert the lad for the lasses! lasses the same are as misses; And here we have misses had pleased you--Missouri and the Mississippi. And "green grow the rushes" beside them--as thy evergreen chorus would have them. Thou wert the champion of freedom!--Thou didst rejoice in our glory! When we at Bunker's Hill no bunkum display'd, but true courage! Jubilant thou wert in our Declaration of Independence! More a Republican thou than a chain-hugging bow-and-scrape Royalist! Even the Stars and the Stripes seem appointed the flag of thy destiny;-- The stars are the types of thy glory, the stripes thou didst get from Misfortune.

Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns. Edited by Ben Trovato (Routledge, Warnes & Routledge. London, 1859.)

* * * * *

There are several excellent parodies in Lays of the Saintly, amongst them the following, which is given here as it is also in the style of Longfellow's Evangeline:--

SISTER BEATRICE (A.D. uncertain).

This is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls, Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus, Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens, Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent, Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters-- Fluent in sound, and avoiding the stiffness of commoner blank verse, Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers, Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England; Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.

I.

In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly, To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling, Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order, Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle, Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister. Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly, And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contemplation. More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters, For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in Messages, parcels, et cetera, from those who came to the wicket. Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady, Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master; Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to), "Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them, Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless? No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent: Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to catch me." So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic, And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments; Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safeplace, Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them. "Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then murmured Beatrice, "And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building." And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten'd With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the canvas; Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her, Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her, Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness, Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled.

II

Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted; Scarce had she gone, when lo! with wonderment be it related-- Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Madonna, Took up the keys and the raiment Beatrice had quitted, and wore them, Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent; Became in appearance a nun, so that none could discover the difference. Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization; Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent; Till it would not have surprised them to see a celestial halo Gather around her head, and pinions spring from her shoulders, That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better. Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction. Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office, Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water.

III.

Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escaped from the convent, Much had she seen of the world, and its wickedness greatly distress'd her; Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet she dared not; Oft was determined to go, still she "stood on the order of going." Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular agent Entered one day, in the house where the truant sister was staying, But changed as she was in appearance, he did not know her from Adam; Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar figure. "Now I shall learn," thought she, "what they say of my flight and my absence." And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister Beatrice, As of a friend she had known when living near to the convent. "Truly," the factor replied, "She is still the pride of our sisters, Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affection. Would there were more of her kind in some houses monastic I know of," Puzzled and rather distress'd, then answer'd the truant religieuse, "She whom I speak of, alas! was less of a saint than a sinner, She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speak of another?" "Not in the least, my child," the secular agent responded; "Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did not run away from the cloister, Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go? Stuff and nonsense!" "What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is my double and namesake?" So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle the question, Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the portal familiar, Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour and found a Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion. Down on her knees went Beatrice--the why and the wherefore she knew not. "Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna; "Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings, Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness; Be you a nun as before, but more pious; farewell, take my blessing." Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite picture. Again was Beatrice "herself," like Richard the third, à la Shakespeare, Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of Saintship; While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely as she did.

* * * * *

Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who devised it? Tenderest he of the poets who wrote in the tongue of (New) England, Where the minstrel who sang of "Evangeline," also "Miles Standish?" Alas! he will never again pour forth his effusions pathetic, But his name and his fame endure, and this characteristic measure In honour of him I adopt, without any thought of burlesquing. Thus on the ear its cadence, like sounds from the labouring ocean, Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.

Lays of the Saintly, by Walter Parke (Vizetelly & Co.), London, 1882.

Charles Wolfe.

The Reverend Charles Wolfe, who was born in Dublin in 1791, has earned literary immortality by one short poem, and that copied with considerable closeness from a prose account of the incident to which it refers. Reading in the Edinburgh Annual Register a description of the death and burial of Sir John Moore, the young poet turned it into verse with such sublime pathos, such taste and skill, that his poem has obtained imperishable fame in our literature.

Mr. Wolfe also produced a few other poems of unquestionable grace and pathos, but nothing approaching the beauty of his immortal ode. He was, for a time, curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, and afterwards of Donoughmore. His arduous duties in a large, wild, and very scattered parish left him little leisure to cultivate the muses, and soon told on his delicate constitution. He died of consumption on 21st February, 1823, at the early age of 32, and thus the assertion of his detractors that he produced nothing else of sufficient merit to show that he could have written the ode in question, may be easily met by the two pleas--firstly, that he had other duties to perform; and, secondly, that his career was too brief to admit of many, or great, performances.

The battle of Corunna was fought on January 16, 1809, by the British army, about 15,000 strong, under Sir John Moore, against a force of about 20,000 Frenchmen.

The British troops had just safely accomplished a retreat to the coast in the face of a superior force, and were on the point of embarking, when the French attacked; the enemy was repulsed, but the British loss was very great, and Sir John Moore, who was struck on the left shoulder by a cannon ball, died, much lamented by his troops. His body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna, and a grave was dug for him on the ramparts by a party of the 9th Regiment. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened, for firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not allowed to pay him their last duty. The embarkation of the troops took place next day, under the command of Sir David Baird, who had also been wounded in the fight.

The following is what Lord Byron correctly termed, "The most perfect Ode in the language":--

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

'The following lines were written by a Student of Trinity College, on reading the affecting account of the Burial of Sir John Moore, in the Edinburgh Annual Register':--

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning. By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory!

The ode was first published in Currick's Morning Post (Ireland) in 1815, with the signature "W. C.," and the Rev. J. A. Russell, in his "Remains of C. Wolfe" (London, 1829), states that a letter is preserved in the Royal Irish Academy, addressed by the Rev. C. Wolfe to John Taylor, Esq., at the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's Clononty, Cashel, in which he says:--"I have completed the 'Burial of Sir John Moore,' and will here inflict it upon you." This letter bears the post mark "September 9, 1816."

Yet although the poem was quickly copied into all the newspapers, and at once became widely popular, its authorship long remained the subject of controversy. By some it was ascribed to Lord Byron, whilst Shelley was inclined to name Thomas Campbell as its author. In 1841, long after the death of Wolfe, it was dishonestly claimed by a Scotch teacher, Mr. Macintosh, who ungenerously sought to pluck the laurel from the grave of its owner.

The friends of Wolfe came forward, and established his right to the poem; the impostor was compelled to withdraw his claim, and apologise for his misconduct.

Of the numerous claims to the authorship of these lines the most striking was that advanced by the Rev. Francis Mahony ("Father Prout") in "Bentley's Miscellany," Vol. 1, p. 96, 1837:--

"The Rev. Mr. Wolfe is supposed to be the author of a single poem, unparalleled in the English language for all the qualities of a true lyric, breathing the purest spirit of the antique, and setting criticism completely at defiance. I say supposed, for the gentleman himself never claimed its authorship during his short and unobtrusive lifetime. He who could write the "Funeral of Sir John Moore" must have eclipsed all the lyric poets of this latter age by the fervour and brilliancy of his powers. Do the other writings of Mr. Wolfe bear any trace of inspiration? None.

"I fear we must look elsewhere for the origin of those beautiful lines; and I think I can put the public on the right scent. In 1749, Colonel de Beaumanoir, a native of Brittany, having raised a regiment in his own neighbourhood, went out with it to India, in that unfortunate expedition, commanded by Lally-Tolendal, the failure of which eventually lost to the French their possessions in Hindostan. The colonel was killed in defending against the forces of Coote, PONDICHERRY, the last stronghold of the French in that hemisphere.

"He was buried that night on the north bastion of the fortress by a few faithful followers, and the next day the fleet sailed with the remainder of the garrison for Europe. In the appendix to the "Memoirs of LALLY-TOLENDAL" by his son, the following lines occur, which bear some resemblance to those attributed to Wolfe. Perhaps Wolfe Tone may have communicated them to his relative, the clergyman, on his return from France. Fides sit penes lectorem."

PADRE PROUT.

LES FUNÉRAILLES DE BEAUMANOIR.

(The Original of "Not a drum was heard.")

I.

Ni le son du tambour ... ni la marche funèbre ... Ni le feu des soldats ... ne marqua son départ. Mais du BRAVE, à la hâte, à travers les ténèbres, Mornes ... nous portâmes le cadavre au rempart!

II.

De minuit c'était l'heure, et solitaire et sombre-- La lune à peine offrait un débile-rayon: La lanterne luisait péniblement dans l'ombre, Quand de la bayonnette on creusa le gazon.

III.

D'inutile cercueil ni de drap funéraire Nous ne daignâmes point entourer le HEROS; Il gisait dans les plis du manteau militaire Comme un guerrier qui dort son heure de repos.

IV.

La prière qu'on fit fut de courte durée: Nul ne parla de deuil, bien que le cœur fut plein! Mais on fixait du MORT la figure adorée ... Mais avec amertume on songeait au demain.

V.

Au demain! quand ici ou sa fosse s'apprête, Ou son humide lit on dresse avec sanglots, L'ennemi orgueilleux marchera sur sa tête, Et nous, ses vétérans, serons loin sur les flots!

VI.

Ils terniront sa gloire ... on pourra les entendre Nommer l'illustre MORT d'un ton amer ... ou fol; Il les laissera dire.--Eh! qu'importe A SA CENDRE, Que la main d'un BRETON a confiée au sol?

VII.

L'œuvre durait encore, quand retentit la cloche Au sommet du Befroi:--et le canon lointain, Tiré par intervalle, en annonçant l'approche, Signalait la fierté de l'ennemi hautain.

VIII.

Et dans sa fosse alors le mîmes lentement ... Près du champ où sa gloire a été consommée: Ne mîmes à l'endroit pierre ni monument Le laissant seul à seul avec sa Renommée!

This "Father Prout," whom Mr. G. A. Sala terms "the wittiest pedant, the most pedantic wit, and the oddest fish he ever met with," was well known as an inveterate jester, as well as an accomplished linguist, so that the above effusion did not deceive his associates, especially as the documents referred to in it, as evidence, had no existence save in the fertile brain of "Father Prout."

In the recent edition of the "Maclise Portrait Gallery," by Mr. William Bates, M.A. (Chatto and Windus, 1883), is an interesting biography of this eccentric genius, in which will be found all that is known about his French imitation of Wolfe's Ode. Mr. Bates truly remarks that, notwithstanding Padre Prout's skill in French versification, there are internal evidences that the poem was not written by a Frenchman, and further that it has the unmistakable air of a translation. Unfortunately, however, the mischief was done, and what Mahony may have intended for a harmless pleasantry, has raised a literary controversy of wide dimensions. His verses were copied into serious French journals, and many well-informed foreigners believe the lines to have originated from a French source. Thus M. Octave Delepierre, in his Essai sur la Parodie (Trübner and Co., London, 1870), seems to have been entirely misled by the hoax. He gives part of the French version, and whilst stating that it is not a settled point, which was first written, he does not mention Father Prout's article, and seems entirely ignorant of the fictitious and humorous origin of the French imitation.

Singularly enough, The Athenæum, of July 1, 1871, in reviewing M. Delepierre's work, fell into the same error, and seriously argued against the French claim, forgetting all about Father Prout.

M. Delepierre's statement is (Essai sur la Parodie, p. 163):--"Lorsqu'elle fut publiée en 1824, elle parut assez belle pour que le Capitaine Medwin suggérat qu'elle était due à la muse de Byron. Sydney Taylor réfuta cette supposition, et restitua l'ode à son véritable auteur, le Rev. Charles Wolfe."

"Ce n'est pas seulement en Angleterre qu'on a discuté la paternité de cette ode célèbre. On trouve à ce sujet toute une discussion littéraire dans le journal L'Intermédiare des Chercheurs et Curieux, 5ᵋ année, page 693, et 6ᵋ année, pages 19 et 106."

"D'après ces détails, il paraîtrait que cette pièce n'est que la traduction d'une ode Française, composée à l'occasion de la mort du Comte de Beaumanoir, tué en 1749, à la défense de Pondichery. L'une de ces deux odes est évidemment une traduction de l'autre; mais quel est l'original?"

The following is the note in the Intermédiare, to which M. Delepierre refers:--

"The well-known verses on the death of Sir John Moore, attributed to the Rev. Charles Wolfe, but never acknowledged by him, are so similar to the above, that it is supposed Mr. Wolfe may have received the French stanzas from his relative, Mr. Wolfe Tone, after his return from France."

The best answer to which is, that the French have never yet produced a genuine and authentic copy of the original version, of a date earlier than that of Wolfe.

The ode has been translated into German (by the Rev. E. C. Hawtrey); into Latin Elegiacs (by the Rev. J. Hildyard); and there is a Greek translation of it "By a Scottish Physician" in the Arundines Devæ (Edinburgh, 1853); there is also a parody of it by the late Mr. J. H. Dixon, which is highly spoken of, but, up till now, this has eluded the editor's researches.

The Rev. R. H. Barham's well known parody in "The Ingoldsby Legends" is especially notable for its close imitation of the original; thus not only is the metre closely followed, but nearly all the lines are made to end with similar rhymes to those in the original.

Barham had a good excuse for this comical effusion, in the wish to expose and ridicule the pretensions of a certain soi-disant "Doctor," a Durham veterinary surgeon of the name of Marshall, on whose behalf a claim had been made, in 1824, for the authorship of the "Ode." But this was afterwards said to have been a mere hoax, as this Marshall was more remarkable for convivial, than literary tastes.

Note.--In the autumn of 1824, Captain Medwin having hinted that certain beautiful lines on the burial of this gallant officer might have been the production of Lord Byron's muse, the late Mr. Sydney Taylor, somewhat indignantly, claimed them for their rightful owner, the late Rev. Charles Wolfe. During the controversy a third claimant started up in the person of a soi-disant "Doctor Marshall," who turned out to be a Durham blacksmith, and his pretensions a hoax. It was then that a certain "Doctor Peppercorn" put forth his pretensions to what he averred was the only "true and original" version, viz.:--

Not a sous had he got, not a guinea or note, And he looked confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning, We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him, And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his Marshall cloak around him.

"The Doctor's as drunk as the d----," we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head Would consumedly ache on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda water.

Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done, When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son-of-a-gun Of a watchman, "One o'clock," bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory.

Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores.--Virgil. I wrote the verses, * * claimed them--he told stories.

Thomas Ingoldsby.

* * * * *

The following parody is copied literally from an old ballad sheet in the British Museum, bearing the imprint:--"Printed and sold by J. Pitts, 6 Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials." No date is given, but that it was prior to 1830 is shown by the reference to the "Charleys," a nick-name for the old London watchmen, who were superseded by the new police towards the end of 1829. But the crimes of Body-snatching, and "Burking," were not finally put a stop to until, by the act of 1832, provision was made for the wants of surgeons by permitting, under certain regulations, the dissection of persons dying in workhouses, etc.:--

Not a trap was heard, or a Charley's note As our course to the churchyard we hurried, Not a pigman discharg'd a pistol shot As a corpse from the grave we unburied.

We nibbled it slily at dead of night, The sod with our pick-axes turning, By the nosing moonbeam's chaffing light, And our lanterns so queerly burning.

Few and short were the words we said, And we felt not a bit of sorrow, But we rubb'd with rouge the face of the dead And we thought of the spoil for to-morrow.

The useless shroud we tore from his breast And then in regimentals bound him, And he looked like a swoddy taking his rest, With his lobster togs around him.

We thought as we fill'd up his narrow bed, Our snatching trick now no look sees; But the bulk and the sexton will find him fled, And we far away towards Brooks's.

Largely they'll cheek 'bout the body that's gone And poor Doctor Brooks will upbraid him; But nothing we care if they leave him alone In a place where a snatcher has laid him.

But half of our snatching job was o'er, When a pal tipt the sign quick for shuffling, And we heard by the distant hoarse Charley's roar That the beaks would be 'mongst us soon scuffling.

Slily and slowly we laid him down, In our cart famed for staching in story; Nicely and neatly we done 'em brown, For we bolted away in our glory.

* * * * *

At the time when the first Reform Bill was under discussion its opponents constantly asserted that, if it were carried, the ancient constitution of the country would be swept away, and that ruin, revolution, and anarchy would result. The following parody appeared in a Liberal newspaper of the period:--

ODE ON THE DEATH AND BURIAL OF THE CONSTITUTION.

"Who will not be alive to the merits of the following verses on the death of the British Constitution, which has been dying for the last four years at least. The lament of the Conservative party over his death and burial abounds in feeling and sentiment worthy of its prototype."

Not a moan was heard--not a funeral note, As his corpse to the devil they hurried, Not a speaker discharged his farewell shot, O'er the grave where our idol was buried.

They buried him darkly at dead of night, With their threats our remonstrance turning, By the struggling Stephen's misty light, In the brazen socket burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, In a sheet of parchment they bound him, And he lay with Old Sarum for ever at rest, With schedule A around him.

Few and short were the speeches said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow, But we mournfully looked on the face of the dead, And thought of the coming morrow.

We thought as they tumbled him into his bed, And laid him at rest on his pillow, That the Radical soon would step over our head, And we be turned out by the bill--oh!

Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, But England's destroyed if they let him sleep on, In the grave where Lord Russell has laid him.

But half our heavy task was done, When the time came for ending the session, And we heard by the sound of the Tower gun, That the King was now in procession,

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the further defence of the Tory, We carved not a line on his funeral stone, But we left him alone in his glory.

Figaro in London, 8th September, 1832.

* * * * *

There was another parody of these celebrated lines published just after Mr. John O'Connell had threatened to die on the floor of the House of Commons, a threat which, of course, gave rise to more laughter than dismay:--

LINES,

(AFTER WOLFE)

Written on the threatened Death (on the Floor of the House) of John O'Connell.

Not a groan was heard, not a pitying note, As down on the floor he hurried; Not a member offered to lend his coat, Or ask'd how he'd like to be buried

We looked at him slily at dead of night, Our backs adroitly turning, That he might not see us laugh outright By the lights so brightly burning.

No useless advice we on him press'd, Nor in argument we wound him; But we left him to lie, and take his rest, With his Irish clique around him.

Few and short were the speeches made, And we spoke not a word in sorrow; But we thought, as we look'd, though we leave him for dead, He'll be fresh as a lark to-morrow.

We thought, we'll be careful where we tread, And avoid him where he's lying; For if we should tumble over his head, 'Twould certainly send us flying.

Lightly they'll talk of him when they're gone, And p'rhaps for his folly upbraid him; But little he'll care, and again try it on, Till the Serjeant-at-arms shall have stayed him.

But half of us asked, "What's now to be done?" When the time arrived for retiring, And we heard the door-keeper say, "It's no fun Our attendance to watch him requiring."

Slowly and softly they shut the door, After Radical, Whig, and Tory; And muttering out, "We'll stop here no more," They left him alone in his glory.

Punch, December, 1847.

* * * * *

"GRAVE SENTIT ARATRUM."

"A GRIEVOUS THING HE FEELS IT TO BE PLOUGHED."

He looked glum when he heard, by a friendly note Which, of course, his chum sent in a hurry, That, alas! he had no testamur got; And he felt in a deuce of a flurry.

He thought how he'd read at dead of night, The page of Herodotus turning, By the tallow-candle's flickering light, Or the moderator burning.

No ruthless coughing arose from his chest, Nor did indigestion wound him; But he said--as the worry was breaking his rest-- "That Examiner--confound him!"

"What's the odds?" were the words that he said; But he choked not down his sorrow; For he sadly remembered the hopes that were fled, And pictured the "Governor's horror."

Then he thought, as he hurled himself into bed, And dashed his head down on the pillow, That his foe, the tailor, would want to be paid, And would quickly be sending his bill, oh!

Very likely he thought (now his credit was gone), "Oh! I wish with cold cash I had paid him; But nothing he'll get: I'll be off to Boulogne," And he went, out of Britain to shade him.

Just after his heavy sleep, each tone, As the clock struck the hour, was mocking, And he fancied that many a ravenous dun At the oak was sullenly knocking.

He cautiously put out his head, and looked down From his room in the second story: He saw but the quad, and its paving of stone; He was all alone,--in his glory (?)

JEREMY DIDDLER, Oxford.

College Rhymes (T. & G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1864.

* * * * *

PARODY ON "THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE."

"Not a laugh was heard, not a joyous note, As our friend to the bridal we hurried; Not a wit discharged his farewell shot, As the bachelor went to be married.

"We married him quietly to save his fright, Our heads from the sad sight turning; And we sighed as we stood by the lamp's dim light, To think he was not more discerning.

"To think that a bachelor free and bright, And shy of the sex as we found him, Should there at the altar, at dead of night, Be caught in the snares that bound him.

"Few and short were the words that we said, Though of wine and cake partaking; We escorted him home from the scene of dread, While his knees were awfully shaking.

"Slowly and sadly we marched him down, From the first to the lowermost storey; And we never have heard or seen the poor man Whom we left alone in his glory."

These lines appeared in Notes and Queries June 27, 1868, and are said to have been written by Thomas Hood.

* * * * *

THE FLIGHT OF O'NEILL, THE INVADER OF CANADA.

"General O'Neill, who, at the head of the Fenian forces recently invaded Canada, seems to combine, together with his love for Ireland, a certain amount of affection for the ordinary enjoyments of life; for one complaint against him is, that the morning of the attack, when awakened at three o'clock by a captain belonging to his quarters, he merely said, "All right!" and fell asleep again. On two subsequent occasions he was awakened with no more practical result, and on being called a fourth time, got up. Even then, however, he declined to proceed at once with the glorious work of liberating Ireland, but said, "He guessed he would wait till breakfast." After breakfast this great patriot advanced at the head of his forces, but being surprised by a party of Canadian Volunteers, who fired upon the Fenians, immediately retired to his quarters, where he was found very comfortably lodged, and was arrested by General Foster, the United States Marshal, for a breach of the neutrality laws."

Not a gun was heard, not a bugle note, As over the border he hurried; He took to his heels without firing a shot, Only looking tremendously flurried.

No ridiculous scruples inspired his breast, As over the ground he jolted; Not caring a straw what became of the rest, He unhesitatingly bolted.

And snug in his quarters, at dead of night, The Yankee General found him; His bed all ready, his candle alight, And bottles of whisky around him.

And when at his door came the clanking and noise, His courage all sank to zero; For, though at the head of the Fenian "bhoys," He wasn't exactly a hero.

When the Britishers find that he really is gone, In impotent rage they upbraid him; If Mr. O'NEILL they had laid hands upon At that moment, they surely had flay'd him!

Few and short were the words they said-- They only expressed their sorrow That they hadn't caught him, and put him to bed Where he wouldn't wake up on the morrow.

But safe in New York, under FOSTER'S convoy, He has gone to tell his own story; Where "shut up" very much, this broth of a boy Is at present alone in his glory!

Judy, 22nd June, 1870.

* * * * *

"RUNNING HIM IN."

By a Good Templar in the Force.

A groan was heard, like a funeral note, From a toper in mud half-buried, And our Serjeant "Drunk and incapable" wrote, When his form to the station we hurried.

We hurried him swiftly at dead of night, And oft with our truncheons spurning, Under many a gas-lamp's flickering light, Through alley and crooked turning.

In rags and tatters the toper was dressed, For in poverty drink had bound him. And he lay like a pig in a gutter at rest, With little pigs squeaking around him.

We lifted him up, but he fell as one dead, And we tumbled him into a barrow; And the idle spectators shouted and said, "He'll be fined, with a caution, to-morrow!"

Lightly they talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er empty bottles upbraid him; But little he'll reck, as they let him sleep on In the cell where the constables laid him.

No curtains had he to his lonely bed, And a rough deal plank was his pillow; He will wake with parched throat and an aching head, And thirst that would drink up a billow.

Roughly, yet sadly, we laid him down, That toper, worn, haggard, and hoary, And wished that the dissolute youth of the town A warning might take from his story.

Funny Folks.

* * * * *

THE MURDER OF "MACBETH."

Not a hiss was heard, not an angry yell, Though of both 'twas surely deserving-- When, cruelly murdered, Macbeth fell By the hand of the eminent Irving.

He murdered him, lengthily, that night, With his new and original reading. Till his efforts left him in sorry plight, And the sweat on his brow was bleeding.

Five different garments enclosed his breast, Five brand-new dresses were found him, Though in never a one did he look at rest, Though the people might sleep around him.

Many and long were the words he said, Till we wished in fervent sorrow, We could only get home to our welcome bed, And we vowed not to come on the morrow.

We thought as he quivered, and gasped, and strode, And made us long for our pillow, That a taste of his tragic genius he owed To our cousins far over the billow.

Even there, though his fame before has gone; He may find it melt in a minute; But little he'll reck, if they let him act on In a play with a murderer in it.

But half the heavy play was o'er When we seized the chance for retiring, And left him grovelling about on the floor, With his friends all madly admiring.

Sadly we thought as we went away, From his acting so dreary and gory, That the eminent I, if he's wise will not play, Macbeth any more, if for glory.

The Figaro, 16th October, 1875.

This critic, who left the theatre before the tragedy was half over, was, of course, eminently qualified to point out the shortcomings of Mr. Irving in the part of Macbeth, But perhaps the critic had forgotten that the leading character has one, or two, rather strong situations towards the end of the play, which he should have witnessed before condemning the actor.

* * * * *

THE BURIAL OF THE TITLE, "QUEEN."

Not a cheer was heard, not a joyous note, As the Bill to the tellers we hurried; So solemn and dread is the midnight vote When a title has to be buried.

We rolled up our sleeve and took off our coat, To make it a question burning; We strained every nerve to set it afloat, The hate of all Englishmen earning.

They hurled at us gibe, and mud so foul (There's much of it still adhering), And we knew by the distant and random growl That the foe was sullenly sneering.

Oh, little we reck of the name that's fled (That Lowe's a most impudent monkey); For "Empreth" sounds sweetly when lispingly said By the lips of some courtly flunkey.

'Twas fondly imagined a title of might, Renowned in an ancient story; But we dug a deep hole and rammed it in tight, And left it alone in its glory!

The Figaro, April 8, 1876.

One of the arguments against Mr. Disraeli's Titles Bill, was that Empress was likely altogether to supersede the older, and more constitutional, title of Queen. The lapse of but a few years has shown how groundless was this apprehension, for except in state documents or Daily Telegraph leaders, the title of Empress is never employed.

* * * * *

In November, 1879, The Weekly Dispatch (a high-class London Liberal newspaper) commenced a series of Prize Competitions, the subjects, and methods of treatment, being indicated by the Prize Editor. On April 18, 1880, the prize of Two Guineas was for the best Poem on the Downfall of the Beaconsfield Government, in the form of a parody of "The Burial of Sir John Moore." It was awarded to Mr. D. Evans, 63, Talma Road, Brixton, S.E., for the following:--

(From a Tory point of view.)

Not a hum was heard, not a jubilant note, As away from the House we all scurried-- Not a Liberal's tear bedewed the spot, The grave where our hopes were buried.

We buried them sadly and deep that night, For we had no hope of returning, By Reason's bright returning light, And our hearts were sadly yearning.

Few indeed were the words we said, But though few they were pregnant with sorrow, As we all in search of Benjamin fled To inspire us with hope for the morrow.

No gaudy star was upon his breast, No ermine cloak was around him, Yet he stood like a man who had feathered his nest; And he smiled at us all, confound him!

We thought, as we left with a silent tread, Of Cross and his dreadful Water, That the Liberals would soon be seen there instead, And we far away from that quarter.

Lightly they'll talk of us when we have gone, And of course they've a right to abuse us; But little we'd care if they'd let us keep on In our places and wouldn't refuse us.

But scarce had our sad hearts aching done. When again to the fight we were guided; And we knew that the foe had a victory won, That our fate was indeed decided.

Slowly and sadly we all went down With the blood of our brethren all gory; But our sun at Midlothian has now gone down, So farewell to the hopes of the Tory.

Another parody on the same subject by Mr. James Robinson, of 59, Lyal Road, North Bow, was also inserted:--

Not a sigh was heard, not a tear-drop fell, As its corpse from the hustings we hurried; But we felt more anxious than tongue can tell To get the thing decently buried.

With a woodcutter's help we dug it a grave-- (It was deep and contained some water)-- All willingly helped, and the sexton gave An address on its deeds of slaughter.

With a "brilliant" lie we bedecked its breast, In a "cloak of deceit" we wound it, So it lay like a hypocrite taking its rest, With its weapons all around it.

Brief and stern was the service said, In its own peculiar lingo; By a Hebrew scribe was a chapter read From the gospel according to Jingo.

Lightly we'll speak of the Ministry gone. Nor o'er its cold ashes upbraid it, We'll forgive a good deal if it only sleeps on In the dishonoured past where we've laid it.

The Editor added the following remarks:--

"Among the numerous parodies of 'The Burial of Sir John Moore' there are some, faulty in parts, in which there are remarkably vigorous verses. One competitor, for instance, treating Jingo as a personality, says:--

'No well-bunged beer-cask confined his breast, Nor in cerement white we bound him; But he lay 'neath a water-butt, taking his rest, With a pool of that liquid around him.'

Another winds up thus:--

'Smiling and gladly we toppled him down, That image of humbug so gory; We wrote but one line--'Here, under this stone, Lies bombast, false glitter, and glory.'

And a third is particularly energetic in his speculations as to the behaviour of the Premier on hearing of the defeat of his policy:--

'He thought, as he holloa'd aloud in bed, And pommelled his lonely pillow, He was pitching away into Gladstone's head; And his fury was like the billow.'"

THE BURIAL OF THE MASHER.

"Mr. Burnand's good-natured but well-directed chaff in 'Blue Beard,' at the Gaiety, may be said to have ridiculed that curious product of modern civilisation, the Masher, out of existence. His continued life now seems to be impossible."--Daily Paper.

Not a laugh was heard, not a cheery sound, As the song to an encore was hurried; Not a man in the stalls to cheer was found, On the night that the Masher was buried.

He'd come before to a parlous pass, Sore stricken by TRUTH'S endeavour; But "Blue Beard" gave him his coup de grâce. And finished him once for ever!

It killed and buried him sitting there, By ridicule on him turning; 'Neath the shifting lime-light's brilliant glare, With the footlights brightly burning.

His wired gardenia graced his breast, And sodden in scent one found him, As he sat there sucking his stick with zest, With his three-inch collar around him.

A deep red groove in his puffy throat, That collar's starched edge was flaying; And the bow trimmed pumps, on which youths now dote, Were the clocks of his hose displaying.

Pearl-headed pins kept his tie in place. And his shirt front's wealth of whiteness Made yet more sallow his pasty face, More dazzling his chest-stud's brightness.

No thought worth thinking was in his breast, Nor on his dull brain was flashing, But he sat encased in his board-like vest, Equipped for the evening's mashing.

But few and short were the leers he gave At the chorus-girls singing before him; For cold and swift as an ocean wave, The chaff of Burnand swept o'er him.

And vainly he turn'd, sore at heart and sick, Some hope from the "Johnnies" to borrow; For they steadfastly sucked every one his stick, And most bitterly thought of the morrow.

They thought, as the dramatist chaffed them to death, And foreshadowed their doom so plainly, That they next morning, with feverish breath, Might demand devilled prawns all vainly;

That their faith in the curried egg might go, And a cayenne salad not serve them, Nor champagne cheer when their "tone" was low, Nor a fricassee'd oyster nerve them!

They felt that the power to attention gain Would surely henceforth evade them, And that public contempt would let them remain In the grave where a "Blue Beard" had laid them.

And so, when Burnand his task had done, And received a right warm ovation, Of all the Mashers was left not one; 'Twas complete annihilation.

And they buried them there, where they first were born, With gardenias on them clustered-- In the mashing garbs that they long had worn-- Near the stalls where they'd nightly mustered.

Blithely and gaily they laid them down, Nor heard was a sob nor a sigh there; And they carved not a line and they raised not a stone-- For the Mashers were worthy of neither!

Truth, March 22, 1883.

* * * * *

NEVER JOHN MOORE; OR, THE REJECTED SUITOR.

(An old story by an Old Bachelor.)

(With sincere apologies to the Rev. Charles Wolfe--for the sheep's clothing.)

I.

He felt highly absurd, as he put on his coat, And, of course, exceedingly worried; He swore he'd never return to the spot, As out of the front door he scurried.

II.

He tried to banish her face from his sight, She for whom he was yearning; Hadn't Fred said, he knew he was right, And that she was fond of spurning.

III.

But who'd have thought--ah, even guessed-- That after she had caught and bound him; It was to be but a flirting jest. An impartial joke to sound him.

IV.

Few and short were the words he had said, Only this--only this, "love be mine." She gave him a rap with her fan on his head, And laughingly left him to pine

V.

What was he to do? should he hate her instead? Or weeping wail, waly willow; Or wiping away the tears he had shed, Launch in some fresh peccadillo?

VI.

Lightly they'd talked in the days that were gone, In arbours and in kitchen gardens; Only to find his poor heart torn By devotion, which her hard heart hardens.

VII.

L'ENVOI.

The moral of this I hope you won't shun, Don't be in your mind too enquiring, Don't fall in love, or as sure as a gun, You're not cared for by her you're admiring.

VIII.

Talk to them civilly and leave them alone, And this is the end of my story. And as I don't mean to alter my tone, I drink to all flirts "con amore."

From Cribblings from the Poets (Jones & Piggott), Cambridge, 1883.

A FUNERAL AFTER SIR JOHN MOORE'S, FURNISHED BY AN UNDERTAKER.

Not a mute one word at the funeral spoke Till away to the pot-house we hurried, Not a bearer discharged his ribald joke O'er the grave where our "party" we buried.

We buried him dearly with vain display, Two hundred per cent. returning, Which we made the struggling orphans pay, All consideration spurning.

With plumes of feathers his hearse was drest, Pall and hatbands and scarfs we found him; And he went, as a Christian, unto his rest, With his empty pomp around him.

None at all were the prayers we said, And we felt not the slightest sorrow, But we thought, as the rites were perform'd o'er the dead, Of the bill we'd run up on the morrow.

We thought as he sunk to his lowly bed That we wish'd they'd cut it shorter. So that we might be off to the Saracen's Head, For our gin, and our pipes, and our porter.

Lightly we speak of the "party" that's gone, Now all due respect has been paid him; Ah! little he reck'd of the lark that went on Near the spot where we fellows had laid him.

As soon as our sable task was done, Nor a moment we lost in retiring; And we feasted and frolick'd, and poked our fun, Gin and water each jolly soul firing,

Blithely and quickly we quaff'd it down, Singing song, cracking joke, telling story; And we shouted and laughed all the way up to Town, Riding outside the hearse in our glory.

Punch, January 5, 1850.

At the time when the above parody appeared there was an agitation on foot to reform the costliness and vain display at funerals. Punch, both in his cartoons and his letterpress, was exceedingly bitter against the undertakers.

The matter was so energetically taken up by the press and the public, that funerals were soon shorn of their costly mummery, and are now conducted on much more sensible and economical principles than they were in 1850.

In reference to the disputed authority of the ode "Not a drum was heard," the Rev. T. W. Carson, of Dublin, has kindly forwarded a facsimile of the letter, (to which reference was made on page 105), from the Rev. C. Wolfe to his friend Mr. John Taylor. It varies slightly from the version already given, and seems conclusively to establish Wolfe's title as author of the poem.

It runs thus:--

"I have completed the Burial of Sir John Moore, and will here inflict it upon you; you have no one but yourself to blame, for praising the two stanzas (?) that I told you so much;--

(Here follows the poem.)

"Pray write soon--you may direct as usual to College, and it will follow me to the country. Give my love to Armstrong, and believe me, my dear John, ever yours,

(Signed) CHARLES WOLFE."

This is addressed--

"JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ., At the Rev. Mr. Armstrong's, Clonoulty, Cashel."

Date of postmark, Se, 6, 1816.

The handwriting is small, neat, and clear, and there is only one slight verbal correction, which occurs in the last verse; in verses 3 and 4 a few end words have been torn off by the seal.

There is a postscript, as it has no reference, however, to the poem, it is needless to reprint it.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: This appears to be a covert allusion to the lady-bird.]

[Footnote 5: We shall not publish the vocabulary with this song.--ED.]

Thomas Hood.

1798--MAY 3, 1845.

In Hood's poems a rare blending is found of wit, fancy, humour and pathos; and as his personal character was amiable, gentle and good, his memory is cherished by Englishmen with peculiar affection and respect.

Thomas Hood was born in London, and was the son of a member of the then well-known firm of booksellers, Vernor, Hood, and Sharp.

Hood was intended for an engraver, and although he soon deserted that profession, he acquired a sufficient knowledge of it to enable him to illustrate his own works, which he did in a quaintly comical manner. His sketches, though generally crude and inartistic, admirably explain his meaning, and never certainly did puns find such a prolific, and humourous, pictorial exponent as Hood.

Hood's eldest son (Thomas Hood the younger) was also the author of several novels and some humourous poetry. He was for many years editor of Fun.

Of Hood's poems the four most usually selected for parody and imitation are, The Song of the Shirt; The Bridge of Sighs; The Dream of Eugene Aram; and a pretty little piece entitled I remember, I remember.

It is a somewhat curious fact that one of the most earnest and pathetic of Hood's poems should first have appeared in Punch. The Song of the Shirt will be found on page 260 of vol. 5, 1843, of that journal.

This dirge of misery awoke universal pity for the poor victims of the slop-sellers and ready-made clothiers; but like most of the spasmodic outbursts of British rage and indignation little permanent good resulted from it. The machinists, and unattached out-door employés of the London tailors, are probably worse off now than ever they were in Hood's time.

As might have been expected from the wonderful popularity of The Song of the Shirt and its peculiarly catching rhythm, it has been the subject of almost innumerable parodies, and has also served as the model for many imitations of a serious nature.

TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF A TOURIST.

In clothes, both muddy and wet, Without hat--left on the fell; A pedestrian sought, with a tottering gait, Refreshment at this hotel. He'd walked a long and weary way, O'er mountain-top and moor; And thus he mused, mid'st wind and rain, As he approached the door.

"I walk! walk! walk! First climbing hills, and then down Where the people are not to be seen, Many miles from village or town. Oh! haven't I been a dupe, Pedestrian pleasure to seek, When so quiet I might have stayed At Redcar all the week."

"I walk! walk! walk! With my boots fast breaking up, And walk! walk! walk! Without either bite or sup. Oh! that again I was at home, To feel as I used to feel, And not as now, in hunger and thirst, With a doubly-blistered heel."

"I walk! walk! walk! Up to the knee in bog, And loudly call, 'Lost! Lost!' Surrounded by clouds and fog. I walk! walk! walk! Till my head begins to spin; Oh! that I ne'er had scrambled out The stream I tumbled in."

"I walk! walk! walk! With cheeks all swollen and red; A nasty aching within my ears, Rheumatics in my head. I walk! walk! walk! In trousers tattered and torn! With every thread from foot to head Quite soaked since early morn."

"The day is fast wearing out, And so are my boots and I; The sleet blows in my face, As with the breeze I sigh. Although white fog I'm in, Yet 'tis a dark look out For one who hither has come for a change, And cannot change a clout."

"I walk! walk! walk! And nothing can find to see; While water and mud from out my boots Is squirting up to each knee. Talk of scenery! Bah! it's all stuff, But the waterfall, I admit, Is good, for it's running down my back, And I've no dry place to sit."

"I walk! walk! walk! With my throat quite parched and dry; No spirit to rouse my spirits up; With pulse quite fevered and high. I've a dropsy got outside, Whilst inside there's a drought; Oh! for a good warm draught within, As a check to the draught without."

"Walk! walk! walk! I'll never come here again: My holiday shall be spent elsewhere, Free from fatigue and pain. Or I'll stay at home with my wife, Where a dry shirt I can wear;"-- And worn out with misfortune's strife, And almost weary of his life, He sank in the old arm chair.

JOHN REED APPLETON, F.S.A.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SPURT.

With hands all blistered and worn, With eyes excited and red, A boating man sat, in jersey and bags, Awaiting the signal with dread. Tug! tug! tug! Every bone in his body is hurt; And still, with a sigh and a dolorous shrug, He sang the "Song of the Spurt!"

"Work! work! work! Till I shiver in every limb; Work! work! work! Till the eyes begin to swim Steam, bucket, and pant, Pant, bucket, and steam, Till over the oar I almost faint, And row along in a dream."

"O, men, with sisters dear, O, men, with pretty cousins, I must mind and keep my form for the end-- They'll be there on the barge by dozens! Pull! pull! pull! What is poverty, hunger, or dirt, Compared with the more than double dread Of catching a crab in the spurt!"

With eyes excited and red, With good hope of victory fired, He was rowing along in his jersey and bags, But feeling uncommonly tired! Pull! pull! pull! He began his full powers to exert; Soon his boat would have been at the head of the river, But when just at the barge--an unfortunate shiver Made him catch a crab in the spurt!

REMEX MORIBUNDUS.

College Rhymes (T. and G. Shrimpton), Oxford, 1865.

* * * * *

THE DRIPPING SHEET.

"This sheet, wrung out of cold or tepid water, is thrown around the body. Quick rubbing follows, succeeded by the same operation with a dry sheet. Its operation is truly shocking. Dress after to prevent remarks."

SONG OF THE SHEET.

(After Hood.)

With nerves all shattered and worn, With shouts terrific and loud, A patient stood in a cold wet sheet-- A Grindrod's patent shroud. Wet, wet, wet, In douche, and spray, and sleet, And still, with a voice I shall never forget, He sang the song of the sheet.

"Drip, drip, drip, Dashing, and splashing, and dipping; And drip, drip, drip, Till your fat all melts to dripping. It's oh, for dry deserts afar, Or let me rather endure Curing with salt in a family jar, If this is the water cure.

"Rub, rub, rub, He'll rub away life and limb; Rub, rub, rub, It seems to be fun for him. Sheeted from head to foot, I'd rather be covered with dirt; I'll give you the sheet and the blankets to boot, If you'll only give me my shirt.

"Oh men, with arms and hands; Oh men, with legs and shins; It is not the sheet you're wearing out, But human creatures' skins. Rub, rub, rub, Body, and legs, and feet, Rubbing at once with a double rub, A skin as well as a sheet.

"My wife will see me no more-- She'll see the bone of her bone But never will see the flesh of her flesh, For I'll have no flesh of my own: The little that was my own, They won't allow me to keep, It's a pity that flesh should be so dear, And water so very cheap.

"Pack, pack, pack, Whenever your spirit flags, You're doomed by hydropathic laws To be packed in cold wet rags: Rolled up on bed or on floor-- Or sweated to death in a chair; But my chairman's rank--my shadow I'd thank For taking my place in there.

"Slop, slop, slop, Never a moment of time, Slop, slop, slop, Slackened like masons' lime; Stand and freeze or steam-- Steam or freeze and stand; I wish those friends had their tongues benumbed, That told me to leave dry land.

"Up, up, up, In the morn before daylight, The bathman cries, "Get up," (I wish he were up for a fight). While underneath the eaves, The dry, snug swallows cling, But give them a cold wet sheet to their backs, And see if they'll come next spring.

"Oh! oh! it stops my breath, (He calls it short and sweet), Could they hear me underneath, I'll shout them from the street! He says that in half an hour A different man I'll feel That I'll jump half over the moon and want To walk into a meal.

* * * * *

"I feel more nerve and power, And less of terror and grief; I'm thinking now of love and hope-- And now of mutton and beef. This glorious scene will rouse my heart, Oh, who would lie in bed? I cannot stop, but jump and hop; Going like needle and thread."

With buoyant spirit upborne, With cheeks both healthy and red; The same man ran up the Malvern Crags, Pitying those in bed. Trip, trip, trip, Oh, life with health is sweet; And still in a voice both strong and quick, Would that its tones could reach the sick, He sang the Song of the Sheet.

From Health and Pleasure, or Malvern Punch. By J. B. Oddfish, Esq., M.P., L.L.D. (Malvern Patient, Doctor of Laughs and Liquids).

Simpkin, Marshall and Co., London, 1865.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE STREET.

(To the memory of the good, the genial, the large-hearted Thomas Hood, this humble imitation of his "Song of the Shirt" is inscribed by the writer).

I.

With lips all livid with cold, And purple and swollen feet, A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, Singing the Song of the Street! "Starve! starve! starve! Oh, God! 'tis a fearful night! How the wind does blow the sleet and the snow! Will it ever again be light?

II.

"I have rung at the 'Refuge' bell, I have beat at the workhouse-door, To be told again that I clamour in vain, They are full--they can hold no more. Starve! starve! starve! Of the crowds that pass me by, Some with pity, and some in pride, But more with indifference turn aside, And leave me here to die!

III.

"Oh! you that sleep in beds, With coverlet, quilt, and sheet, Oh think when it snows what it is for those That lie in the open street: That lie in the open street, On the cold and frozen stones, When the winter's blast, as it whistles past, Bites into the very bones.

IV.

"Oh! what with the wind without, And what with the cold within, I own I have sought to drive away thought With that curse of the tempted--gin. Drink! drink! drink! Amid ribaldry, gas, and glare. If there's hell on earth, 'Tis the ghastly mirth That maddens at midnight, there.

V.

"Oh you, that never have stray'd, Because you have not been tried, Oh look not down with a Pharisee's frown On those that have swerv'd aside. And you that hold the scales, And you that glibly urge That the only plan is the Prison van, The Treadmill, or the Scourge.

VI.

"Oh, what are the lost to do? To famish, and not to feel? For days to go, and never to know What it is to have one meal? They cannot buy, they dare not beg, They must either starve or steal.

"Food--food--food! If it be but a loaf of bread, And a place to lie-- And a place to die, If it be but a workhouse bed! If you will not give to those that live, You at least must bury the dead!"

VIII.

With lips all livid and blue, And purple and swoll'n feet, A woman, in rags, sat crouch'd on the flags, And sang the Song of the Street. As she ceased the doleful strain, My homeward path I trod; And the cry and the prayer, Of that lost one there Went up to the Throne of God.

W. H. B.

The Standard, February 16th, 1865.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE STUMP.

Stump--stump--stump-- Through market-place, pothouse, and dirt; Stump--stump--stump-- With a greasy mob fast to his skirt; Having changed his coat to secure their vote, Mr. Gladstone now changes his shirt. And if he but ends as he does begin, There is little doubt he will change his skin, On the stump--stump--stump.

Stump--stump--stump-- Through Ormskirk, St. Helen's and Newton, Whilst after him shout a rabble rout Of electors "Ain't he a cute 'un?" Stump--stump--stump-- With the aid of rhetorical steam, Till over his speeches we fall asleep, And hear him stump in a dream; Stump--stump--stump-- For ever upon our ear. Alas! that principle's so cheap, And office is so dear! Stump--stump--stump.

The Tomahawk, November, 1868.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

With bosom weary and worn, With eyelids painted and red, A lady, just from a Duchess's ball, Sat on the side of her bed. Her sapphires were gleaming and rich, And faultless her lace and her skirt, And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Flirt."

"Flirt, flirt, flirt! When the lunch is scarcely begun! Flirt, flirt, flirt! Till the sickening supper is done Ball and dinner, and rout, Rout, and dinner, and ball, Till I long for my bed to rest my head, And in a wakeless slumber to fall."

"Flirt, flirt, flirt! Till the room begins to swim; Flirt, flirt, flirt, Till the eyes are starting and dim: Beam, and falsehood, and frown, Frown, and falsehood, and beam, Till over my lyings I fall asleep, And flirt my fan in a dream!"

"Flirt, flirt, flirt! My labour never ends; And what are its wages? all true men's scorn, And a dreary dearth of friends. That shattered life--and this broken heart-- And yon smile that shrines a sneer; And a house so blank, my cousin I thank For sometimes calling here!"

"Oh! but to scent the breath Of an honest man on my brow-- To feel the throb of a worthy arm Winding around me now; For only one brief hour To feel as the pure can feel, To staunch with the power of hearty love The wounds that refuse to heal!"

With bosom weary and worn, With eyelids painted and red, A woman, fresh from a great duke's ball, Knelt by the side of her bed. Her rubies were ruddy and rich, And perfect her bodice and skirt-- She looked like a splendid and tigerly witch, And yet with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Flirt."

F. C. W., Exeter College, Oxon.

College Rhymes (T. Shrimpton and Son), Oxford, 1872.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE WIRE.

With finger cunning and firm, With one eye and a crooked back, An old man, clad in an old pair of bags, Was carving a profile in black. Snip! snip! snip! Cold, wet, or whatever the day, And still, with a voice of a ludicrous crack, He croaked the "Wirer's Lay."

"Wire! wire! wire! While men to their lectures fly, And wire! wire! wire! Where the Turl runs into the High! It's O, to be the Vice, Or a Prince in his cap and gown, It's O, to be able to pay the price To be stuck round my hat's old crown.

"Wire! wire! wire! Till the nose begins to be clear; Wire! wire! wire! Till the lips and the chin appear! Hair and shoulder and brow, Brow and shoulder and hair, Till over the likeness I chuckle and wait For a gent who's a moment to spare.

"O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers to please! It is not for them my portraits are bought, But for dearer far than these! Snip! snip! snip! With a point as keen as a dart, Carving at once a likeness to suit, And a place in the loved one's heart.

"But why do I talk of her? The fair one of unknown name, I hardly think she could tell the face, They all seem much the same-- They all seem much the same, Because of the types I keep; 'Tis odd that faces should be so like, And yet I work them so cheap!

"Wire! wire! wire! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? a copper or two, Which I lose through the holes in my bags, A nod of the head, or a passing joke,-- A laugh,--a freshman's stare,-- Or a gent so bland, when I ask him to stand While I carve him his portrait there.

"Wire! wire! wire! In the sound of S. Mary's chimes, Wire! wire! wire! As specials wire to the Times! Hair, and shoulder, and brow, Brow, and shoulder, and hair, Till the trick is done, and I pocket the coin, As I finish it off with care.

"Wire! wire! wire! In the dull month of Novem- ber--wire! wire! wire, When Oxford is bright with Commem. While under light parasols, The pretty girls slily glance, As if to show how nice they would look If they'd only give me a chance.

"Oh! but to catch that face Which health and beauty deck-- That hat posed on her head, And the curl that falls on her neck; For only a minute or two To sketch as I could when I tried To take off the Vice as he passed one day, And the Prince in my hat by his side.

"Oh! but for a minute or two! A moment which soon will have gone! No blessed second for fair or brunette, Nor even to copy a don! A little sketching would bring some brass, But in its musty case, My scissors must lie, for I have but one eye With which to look out for a face!"

With finger cunning and firm, With one eye and a crooked back, An old man clad in an old pair of bags, Was carving a profile in black. Snip! snip! snip! Cold, wet, or whatever the day, And, still with a voice of a ludicrous crack, Would I could describe its cadaverous knack-- He croaked the "Wirer's Lay."

ARTHUR-A-BLAND.

This parody appeared in The Shotover Papers for May, 1874 (J. Vincent, High Street, Oxford), it will certainly appeal more to old Oxford men, from its allusions, than to the general reader.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF LOVE.

With bosom weary and sad, With eyelids heavy and red, A maiden sat, in maidenly grace, Thinking o'er pleasures dead. Sigh! sigh! sigh! In misery, sorrow, and tears, She sang, in a voice of melody, The plaintive song of her fears.

Love! love! love! Whilst the birds are waking from rest; And love! love! love! Till the sun sinks in the west; It's oh! to be in the grave, Where hope's false dream is not, Where doubts ne'er rise to bedim the eyes, If this is woman's lot!

Here follow nine more verses in an equally plaintive style, and of no particular interest.

From The Figaro, February 28, 1874.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE CRAM.

With fingers trembling and warm, With eyelids heavy and red, A schoolboy sat, in true schoolboy style, His hand supporting his head. Throb! throb! throb! With frantic excitement and dread, And still with a look of dolor and pain, He sat on the side of his bed.

"Throb! throb! throb! In my chamber next the roof; And work! work! work! From my friends I must keep aloof; French and German and Greek, Greek and German and French, Till my brow grows damp, and my breath comes hard, And my agonised hands I clench.

"Work! work! work! While my cousins are laughing beneath, And work! work! work! Till I scarcely can draw my breath; It's oh! to prepare! prepare! My head with knowledge to cram, Not a word to say! not a moment to spare! I'm going in for Exam!

"Work! work! work! Till the brain begins to swim, And work! work! work! Till my eyes are heavy and dim; Greek and German and French, French and German and Greek, Till over the problems I have a nap, And work them out in my sleep.

"Throb! throb! throb! My courage is ebbing fast! Work! work! work! I fear that my brain won't last! Throb! throb! throb! O come and help me cram! I'm going to be a lunatic, If plucked in this Exam!

"O men with cousins dear! O men with mothers and wives! I'd cram you, if I had you here, Within an inch of your lives! But Examiners' hearts are hard, And their wisdom is but a sham; And little they care what we have to bear, Or how hard we need to cram!

"Oh! but to play a game With my happy friends below! Oh! but to make a pun, Or try--but 'tis all 'no go'-- So they for me may wish, But I must stay and cram; Oh, bother it! I'm just 'done up' With this horrible Exam!"

With fingers trembling and warm, With eyelids heavy and red, A schoolboy sat in true schoolboy style, His hand supporting his head. Throb! throb! throb! And cram! cram! cram! And still with a look of dolor and pain, He studied and crammed with might and main, To pass the dreaded Exam!

A. P.

The Dunheved Mirror, Cornwall, December, 1876.

* * * * *

THE SLAVE OF THE PEN.

I.

With fingers inky and cold, With eyelids heavy and red, A scribbler sat through the dreary night, Spinning "Copy," at morn to be read. Scratch! scratch! scratch! In a gas-lighted steamy den, And still, in a voice of dolorous pitch, He sang the song of the pen.

II.

"Scratch! scratch! scratch! While engines are shaking the roof; Scratch! scratch! scratch! Till the "Devil" appears with a proof. And it's oh! to be a slave Of the pen, whether steel or quill, Is as bad as being a worthless knave Doing his month at the 'mill.'

III.

"Scratch! scratch! scratch! Is it farce or tragedy grim, Making up the requisite batch, With fact, and fancy, and whim? It fritters away my life, In the flow of this inky stream. And over the copy I fall asleep, And punctuate in a dream."

* * * * *

Oh! husband with slippered feet; Oh! wife in morning gown: Coming down to breakfast, pleased to read The latest news of the town-- Think of the dismal scratch Of these midnight slaves of the pen. Forgive them a caustic, or feeble phrase, And remember they are but men.

Funny Folks, January 9th, 1875.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SWORD.

Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, Whilst, with a sad and terrible tone, he sang ... the Song of the Sword. "Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand fathers die; Fight--fight--fight! though a thousand children cry! Fight--fight--fight! while mothers and wives lament; And fight--fight--fight! while millions of money are spent.

"Fight--fight--fight! should the cause be foul or fair, Though all that's gained is an empty name, and a tax too great to bear; An empty name, and a paltry fame, and thousands lying dead; Whilst every glorious victory must raise the price of bread. War--war--war! fire, and famine, and sword; Desolate fields and desolate towns, and thousands scattered abroad, With never a home, and never a shed, whilst kingdoms perish and fall; And hundreds of thousands are lying dead, ... and all for nothing at all!

"War--war--war! musket, and powder, and ball-- Ah! what do we fight so for? ah! why have we battles at all? 'Tis Justice must be done, they say, the nation's honour to keep; Alas! that Justice should be so dear, and human life so cheap! War--war--war! misery, murder, and crime; Are all the blessings I've seen in thee, from my youth to the present time. Misery, murder, and crime--crime, misery, murder, and woe; Ah! would I had known in my younger days half the horrors which now I know."

Weary, and wounded, and worn, wounded and ready to die, A soldier they left, all alone and forlorn, on the field of the battle to lie. The dead and the dying alone could their presence and pity afford, And thus with a sad and a terrible tone (oh! would that these truths were more perfectly known!) he sang the Song of the Sword.

ANONYMOUS.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF A SOT.

Words composed by Bro. J. B. Davies, P.M. (753).

Dedicated to George Cruikshank, Esq., by his kind permission.

With a visage pale and wan, With a vacant stare of eye; The wreck of a man, and a friend, I saw, In a tavern standing by. Drink, drink, drink, Was the demon that urged him on; And yet still with a husky voice did he call For drink, till "his pence were gone."

Drink, drink, drink, From morning until night! Drink, drink, drink, By the glare of bright gaslight. Oh! fearful sight to see, And a dreadful thought to think, That man, who should rule, a slave should be To that fearful demon, drink.

Drink, drink, drink, Till power of sense is gone, Drink, drink, drink, Till it's of health and wealth both shorn; Beer, brandy, gin and rum, Rum, brandy, gin and beer, Till the glorious form of manhood's lost In the beast that you now appear!

Oh! men with thoughtful minds, Oh! men with a reason fair, Tread not in the paths that drunkards go-- From demon drink, stand clear. Drink, drink, drink, Both in slums and great highway, Is a curse that we too often meet In our walks by night or day.

But why do I thus depict That fell demon of the soul? I do but so that my fellow men Themselves from drink control. Themselves from drink control, Because of the scenes we see! Oh, God! to think that man should seek In drink his misery!

Drink, drink, drink, But soon the time will come, And what will be the end? a soul that's lost, A drunkard's wretched home Where sorrow is found, and mark the cost-- Neither victuals, fire, or light With a starving wife near the close of life To meet the drunkard's sight!

Drink, drink, drink, From morning until night, Drink, drink, drink, 'Tis the drunkard's sole delight. Beer, brandy, gin, and rum, Rum, brandy, gin, and beer, Till his health is gone and his wealth as well, For the demon nought will spare.

Drink, drink, drink, In mansion as well as in cot, 'Tis drink, drink, drink, With the highest and lowest sot; While toiling thousands sleep Their rest of calm content, In gilded palaces round about, The night's in riot spent.

Oh! that the world would shun, That demon in form of drink; And would reason within themselves And from its presence shrink! Oh! how might the soul of wayward man, Rejoice in freedom then-- And be better far in health and wealth-- And better far as men.

Oh! but that men would see, The sorrow that drink entails! The orphan's cry and the madman's shout, As well the widow's wails. A curse to body, as well as soul, Sends thousands to their grave; And makes of Man, God's noblest work, A low dejected slave.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF "THE CASE."

(A Reminiscence of the late Session).

With spirits drooping and worn, With eyelids heavy as lead, The members sat on their seats in the House, And wearily longed for bed; While "Tich, Tich, Tich," With gruesome and long-drawn face, "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, Sang the Song of "the Case."

"Tich, Tich, Tich, In spite of all reproof; And Tich, Tich, Tich, Though the members stand aloof, It's I that ought to be classed Along with Chatham and Burke, And I'll never cease to raise my voice Against such monstrous work!"

"Tich, Tich, Tich, Till the brain begins to swim, Tich, Tich, Tich, Till their eyes are heavy and dim. Stream, and minnow, and twitch, Minnow, and twitch, and stream, Till over the tattoo they fall asleep, And see it done in a dream."

"O, men, so callous and blind-- O, men, so bloated and rich-- It isn't Orton you're locking up, But the real and only 'Tich!' Tich, Tich, Tich, 'Prison'd, dishonour'd, opprest, Stitching at once with his sewing-machine, A shroud as well as a vest."

(Four verses omitted here.)

With spirits drooping and worn. With eyelids as heavy as lead, The members sat in their place in the House, And wearily longed for bed; While Tich, Tich, Tich, With gruesome and long-drawn face, "The Doctor," with voice of dolorous pitch, (Ah me! to have to listen to sich), Sang the Song of "the Case."

Funny Folks, October 2nd, 1875.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE TURK IN 1877.

With arguments tattered and worn, With facts long torn to a shred, The statesman rose in eloquent rage To ply his political trade. Stump, stump, stump, Is this the successor of Burke, Who, with a voice of dolorous pitch, Still sings his song of the Turk?

Turk, Turk, Turk! While the Czar is biting the dust. And Turk, Turk, Turk, The incarnation of lust. It's O to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where women have never a soul to save, And only a body for--work!

Turk, Turk, Turk! Till the brain begins to swim. Turk, Turk, Turk, Till the audience is eager and grim. Rape, and outrage, and murder, And outrage, murder, and rape, Till stories, long since disproved, appear To assume a bodily shape.

O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! These are things that are wearing away Bulgarian Christian lives. Stump, stump, stump, It's not uncongenial work, To be damning away, with a double tongue, The Tory as well as the Turk.

Turk, Turk, Turk! My labour never flags, Yet, what are its wages? A Nottingham feast, And a suit of political rags, A broken party, a shattered name, A smile from the "Daily News," A bloody war, and a future so blank That my mind the thought eschews.

Turk, Turk, Turk! On the chill October night, And Turk, Turk, Turk, When the weather is warm and bright. And yet, underneath the theme A longing for power lurks. So the people of England show me their backs, And twit me about my Turks.

Oh, but to breathe the air Of the Treasury Bench so sweet, With never a soul above my head, And Lord Beaconsfield under my feet! Oh, but for one short hour, To feel as I used to feel, When the Liberal Government was in power, And I was the man at the wheel!

Oh, but for one short hour! A period however brief!-- No blessed leisure for Power or Hope, But only time for grief! A little writing eases my mind-- A pamphlet, a postcard, a note-- Yet my pen must stop, for each hot ink-drop May cost my party a vote.

With statements tattered and worn, With facts distorted and cooked, The statesman may hope that his share in the war Will perchance be overlooked, Turk, Turk, Turk! 'Tis vain the truth to shirk, While thousands of bleeding corpses cry, "Your pamphlets and speeches have made us die, And we hope you are proud of your work."

They are Five, by W. E. G. (David Bogue), London.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

(Hood's Own--for Somebody Else.)

In the loudest things that are worn, With her cheek a peculiar red, A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,-- This one idea in her head: To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt, The while, with her voice disdainfully pitched, She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"

"Work, work, work. In the broiling drive and row, And work, work, work, At the stifling crush and show. And I'm so sick of it all, That to-morrow I'd marry a Turk, If he'd ask me--I would! For, after this, Yes,--that would be Christian work!

"Work, work, work, On the lawn in the lazy shade; Work, work, work, In the blaze of the baked parade. Tea, and tennis, and band,-- Band, and tennis, and tea:-- If I can but ogle an eldest son, They're all the same to me.

"You men, do you dare to sneer, And point to your sisters and wives!-- Because they simper 'Not nice, my dear;'-- As if they had ne'er in their lives Been stitched, stitched, stitched, Each prude in her own tight skirt, And wouldn't have been, without a blush, Had she had the chance--a Flirt!

"And why do I talk of a blush? Have I much of Modesty known? Why, no. Though, at times, her crimson cheek Grows not unlike my own. Yet strange that, not for my life, Could I redden as she does, deep. I wonder why colour called up's so dear,-- Laid on should come so cheap.

"But, work, work, work, With powder, and puff, and pad: And, work, work, work, For every folly and fad! With Imogen's artless gaze? No?--Phryne's brazen stare! With soul undone, but body made up, I've all the fun of the fair.

"So I work, work, work! My labour never fags. And what are its wages? A Spinster's doom, And a place on the roll of hags. Still I ogle away by the wall,-- A playful kittenish thing; Autumn well written all over my face, Though my feet have lost their spring.

"So at times, when I'm out of breath, And the men go off in a pack To dangle about some chit just 'out,'-- Who smirks like a garrison hack,-- I try for a short half hour To feel as I used to feel When a girl, if my boldness was all assumed, My hair, at least, was real.

"And at times, for a short half hour, It seems a sort of relief To think of Fred, and the few bright days Before he came to grief. My work? May be! Had I a heart, My tears might flow apace; But tears must stop--when every drop Would carry away one's face!"

In the loudest things that are known, With her cheek a peculiar red, A maiden sat, in a gentleman's vest,-- This one idea in her head: To be stitched, stitched, stitched, Yet a little more tight in her skirt; The while with her voice disdainfully pitched (Some ears at the sound, I wis, might have itched), She sang the "Song of the Flirt!"

Punch, September 18, 1880.

* * * * *

THE JANITOR'S SONG.

With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. 'Tis a fact, fact, fact! He sat with a visage long; And still as he sat, with a voice half cracked, He sang this Janitor's song:

"Sweep, sweep, sweep, In dirt, in smoke, and in dust, And sweep, sweep, sweep, Till I throw down my broom in disgust. Stairs, and chapel, and halls, Halls, and chapel, and stairs-- Till my drowsy head on my shoulder falls, And sleep brings release from my cares."

"From the very first crack of the gong, From the earliest gleam of daylight, Day after day and all day long, Far into the weary night, It's sweep, sweep, sweep, Till my broom doth a pillow seem; Till over its handle I fall asleep, And sweep away in my dream.

"Oh! students of high degree, (I scorn to address a low fellow), "Oh! seniors most reverend, potent, and grave, (In the words of the great Othello), My story's a sad one indeed, Notwithstanding your laughter and sport; My life is naught but a broken reed, And my broom is my only support."

With features sallow and grim, With visage sadly forlorn, The Janitor sat in the Janitor's room, Weary, and sleepy, and worn. It's a fact, fact, fact, He sat with a visage forlorn, And still as he sat with a voice half cracked, He sang the Janitor's song.

Carmina Collegensia.

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE SHIRK.

With a countenance weary and worn, With eyelids all heavy and red, An Undergrad sat, in his nightgown torn, Reading his Paley in bed. Read, read, read, Till his voice is quite feeble and low, He can read no more, so in accents poor, He sang of the dire Littlego.

Read, read, read, While the Rooks are cawing around; And read, read, read, Till of Cabs I hear the sound. If only last time I had passed, And had left all this Littlego work, I'd become a Jew or a "pious Hindoo," Or perhaps a barbarous Turk.

Read, read, read, It's nothing but read all day; Read, read, read, Till I read myself away, Paley and Euclid so hard, Mathematics with Latin and Greek, I only wish I had read them before, For the Exam begins in a week.

O, men, who Examiners are, Recollect when the period arrives 'Tis not only the papers you're setting this time, But a limit to Undergrad's lives. Read, read, read, By days, by month, by year, Reading forsooth so uncommonly hard, That you feel excessively queer.

But why do I sing of them? Their hearts are like pieces of stone, I believe I ought to shun the thought Of Examiners when I'm alone. It makes me almost mad To think of that awful sight; O, dear, that to some the papers are stiff, While to others they're easy and light.

Read, read, read, My reading will never stop; And what's its reward? a name in a list, Where the bottom's as good as the top. This tumbled bed, with its shaky legs, Yon room in disorder so great, All attired with cards, tobacco, and wine, It shows that I kept it up late.

Read, read, read, How full my time has been. My reading I bless (?) for I possess No leisure to read Light Green. Hard Latin and odious Greek, Hard Greek and odious Latin, Their very dread makes me think this bed Is the worst I ever sat in.

Read, read, read, Till my brain becomes infirm; Read, read, read, In this and the Lenten Term. And then the men who have passed, As I see them in the street, Will laugh at me, and twit, and jeer, Whenever them I meet.

O, but to get through now-- A "Second" I would not mind, With the "General" looming in front, And the "Littlego" left behind. Then to think of the feelings of those, Who cannot these subjects acquire, Is enough to give one the direst of woes (Not to mention the wrath of your sire).

O, but for one short look At the Euclid or Paley paper, For one short glance, I soon would dance, And cut about and caper. A little peeping would ease my heart, But from those papers hated, My eyes must keep, for every peep Might make me rusticated.

With a countenance weary and worn, With his nose, alas! awfully red, The Undergrad blew out his candle's flame, And settled himself in his bed. "Read, read, read," In his troubled sleep he said. Examiners think on his piteous face, If he's plucked, you know 'tis your disgrace, So in the "First" or "Second" place The man who reads Paley in bed.

P. M. W.

Light Green, Cambridge (W. Metcalfe and Son), 1882.

* * * * *

THE BROOD ON THE BEARD.

With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease, in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Yet never a symptom appeared, Indulging, yet nowise enjoying the joke, In penning THIS Brood on the Beard.

I wish, wish, wish, Till wishing becomes a whirl, Wish, wish, wish, For the locks with a flowing curl. Imperial, beard, moustache, Moustache, imperial, beard, I long for them each till the three become Wove into a triad weird.

Young men with beards full grown, Young men with moustaches neat; Say, is it not your lot to own, The joys of life complete? I shave, shave, shave, My cheeks with lather besmeared, Scraping the skin with razor keen, To make it utter a beard.

But why should I dream of beards, For the pleasure of manhood pine; Or think of the looks my soul so craves, That never may be mine? That never may be mine. Tho' my heart with hope may pant, And mourn that some with such are blest, Whilst I of such am scant.

I watch, watch, watch My glass each morning and night; Watch, watch, watch, But no sprouting gladdens my sight. That shaving glass, that razor keen, That strop I so often whet; Betray the desire that ne'er may tire Of what I ne'er may get.

I feel, feel, feel, Each morning of each week-- Feel, feel, feel, My lips, my chin, my cheek. Moustache, imperial, beard, Imperial, beard, moustache, Could I but see signs of the three, I would give good sterling cash.

I rub, rub, rub, When the shades of night set in, Rub, rub, rub, Pomatum o'er cheeks and chin, Whilst Tabby, with whiskers long, Upon the hearthrug lies, And seems to purr contentment for What nature me denies.

Oh! could I but only see Just the faintest dawn of down, Or FANCY that Nature would In the end my wishes crown! Or hope that even I The hours at last will enjoy, When maids no longer will deem me An o'ergrown hobbledehoy.

But I to have glossy hair, On my lips a flowing curl, A pair of whiskers to grace my cheeks, A moustache to turn and twirl, Is but a dream, a gloomy gleam; A wish without a hope, Where fancy free may gain for me Nothing AT ALL but scope.

With face like a maiden's bare, With hair on his head strewn thin, A youth ill at ease in an easy chair, Sat stroking his cheeks and chin. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Till he glanced at THE HOUR, and there was seen A word that brought the news that he sought-- 'Twas the famed PILOSAGINE!

Old Advertisement.

* * * * *

"THE SONG OF THE DIRT."

(With Respectful Memories of Tom Hood.)

With garments soddened and soiled, With boot-tops covered in grime, With trousers bespattered with foulest mud, Picking one's way through the slime. Slush--slush--slush! And foul-smelling filth and dirt, That clings like a kind of malodorous pitch-- I sing the "Song of the Dirt."

Dirt--dirt--dirt! In the January night, And dirt--dirt--dirt! While the weather is muggy though bright. Smell, and slime, and reek, Reek, and slime and smell; Till over the kerbstone I fall and slip, And smother myself as well.

O! but for one short hour! A respite: 'twould be so sweet! I'd bless the scavenger's shovel and broom, If he'd clear the mud 'neath my feet. For only one short hour, To feel as I used to feel: The pavement free from grease and slime In my walk that's now an ordeal.

Funny Folks, January, 1884.

* * * * *

THE WAIL OF A PROOF-READER.

Made During a Fearful "Spell" of Weather by One of 'Em.

With fingers weary and worn, And nose quite puffy and red, A Proof-reader sat in his old linen coat, With a snorting "cold in 'is ead." With handkerchief in his left, And pen in his dexter paw, The miserable man first blew his nose, Then thus let loose his jaw:

Read, read, read, With tears rolling down from my eyes, Read, read, read, Till I can't tell l's from i's. Read, read, read, In pain, confusion, and noise, And bored by a voice of dolorous pitch Belonging to "one of the boys."

Read, read, read, In the story next to the roof: Read, read, read, Till my soul is lost in the proof. It's oh to be a Hottentot In the burning sand, Where never an author sent a lot Of manuscript the "devil" could not, Nor the "reader" understand!

Read, read, read, Till my weary spirits sink, And mark, mark, mark, While mind ebbs with the ink. French, and Latin, and Greek! Hebrew, Spanish, and Dutch! Poring o'er all till my eyes grow weak, And I seem to be, by Fancy's freak, But a part of the pen I clutch.

Oh, but to "DELE" work! To "transpose" toil for rest! To "make up" life's remaining years On smiling Nature's breast! A "space" of time to join the "chase," Some "quoins" to see me through! A good "fat take" of these I want, But a few large "notes" MIGHT do.

Oh, for a brief respite From toilsome pen and proof! An "out," while I might calmly seek A "double" who would share my roof; The "sort" that could "correct" my "forme," And save me from life's many traps, And round our "table" smiling "set" Sweet "fat-faced" MINIONS in "SMALL CAPS!"

L. F. THOMAS.

The British and Colonial Stationer, May, 1884.

* * * * *

THE BITTER CRY!

"Few persons have any conception of these pestilential human rookeries where tens of thousands are crowded together amidst horrors which call to mind the middle passage of the slave ship."--[The Bitter Cry of Outcast London.]

Wearily wandering into the winding Maze of the filthy and festering slums, Borne on the blast of the hurricane blinding, Suddenly into my spirit there comes Bitterest cry of the careworn and dying, Weeping and wailing of old and of young-- Wailing of women aweary and sighing. Heavenward? Hear the song that they sung:

"Strive, strive, strive, With the wolf at the door, in vain, Tho' the struggle to keep alive Is worse than a hell of pain.

Gin, gin, gin, Our cares we'll drown once more; 'Tis but folly to shrink from the spirit of drink, So, swig till our lives be o'er."

Fiercer than fathomless cry of the weepers, Wilder than wailing of women and men, Echoing ever a voice, "O ye sleepers, Where is the harpy who owneth each den? Where are the vultures who prey on the living?" Pitiless dealers of wrong at each breath, Shedders of blood who each moment are giving Children and women and strong men to Death:

"Here, here, here," Is the loud and bitter cry. "Oh, heed our sob of fear, And save us ere we die.

"Rent, rent, rent, Our cares we'll drown once more, For there's nothing but gin when the bailiffs are in, And the baby's dead on the floor."

G. B. BURGIN.

Ashley House, High Barnet, Herts, England.

* * * * *

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!

TOM HOOD.

* * * * *

NURSERY REMINISCENCES.

I REMEMBER, I remember, When I was a little Boy, One fine morning in September, Uncle brought me home a toy. I remember how he patted Both my cheeks with kindliest mood; "Then," said he, "you little fat head, There's a top because you're good."

Grandmamma--a shrewd observer-- I remember gazed upon My new top, and said with fervour, "Oh! how kind of Uncle John!" While mamma, my form caressing,-- In her eye the tear-drop stood, Read me this fine moral lesson, "See what comes of being good!"

I remember, I remember, On a wet and windy day. One cold morning in December, I stole out and went to play; I remember Billy Hawkins Came, and with his pewter squirt, Squibb'd my pantaloons and stockings, Till they were all over dirt!

To my mother for protection I ran quaking every limb. She exclaim'd, with fond affection, "Gracious goodness! look at him!" Pa cried when he saw my garment-- 'Twas a newly-purchased dress-- "Oh! you nasty little Warment, How came you in such a mess?"

Then he caught me by the collar-- Cruel only to be kind-- And to my exceeding dolour, Gave me several slaps behind. Grandmamma, while yet I smarted, As she saw my evil plight, Said--'twas rather stony-hearted-- "Little rascal! sarve him right!"

I remember, I remember, From that sad and solemn day, Never more in dark December Did I venture out to play. And the moral which they taught, I Well remember; thus they said-- "Little boys, when they are naughty, Must be whipped, and sent to bed!"

The Ingoldsby Legends.

* * * * *

A correspondent, writing to Notes and Queries as far back as June 10, 1871, mentions a parody, of which, unfortunately, only the two verses following are given:--

"I remember, I remember, The day that I was born, When first I saw this breathing world, All naked and forlorn. They wrapped me in a linen cloth, And then in one of frieze; And tho' I could not speak just then, Yet I contrived to sneeze.

"I remember, I remember, Old ladies came from far; Some said I was like mother dear, But others thought like par; Yet all agreed I had a head, And most expressive eyes; The latter were about as large As plums in Christmas pies."

UNEDA.

Philadelphia.

* * * * *

A REMINISCENCE.

I remember, I remember, The cell, which now I scorn. The little window where no sun Could cheer the dreary morn. Policeman X. no wink too soon, Brought in my musty fare, And, growling as he went away, Locked me in safely there!

I remember, I remember, We'd been out late at night. Twain heroes who, o'er sundry cups, Wound up by "getting tight;" And then, although no blood was spilt, That fiend in blue we met; "Run in" upon my natal day-- Oh, would I could forget.

I remember, I remember, No soda would he bring, He said the air seem'd rather fresh For night birds on the wing! The spirits needed feathers then, And rest my fevered brow; He only said, "The place is cool," And, "Mind! don't make a row!"

The Figaro, March 7, 1874.

Another parody of the same original appeared in The Figaro for August 26, 1874. It was entitled, "I Remember, I Remember, a reminiscence of Child-Hood and Thomas Hood," and consisted of four verses, but they are not now of sufficient interest to be quoted.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember, When first I saw a rink, How fine to be a skater, I always used to think, To roll about, both in and out, Through all the livelong day, But now I wish the rink and skates Had been far, far away.

I remember, I remember, The skates that first I wore, The joy I had in buying them, That I shall have no more; On being a great skater My youthful heart was set-- Now the rink has gone the way of rinks; The skates I have them yet.

I remember, I remember, When first I had a fall, How hard I found the asphalte, How loudly I did bawl; There was anguish in my bosom, There was fever on my brow, There were bruises on my body-- I bear the traces now.

I remember, I remember, How oft from school I'd beg; But my rinking days were over. When at last I broke my leg. It was a foolish fancy, And now 'tis little joy, To know I broke my fibula, When I was a little boy.

Idyls of the Rink (Judd and Co., London, 1876).

* * * * *

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young and so fair! Loop up her tresses, Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full-- Home she had none. * * * * TOM HOOD.

* * * * *

ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE.

"ATQUI SCIEBAT QUÆ SIBI BARBARUS TORTOR PARARET."

I.

One more unfortunate Ploughed for degree, By those importunate Questioners three.

II.

Tell it him gingerly, Break it with care, Think you he'll angry be? Or will he swear?

III.

Look at his college cap, Bent with its broken flap, Whilst his hand constantly Clutches his gown, And he walks vacantly Back through the town.

IV.

Didn't he study? Wasn't he cute? or Had he a coach? and Who was his tutor? Or was he a queerer one Still, and had ne'er a one, And all this the fruit? Or

V.

Was his brain muddled, Addled and puddled, From over-working? Or did he all the day Racquets and cricket play, Books and dons shirking?

VI.

His Greek was a mystery, So was his history, His throbbing brain whirled, And through his shaggy hair, Both his hands twirled.

VII.

He goes at it boldly, No matter how coldly Examiners scan Him over the table, And say, "If you're able, Construe it, man; Look at it, think of it, Do what you can."

VIII.

Now they stare frigidly, Calmly and rigidly, Courteously, slily; How well he knows them, Who could suppose them Witty and wily?

IX.

Helplessly staring, He looks at it long, Then with the daring Last look of despairing, Construes it wrong.

X.

Failing most signally, Construing miserably; Frequent false quantity, But as they want it, he Must do his best, Until they tell him he Need not decidedly Construe the rest.

XI.

Full of urbanity And inhumanity, See what they've done; Out of each couple, They with tongues supple Ploughed at least one.

Lays of Modern Oxford, by Adon (Chapman and Hall, 1874).

* * * * *

THE HAIR OF THE DEAD.

Pile it up, Pile it up, Till it towers above; Pile it up, Pile it up, 'Tis a labour of love: Pin it so carefully, Cannot be known Of that temple of hair fully Half's not your own. That dark plaited mass, So dear and so rare: That highly-prized mass, Is a dead woman's hair.

Maybe she was poor, With no money or purse; Homeless and fasting, A vagrant, or worse-- A sport for the wind, As it listlessly blew, And who from her kind, No sympathy knew. Who knows how she died? Perchance of her life, O'er burdened with strife, She grew weary and cried-- "To death's awful mystery swift to be hurled Anywhere, anywhere out of the world."

Then when the dark waters Had closed o'er her head, And this type of Eve's daughters Was told with the dead; Then when her poor body Was borne by the wave To the shore; they allowed her A wanderer's grave. Nor perfect, indeed, Could she enter it there; In their terrible greed They must clip off her hair; In their venomous greed They must steal off her hair.

* * * * *

What do we care That this long flowing curl, Such a charm to a girl, Is a dead woman's hair? Our changeable sex, Do as fashion directs; And so long as the hair Is a grace to the head, So long will we wear The locks of the dead.

The Figaro, May 5, 1875.

(At that date ladies were wearing very large chignons).

* * * * *

On the occasion of an inebriated "swell" being expelled from the Prince of Wales's Theatre, by P. C. 22 Z.:--

Take him up tendahly, Lift him with caah; Clothes are made slendahly Now, and will taah!

Punch not that nob of his, Thus I imploah; Pick up that bob of his, Dropped on the floah!

Pwaps he's a sister, Pwaps he's a bwother, Come to the play with him-- Let 'em away with him-- One or the other.

Ram his hat lightly, Yet firmly and tightly, Ovah his head. Turn his coat-collah back, Get his half-dollah back.

22 Z.

* * * * *

THE RINK OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate Knocked out of breath-- "Rashly importunate," Jealousy saith.

Lift her up tenderly-- Mind her back hair; Fashioned so slenderly-- Fetch her a chair. Burst are her garments, Hanging in cerements, While buttons constantly Fall from her clothing. Take her up instantly Loving, not loathing; Scornfully touch her not-- Think of the bump she got, All through those wheels of hers Which she used killingly; And those high heels of hers-- Sat she unwillingly. She in a mess is All things betoken, And spoilt her gay dress is, While wonderment guesses: "Are the bones broken?" "Who is her milliner?" "Has she a glover?-- P'raps a two-shilliner;" "Or has she a dearer one Still?" P'raps a nearer one-- Gifts from her lover!

Alas, for the rarity Of Christian charity, There isn't one Who's a bit pitiful, While that sad, witty fool, Woffles, makes fun. She, as she shivers And mournfully quivers, Sits bolt upright. From window to casement, From roof unto basement She stares with amazement, Mournful of plight.

Never this history Tell--'tis a mystery. How her wheels twirled. Anywhere, anywhere, Facing the world; Whirled her skates boldly, No matter how coldly Regarded by man. Oh, but the Rink of it-- Picture it--think of it, When it began; Rave at it, wink at it, Now if you can.

Take her up tenderly-- Mind her back hair; Fashioned so slenderly-- Fetch her a chair. Can't she sit down on it? Is she in pain? True. She doth frown on it-- "Shan't rink again!"

Funny Folks, February 26, 1876.

* * * * *

THE LAST APPEAL, 1878.

One more importunate Struggle for place! One more unfortunate Slap in the face!

Dizzy's a devil--he, What should I spare? Trip him up cleverly, Fair or unfair.

Never mind arguments, Tear up his Pargaments (While the ink's scarcely dry, Easy is blotting), Honour and decency Wholly forgotten.

Talk of him scornfully, Talk of him mournfully, Treat him inhumanly. Arguments failing. Throw dirt, and try railing, Spiteful and womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into past mutiny, Rash and undutiful, England's dishonour, While I heap on her-- Won't it be beautiful?

Point out all slips of his, Sneer at his family; Closed are those lips of his, He must bear silently. Fear not excesses, Only hit home. The "Daily News" blesses, While wonderment guesses What next may come.

Sneer at his father, Jeer at his mother, Is he a Christian? Nay, I'll go further. He's not an Englishman, Only a Charlatan, Worse than a murderer.

Oh! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh! it was pitiful To see a whole City full Greet such an one.

Countryfolk, citizens, Foreigners, denizens, Greetings combined! Yet may such eminence, Spite of such evidence, By my malevolence, Be undermined.

When the lamps quiver Over the river, With many a light From many a casement, I'll seek his abasement; And for his displacement, I'll fight, yes, I'll fight.

John Bull's cold glance May make other men shiver, But still I advance, Implacable ever, Mad from life's history. This creature of mystery Forth shall be hurled Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world.

In I plunged boldly, No matter how coldly Popular feeling ran, Over the brink of it. Picture it, think of it, Dissolute man! How can Heav'n wink at it? It's more than I can.

Dizzy's a devil--he, Why should I spare? Trip him up cleverly, Fair or unfair. Treats he me frigidly, Formally, rigidly. Decently kindly, Can this compose me? While his eyes pose me, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Through that eye-glass of his, Malice and daring Point me--despairing-- To Honour and Peace.

Perish I gloomily Spurned by contumely. Soured humanity, Yields to insanity. As for the rest-- When my name's perished, Will his be cherished By Englishmen blest?

When History has measured My evil behaviour, His name shall be treasured As his country's saviour!

They are Five, by W. E. G. (David Bogue, London).

* * * * *

One more unfortunate Author in debt, Scorn'd and importunate, Badger'd, beset.

Lethe, I'd drink of it, Die without fuss, Picture it, think of it-- Manager "Gus."

HARRIETT JAY.

Old Drury Lane, Christmas Annual, 1883.

* * * * *

BOOTS OF SIZE.

Take them up tenderly, Lift them with care, Fashioned so slenderly "Twelves" never were.

Touch them not scornfully, Think of her mournfully Who has to bear them. Think of the pains of her-- All that remains of her Save what will wear them.

How were her father's feet? How were her mother's? How were her sister's feet? How were her brother's? What had the maiden done That she should merit it? Was it a judgment? Or did she inherit it?

Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun! Oh, it is pitiful, From a whole city full Praise she has none.

Sisterly, brotherly, Fatherly, motherly Feelings are changed; Love goes with "pettitoes," "Tootsie" and "pootsie" nose Ever from feet like those Turning estranged.

Never the ballroom (Save she had all room) Could she be daring; And if at croquet seen, "Gracious! that huge bottine," People would cry or mean, Dreadfully staring!

The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver; Clothes raised in arch Her huge "trotters" dis-kiver. Oh, then, from scrutiny, Comment or rootin' eye, Swift to be hurl'd, Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world. Take them up tenderly, Lift them with care, Fashioned more slenderly Buckets ne'er were.

Scraps, 1884

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE LINES.

With Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord He sang the Song of the Lines.

Wait, wait, wait, When the bell is ringing aloof, And wait, wait, wait, When we leave our Grinder's roof, And it's oh to be a Jib In the Godless College of Cork, Where never Vice-Chancellor gives a prize, If this be Christian's work.

Oh, Fellows with pupils dear, Oh, Fellows with nephews and sons, It is not paper you're tearing up, But Senior Freshman's Duns, For the Duns are growing rude, Because of the Bills I owe, Madden and Roe, Kinsley and Jude, Jude and Kinsley and Roe.

Wait, wait, wait, Till term after term fulfils, And wait, wait, wait, As minors wait for wills, Week after week in vain We've looked at the College gate, For how many days? I would hardly fear To speak of ninety-eight.

With Gradus dirty and worn, With heavy and weary eyes, A Freshman sat who had written an ode For the last Vice-Chancellor's prize. Wait, wait, wait, 'Mid Grinders, Lectures, and fines, And thus on a lyre of dolorous chord, (Would that its tones could reach the Board), He sang the Song of the Lines.

C. P. MULVANY.

Kottabos, Dublin (William McGee), 1873.

* * * * *

The following imitation was written by Father McCarthy, and appeared in The Catholic Herald (Jersey), about forty years ago:--

THE SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.

With body shrivelled and worn, With eyeballs bloodshot and red, A man in plight forlorn, Lay moaning sore in bed. Drink, drink, drink, In poverty, fever, and pain, And still he sang of his favourite drink 'Mid the whirlings of his brain.

Drink, drink, drink, Oh! there's nothing like drink for man, Drink, drink, drink, Till the head reel round again. It's oh! to be a beast, Without a soul to save, With no fear to stay the drunken feast, And no Hell beyond the grave.

Brandy, and gin, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wild delirium come, And we rave in the pit of sin. Oh! men with children dear, Oh! men with starving wives, It is not gin you are drinking there, But your wives and children's lives.

Drink, drink, drink, Let them all be ragged and bare, Drink, drink, drink, Is the drunkard's only care. Drink, drink, drink, Our guzzling never flags, And our wages go, and our homes are woe, And our children skulk in rags.

Forced by day to starve or steal, By night a floor their bed, And all their life is a life of vice, And where are they when dead? Drink, drink, drink, Let us fight and curse and swear, Drink, drink, drink, 'Till our breath pollute the air.

Brandy, and gin, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, 'Till wasted frame and fever come, And the sorrows of Hell begin. Drink, drink, drink, 'Till staggering home we go, Drink, drink, drink, 'Till we blast that home with woe.

Drink, curses, murder, and shame, Make up the drunkard's life, With the rags and vice of a starving child, And the groans of a sickly wife. With body shrivelled and worn, With eyeballs glaring and red, A savage man in plight forlorn, Lay, raving loud on his bed.

Drink, drink, drink, In racking fever and pain, And still he raved of his murderous drink, 'Mid the frenzies of his brain.

* * * * *

A distinguished officer writes that the recent spell of warm weather has reminded him of a parody he read in India twenty-five years ago. It describes, in no exaggerated manner, a very disagreeable complaint to which Anglo-Indians are liable in the hot season:--

THE SONG OF "THE PRICKLY HEAT."

I.

With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head-- Scratch, scratch, scratch-- At a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch Thus sang he of "Prickly Heat."

II.

"Itch, itch, itch, Till my brain begins to swim, And scratch, scratch, scratch, Till I bleed in every limb. Thighs, and body, and arms, Back, and body, and thighs, Till weary with scratching I fall asleep, And scratch with sleep-sealed eyes.

III.

"Oh! white men banished here! Oh! men all greedy of wealth! It is not money your sweating out, But your precious, precious health! Itch, itch, itch, Through years of monotonous rack, Sowing at once with a double seed, Disease as well as a Lakh!

IV.

"They say it is not disease, This villanous pimply glow, If not disease's tangible shape, 'Tis deuced like it though-- 'Tis deuced like it though, If healthy skins are pale. Oh, God! that suns should be so strong And flesh and blood so frail.

V.

"Scratch, scratch, scratch, My labour never flags; And what are its wages?--a carcass raw-- Lint, plaisters, and swathing rags, This tortured head, and this body flayed, Dyspepsia and gloom alway, And a brain so blank, each ninny I thank Who drones me through the day.

VI.

"Itch, itch, itch, When good dinners glad the sight, And scratch, scratch, scratch, When I'm longing to bite, bite, bite, When under silver roofs Rich viands my servants bring, As if to show me their dainty shapes, And twit me for lingering.

VII.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, Where the sky above one's head Is not of this melting heat; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew Calcutta's suns Flay men as men the eel.

VIII.

"Oh! but for one short hour A respite just to snatch! No blessed leisure for love or lark-- But only time to scratch. Though goulard water might ease my pain The antidote I dread, An idle day might affect my pay, And physic claims a bed."

IX.

With fingers never at rest, With cuticle measly red, A heat-oppress'd victim capered about, Itching from ankles to head. Scratch, scratch, scratch, At a rate few North-Britons could beat, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch (Would that its tone could cure the itch!) Thus sang he of "The Prickly Heat."

The Calcutta Englishman, 1859.

* * * * *

There was another parody of Hood's Song of the Shirt, written by Mr. Clement Scott, entitled The Song of the Clerk. The Editor of this collection would be glad to know when, and in what work it appeared.

* * * * *

ABOUT THE WEATHER.

(A Fragment).

I remember, I remember, Ere my childhood flitted by, It was cold then in December, And was warmer in July. In the winter there were freezings-- In the summer there were thaws; But the weather isn't now at all Like what it used to was!

The Man in the Moon, Vol. 5.

* * * * *

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.

'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

* * * * *

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS HOOD.

* * * * *

THE FALL OF THE EMINENT I.

'Twas in the prime of autumn time, An evening calm and cool, And full two thousand cockneys went To see him play the fool;-- And the critics filled the stalls as thick As the balls in a billiard pool.

Away they sped when the play was done, Scarce knowing what to say; So they passed the butter boat around In the simple, usual way. Smoothly ran their glowing prose In the daily press next day.

The Eminent I. they raved about Till their gush to columns ran; Condoning a fiasco great, As friendly critics can; And he still strutted on the stage, An over-rated man.

He wore pink tights--his vest apart, To clutch his manly chest; And he went at the knees in his old, old way, Whilst his brow he madly prest. So he whisper'd and roared, and gasp'd and groan'd, As with dyspepsia possest.

Act after act he ranted through, And he strode for many a mile, Till some were fain to leave the house, Too weary even to smile; For acting the murderer's part so oft Had somewhat marred his style.

But he took six more hasty strides Across the stage again-- Six hasty strides, then doubled up, As smit with searching pain; As though to say, "See me create The conscience-stricken Thane!"

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns took he Now up the stage, now down the stage, And now beside Miss B.; And, looking off, he saw her ma, As she read in the R. U. E.

"Now, Mrs. B., what is't you read?" Ask'd he, with top-lip curving. "Queen Mary? A play by Mr. Wills, Or something more deserving?" Said Mrs. B., with an upturned glance, "It is 'The Fall of Irving!'"

"His fall!" gasped he, "in sooth you jest! O, prithee say what mean ye? Know ye not, they call him Kemble-ish, And speak of his style as Kean-y? On the modern stage he stands alone." She murmur'd one word--"Salvini!"

"Avaunt!" he cried; "that name again! Its mention ne'er will cease; Does he still dare my throne to share, And threaten my fame's short lease?" But here the call-boy came to say, That his absence stopped the piece.

* * * * *

One night, months thence, whilst gentle sleep Had still'd the City's heart, Two bill-stickers set out with paste And play-bills in a cart, And the Eminent I. had his name on them, In a melodramatic part.

The Figaro, October 9, 1875.

When Mr. Henry Irving produced The Iron Chest, at the Lyceum Theatre, the Editor of The World offered two prizes for the best two parodies on the subject, the model chosen being Hood's Dream of Eugene Aram. The successful parodies were printed in The World, October 22, 1879:--

FIRST PRIZE.

'Twas in the Strand, a great demand For seats was quite the rule; The pit and gallery were crammed, The stalls and boxes full. One man remained who could not find A solitary stool.

From gods to stall, he paced them all, Unable to find rest; A burning thought was in his heart, Beneath his spotless breast. He'd eaten pork, and knew full well Pork he could not digest.

With hollow sound the curtain rose, And then he found a place, Where, cramped and crushed, he just could see The great tragedian's face-- He was so prest, for the Iron Chest He hadn't any space.

He saw how Irving walked the stage With ill-dissembled care, To keep the limelight on his brows And on his flowing hair, While all the rest were in the dark-- You only heard them there.

His voice was hollow as the grave, Or like an eagle's scream-- Murderers, you know, talk always so-- His eyes like theirs did gleam-- He'd done this sort of thing before. But then 'twas in a dream.

He showed how murderers start and gasp When conscience pricks them sore; He dragged his shirt-front out by yards, And strewed it on the floor; He rolled his eyes, and clutched his breast-- He'd done it all before.

If anybody mentioned death Or foul assassination, He started up and groaned or shrieked With obvious perturbation. 'Twas very strange this sudden change Provoked no observation.

And when at last four acts were past Of stares and glares and guggles, And in the chest they found the knife Which he so neatly smuggles-- 'Twas ecstacy to see him die Of aggravated struggles.

Q.

SECOND PRIZE.

The sky was clear; no ripple marked The course of silver Tyne; And all was still, save for the bells On the necks of the grazing kine. On his fair demesne Sir Edward looked, Last of an ancient line.

His face was fair, but it did not wear The sign of a soul at rest; Anon a shudder shook his frame, A sigh broke from his breast; He seemed as seems a man by some O'ermastering woe oppressed.

"And yet among thy peers is known Than thine no prouder name, And wealth is thine and friendship's joy, A scutcheon void of blame; All this is thine, Sir Edward; why Thus bow thy head in shame?

"Men call thee good, they know thee kind-- Yet more, if aught beside There lacks thy happiness to crown, Thou hast a peerless bride; Why, then, Sir Edward, bow thy head?" A mocking demon cried.

"Hell-hound! and art thou here to taunt My last--Yet 'tis thy meed: 'Twas thou that in this fevered breast Wrath and revenge didst feed, Till--woe unutterable!--I Wrought the accursèd deed.

"'Twas at thy feet, a pupil apt, I learnt this lying art;-- O God, that I--that I could stoop To play this loathly part! O God, that with a face so calm I cloak so black a heart!

Yet the end is gained and the secret sure: They shall lay the tortured clod Of this vile clay in the open day With honour beneath the sod." That night 'twas known that a felon's soul Had gone to meet its God.

PORTIONISTA.

The following was also published:--

'Twas in the dim Lyceum pit (And, O, that pit was hot) That several hundred folks did sit, And I amongst the lot; And some drank ale and some drank stout, From mug or pewter-pot.

We watched the jovial robber-crew, The merry poaching clan, Chasing the sportive deer about As only robbers can; While the keeper kept himself at home, A conscience-stricken man.

His hair was long and his dress was dark, And he strode with Irving's stride; A crime unconfessed he hid in the chest Kept ever by his side; Much painting had made him very pale And wan and hollow-eyed.

And he saw his secretarial clerk, One Wilford (Norman Forbes), Go prying about in the ancient room Hung round with family daubs; And he "went" forthwith for that timid clerk, Whose name was Norman Forbes.

"By hell!" he shrieked, and held him fast; "Untrusty youth, unstable--" He raved in his face and clenched his fists, And chased him round the table. "Wouldst read the secret? wouldst hear thy doom?" "I would, an I were able!"

"If thou wert Abel, then I were Cain! But, 'fore I tell thee, swear--" And he swore and he swore and he swore again, Till on end arose our hair; And I couldn't help thinking what fines he'd have paid If there'd been a magistrate there.

And that very night, when a somnolent snooze Was exciting the murderer's nose, Poor Wilford rose up, and he hied him away In a scanty assortment of clothes; And the baronet rummaged and routed his trunk, As we do when our "general" goes.

And there he hid a fork and spoon In a most ingenious way, And a ring or so and a deed or two, And Wilford was tried next day; But the KNIFE had slipped in, and--ha, ha!--'twas found!

* * * * *

And that's the plot of the play!

C. S.

* * * * *

The peculiar rhythm, and quaint conceits of fancy, in Hood's Miss Kilmansegg and her Precious Leg have been admirably imitated by Mr. H. Cholmondeley Pennell in The Thread of Life. This poem (the last in Puck on Pegasus) resembles its original also in the exquisite blending of the pathetic and the humorous, of which, unfortunately, disjointed extracts can give but a faint idea:--

LIFE! What depths of mystery wide In the oceans of Hate and the rivers of Pride, That mingle in Tribulations tide, To quench the spark--VITALITY! What chords of Love and "bands" of Hope Were "made strong" (without the use of rope) In the thread--INDIVIDUALITY.

LIFE! What marvellous throbs and throes The Alchemy of EXISTENCE knows; What "weals within wheels" (and woes without woahs!) Give sophistry a handle; Though Hare himself could be dipped in the well Where Truth's proverbial waters dwell, It would throw no more light on the vital spell Than a dip in the Polytechnic bell, Or the dip--a ha'penny candle.

* * * * *

Into being we come, in ones and twos, To be kissed, to be cuff'd, to obey, to abuse, Each destined to stand in another's shoes To whose heels we may come the nighest; This turns at once into Luxury's bed, Whilst that in a gutter lays his head, And this--in a house with a wooden lid And a roof that's none of the highest.

We fall like the drops of April show'rs, Cradled in mud, or cradled in flow'rs, Now idly to wile the rosy hours, And now for bread to importune; Petted, and fêted, and fed upon pap, One prattler comes in for a fortune, slap-- And one, a "more kicks than ha'pence" chap, For a slap--without the fortune!

* * * * *

Yet, laugh if we will at those baby days, There was more of bliss in its careless plays, Than in after time from the careful ways Or the hollow world, with its empty praise, Its honeyed speeches, and hackney phrase, And its pleasures, for ever fleeting.

Puck on Pegasus (Chatto and Windus), London.

* * * * *

A NICE YOUNG MAN FOR A SMALL PARTY.

Young Ben he was a nice young man, An author by his trade; He fell in love with Polly-Tics, And was an M. P. made.

He was a Radical one day, But met a Tory crew; His Polly-Tics he cast away, And then turned Tory too.

Now Ben had tried for many a place When Tories e'en were out; But in two years the turning Whigs Were turn'd to the right-about.

But when he called on ROBERT PEEL, His talents to employ, His answer was, "Young Englander, For me you're not the boy."

Oh, ROBERT PEEL! Oh, ROBERT PEEL! How could you serve me so? I've met with Whig rebuffs before, But not a Tory blow.

Then rising up in Parliament, He made a fierce to do With PEEL, who merely winked his eye; BEN wink'd like winking too.

And then he tried the game again, But couldn't, though he tried; His party turn'd away from him, Nor with him would divide.

Young England died when in its birth: In forty-five it fell; The papers told the public, but None for it toll'd the bell.

Punch, June 1845. (This parody was accompanied by a portrait of Mr. Benjamin Disraeli).

* * * * *

A FEW WORDS ON POETS IN GENERAL, AND ONE IN PARTICULAR.

BY THE GHOST OF T-- H--D.

"What's in a name?"--Shakespeare.

I.

By different names were Poets call'd In different climes and times; The Welsh and Irish call'd him Bard, Who was confined to rhymes.

II

In France they called them Troubadours, Or Menestrels, by turns; The Scandinavians called them Scalds, The Scotchmen call theirs Burns.

III.

A strange coincidence is this, Both names implying heat; But had the Scotchmen call'd theirs Scald. 'Twere title more complete.

IV.

For why call'd BURNS 'tis hard to say (Except all sense to slaughter); Scald was the name he should have had, Being always in hot water.

V.

For he was poor,--his natal hut Was built of mud, they say; But though the hut was built of mud, He was no common clay.

VI.

But though of clay he was (a fate Each child of earth must share), As well as being a child of earth, He was a child of Ayr.

VII.

And though he could not vaunt his house, Nor boast his birth's gentility, Nature upon the boy bestow'd Her patent of nobility.

VIII.

It needed not for him his race In heralds' books should shine; What pride of ancestry compares With his illustrious line.

IX.

So he, with heaven-ennobled soul, All heralds held in scorn, Save one, the oldest of them all,-- "The herald of the morn."

X.

Call'd by his clarion, up rose he, True liege of Nature's throne, Fields to invest, and mountain crest With blazon of his own.

XI.

His Vert, the morning's dewy green, His Purpure, evening's close, His Azure, the unclouded sky, His Gules, "the red, red rose."

XII.

His Argent sparkled in the streams That flash'd through birken bowers; His Or was in the autumn leaves That fell in golden showers.

XIII.

Silver and gold of other sort The poet had but little; But he had more of rarer store,-- His heart's undaunted mettle.

XIV.

And yet his heart was gentle, too,-- Sweet woman could enslave him; And from the shafts of Cupid's bow Even Armour[6] could not save him.

XV.

And if that Armour could not save From shafts that chance might wield, What wonder that the poet wise Cared little for a shield.

XVI.

And Sable, too, and Argent (which For colours heralds write) In BURNS' uncompromising hands Were honest black and white.

XVII.

And in that honest black and white He wrote his verses bold; And though he sent them far abroad, Home truths they always told.

XVIII.

And so for "honest poverty" He sent a brilliant page down; And, to do battle for the poor, The gauger threw his gauge down.

XIX.

For him the garb of "hodden gray" Than tabards had more charms; He took the part of sleeveless coats Against the Coats of Arms.

XX.

And although they of Oxford may Sneer at his want of knowledge, He had enough of wit at least, To beat the Heralds' College.

XXI.

The growing brotherhood of his kind He clearly, proudly saw that, When launching from his lustrous mind, "A man's a man for a' that!"

Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns; by Ben Trovato (Routledge), London, 1859.

* * * * *

THE HAUNTED LIMBO.

A May-Night Vision, after a Visit to the Grosvenor Gallery. (With acknowledgment of a hint from HOOD.)

I.

A world of whim I wandered in of late, A limbo all unknown to common mortals; But in the drear night-watches 'twas my fate To pass within its portals.

Dusk warders, dim and drowsy, drew aside What seemed a shadowy unsubstantial curtain, And pointed onwards as with pain or pride, But which appeared uncertain.

I entered, and an opiate influence stole, Like semi-palsy, over thought and feeling, And with inebriate haziness my soul Seemed rapt almost to reeling.

For over all there hung a glamour queer, A sense of something odd the spirit daunted, And said, like a witch-whisper in the ear, "The place is haunted!"

II.

Those women, ah, those women! They were white, Blue, green, and grey,--all hues, save those of nature, Bony of frame, and dim and dull of sight, And parlous tall of stature.

Ars longa est,--aye, very long indeed, And long as Art were all these High-Art ladies, And wan, and weird; one might suppose the breed A cross 'twixt earth and Hades.

If poor Persephone to the Dark King Had children borne, after that rape from Enna, Much so might they have looked, when suffering From too much salts and senna.

Many their guises, but no various grace Or changeful charm relieved their sombre sameness; Of form contorted, and cadaverous face, And limp lopsided lameness.