Prologue

Prologue

SCENE――representing various illustrations of the life of Shakespeare.

Enter the GHOST of SHAKESPEARE, followed by the POPULAR COMEDIAN. The GHOST paces round the stage.

P. Com. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak――I’ll go no farther.

Ghost. Mark me!

P. Com. I will.

Ghost. I am old Shakespeare’s spirit, Doomed for a certain term to walk the earth; And on the stage draw tolerable houses,―― Till by the taste of a discerning age, For monster drums and Ethiopian bards Driven to make a way; but that I am forbid To charm the public is not what has caused My troubled spirit to revisit earth: I can a tale unfold of recent wrongs, Whose lightest word would harrow up a soul Of gutta-percha toughness――freeze thy blood―― Make thy two eyes like cabs start from their stands―― And each particular orb to roll and stretch Like pictures of the fretful hippopotamus At the Zoological! List! List! oh, list! If e’er thou did’st old Stratford William love――

P. Com. Good gracious!

Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.

P. Com. Murder?

Ghost. Murder most foul I’ve been accustomed to―― And in the ordinary way don’t mind it―― But this most foul, strange and unnatural――

P. Com. Haste me to know it, that I, With wings as swift as carrier pigeon on the Derby Day, May sweep to my revenge.

Ghost. I find thee apt;―― And duller shouldst thou be than the dead cats That rot in countless shoals on Thames’s banks, Did’st thou not stir in this?――You’ve seen my “TEMPEST?”

P. Com. Some time ago.

Ghost. Ah――well――’twas given out that――(pardon me, A ghost must have his feelings)――rumour reached me, That the whole ear of London Was by a forged process of my “TEMPEST” Rankly abus’d――and know, thou noble youth―― With serpents and trombones disguised, my piece Now scares the town.

P. Com. O, my prophetic soul! the opera!

Ghost. Aye, that most queer and het’rogeneous dish,―― With witchcraft and old fairy tales dress’d up,―― (Singular taste! that could on Shakespeare graft Old “Mother Bunch”) bringing to “Tom Thumb’s” level The plot of my most seeming perfect play. Oh, gracious! what a dreadful sight was there For me, or any other anxious parent! My tricksy Ariel in a ballet skirt―― The fairy of a Christmas pantomime! My Caliban――a melodrama villain―― Bearing Miranda off――(stol’n incident From Grindoff in the “Miller and his Men!”) And then resorting to an ancient scheme From “Harlequin and the Three Wishes” borrowed Oh horrible! oh horrible!――most horrible!―― If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not―― Do something, please――I’m not particular what―― But soft――an odour wafts along the wall―― Methinks I scent an early breakfast stall. I must get home――I’m not allowed a key―― Adieu! adieu! adieu! remember me? [Exit.

P. Com. Remember thee! Aye, thou poor Ghost! e’en while Memory holds seat ’neath this distracted tile, I will avenge thee for this outrage vile, But how? Stop! yes――“THE ENCHANTED ISLE.” Beat them on their own ground, the play’s the thing. We’ll out-burlesque them!――Ho! there! Prompter, ring!

From this it will be seen that something in the nature of an apology was deemed necessary for this burlesque on “The Tempest,” and more recently when Mr. Burnand produced his “Ariel,” there was an angry discussion in the press, in which many maintained that it was not in good taste, nor was it advisable for the credit of our stage, that this beautiful play (supposed to have been the last written by Shakespeare), should be thus irreverently treated. On page 144 of “Parodies” will be found extracts from this correspondence. “Ariel” was produced at the Gaiety Theatre, in October, 1883, and though a very harmless burlesque in itself, and in far better taste than the Broughs, “Enchanted Isle,” it was received with many signs of disapprobation, and had but a short run. There was nothing very original, nor very comical, in the conception of Prospero as a magician, entirely dependent upon his conjuring apparatus without which he was absolutely powerless, whilst as to the plot, it was that of the “Tempest” with modern variations cut to a comic pattern, and represented by a clever company, among whom were Miss Phyllis Broughton as Ferdinand, Miss Farren as Ariel, Miss Harcourt as the Captain, Mr. Wyatt as Sebastian, and Mr. Elton as Caliban. The burlesque teemed with popular allusions, and the Fisheries Exhibition, naturally, was not in high favour; there were some lively songs, and, of course, plenty of dances for Miss E. Farren, and Miss Connie Gilchrist.

――――:o:――――

ARIEL sings―― Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry, On the bats back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

Parody sung by J. P. Harley in Planché’s Sleeping Beauty, Covent Garden, April 20, 1840.

Who would be Great Grand Lord High? All the blame on him must lie; Everywhere for him they cry Up and down stairs he must fly―― After all folks verily!―― Verily! Verily!――Few could live now Under the honours beneath which I bow!

――――:o:――――

Prospero Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind.

It is possible that this passage was suggested to Shakespeare by some lines in Lord Stirling’s Tragedie of Darius, 1604:――

Those golden pallaces, those gorgeous halles, With fourniture superfluouslie faire; Those statelie courts, those sky encountring walles, Evanish all like vapours in the aire.

END OF THE PARODIES.

Our parodies are ended. These our authors, As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air. And, like the baseless fabric of these verses, The Critic’s puff, the Trade’s advertisement, The Patron’s promise, and the World’s applause, Yea, all the hopes of poets,――shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial fable fated, Leave not a groat behind!

Posthumous Parodies, 1814.

A FEW PARODIES OF DETACHED PASSAGES.

“FLIRTING.” (After Portia.)

The quality of flirting is not strained; It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven Upon the favoured ones. It is twice blest: It blesses her that flirts, and him that’s flirted with. It profiteth the husband better than His deeds; and he becomes in truth renowned The time his wife doth gad about and flirt With men. It’s mightiest in the ugliest. Oh! It is the attribute of love itself; And wives do think themselves most loved when they Do drive or walk with other man than they Who are their lawful husbands. But, O wife! Though loving be thy plea, remember this, That flirting doth beget unto the pair A reputation far from enviable.

Scraps, July, 1885.

――――:o:――――

Song from J. R. Planche’s extravaganza, “Fortunio” (1843), sung by Miss P. Horton as Fortunio:――

Tell me, tell me Tell me, tell me New, d’ye fancy bread? Smoking hot from oven red Or prefer you stale instead? Reply, reply, reply.

――――:o:――――

Lines spoken by F. Robson as Prince Richcraft in J. R. Planché’s extravaganza, “The Discreet Princess,” produced at the Olympic Theatre, December 26, 1855:――

Ha! I remember a low sort of shop Where they sold peppermint and lollipop, And lozenges in boxes by the score With the inscription o’er them “cough no more.” I gazed upon the things red――green――and blue, And others of a still more sickly hue; And thought if one for poison had a whim There lived a seedy chap would sell it him, And prove the truth that brief inscription bore For in his coffin he would “cough no more!”

――――:o:――――

DREARY SONG FOR DREARY SUMMER.

MR. PUNCH SINGS WITH ACCOMPANIMENT OF A PIPE AND TOBACCO.

Well, don’t cry, my little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Amuse yourself, and break some toy, For the rain it raineth every day.

Alas, for the grass on papa’s estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, He’ll have to buy hay at an awful rate, For the rain it raineth every day.

Mamma, she can’t go out for a drive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, How cross she gets about four or five, For the rain it raineth every day.

If I were you I’d be off to bed, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, Or the damp will give you a cold in the head, For the rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago this song was done, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, And I, for one, cannot see it’s fun, But the Dyces[42] and the Colliers[42] can――they say. SHIRLEY BROOKS. 1860.

――――:o:――――

Shakespoke’s Epigram.

Young friend, for Cyclus’s sake forbear To bite the dust that’s ever near. Blest is the man avoids the stones, And curst is he that breaks his bones.

Lyra Bicyclica, by Joseph G. Dalton. (Boston. E. C. Hodges and Co. 1885.)

The same volume contains several imitations of Shakespeare’s sonnets in praise of the pleasures of bicycle riding.

――――:o:――――

“The First Sitting of the Committee on the Proposed Monument to Shakspeare, carefully taken in shorthand by ZACHARY CRAFT, amanuensis to the Chairman.”

“Come in shadows――so depart.”――MACBETH.

Cheltenham. Printed for G. A. Williams, 1823. This little volume of 88 pages contains the supposed remarks of the following individuals:――The Chairman, a member of the Committee, and the shades of Aristotle, Longinus, Æschylus, Euripides, Aristophanes, Plautus, Terence, Lope de Vega Del Carpio, Molière, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Voltaire, Diderot, D’Alembert, La Harpe, Gray, Garrick, Mademoiselle Claison, Warburton, Johnson, Malone, Steevens, Susanna Shakespeare, John-a-Combe, Alfieri, R. B. Sheridan, Porson, and a number of other less distinguished persons. Very few of the remarks are either witty or clever, nor have they many of the characteristics of the personages to whom they are ascribed.

――――:o:――――

Coriolanus Travestie, by J. Morgan, was produced in Liverpool in 1846, and a burlesque of King Lear, entitled, King Queer and his Daughters Three, was played at the Strand Theatre, London, in 1855. It will therefore be seen that travesties have been written upon nearly every one of William Shakespeare’s Tragedies, and that not even his comedies, or historical plays, have quite escaped burlesque. The enumeration here given is probably incomplete, as many burlesques which have been produced in provincial towns, and some which have been played in London, enjoyed too short a run to obtain the advantage of being printed.

Before closing this chapter on the burlesques of Shakespeare, the following remarks on the subject which appeared in The Daily News, of October 25, 1884, may be quoted:――

Few more striking proofs could be given of the great and growing popularity of the theatre than the most recent fluctuations of stage humour. The experience of the present thus far confirms the judgment formed during the two preceding seasons, that the comic element in stage representation has undergone an important mutation both in motive and in method. Fun is aimed at, and probably achieved, as frequently as of yore; but the kind of fun and the means employed to produce it are entirely different, and possible only under the new conditions of the theatre. Only a few years ago, when London had comparatively few theatres, and supported, after a fashion, two opera-houses, the theatrical world filled a ludicrously small space in English life.

Only when the public are so keenly interested in the dramatic world as they are at present could success attend the profuse introduction of personal parody or caricature into the lightest of stage plays. It would be poor fun to present an elaborate caricature of a serious actor to a spectator who knew little, and cared less about him, and probably had not seen him in the part more especially selected for ridicule. Recent burlesque or travesty depends almost entirely for success upon such caricature, and assumes perfect knowledge of all the mannerisms of prominent actors and actresses. The art of inverting a noble story so that it may appear grotesque occupies quite a secondary position in the category of effects. It would not, for instance, be considered funny at this present juncture to travesty the Venetian Senate into policemen drinking pots of porter, and Othello himself into a negro, with plantation songs, dances and accent. Nor would it be thought amusing to dress Shylock with three hats upon his head, and make him in the intervals of the Trial Scene try to sell cigars to the young Venetians present in court. Yet this is precisely what Frank Talfourd, the great master of the word torturing school, and the inventor of the agglutinate system of punning, did. Henry J. Byron, too, made perhaps his greatest burlesque hit in The Lady of Lyons by making up Beauseant as Napoleon III. and Claude Melnotte as Napoleon I. Again, Talfourd in The Merchant of Venice Preserved wrote amazingly funny dialogue and songs for Robson, but depended in no kind of way upon imitations of Charles Kean and Phelps, which Robson could have done to perfection. What would now be required in Othello would be a low-comedy imitation of Signor Salvini with an Iago made up like Mr. Irving, and a Desdemona who could at least give a general impression of Miss Ellen Terry. We are not propounding that the words should be witless and senseless, all that we maintain is that the caricaturists would in theatrical parlance “get all the laughs.” An instance in point is that the song of the hermit in Paw Clawdian neatly written by Mr. Burnand, and capitally sung by Mr. E. D. Ward, although received with hearty merriment, by no means threw the audience into the convulsions provoked by Mr. Toole’s appearance as Mr. Wilson Barrett. It is not the perversion of motive and character, not the curious piling of pun upon pun, which makes the success of modern travesty. What is looked for is a clever presentment of the surface peculiarities of the serious artist, such as those of the Misses Linden in Silver Guilt, Stage Dora, and Paw Clawdian, in which by turns Miss Eastlake, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, and Mrs. Bernard Beere were parodied with exceeding cleverness. It is only a few nights since Miss Farren “brought down the house” by her brilliant caricature of Mr. Kyrle Bellew, as Gilbert Vaughan in Called Back.

The amusement to be obtained from putting counterfeit presentments of statesmen, lawyers, and soldiers upon the stage has been forbidden in theatres properly so-called, and is only endured in music-halls in a modified shape. Plenty of fun in the worst possible taste could be produced by this ancient expedient, but as public opinion and police reasons forbid it, recourse is had to the device of hoisting the histrion with his own petard. All the clever devices of his own art, all his mysteries of “make-up,” and his talent for characterization, are devoted to the object, not of parodying either Shakespeare or Sardou, but the aspect of their creations embodied by the foremost artists at present on the stage.

Isaac Watts, D.D.,

Born at Southampton in 1674. Died November 25, 1748.

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AGAINST IDLENESS AND MISCHIEF.

How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower.

How skillfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads the wax, And labours hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill I would be busy too; For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be past; That I may give for every day Some good account at last. DR. WATTS.

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THE FLEA.

The flea, so called because it always “flees” the foe, is an industrious insect, and has been immortalized by Dr. What’s-his-name in those beautiful lines commencing:

How doth the busy little flea Improve each starry night, And gather food from you and me With all his little might. How skilfully it hops away, When it we try to squeeze; And waits until the close of day Its hunger to appease.

The flea may be said to come under the denomination of “game,” being eagerly hunted by various animals, and especially by woman. To see a woman flea-hunting is a never-to-be-forgotten sight. What ardour glistens in her eyes! what determination is shown in her mouth! It is probably the only time in a woman’s life when she doesn’t know, or doesn’t care, whether her back-hair is up or down; and if she does catch the flea, the pride of the successful fox-hunter is small in comparison with hers.

The flea’s favourite song is “Put me in your little bed.”

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HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.

How doth the ever busy wasp Improve the shining hour; His object ever is to grasp The sweets of fruit and flower.

To dip his beak into the peach, To pierce the ripen’d plum; To suck whatever is in reach, To sting whoe’er may come.

So, children, you should ne’er forget This insect’s happy toil; Before you his example set, And what you can’t eat, spoil.

Punch, September 25, 1852.

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THE NORTHERN BEE.

How doth the busy Russian Bee Improve the darkened hour, And kindly hope it will not see The fall of England’s power.

How skillfully it frames the “sell,” Forgives Crimean whacks, And owns JOHN BULL does pretty well Whate’er he undertakes.

So now, let Russia, with a will, The works of peace pursue; For Satan finds some mischief still For soldier-States to do.

In laying down the Iron Way, Be her next century passed, And then, who knows, the world may say―― “She’s civilised at last.”

Punch, October 10, 1857.

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CONVIVIAL SONG.

To be sung Sloughly, and with expression.

How doth the dizzy DISRAELI Improve the dining hour, And draw the long bow fearlessly To show his elbows power.

How neatly he prepares the sell, How deftly cooks the facts! And for what others have done well, Himself the credit takes.

What perils with what art and skill He’s pulled the country through! What wonders will his India Bill, If we believe him, do!

So with the farmers he makes hay Ere yet his Sun be past; For though e’en Dizzies have their day, Not long that day can last.

Punch, June 19, 1858.

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[This appeared shortly after Mr. Disraeli had been addressing the electors of Slough.]

ON A BEE I’VE BEE(N) TO.

How doth the lively Spelling Bee Delight the evening hour, And bother folks of each degree―― Sweet maids and spinsters sour.

Hard names that few have ever heard Are bandied round pell-mell; And NUTTALL finds some crack-jaw words That not all folks can spell.

With BUTTER, MAVOR, VYSE, each day, Let my spare time be pass’d; So at the Spelling Bee I may Win some nice prize at last.

Judy, March 15, 1876.

[Published when the mania for Spelling Bees was at its height.]

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CHAP. I.――ON INDUSTRY.

With what singular persistency of purpose does that diminutive and laborious creature, the Bee, turn to account every minute of sunshine! The construction of her cell is a marvel of insect architecture; and if you were to attempt to spread wax with the same neatness and regularity, you would no doubt fail in the most ignominious manner. At least, I know I should; for I was only the other day sealing a letter when I burned my fingers dreadfully. I am aware that bee’s-wax is not sealing-wax; but still if I had used bee’s-wax to fasten my envelope, I daresay I should have made just as bad a mess of it, or worse. Then again, look how the Bee labours to store those octagonal chambers with the saccharine food she is all the day gathering from roses, tulips, candytuft, pelargoniums, pansies, pinks, hollyhocks, fuchsias, heliotropes, marigolds, dahlias, begonias, lupines, lilies, daffydowndillies, and, in short, every opening flower. I can’t help thinking that if the whole of one’s time was passed in books or work, or even healthy athletic pastimes, such, for example, as hop-scotch, dominoes, tossing the caber, knurr and spell, coddams, cricket, rounders, peg-top, prisoner’s-base, noughts-and-crosses, Aunt Sally, cribbage, nine-pins, Indian clubs, fly-the-garter, boxing, balancing tobacco-pipes on the tip of one’s nose, skimming half-pence at cats or attic windows, turning Catharine wheels in the road, or putting the stone, we might haply give as good an account of every day as our little friend the Bee could do, if so required. (Since the foregoing was committed to manuscript, I have met with some similar ideas in verse, by a Dr. What’s-his-name. I do not, however, think it necessary or desirable to cancel my own original reflections on a subject which, after all, is quite open to anybody.)

Punch.

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DR. WATTS ON ASTHMA. (Vide Advertisement.)

How doth the little busy wheeze Augment from hour to hour, And gather “stuffiness” all day, With forty “bad-cold” power!

How skilfully it clogs each cell, How strongly it attacks! And labours hard both cad and swell To lay upon their backs.

It calls for all the doctor’s skill―― Apothecary’s too too―― And Satan finds decoctions still For ’prentice hands to brew.

Funny Folks, July 21, 1877.

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A SIMPLE RHYME FOR THE 5TH DECEMBER.

How doth the busy Parliament Improve each shining hour, By talking, talking, night and day, With twenty-magpie power.

How doth the savage Gladstone rise, Ambition to pursue, And rave of Russia, India, and Of Afghanistan too.

How doth the angry Radical Delight to bark and shriek; How oft he tries a lion’s roar, And only makes a squeak.

How doth the loyal Englishman All snarling curs deride, And in the present Government Implicitly confide.

Judy, Jan. 4, 1879.

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WATTS’ HUMOUROUS POEMS.

How doth the little crocodile Improve his shining tail, And pour the waters of the Nile On every golden scale!

How, cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in With gently smiling jaws!

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll, (London Macmillan and Co.)

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THE LITTLE MOSQUITO.

How doth the little Mosquito Delight to buzz and bite, And make the terrors of the day Ten times as bad at night.

How buzzily (busily) it flits on wing, And ’lighting on your nose, It makes you feel its quick, sharp sting When you’re trying for to doze.

How skilfully it dodges round; And when you try to “bust” it, Flies away and likes to see And hear how you have cuss’d it.

But thank the Lord the time will come When they’ll have no work to do, And you will find they’re “busted some,” And Mosquitoes will be few.

So go your way and rest content, That they away have “flew,” But mind that by this time next year They’ll find some work to do. TOBY. Icycle, The Wheel World Annual, 1880.

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AN OLD FRIEND WITH A NEW FACE. (After DOCTOR WATTS.)

By an ENTHUSIASTIC LAND-LEAGUER, specially gifted in teaching the young idea how to shoot.

How doth the honest Land-League man Improve each shining hour, An’ gather money all the day Wid all his might an’ power! How carefully he guards his sell, How neatly showers his whacks, An’ labours hard to please PARNELL, An’ dodge the law’s attacks!

No works of labour tax our skill, Yet we’ll be busy too, The Land-League has some mischief still Our idle hands can do. In Boycotting an’ suchlike play, Let all our days be past. Begorra! we may have to pay A long account at last!!

Judy, March 9, 1881.

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THE COAL-HOLE TOP.

How doth the little coal-hole top Its slipperiness disguise, And feet on bootless errands send So often to the skies!

The little schoolgirl steps on it With an elastic gait; But ere she can step off again She sits upon her slate.

The little boy with pail of milk, Treads on it “just in play.” He sees some stars. The passers-by Gaze on the “milky way.”

The belle, with rich embellishment, Comes up with mincing tread, Her shoes are made of best French kid; Her stockings clocked with red.

The big policeman, proud, erect, With gum shoes on his feet, Disguises it with confidence, How quick he’s off his beat!

The granger with his cowhide boots: “By thunder! Did you see How spry that little iron thing Got out from under me.”

No matter what the size of feet, Nor with what they are shod, The coal-hole top has never yet With uprightness been trod.

Free Press Flashes, 1882.

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“DOCTOR WATTS” IMPROVED. (From a Sea-side Lodger.)

How doth the little busy Flea, Disturb each silent hour, And all night long, most wickedly Our wearied limbs devour.

How cruelly he breaks our rest, How wroth he makes us wax, When, jumping from his hidden nest, He bites our tender backs.

Now, had it been in works like these That my first years were past, I must have come, like little Fleas, To no good end at last.

For so, the little cruel Flea, By those who would have slept, Will――drowned, or burnt, or headless be, Unpitied and unwept.

Punch, October 18, 1884.

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CHILDREN’S CORNER.

How doth the very Bizzy B.[43] Improve each shining hour, Annexing isles in every sea To cripple England’s power.

How skilfully he plans his schemes, How well he times each blow, While in his chair Lord Derby dreams That all is comme il faut!

Possessed of such a dauntless will Would we’d one Bizzy too, Or Satan find less mischief still For Liberals’ hands to do.

Moonshine, January 1885.

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THE BEE.

How doth the gorging greedy Bee, Destructive little brute, Hum all day long from tree to tree, And spoil the choicest fruit!

Behold how deep she scoops a cell, When peaches she attacks, In nectarines and pears as well, How big a hole she makes!

Likewise to eat and drink my fill, I should be happy too; For Nature has disposed me still But little else to do.

In prog and grub, by turns with play, Might all my life be past, Till I, perhaps, should come to weigh Good fourteen score at last.

Punch, October 9, 1875.

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THE WOPS.

How doth the wobbling, wily wops Improve each shining hour! Within the peach he slyly stops, And stings with all his power!

How skilfully he wheels around, And maidens makes afraid; He loves to clear the pic-nic ground, And roll in marmalade!

The whispered charm of lover’s talk He’ll stop without ado; The Vicar’s sermon he will balk, And sting the Vicar too!

On cake or fruit or window pane, On pie or mutton chops, He’ll sharply sting and come again―― The wobbling, wily wops!

Punch, September 15, 1883.

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THE VARIATION HUMBUG.

There is perhaps more Humbug talked, printed, and practised in reference to Music than to anything else in the world, except Politics. And of all the musical humbugs extant it occurs to Mr. Punch that the Variation Humbug is the greatest. This party has not even the sense to invent a tune for himself, but takes somebody else’s, and starting therefrom as an acrobat leaps from a spring board, jumps himself into a musical reputation on the strength of the other party’s ideas. Mr. Punch wonders what would be thought of a poet who should try to make himself renown by this kind of thing――taking a well-known poem of a predecessor’s, and doing Variations on it after this fashion:――

BUGGINS’S VARIATIONS OF THE BUSY BEE.

How doth the Little Busy Bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower, From every opening flower, flower, flower, That sparkles in a breezy bower, And gives its sweetness to the shower, Exhaling scent of gentle power, That lasts on kerchief many an hour, And is a lady’s graceful dower, Endeared alike to cot and tower, Round which the little Busy Bee Improves each shining hour, And gathers honey all the day From every opening flower, From every opening flower, flower, flower, From every opening flower.

How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads her whacks, And labours hard to store it well. With the sweet food she makes, With the sweet food she makes, With the sweet food she makes, makes, makes, When rising just as morning breaks, The dew-drop from the leaf she shakes, And oft the sleeping moth she wakes, And diving through the flower she takes, The honey with her fairy rakes, And in her cell the same she cakes, Or sports across the silver lakes, Besides her children, for whose sakes, How skilfully she builds her cell, How neat she spreads her wax, And labours hard to store it well With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill, I would be busy too, For Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do, For idle hands to do, For idle hands to do, do, do, Things which thereafter they will rue, When Justice fiercely doth pursue, Or conscience raises Cry and Hue, And evil-doers look quite blue, When Peelers run with loud halloo, And Magistrates put on the screw, And then the wretch exclaims, Boo-hoo, In works of labour or of skill I wish I’d busied too, For Satan’s found much mischief still For my two hands to do.

There! Would a Poet get much reputation for these Variations, which are much better in their way than most of those built upon tunes. Would the poetical critics come out, as the musical critics do, with “Upon WATTS’S marble foundation BUGGINS has raised a sparkling alabaster palace;” or, “The old-fashioned WATTS has been brought into new honour by the étincellant BUGGINS;” or “We love the old tune, but we have room in our hearts for the fairy-like fountains of birdsong which BUGGINS has bid start from it.” Mr. Punch has an idea that BUGGINS would have no such luck; the moral to be deduced from which fact is, that a Musical Prig is luckier than a Poetical Prig.

Punch, February 2, 1861.

――――:o:――――

AGAINST QUARRELLING AND FIGHTING.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For God hath made them so, Let bears and lions growl and fight, For ’tis their nature to.

But, children, you should never let Such angry passions rise; Your little hands were never made To tear each other’s eyes. Dr. WATTS.

――――――――

ADDRESS TO THE QUARRELSOME BOYS OF SWITZERLAND.

Let canine animals delight in mutual barkings, and in reciprocating injuries with their fangs; for it is their natural disposition in this manner to gratify their ferocity.

Let creatures of the ursine and feline tribes employ themselves in growling and contention: since they are so constituted as to take pleasure in these occupations. But you, who, among the great European family may be called children――should never allow your irascible propensities to be thus aroused. Those diminutive organs of prehension which you possess were never constructed for the laceration of one another’s instruments of vision.

Punch, December 11, 1847.

――――――――

TO A ROEBUCK[44] AT BAY.

Whigs in their cozy berths agree And ’tis a sorry sight When independent men we see Fall out and fume and fight.

Let BROOM[45] delight to bark and bite For CAMPBELL riles him so; Let Irish members bounce and fight, For ’tis their nature to.

But ROEBUCK, you should never let Your angry passions rise; Your little hands were never meant To tear out GRATTAN’S eyes.

Punch, June, 1849.

――――――――

A REMONSTRANCE FROM THE NURSERY.

Let Austria delight to bark and bite, And snap off Kossuth’s nose; Let Prussia’s King, against all right, Tread hard on Freedom’s toes; But Nicholas should never let A love of conquest rise; His gory hands were never made To tear out the Sultan’s eyes.

Diogenes, 1854.

――――――――

RATIONAL REMONSTRANCE.

Let peaceful BRIGHT in speech delight That charms the Cotton crew: Let COBDEN rather trade than fight, For ’tis his business to.

But when our Premier, duped before, Still trusts to Russian lies, Such weakness but disgusts JOHN BULL, And makes his monkey rise.

Punch, July 29, 1854.

――――――――

WATT’S THE MATTER.

Let Lords delight to bark and bite, They’ve nothing else to do; Let Whigs and Tories growl and fight, For ’tis their nature to.

But Liberals, you should never let Escape your passions dire, Your little wits were never meant To set the Thames on fire.

Kings on their gilded thrones agree,[46] But ’tis a shocking sight, When all St. Stephen’s family Fall out with Lowe and Bright.

Then keep your tempers if you can, On Tories wreak your hate, And dance a Radical cancan O’er prostrate Church and State.

Will-o’-the-Wisp, May 22, 1869.

――――――――

Birds in their little nests agree ’Tis true. But what about? They all agree in trying hard To turn each other out.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For ’tis their nature to; Then don’t complain if some fine day They bark and bite at you.

When shines the sun, and rain is past, Make hay, get in your crops; But what the Dickens must one do, Suppose it never stops?

The early bird, the proverb says, The early worm devours; Then lest you’d be that early worm, Abandon early hours.

Alas for childhood’s early faiths! Comparing old with new; I like the latter quite as well, And think them just as true. H. M. The Tonbridgian, April, 1873.

――――――――

“In my opinion there’s only one policy worth a ducat!”

“And that, Benjamin,” I ask in my captivating way, is――――?”

“Pointedly expressed in the following lines of the poet:――

“Let Rads delight to bark and bite, For God has made ’em so; Let Butts and Biggars growl and fight, For ’tis their nature to; But Hardy, you must never let The landed gentry rise To see the games that I am at Beneath their nose and eyes.”

BENJAMIN D――――His Little Dinner, 1876.

――――――――

WATTS THE MATTER? (Lord Marcus Beresford.)

Oh, Marcus! you should never let Your angry passions rise, Nor at a money-lender get, And try to black his eyes, One hundred pounds may not be dear For joys so simply gay; Yet still to most it will appear A tidy sum to pay!

Yorick, 1877.

――――――――

GIBES AND “GERMS.”

(A respectful Remonstrance addressed to PROFESSOR TINDALL, and DR. H. C. B.)

Let bigots write with sneers of spite, And dogmas argue so, Let priests and parsons, differing, fight, As ’tis their nature to.

But, Sages, you should never let Such female passions rise; Your thinking minds were never made To bandy taunts unwise.

Let calm through all your questions run, All your debates be mild; Keep your discussions, every one By rancour undefiled.

With patience gentle as a lamb Your arguments pursue; Call not each other’s theories “flam,” But prove the sounder view.

Look up to Truth all ends above; Seek that and that alone: Nor squabble, out of mere self love O’er crochets of your own.

Punch, July 7, 1877.

――――――――

A FORTOU――ITOUS EVENT.

Addressed, with all earnestness, to M. Gambetta.

Let fools and bullies brawl and fight, For ’tis their nature to; Let brainless apes in duels delight, But not such men as you.

No! Statesmen they should never let Their passions get such sway. Just think of France’s keen regret, Had you been shot that day!

Twas true there was small chance of this, Thanks to the seconds’ care; But though both pistols scored a miss, The folly still was there.

* * * * *

Then why conform to such a rule As that which you obey’d; The laws that bind the fop and fool For you were never made.

To France a wise example show When next you’re asked to fight; And let these moral cowards know You dare to do what’s right.

Truth, November 28, 1878.

――――――――

ON A LATE FRACAS AT NEWMARKET.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, For ’tis their nature to, Let sculptors in the law courts fight And raise a great to-do.

But, race-horse trainers, pray don’t let Your angry passions rise; Your stable-forks weren’t made, you bet To gouge each other’s eyes.

If you go in for law you’ll be Awarded just a farden; So henceforth, when you disagree, Beg one another’s pardon.

Judy, February 14, 1883.

――――――――

TO A POLICEMAN.

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, Or howl the whole night through; Let roosters hail the morning light With “cock-a-doodle do:”

Let bawling costers all the day Make hideous the street; And organs grind, and niggers play And bands discordant meet:

But, Bobby, you must never try To stifle torturing sounds, Nor murmur placidly “Oh, fie!” But meekly――go your rounds.

Funny Folks.

――――――――

WATT’S UP AGAIN. (On a Recent Fracas.[47])

Let cads delight with fists to fight, To them ’tis nothing new, Which if our Swells consider right, Why――let ’em do it, too. When well-bred Englishmen now let Their angry passions rise, The fashion has been lately set―― They black each other’s eyes.

HYDE PARK.

NOTICE.――To Noblemen and Gentlemen frequenting the Row, all Rows forbidden, except Rows of Chairs. No Rowing in which punching of heads is included, will be permitted, though Rowing on the Serpentine is allowed, but the Rowers will have to pay for any damage done to the sculls.

No objection to pistols and coffee, but fighting like coal-heavers I will not have in my Park, I swear I won’t, by GEORGE.

Punch, August 8, 1885.

THE SLUGGARD.

’Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain, “You have wak’d me too soon, I must slumber again.” As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed, Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;” Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number: And when he gets up he sits folding his hands, Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier, The thorn and the thistle, grow broader and higher; The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags; And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find That he took better care for improving his mind; He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking; But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me, This man’s but a picture of what I might be; But, thanks to my friends, for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.” DR. WATTS.

――――――――

THE FRENCH SLUGGARD.

’Tis the moan of old LOUIS,[48] I hear him complain; “I’ve deluded my people to warfare with SPAIN;” As the priests are at mass, so is he on his throne, An imbecile monarch, an indolent drone.

A little more craft, and a little more ruling, Thus his days and his hours have been wasted in fooling And when he snores up, for his capon and crown, His lethargy sinks him again on his down.

I passed by his palace,――I saw the disguise,―― His JESUITS caressed him, his ULTRAS were spies; The robes that hung on him were ragged and poor And his life, like a beggar’s, dependent once more.

Said I――“Ye ALLIES!!――’tis a lesson for you; This KING is a picture that soon you will view; And thanks to the nations who freedom have cherish’d, That knowledge hath conquer’d, and despots have perish’d.”

The Spirit of the Public Journals, 1823.

――――――――

THE SLUGGARD.

“’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, “You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.” And I’m not much surprised, for ’tis surely some lout, Who won’t let the poor fellow have his sleep out. It’s all very well for some fidgety elf, Who can’t get a wink of sound sleep for himself, To call others “sluggards”――as worthy as he―― Because they don’t quite with his theory agree. They think it high time, if to dress they’re prepared, When the sun is up first, and the day is well aired, If the body needs rest, ’tis but reason to sleep, And thus all its functions in order to keep. If the birds (little fools!) rise so early, I beg You’ll remember they usually sleep on one leg: And its wearisome, doubtless, standing so long, So they wake up and shake off the cramp with a song. If they had, as I have, a nice cosy bed, My impression is they would sleep later instead, And as for the “worm-catching” proverb, in terms, It can’t affect me――I’m not partial to worms.

Funny Folks.

――――――――

’Tis the voice of the lobster; I heard him declare, “You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.” As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose, Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. (Macmillan and Co., London.)

――――――――

THE WISE ONE, AND THE FOOLISH.

’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, “You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again,” As a door on its hinges, so in his bed he Turn’d and drowsily muttered, “A Soda and B!”

’Tis the voice of the sluggard, I heard him complain, “I fancy that last night I drank too much champagne; But no,” he exclaim’d, as he loll’d at his ease, “It was not the champagne, ’twas the salmon and peas.”

I look’d once again, as he lay on the bed, His eyes they were blood shot, his nose it was red, And I said to myself, as I turn’d from the sight, “It is clear he was up till a late hour of night.”

Then I said to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me! That man’s but a picture of what I might be. But no, I am cautious in all that I eat; I mix not my liquors, but take each one neat.”

Judy, September 23, 1874.

――――――――

THE “SPECIAL.” (After “Watts” his name.)

’Twas the voice of the “Special,” they heard him complain, “Oh, bother the telegram! Copy again?” His fingers were cramped, and his eyelids were red, And he yawned, for the “Special” had not been in bed.

He had written “atrocity” scenes without number On a cannon or drum, or some odd pile of lumber; Had reeled off adventures, romances, realities―― All a Special considers his own Specialities.

Then he dashed down his pen, took a whiff at a “briar,” And glanced at his costume all covered with mire; For the clothes that hung on him were turning to rags, And Poole would have fainted to witness such “bags.”

But he screwed up his courage, still hoping to find New horrors for British consumption designed; And he wrote of his dreams, of his eating and drinking (Too much of the latter some readers are thinking).

But they scan with delight that escape from a shell, That leap from a mountain, that fall in a well; And when brought as a spy to some captain or colonel, ’Twas an excellent scene to write up for his journal.

But I said as I read, “Here’s a lesson for me; This man’s, but a picture of what I might be. Were it not for the care of my friends in my breeding, I might have to make ‘Specials’ for newspaper reading.”

Funny Folks.

――――――――

THE CZAR HE LEADS A JOLLY LIFE.

’Tis the voice of the Czar, don’t you hear him complain? “They’ve been trying to blow up my palace again! Now matters are really getting too bad; For years not a moment of peace have I had.”

This is the first verse of a long and curiously prophetic poem which appeared in Truth, December 18, 1879. The remaining verses are not given as they do not parody Dr. Watts.

――――――――

THE RINKER.

’Tis the voice of the rinker, I heard her complain, You have stopped me too soon, I’ll go skating again, As the door on its hinges, so she on her skates, Turns gracefully, and expectantly waits.

A little more skating, a little more rinking, Thus she wastes half her days, and her hours without thinking And when she’s at home, she but lolls in a chair, And wonders how soon she again will go there.

On her way to the rink I once chanced to be nigh her, And I thought that she held her head higher and higher, So fine was the dress she wore, I quite shuddered to think Of the money she wastes on the terrible rink.

I made her a visit, still hoping to find She took some little care for improving her mind; She told me her feats, talked of dressing and rinking, But scarce reads a book, and never loves thinking.

Then I said to myself, “Here’s a lesson to me, This woman’s a pattern of what I might be,” But I’m proud to confess, and I can without blinking, I much prefer reading and writing to rinking.

Idyls of the Rink. JUDD & CO., London, 1876.

――――――――

A MORAL SONG FOR ELECTION TIME.

’Tis the voice of BRITANNIA, I heard her explain “I’m wide awake now; I wont slumber again; As Materfamilias, once out of bed, I must sack my late servants, and turn off their head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber, And my wars, big and little, had grown out of number; Over vanishing trade I’d have had to fold hands, Perplexed not with orders, but debtor’s demands.

“I passed Jingo’s Music Hall, lit with blue fire, That on Russia’s big bogey blazed higher and higher, I heard “Rule Britannia,” saw waving of flags, With a great deal by way of bounce, bunkum, and brags.

“I called upon Jingo, as hoping to find, Common sense had found access, at length, to his mind, But he told me his dreams, talked as if he’d been drinking, For he reads the D. T., and has long given up thinking.

“Then, said Punch to JOHN BULL, ‘you take warning, J. B.,’ This Jingo’s a picture of what we might be. But thanks to our friends for the care of our breeding, Who warned us, betimes, the D. T. against reading.

Punch, 1880.

――――――――

’Tis the voice of the glutton, I hear him complain, My waistcoat unbutton, I’ll eat once again.

Punch, May 1864.

――――――――

THE MOAN OF THE “NATIVE.”

“Of all the inanimate objects which are inimical to the oyster, there is nothing so fatal as sand.” Land and Water, Oct. 23, 1880.

’Tis the voice of the oyster I hear him complain; “I can’t live in this place, here’s the sandstorm again. I was settling to rest ’mid the rocks and the tiles They had made for a home, but this sand how it riles. It gets into my shell, and the delicate fringe That I use when I breathe; and I can’t shut my hinge When the grit lodges there; so the crabs come at will, Since my poor mouth is open they feed, and they kill, I’ve complained to Frank Buckland, who quite understands, But he cant undertake to abolish the sands.” Thus the “Native” made moan, then I took up the brown Bread-and-butter and lemon, and swallowed him down!

Punch, 1880.

PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL.

Whene’er I take my walks abroad, How many poor I see! What shall I render to my God For all his gifts to me?

Not more than others I deserve, Yet God hath given me more: For I have food while others starve, Or beg from door to door.

How many children in the street Half naked I behold! While I am clothed from head to feet And cover’d from the cold.

While some poor wretches scarce can tell Where they may lay their head, I have a home wherein to dwell, And rest upon my bed.

While others early learn to swear, And curse, and lie, and steal, Lord, I am taught thy name to fear, And do thy holy will.

Are these thy favours, day by day, To me above the rest? Then let me love thee more than they, And try to serve thee best. DR. WATTS.

――――――――

LONDON STREETS. A Moral Song, after an Obvious Original.

Whene’er I take my walks abroad How many things I see Which make me wish that Colonel Hen- derson were there with me.

Not more than others I observe, But things impress me more―― The noise, the filth, the area-sneaks Who beg from door to door.

What borrowed children in the street Half-naked I behold! What sturdy hawkers howl and cheat, And how the poor are “sold!”

Horses in ’bus and cab I see O’erworked and underfed, And overladen creatures fall Upon the roadway――dead!

Teutonic bands disturb the street Remote from noise and strife, And organs grinding discord make A misery of life.

On crowded pavements, two abreast, Perambulators run, To drive the folks into the road―― The nursemaids’ daily fun.

The gamins early learn to swear, And curse, and lie, and steal, Too fleet of foot for him to race―― The bobby, named of Peel.

Such things as these are day by day A scandal and a pest; But Scotland Yard, with folded arms, Snores on and takes its rest.

――――――――

THE IRISH LANDLORD’S SONG.

“Whene’er I take my walks abroad My tenantry I see, And each has got a blunderbuss, A looking out for me.”

Judy.

――――――――

PRAISE FOR MERCIES SPIRITUAL AND TEMPORAL.

I cannot take my walks abroad, I’m under lock and key, And much the public I applaud, For all their care of me.

Not more than others I deserve, In fact much less, than more; Yet I have food while others starve Or beg from door to door.

The honest pauper in the street, Half-naked I behold; While I am clad from head to feet, And covered from the cold.

Thousands there are who scarce can tell Where they may lay their head; While I’ve a warm and well air’d cell, A bath, good books, good bed.

While they are fed on workhouse fare And grudged their scanty food: Three times a day my meals I get, Sufficient, wholesome, good.

Then to the British public health, Who all our care relieves; And while they treat us as they do, They’ll never want for thieves.

This parody was ascribed to the pen of one Stephen Bills, a convict, and some twenty years ago his photograph could be obtained, with the parody printed at the back. Mr. Bills was there represented in the costume peculiar to gentlemen who are enjoying state hospitality. It is a curious circumstance that a very similar parody was included in the volume entitled “Wit and humour, by Shirley Brooks,” edited by his son, and published by Bradbury, Agnew & Co., London.

It would be interesting to know whether Mr. Shirley Brooks was the actual author, or whether he obtained the poem in the manner stated below:

SONG BY A CAGED BIRD.

The following lines were found in the cell of a discharged convict, who made his way into a Chaplain’s heart by piety, and, subsequently, into a jeweller’s shop by burglary.

The spirit that dictated such an irreverence with Dr. Watts is worthy of the Author.

I cannot take my walks abroad, I’m under lock and key, And much the public I applaud, For all their care of me.

Not more than Paupers I deserve, In fact, much less than more, Yet I have food while Paupers starve And beg from door to door.

The honest Pauper in the street Half naked you behold, While I am clothed from head to feet And covered from the cold.

While honest Paupers scarce can tell Where they may lay their head, I have a warm and well-aired cell, With bath-room, gas, and bed.

While Paupers live on workhouse fare, A grudged and scanty meal, My table’s spread with bread and beer, And beef, or pork, or veal.

Then since to honest folks, I say, They put the Workhouse Test, Why nix my doll palls, fake away, You’ll like the Jug the best. THE MODEL PRISON.

[This originally appeared in Punch, April 4, 1857.]

――――――――

COVENT GARDEN. A HYMN OF HUMILITY.

[Over and over again has the Duke of Bedford been implored, adjured, entreated, and admonished to set Covent Garden Market and its approaches in order; but as yet he has practically turned a deaf ear to all the appeals made to him.――Daily Paper.]

Whene’er abroad we take our walks, And choose the Covent Garden route, We ask, “Do dukes like cabbage-stalks? And are they fond of rotten fruit?”

We see the garbage piled on high, We sniff an air whose odour tells Of rank corruption; and we sigh, “No doubt the duke approves of smells!”

We pick our way through filth and slime, And, musing on the noisome flood, The thought occurs to us in time, “In politics dukes fling much mud!”

We watch the traffic raging round, And filling every hole and nook, Then say, “Of course this muddle’s found To gratify his grace the duke.”

The grimy avenue we pace, About the ugly sheds we pry; “It’s hard,” we think, “to like the place,―― But then one lacks the ducal eye.”

We mark the slums that fester near, And dirt and squalor still we find; But reason whispers in our ear, “It’s not so bad, or dukes would mind.”

Oh, fie on agitating elves Who say the market is a blot! They ought to murmur to themselves, “The duke’s contented with the spot.”

He draws his rents, he hoards his gold; What cares he for the vulgar throng! They might just recollect, when told, That dukes, like kings, can do no wrong.

The Weekly Dispatch, June, 1882.

――――:o:――――

MORAL SONGS FOR ELECTION-TIME. (After Dr. Watts).

I.――PLAY (INNOCENT AND OTHERWISE).

Abroad in the Boroughs to see the Blue Lambs, And the Red Lions rather too free of their dams, Standing up for what both call their rights: Or a knot of young roughs, whose right place were the cage, Of their hustling and horse-play well-earning the wage, Are not pleasant election-time sights.

If we’d been born Ducks, we might dabble in mud; Or Dogs, we might snarl till it ended in blood; But we claim to be rational creatures; And DIZZY and GLADSTONE, and such pretty names, We ought to know better than fling, to our shames, Like mud, in each other’s flushed features.

Not a harsh thing Blues do, or a hard thing Buffs say, But with Blue and Buff bills should be wiped clean away; They are fools who let foolish words hurt. Not so rough’s rude horseplay, who fight and throw mire, Or, still worse, penmen’s frolic’s, who fling about fire In Jingo Drawcansir disport.

――――――――

II.――LOVE BETWEEN REDS AND BLUES.

Let Frenchmen fight with kick and bite―― They can’t use fists, we know―― Let Turk and Russ take wrong for right, It is their nature to.

But, Britons, you should never let Such Party-passions rise, As, even at Election times, To――blank――each other’s eyes!

Afghans, Zulus howe’er we treat, Let’s keep the peace at home; Where Rads and Jingoes share the street, To cuffs they should not come.

Birds in their little nests agree, And ’tis a painful sight, When fools, though of one family, Fall out and chide and fight.

Hard hustings-names, hot platform-words, And blatant leaders’ breath, Take shape in Clubs, Lies’ two-edged swords, And mob-war to the death.

He’s wise who tongue and temper schools Through the election fight, Nor holdeth all his foes for fools, Himself still in the right.

Punch, April 17, 1880.

――――:o:――――

WATTS’S INCOME TAX LOGIC.

When Bishops, who in wealth abound, Return their incomes wrong, And pocket several thousand pound To them that don’t belong.

Oh, how can Government expect A struggling chap like me Should put his earnings down correct, To fill up Schedule D?

Punch, April 16, 1853.

――――――――

HYMN BY A MEMBER OF THE PEACE CONGRESS.

How sweet a thing it is to dwell In blessed u-ni-ty, With envious passions ne’er to swell, But cherish a-mi-ty.

How very sweet it is to take Your little brother’s gold, And make a snug pro-vi-sion Against when we get old.

How very sweet it is――“Oh dear!” Who hit me in the eye? “Who kicked me then? Get out you brute! Ah do――just only try――”

“I’ll tear your clothes clean off your back, I’ll smash your ugly head;” It’s done――three cheers for blessed peace! My en-e-my is dead.

The Tomahawk, September 21, 1867.

――――――――

THE THIEF.

Why should I deprive my neighbour Of his goods against his will? Hands were made for honest labour, Not to plunder, or to steal. DR. WATTS.

―――――――― Why should I relieve my neighbour With my goods against my will? Can’t he live by honest labour Can’t he borrow, can’t he steal?

――――――――

A PARAPHRASE.

[On the Rev. Dr. Watts’s Celebrated Distich, on the Study of Languages.]

Addressed to the young gentlemen of the English Grammar Schools, by one of their School-fellows.

“Let every foreign tongue alone Till you can spell and read your own” With equal justice, sense and truth, So says the guide and friend of youth: For ignorant in that, ’tis plain, Your boast of literature is vain; But make your own your first concern, All others you may quickly learn: And thus with minds prepar’d and free, Their beauties taste, their idioms see.

Pedants may flout and keep a pother About this language, and the other, And swear that none can write or speak Who have not Latin learn’d and Greek: ‘He of all judgement is depriv’d ‘Who knows not whence a word’s derived ‘And every Briton willy nilly, ‘Must dig good English out of Lilly;’ These are vague notions foster’d long Crude in their birth, in practice wrong; Like many more of ancient date, Wisely reformed or obsolete.

Thousands ’tis true the course have run, Which reason would have bid them shun: ’Tis common sense and good in law, To furnish brick we should have straw. But by the mystic code of schools There’s neither straw allowed nor tools; And years of pain, and learning’s stock, Begin and end in Hic, haec, hoc! What charms are there, in sense or sound Of such intrinsic merit found, That not thro’ prejudice to err, Terms of our own we mayn’t prefer? And just as well the purpose fit, With Oxford writing,――he, she, it? Or do they more in Church or State Improve discourse, or point debate?

Poor boys in training, it appears, Condemn’d to waste their tender years On exercises which conduce To little or no real use, Seem to perpetuate Britain’s doom, To groan beneath the yoke of Rome. Rome that abandon’d us in need Still o’er our judgment takes the lead; We scout her eagles with disdain The fasces still usurp domain; Still, of court influence tho’ bereft, In schools the badge of slavery’s left, And interest still, or affectation, Warps the free spirit of the nation; Tho’ richer prospects grace our view Than ever Greek or Roman knew,―― All must be through the classics led, Before the horn-book well they’ve read; A more oppressive task in fact Than Ægypt’s tyrant could exact Which genius in the cradle cramps, And all her generous efforts damps; But in your native language skill’d You on a sure foundation build; The edifice will rise sublime, In perfect order, place, and time. There, and there only should commence The path to knowledge, wit and sense, For there the young ingenious mind, The road to excellence will find, And in the flowery walks of science, May bid disgraceful birch defiance; But who, a novice there, aspires, Must work his way through thorns and briars, And when the craggy steeps are past, May skulk a useless drone at last; Nay, though he get A. B. at College, Be stopt of his degree in knowledge.

Then cultivate your native soil, The harvest will repay your toil; And be it every parent’s care, To plant the seeds of goodness there.

*.* The petty ambition of pretending to superior skill, in other languages, seems pleasantly and aptly ridiculed in the following anecdote:――

One of our modern modishly-bred ladies, boasting of her proficiency in the FRENCH tongue, asserted she understood and spoke it better than she did English; and for the truth, appealed to a French lady in company. The adroit Parisian very candidly and sensibly replied, “I am not, my dear madam, sufficiently acquainted with the English language to determine; but I should be ashamed and sorry to say, I spoke any language half so well as my own!”

From A Collection of Poems, by Samuel Whyte, Dublin, 1792.

John Milton, Born 1608. Died in Bunhill Fields, London, November 8, 1674.

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[Illustration: P]arodies of Milton’s Poems are neither numerous, nor particularly amusing; the best known, and most admired, is undoubtedly “The Splendid Shilling,” written (in blank verse) about 1700, by John Philips. A biography of this author is included in Dr. Johnson’s “Lives of the Poets.” He was born at Bampton in Oxfordshire, on December 30, 1676. Being of a delicate constitution his chief amusement was reading, and as Milton was his favorite author, he chose his style for a parody, whilst he found a subject in the character of an impecunious college friend, who knew not how to keep a shilling in his pocket. “The Splendid Shilling” has one great charm, rare in such works, it is a burlesque in which nobody is ridiculed. John Philips died on February 15, 1708, and was buried in Hereford Cathedral. There is a tablet to his memory in Poet’s Corner, Westminster Abbey, which chronicles in high flown Latin phrases, his achievements in poetry. Of these the principal were “Blenheim,” and “Cider,” the latter being founded upon the model of Virgil’s Georgics.

The following is an exact reprint of a very early edition of

THE SPLENDID SHILLING. IN IMITATION OF MILTON.

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――――_Sing Heavenly Muſe, Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rhyme, A Shilling, Breeches, and Chimera’s dire_

Happy the Man, who void of Cares and Strife, In Silken or in Leathern Purſe retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New Oyſters cry’d, nor ſighs for cheerful Ale; But with his Friends, when nightly Miſts ariſe, To Juniper’s, or Magpye, or Town-Hall[49] repairs; Where mindful of the Nymph, whose wanton Eye, Transfix’d his Soul, and kindled Amorous flames, Chloe or Phillis; he each Circling Glass Wiſheth her Health, and Joy, and equal Love. Mean while he Smoaks, and Laughs at Merry Tale, Or Pun ambiguous, or Conundrum quaint. But I whom griping Penury ſurrounds, And Hunger, ſure Attendant upon Want, With ſcanty Offals, and ſmall acid Tiff (Wretched Repast) my meagre Corps sustain: Then Solitary walk, or doze at home In Garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill’d Fingers, or from Tube as black As Winter’s Chimney, or well-poliſh’d Jett, Exhale Mundungus, ill-perfuming Smoak. Not blacker Tube, nor of a ſhorter Size Smoaks Cambro-Britain (vers’d in Pedigree, Sprung from Cadwalader and Arthur, ancient Kings, Full famous in Romantick tale) when he O’re many a craggy Hill, and fruitleſs Cliff, Upon a Cargo of fam’d Ceſtrian Cheese, High over-ſhadowing rides, with a deſign To vend his Wares, or at the Arvonian Mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient Town Hight Morgannumia, or where Vaga’s Stream Encircles Ariconium, fruithful Soil, Whence flow Nectareous Wines, that well may vye With Massic, Setian, or Renown’d Falern. Thus while my joyleſs Hours I lingring spend, With Looks demure, and ſilent pace a Dunn, Horrible Monſter! hated by Gods and Men, To my aerial Citadel ascends; With Vocal Heel thrice Thund’ring at my Gates, With hideous Accent thrice he calls; I know The Voice ill boding, and the solemn Sound; What should I do, or whither turn? amaz’d Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of Woodhole; ſtreight my briſtling Hairs erect My Tongue forgets her Faculty of Speech, So horrible he seems; his faded Brow Entrench’d with many a Frown, and conic Beard, And ſpreading Band admir’d by Modern Saint Diſaſtrous acts forebode; in his Right hand Long Scrolls of Paper ſolemnly he waves, With Characters and Figures dire inſcribed Grievous to mortal Eye, (ye Gods avert Such plagues from righteous men) behind him ſtalks Another Monſter, not unlike himſelf, Of Aſpect ſullen, by the Vulgar called A Catchpole, whoſe polluted hands the Gods With Force incredible, and Magic Charms Erſt have indu’d, if he his ample Palm Should haply on ill-fated Shoulder lay Of Debtor, ſtreight his Body to the touch Obſequious (as Whilom Knights were wont) To ſome enchanted Castle is convey’d, Where Gates impregnable, and coercive Charms In durance vile detain him, till in form Of Money, Pallas ſet the Captive free. Beware, ye Debtors, when ye walk, beware, Be circumſpect; oft with inſidious Ken, This Caitiff eyes your ſteps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a Creek or gloomy Cave, Prompt to enchant ſome inadvertent wretch With his unhallow’d Touch. So (Poets ſing) Grimalkin to Domeſtick Vermin ſworn An everlaſting Foe, with watchful eye, Lyes nightly brooding ore a chinky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtleſs Mice Sure ruin. So her diſembowell’d Web The Spider in a Hall or Kitchin ſpreads, Obvious to vagrant Flies; ſhe ſecret ſtands, Within her woven Cell; the Humming Prey Regardleſs of their Fate, ruſh on the toils Inextricable, nor will ought avail Their Arts nor Arms, nor Shapes of lovely Hue, The Waſp inſidious, and the buzzing Drone, And Butterfly proud of expanded wings Diſtinct with Gold, entangled in her Snares, Uſeleſs reſiſtance make: with eager ſtrides She tow’ring flies to her expected Spoils; Then with envenom’d Jaws the vital Blood Drinks of reluctant Foes, and to her Cave Their bulky Carcaſſes triumphant drags.

So paſs my days. But when Nocturnal Shades This World invelop, and th’inclement Air Perſwades Men to repel benumming Froſts, With pleaſant Wines, and crackling blaze of Wood; Me lonely ſitting, nor the glimmering Light Of make-weight Candle, nor the joyous talk Of lovely friends delights; diſtreſs’d, forlorn, Amidſt the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I ſigh, and feed with diſmal Thoughts My anxious Mind; or ſometimes mournful Verſe Indite, and ſing of Groves and Myrtle Shades, Or deſperate Lady near a purling stream, Or Lover pendant on a Willow-tree; Mean while I labour with eternal drought, And reſtleſs wiſh, in vain, my parched Throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repoſe; But if a Slumber haply do’s invade My weary Limbs, my Fancy ſtill awake, Longing for Drink, and eager in my Dream, Tipples imaginary Pots of Ale. Awake, I find the ſetled Thirſt— Still gnawing, and the pleaſant Phantom curſe.

Thus do I live from Pleaſure quitte debarr’d, Nor tast the Fruits that the Sun’s genial Rays Mature, John-apple nor the Downy Peach, Nor Walnut in rough-furrow’d Coat ſecure, Nor Medlar Fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great, yet greater ſtill remain, My Galligaskings that have long withſtood The Winter’s Fury, and encroaching Froſts By time subdu’d, (what will not time ſubdue!) A horrid Chaſm diſcloſe, with Orifice Wide diſcontinuous; at which the Winds Eurus and Auſter, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian Waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling Blaſts, Portending Agues. Thus a well-fraught Ship Long ſail’d ſecure, or through the Egean Deep, Or the Ionian, till Cruſing near The Lilybean Shoar, with hideous Cruſh On Scylla or Charibdis dangerous Rocks She ſtrikes rebounding, whence the ſhatter’d Oak, So fierce a Shock unable to withſtand, Admits the Sea, in at the gaping Side, The crouding Waves guſh with impetuous Rage, Reſiſtleſs overwhelming; Horrors ſeize The Mariners, Death in their eyes appears, They ſtare, they lave, they pump, they ſwear, they pray. Vain Efforts, ſtill the battering Waves ruſh in Implacable, till delug’d by the foam, The Ship ſinks found’ring in the vast Abyſs.

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SIR RICHARD STEELE, in “The Tatler,” pronounced “The Splendid Shilling” to be the finest Burlesque Poem in the English language, and DR. JOHNSON praised it as an admirable imitation of the stately movement of Milton’s blank verse, whilst OLIVER GOLDSMITH, in his Criticisms, says “This is reckoned the best parody of Milton in our language; it has been an hundred times imitated without success.”

It is a pity that Dr. Goldsmith did not more particularly describe these imitations, as after much searching only about half a dozen have come to light, all of them somewhat old fashioned in subject and manner of treatment.

One of the best, written by Mr. Bramston (author of The Man of Taste, The Art of Politics etc.) was entitled The Crooked Sixpence, and may be found occasionally in old books of Comic Recitations, and Elegant Extracts. Unfortunately no “Elegant Extracts” can be taken from it suitable for the chaste pages of Parodies, for the poem relates to such a topic as might have afforded excellent material to Rabelais, or Chaucer, but which cannot be alluded to in our more refined times.

A few years after the publication of The Splendid Shilling, a small pamphlet appeared, entitled “WINE, A POEM. To which is added, Old ENGLAND’S New Triumph; or, the Battle of AUDENARD, A SONG.” London: Printed and sold by H. Hills in Black-fryars, near the Water-Side, 1709. No author’s name is given; the poem certainly deserves to be preserved, as an early and interesting imitation of Milton’s blank verse. The song of the “Battle of Audenard” is not a parody.

WINE, A POEM.

_Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt, Quæ Scribuntur aquæ portoribus._ Epist. 19, Lib. 1, Hor.

Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source Whence human Pleasure flow, sing Heavenly Muse, Of sparkling juices, of the enliv’ning Grape, Whose quickning Taste adds Vigour to the Soul, Whose Sov’raign pow’r revives decaying Nature, And thaws the frozen Blood of Hoary Age A kindly Warmth diffusing, Youthful fires Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue His Wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before: Cordial restorative to mortal Man With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d.

Bacchus Divine, aid my advent’rous Song, That with no middle flight intends to soar. Inspir’d, Sublime on Pegaseon Wing By thee upborn, I draw Miltonic Air.

When fumy Vapour clog our loaded Brows With furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes Th’ external Symptoms of remorse within, Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm, Moaping we sit, in silent sorrow drown’d: Whether inveigling Hymen has trapan’d Th’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the Gordian Knot Of jangling Wedlock Indissoluble; Worried all Day by loud Zantippes Din, And when the gentle dew of sleep inclines, With slumb’rous Weight his Eye-lids She inflam’d With Uncloyed Lust, and Itch Insatiable, His stock exhausted, still yells on for more; Nor fail She to exalt him to the Stars, And fixt him there among the Branched Crew (Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,) The greatest Monster of the Zodiac; Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf Or Celia’s scornful flights, and cold disdain Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse, The worst Events that mortals can befal; By cares depress’d in pensive Hypoish mood, With slowest pace, the tedious minutes Roll.

Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood, Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping Fronts, And pour in chrystal pure, thy purer Juice, With cheerful Countenance and steady Hand Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spacious Rim Th’ expecting Mouth, and now with grateful Tast, The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’re the Tongue, The circling Blood with quicker motion flies; Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou strait Dispell’dst those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d To whilom Glories of our gladsom Face And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes, Thy cheering Virtues, and thy worth proclaim. So Mists and Exhalations that arise From Hills or streamy Lake, Dusky or Gray Prevail, till Phœbus sheds Titanian Rays, And paints their Fleecy Skirts with shining Gold, Unable to resist the Foggy Damps That veild the Surface of the verdant Fields, At the God’s penetrating Beams disperse: The Earth again in former Beauty smiles, In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets Repulse, Scoff’d at, despised, in melancholick mood Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours, Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty Aid, He Storms the Breach, and wins the Beauteous Fort.

To pay thee Homage, and receive thy Blessings, The British Mariner quits native shore, And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss, Ploughing the Ocean, whilst the Upheav’d Oak With beaked Prow, Rides tilting o’re the Waves; Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls In Dangers Imminent, till she arrives At those blest Climes, thou favour’st with thy presence.

Whether, at Lusitanian sultry Coasts, Or Lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro, Provence or at the Celtiberian Shores; With gazing Pleasure and Astonishment At Paradice, (Seat of our ancient sire,) He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple Grape In largest Clusters Pendant, grace the Vines Innumerous, in Fields Grotesque and Wild They with Implicit Curles the Oak entwine, And load with Fruit Divine her spreading Boughs; Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought, Or of left native Isle, or absent Friends, Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe, His kindly treach’rous mem’ry now presents The Jovial God has left no room for Cares.

Celestial Liquor, thou that didst inspire Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian Bard, With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains Unparalell’d, with Eloquence profound, And Arguments Convincive didst enforce Fam’d Tully, and Demosthenes Renown’d Ennius first fam’d in Latin Song, in vain Drew Heliconian Streams, Ungrateful whet To Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attempt Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull With pains essay’d but abject still and low, His Unrecruited Muse could never reach The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font Of bright Lenæan fire, Her barren drought He quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous Juice, Her drooping spirits chear’d, aloft she towres Born on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms, And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings: ’Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts, And resolution bold, and ardour brave Excit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease, And sluggish minds with gen’rous fires inflam’st, O thou, that first my quickned Soul engaged, Still with thy Aid assist me, What is dark Illumin, What is low raise and support That to the height of this great Argument, Thy Universal Sway o’er all the World, In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme I may record, and sing thy matchless Worth.

Had the Oxonion Bard thy Praise rehears’d, His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height; Such as of late o’er Blenheim Field she soar’d Aerial, now in Ariconian Bogs She lies Inglorious floundring like her Theme Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing emerg’d In acid Juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town, At Rural Seat, Lucretelus retir’d, Flaccus, untained by perplexing Cares, Where the white Poplar, and the lofty Pine Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade Creating from Phœbean Rays secure, A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours In Mirth Innocuous, and Alternate Verse! With Roses Interwoven, Poplar Wreaths Their Temples bind, dress of Sylvestrian Gods: Choicest Nectarian Juice Crown’d largest Bowls, And over look’d the lid, alluring sight, Of fragrant Scent, attractive, tast Divine! Whether from Formain Grape depress’d, Falern Or Setin, Massic, Gauran, or Sabine, Lesbian or Cæcuban the chearing Bowl Mov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightened wit To sing Mecœna praise their Patron kind.

But we, not as our Pristrin sires repair T’ umbrageous Grot or Vale, but when the Sun Faintly from Western Skies his Rays oblique Darts flopping, and to Thetis watry Lap Hastens in prone Career, with Friends Select Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or old Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands A Stripling, who with Scrapes and Humil Cringe, Greets us in winning Speech, and Accent Bland; With lightest bound, and safe unerring step He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs Melampus thus, panting with lolling Tongue, And wagging’s Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before His sequel Lord from pensive Walk return’d, Whether in Shady Wood or Pasture Green, And waits his coming at the well known Gate. Nigh to the Stairs ascent, in regal Port Sits a Majestick Dame, whose looks denounce Command and Sov’reignty, with haughty Air, And Studied Mien, in Semicirc’lar Throne Enclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands; Behind her (Dazling sight) in order Rang’d, Pile above Pile Christallin Vessels shine; Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance, And after Homage paid, baul out aloud Words unintelligible, noise confus’d: She knows the Jargon Sounds, and strait describes In Characters Mysterious Words obscure; More legible are Algebraic Signs, Or Mystic Figures by Magicians drawn, When they Invoke aid Diabolical.

Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous Dissonance Of Savage Thracians, and Croatian Boors; The loud Centaurean Broil’s with Lapithæ Sound Harsh, and grating to Lenæan God; Chase brutal Feuds of Bælian skippers hence, (Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown) In clumsy Fist wielding Scymetrian Knife, Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face, Prophaning Bacchanalian solemn Rites: Musicks Harmonius Numbers better suit His Festivals, from Instrument or Voice, Or Gasperim’s Hand the trembling string Should touch, or from the Tuscan Dames Or warbling Tosts more soft Melodious Tongue Sweet Symphonies should flow, the Delian God For Airy Bacchus is Associate meet.

The Stairs Ascent now gain’d our Guide unbars The door of Spacious Room, and creeking Chairs (To ear offensive) round the Table sets, We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins: Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites you, Tast, Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure, Or Hoc Antique, or Lisbon New or Old, Bourdeaux, or neat French White, or Alicant: For Bordeaux we with Voice Unanimous Declare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon Conpeers.) He quits the Room Alert, but soon returns, One hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels bore Resplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure, A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught With goodly Wine, He with extended Hand Rais’d High, pours forth the Sanguin frothy Juice, O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon: We strait t’our Arms repair, experienced Chiefs; Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (Charming Sound,) And Glorious ANNA’s Health the first the best Crowns the full Glass, at Her inspiring Name The sprightly Wine Results, and seem to smile, With hearty Zeal, and wish unanimous The Health we drink, and in her Health our own.

A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat W’ improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth Engages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee, Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves To pleasant Laughter, strait the Echoing Room With Universal Peals and Shouts resounds.

The Royal Dane, blest Consort of the blest QUEEN, Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss In ANNA’S plac’t with Sympathetic Flame, And Mutual Endearments, all her Joys, Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love, Center in Him, who shares the grateful Hearts Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN, For by his Prudent Care, united shores Were say’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

The Hero Malbro next, whose vast Exploits Fame’s Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new We wish, like those he won at Hochstet’s Field.

Next Devonshire Illustrious, who from Race Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Soul’s endow’d, And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’d That shon in his most worthy Ancestors, For then distinct in sep’rate Breast were seen Virtues distinct, but all in him unite.

Prudent Godolphin, of the Nations weal Frugal, but free and gen’rous of his own. Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful Sunderland. And Halifax, the Muses darling Song, In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit, Himself Mecænas and a Flaccus too, And all the worthies of the British Realm In order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’d The Dulcet Wine with a more charming Gust.

Now each their Mistress by whose scorching Eyes Fir’d, tost Cosmelia Fair, or Dulcibella, Or Silvia Comely Black with jetty Eyes Piercing, or Airy Celia sprightly Maid. Insensibly thus flow Unnumber’d Hours; Glass succeeds Glass, till the Dircean God Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die; All Blithe and Jolly that like Arthur’s Knights Of Rotund Table, Fam’d in Pristin Records, Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine.

Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth, And Joys Unsull’d pass, till Humid Night Has half her Race perform’d, now all abroad Is hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling Noise Of Coach or Cart, or Smoaky Link-Boys call Is heard; but Universal Silence Reigns: When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay, Surpriz’d to find the Hour so swiftly flie, With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord Alarm the Drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod; Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the Stairs Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies His yet clung Eyelids, and with stagg’ring Reel Enters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills; When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge, And Homeward each his Course with steady step Unerring steer’d of Cares and Coin bereft.

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A PANEGYRIC ON OXFORD ALE. By a Gentleman of Oxford.

Mea nec Falernae Temperant vites, neque Formiani Pocula colles. Horace.

Balm of my cares, sweet solace of my toils, Hail Juice benignant! O’er the costly cups Of riot-stirring wine, unwholesome draught, Let Pride’s loose sons prolong the wasteful night; My sober ev’ning let the tankard bless, With toast embrown’d, and fragrant nutmeg fraught While the rich draught with oft-repeated whiffs Tobacco mild improves. Divine repast! Where no crude surfeit or intemperate joys Of lawless Bacchus reign; but o’er my soul A calm lethean creeps, in drowsy trance Each thought subsides, and sweet oblivion wraps My peaceful brain, as if the leaden rod Of magic morpheus o’er mine eyes had shed Its opiate influence. What though sore ills Oppress, dire want of chill-dispelling coals Or cheerful candle (save the make-weight’s gleam Haply remaining) heart rejoicing ALE Cheers the sad scene, and every want supplies. Meantime, not mindless of the daily task Of tutor sage, upon the learned leaves Of deep SMIGLECIUS much I meditate, While ALE inspires, and lends its kindred aid The thought-perplexing labour to pursue Sweet helicon of logic! but if friends Congenial call me from the toilsome page, To pot-house I repair, the sacred haunt, Where ALE thy votaries in full resort Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair Of monumental oak and antique mould, That long has stood the rage of conqu’ring years Inviolate, (nor in more ample chair Smokes rosy justice, when th’important cause, Whether of hen-roost, or of mirthful rape, In all the majesty of paunch he tries) Studious of ease, and provident, I place My gladsome limbs; while in repeated round Returns replenish’d the successive cup, And the brisk fire conspires to genial joy: While haply, to relieve the ling’ring hours In innocent delight, amusive putt On smooth joint-stool in emblematic play, The vain vicissitudes of fortune shews. Nor reckoning, name tremendous, me disturbs Nor, call’d for, chills my breast with sudden fear While on the wonted door, expressive mark, The frequent penny stands describ’d to view, In snowy characters and graceful row.

Hail, TICKING! surest guardian of distress Beneath thy shelter, pennyless I quaff The cheerful cup, nor hear with hopeless heart New oysters cry’d: Though much the poet’s friend, Ne’er yet attempted in poetic strain, Accept this tribute of poetic praise!

Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms Our joys secure, nor deigns the lowly roof Of pot-house, snug to visit; wiser he The splendid tavern haunts, or coffee house Of JAMES or JUGGINS, where the grateful breath Of loathed tobacco ne’er diffus’d its balm; But the lewd spendthrift, falsely deem’d polite, While steams around the fragrant Indian bowl Oft damns the vulgar sons of humbler ALE: In vain――the proctor’s voice arrests their joys; Just fate of wanton pride and loose excess!

Nor less by day delightful is thy draught, All-powerful ALE! whose sorrow-soothing sweet Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon, When tatter’d stockings crave my mending hand Not unexperienc’d; while the tedious toil Slides unregarded. Let the tender swain Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea, Companion meet of languor loving nymph: Be mine each morn with eager appetite And hunger undissembled, to repair To friendly buttery; there on smoaking crust And foaming ALE to banquet unrestrain’d, Material breakfast! Thus in ancient days Our ancestors robust, with lib’ral cups Usher’d the morn, unlike the squeamish sons Of modern times: nor ever had the might Of Britons brave decay’d, had thus they fed, With British ALE improving British worth.

With ALE irriguous undismay’d I hear The frequent dun ascend my lofty dome Importunate: whether the plaintive voice Of laundress shrill awake my startled ear; Or barber spruce with supple look intrude; Or tailor with obsequious bow advance; Or groom invade me with defying front And stern demeanour, whose emaciate steeds (Whene’er or Phœbus shone with kindlier beams, Or luckier chance the borrow’d boots supply’d) Had panted oft beneath my goring steel In vain they plead or threat: all-powerful ALE Excuses new supplies, and each descends With joyless pace, and debt-despairing looks: E’en SPACEY with indignant brow retires, Fiercest of duns! and conquered quits the field.

Why did the Gods such various blessings pour On hapless mortals, from their grateful hands So soon the short-liv’d bounty to recall? Thus, while improvident of future ill, I quaff the luscious tankard uncontroul’d, And thoughtless riot in unlicens’d bliss; Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!) The unpitying bursar’s cross-affixing hand Blasts all my joys, and stops my glad career. Nor now the friendly pot-house longer yields A sure retreat when night o’ershades the skies; Nor SHEPPARD, barb’rous matron, longer gives The wonted trust, and WINTER ticks no more.

Thus ADAM, exil’d from the beauteous scene Of EDEN griev’d, no more in fragrant bower On fruits divine to feast, fresh shade and vale No more to visit, or vine-mantled grot; But, all forlorn, the dreary wilderness And unrejoicing solitudes to trace; Thus too the matchless bard, whose lay resounds The SPLENDID SHILLING’S praise in nightly gloom Of lonesome garret, pin’d for cheerful ALE; Whose steps in verse Miltonic I pursue, Mean follower: like him with honest love Of ALE divine inspir’d, and love of song. But long may bounteous heav’n with watchful care Avert his hapless lot! enough for me, That burning with cogenial flame, I dar’d His guiding steps a distance to pursue, And sing his favourite theme in kindred strains. ANONYMOUS. The Oxford Sausage. Cambridge, 1822.

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THE SUET DUMPLING.

Happy the man who in his pot contains A suet dumpling; he nor feels the pains Of going dinnerless, nor griping hunger; But cheerful blows the fire with merry heart, Often revolving when the happy minute That brings it to his homely board will come. Sometimes with longing eyes he gazes hard, And views it boiling in the frothy waves; Then, with his fork or spoon applied, he feels, And turns it o’er and o’er. Now time moves slowly on; The hour-glass, which in yon old corner stands, Is often view’d; for now his stomach keen, Gnawing with greedy expectation, Almost persuades him that the sands are stopp’d. Now is his table placed near the fire, His cloth of dingy hue is spread thereon; His large clasp knife from out his pocket pull’d. (A knife which oft has dealt destruction dire To many a pudding, beef, or whate’er else Came in its way; for none it spar’d;) The earthen plate which graces his old shelf, (Which late grimalkin, taking her nightly walks In search of prey, by dire mishap Threw down; but, by good care of fortune, A piece from out the brim is only broke,) Is straight in order plac’d and all’s compleat. As when the mariner, who, long from home, Far from his native land, through seas and storms And dangerous perils, homeward does return; Sudden he sees the wish’d for port appear, Joy fills his dancing heart, and now he feeds His fancy with the pleasing expectation Of mirth and joy, and heart delighting scenes. Behold the pot has yielded up its store, And reeking hot, is placed upon the plate! The three-legg’d stool is drawn, and down he sits, Elated with the goodly prospect: sudden His knife, well plung’d, dreadful incision makes; And fork, aptly applied, his joys compleat. Now direful devastation does ensue; And half the delicious morsel is destroy’d Ere he can make a pause; which having done, He smacks his lips, and liking well the sport, Proceeds again with more deliberation, Till of the luscious cates he’s made an end. Thus happy he, envying not sumptuous feasts, Nor courtly entertainments; but well pleas’d, Feasts on his homely viands; far happier than a king, He enjoys as full content, without his cares. ANONYMOUS.

――――:o:――――

THE COPPER FARTHING.

Happy the boy, who dwells remote from School, Whose pocket, or whose rattling-box, contains A Copper Farthing! He nor grieving hears Hot cheese-cakes cried, nor savoury mutton-pies; But with his play mates, in the dusk of eve. To well-known blacksmith’s shop, or church-yard hies; Where, mindful of the sport that joys his heart, Marbles, or chuck, he instantly begins, With undissembled pleasure in his face, To draw the circle, or to pitch the dump: While I, confin’d within the hated walls Of school, resounding with a clamorous din, By still more hated books environ’d, I, With tedious lessons and long task to get, My dismal thoughts employ; or wield my pen To mark dire characters on paper white: Not blunter pen or stronger character Uses the sage, a chiromancer hight, Sprung from Egyptian king, and swarthy race, Amenophis, or Ptolemy, when he, In search of stolen calf, or money lost, For wondering plowman does his art employ! Or for the wish’d return of sweet-heart dear, Or apron fine, purloin’d from hawthorn hedge, For country-maid consults directing stars, Gemini, Taurus, or chill Capricorn.

Thus while my lingering hours I joyless spend, With magisterial look, and solemn step, Appears my school-master, tremendous wight! Dreaded by truant boys; how can I ’scape The expected punishment for task ungot, Aghast I stand, nor fly to covert bench, Or corner dark, to hide my hapless head; So great my terror, that it quite bereaves, My limbs the power to fly, slow he ascends The appointed seat, and on his right-hand lies The bushy rod compos’d of numerous twigs, Torn from the birchen tree, or bending willow; Which to the flesh of idle boys portends, For the neglected task, a poignant smart; And with him comes another mighty elf, Yclep’d an usher, ah, terrific name To lesser wights! who, if they hapless place In station wrong pronoun or participle, Straight, by the magic of his voice, are rais’d In attitude above their lov’d compeers, Where they, reluctant, various torments bear, Till, by their dolorous plaints, that pierce the skies, They draw kind Pity, moist-eyed goddess, down, To heal, with balm of sympathy, their woe. Ye urchins, take, ah! take peculiar care, Or, when ye wot not, much he marks your ways And in his mind revolves disastrous deeds Against th’ unwary wretch. So story tells, That chanticleer, on dunghill’s top elate, With haughty step, and watchful eye askance, Each tiny prominence he views, where haply he May find conceal’d delicious grub or worm, To which his maw insatiate forebodes Certain destruction, while, behind or bush, Or pale encompassing the farmer’s yard, Skulks Reynard, fraught with many a crafty wile T’ensnare the feather’d race, who, if they stray Beyond the precincts of their mother’s ken, He straight purloins them from her careful wing, With his sharp teeth torments their tender frame, And with the crimson gore distains their sides, Relentless; nor can all the piercing cries Of duckling, chick, or turkey, yet unfledg’d, His heart obdurate move; instant he tears Each trembling limb, devours the quivering flesh, Nor leaves a remnant of the bloody feast, Save a few fluttering feathers scatter’d round (That, with their varied plumage, whilom deck’d The slaughter’d prey), to tell the hapless tale.

Thus joyless do I spend those hours the sun Illuminates; and, when the silver moon Her gentle ray dispenses, and invites The swains and maids to mix in jovial dance, Around the towering may-poles of the green, Where each gay plowman does his partner choose As love or fate directs; or o’er the lawn The needle thread, or toss the bounding ball; All cheerless I, nor dance, nor pleasing sport, Nor social mirth, nor bowl of nappy ale. Partake: but, on her drooping raven wing, Sad Melancholy hovers o’er my head, Pale Envy rankles deep within my breast, And baneful venom sheds. Grim Horror too Attends my thoughts, and fills my gloomy mind With tales of gliding sprites, in milk-white shrouds Array’d, and rattling chains, and yelling ghosts Irascible! or Fancy, mimic queen, To swift imagination’s eye presents A group of tiny elves, in circling dance, Or luscious feast employ’d; such elves as danc’d When Oberon did fair Titania wed; While I, in wishes impotent and vain, For Liberty, dear object of my hopes, The tedious moments spend; or if, perchance, Morpheus invok’d, my heavy eye-lids close, Dear Liberty still haunts my sleeping thoughts, And in a short-liv’d dream those joys I taste, Which waking are denied; and beat the hoop With dextrous hand, or run with feet as swift As feather’d arrow flies from archer’s bow: Till, from my slumber wak’d, too soon I find It was illusion all, and mockery vain. Thus, comfortless, appall’d, forlorn, I pass The tardy hours, nor of those viands taste, Which are on other boys full oft bestow’d In plenteous manner, by the liberal hand Of friend indulgent; apple-pye, or tart Or trembling custard of delicious go˚t, Or frothy syllabub in copious bowl. Hard fate for me! Yet harder still betides Me, hapless youth! My faithful top, that oft Has cheer’d my drooping spirits, and reviv’d My saddening thoughts, when o’er the pavement smooth It spins, and sleeps, and to its master’s hand Does ample justice, now, alas! become To all the rude inclemencies of weather, To time and destiny’s relentless doom A miserable victim, quite decay’d With many services, and cleft throughout All useless lies; ah! sight of saddest woe To wretched me! of every hope bereft, Of every gleam of comfort. So the wretch, Who near or Ætna or Vesuvius, dwells, Beholds the sulphurous flames, the molten rocks, And feels the ground trembling beneath his feet; Till with a horrid yawn it opens wide Before his eyes, all glaring with affright; Swallows his cultur’d vines, his gardens, house, With all his soul held dear, his lovely wife, And prattling babes, the hopes of years to come; All, all are lost, in ruin-terrible!

By MISS PENNINGTON who died in the year 1759, aged 25. The following character of her, by Mr. Duncombe, is extracted from that Gentleman’s Poem “The Feminead,”

“Nor shall thy much-lov’d Pennington remain Unsung, unhonour’d in my votive strain. See where the soft enchantress, wandering o’er The fairy ground that Philips trod before, Exalts her chemic wand, and swift behold The basest metals ripen into gold: Beneath her magic touch, with wondering eye, We view vile copper with pure sterling vie; Nor shall the Farthing, sung by her, forbear To claim the praises of the smiling fair; Till chuck and marble shall no more employ The thoughtless leisure of the truant boy.”

THE SCHOOL BOY.

By the Rev. Mr. Maurice, Author of the Indian Antiquities.

Multa tulit, fecitque Puer. Hor.

Thrice happy he, whose hours the cheering smiles Of freedom bless; who wantons uncontroul’d Where Ease invites, or Pleasure’s syren voice; Him the stern tyrant with his iron scourge Annoys not, nor the dire oppressive weight Of galling chain; but, when the blushing morn Purples the East, with eager transport wild O’er hill, o’er valley, on his panting steed He bounds exulting, as in full career With horns, and hounds, and thund’ring shouts, he drives The flying stag; or when the dusky shades Of eve, advancing, veil the darken’d sky, To neighbouring tavern, blithsome, he resorts With boon companion, where they drown their cares In sprightly bumpers, and the mantling bowl.

Far otherwise within these darksome walls, Whose gates, with rows of triple steel secur’d, And many a bolt, prohibit all egress, I spend my joyless days; ere dawn appears, Rous’d from my peaceful slumbers by the sound Of awe-inspiring bell, whose every stroke Chills my heart-blood, all trembling. I descend From dreary garret, round whose ancient roof, Gaping with hideous chinks, the whistling blast Perpetual raves, and fierce-descending rains Discharge their fury――dire, lethargic dews Oppress my drowsy sense; still fancy teems With fond ideal joys, and, fir’d with what Or poets sing, or fabled tale records, Presents transporting visions; goblets crown’d With juice of nectar, or the food divine Of rich ambrosia, tempting to the sight! While, in the shade of some embowering grove, I lie reclin’d, or through Elysian plains Enraptur’d stray; where every plant and flower Send forth an odorous smell, and all the air With songs of love and melody resounds. Meanwhile benumbing cold invades my joints, As with slow faltering footsteps I resort To where, of antique mold, a lofty dome Rears its tremendous front; here all at once From thousand different tongues a mighty hum Assaults my ear; loud as the distant roar Of tumbling torrents; or as in some mart Of public note, for traffic far renown’d, Where Jew with Grecian, Turk with African, Assembled, in one general peal unite Of dreadful jargon.――Straight on wooden bench I take my seat, and con with studious care Th’appointed tasks; o’er many a puzzling page Poring intent, and sage Athenian bard, With dialect, and mood, and tense perplex’d; And conjugations varied without end. When lo! with haughty stride (in size like him Who erst, extended on the burning lake, Lay floating many a rood) his sullen brow, With lowering frowns and fearful glooms o’ercast, Enters the pedagogue; terrific sight! An ample ninefold peruke, spread immense, Luxuriant waving down his shoulders plays; His right-hand fiercely grasps an oaken staff, His left a bunch of limber twigs sustains, Call’d by the vulgar birch, Tartarean root, Whose rankling points, in blackest poison dipt, Inflict a mortal pain; and, where they light, A ghastly furrow leave.――A solemn pause ensues: As when, of old, the monarch of the floods, ’Midst raging hurricanes and battling waves, Shaking the dreadful trident, rear’d aloft His awful brow.――Sudden the furious winds Were hush’d in peace, the billows ceas’d their rage: Or when (if mighty themes like these allow An humble metaphor) the sportive race Of nibbling heroes, bent on wanton play, Beneath the shelter of some well-stor’d barn, In many an airy circle wheel around; Some eye, perchance, in private nook conceal’d, Beholds Grimalkin; instant they disperse, In headlong flight, each to his secret cell; If haply he may ’scape impending fate. Thus ceas’d the general clamour; all remain In silent terror wrapt, and thought profound.

Meanwhile, the pedagogue throughout the dome His fiery eye-balls, like two blazing stars, Portentous rolls, on some unthinking wretch To shed their baleful influence; whilst his voice, Like thunder, or the cannon’s sudden burst, Three times is heard, and thrice the roofs resound! A sudden-paleness gathers in my face; Through all my limbs a stiffening horror spreads, Cold as the dews of death; nor heed my eyes Their wonted function, but in stupid gaze Ken the fell monster; from my trembling hands The time-worn volume drops; oh, dire presage Of instant woe! for now the mighty sound, Pregnant with dismal tidings, once again Strikes my astonished ears: transfix’d with awe, And senseless for a time, I stand; but soon By friendly jog or neighbouring whisper rous’d, Obey the dire injunction; straight I loose Depending brogues, and mount the lofty throne Indignant, or the black oblique ascend Of sorrowful compeer; nor long delays The monarch, from his palace stalking down, With visage all inflam’d; his sable robe Sweeping in lengthening folds along the ground: He shakes his sceptre, and th’ impending scourge Brandishes high; nor tears nor shrieks avail; But with impetuous fury it descends, Imprinting horrid wounds with fatal flow Of blood attended, and convulsive pangs.

Curst be the wretch, for ever doom’d to bear Infernal whippings; he, whose savage hands First grasp’d these barbarous weapons, bitter cause Of foul disgrace, and many a dolorous groan, To hapless school-boy!――Could it not suffice I groaned and toil’d beneath the merciless weight By stern relentless tyranny impos’d; But scourges too, and cudgels, were reserv’d To goad my harrow’d sides: this wretched life Loading with heavier ills! a life expos’d To all the woes of hunger, toil, distress; Cut off from every genial source of bliss; From every bland amusement, wont to sooth The youthful breast; except when father Time, In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour, That gives this meagre, pining figure back To parent fondness, and its native roofs! Fir’d with the thought, then, then, my towering son! Rises superior to its load, and spurns Its proud oppressors; frantic with delight, My fancy riots in successive scenes Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid How best the fleeting moments to improve, Nor lose one portion of so rare a boon. But soon, too soon, the glorious scenes are fled, Scarce one short moon enjoy’d; (oh! transient state Of sublunary bliss!) by bitter change, And other scenes succeeded, what fierce pangs Then rack my soul! what ceaseless floods of grief Rush down my cheeks, while strong convulsive throbs Heave all my frame, and choak the power of speech! Forlorn I sigh, nor heed the gentle voice Of friend or stranger, who, with soothing words And slender gift, would fain beguile my woes: In vain; for what can aught avail to sooth Such raging anguish? Oft with sudden glance Before my eyes in all its horror glares That well-known form, and oft I seem to hear The thundering scourge――ah me! e’en now I feel Its deadly venom, raging as the pangs That tore Alcides, when the burning vest Prey’d on his wasted sides,――At length return’d Within these hated walls, again I mourn A sullen prisoner, till the wish’d approach Of joyous holiday or festive play Releases me: ah! freedom that must end With thee, declining Sol! All hail, ye sires For sanctity renown’d, whose glorious names, In large conspicuous characters pourtray’d, Adorn the annual chronologic page Of Wing or Partridge; oft, when sore opprest With dire calamities, the glad return Of your triumphant festivals hath cheer’d My drooping soul. Nor be thy name forgot, Illustrious George: for much to thee I owe Of heart-felt rapture, as with loyal zeal Glowing, I pile the crackling bonfire high, Or hurl the mounting rocket through the air, Or fiery whizzing serpent; thus thy name Shall still be honour’d, as through future years The circling Seasons roll their festive round. Sometimes, by dire compulsive hunger press’d, I spring the neighbouring fence, and scale the trunk Of apple-tree; or wide, o’er flowery lawns, By hedge or thicket, bend my hasty steps, Intent, with secret ambush, to surprise, The straw-built nest, and unsuspecting brood Of thrush or bull-finch; oft with watchful ken Eyeing the backward lawns, lest hostile glance Observe my footsteps, while each rustling leaf, Stirr’d by the gentle gale, alarms my fears: Then, parched beneath the burning heats of noon, I plunge into the limpid stream, that laves The silent vale; or, on its grassy banks, Beneath some oak’s majestic shade recline, Envying the vagrant fishes, as they pass, Their boon of freedom; till the distant sound Of tolling curfew warns me to depart. Thus under tyrant-pow’r I groan, oppress’d With worse than slavery; yet my free-born soul Her native warmth forgets not, nor will brook Menace, or taunt, from proud insulting peer; But summons to the field the doughty foe In single combat, ’midst th’ impartial throng, There to decide our fate: oft too, inflam’d With mutual rage, two rival armies meet Of youthful warriors; kindling at the sight, My soul is filled with vast heroic thoughts, Trusting, in martial glory, to surpass Roman or Grecian chief; instant, with shouts, The mingling squadrons join the horrid fray; No need of cannon, or the murderous steel, Wide wasting nature: rage our arms supplies. Fragments of rock are hurl’d, and showers of stones Obscure the day; nor less the brawny arm, Or knotted club, avail; high in the midst Are seen the mighty chiefs, through hosts of foes Mowing their way; and now, with tenfold rage The combat burns, full many a sanguine stream Distains the field, and many a veteran brave Lies prostrate; loud triumphant shouts ascend By turns from either host; each claims the palm Of glorious conquest; nor till night’s dun shades Involve the sky, the doubtful conflict ends. Thus, when rebellion shook the thrones of heaven, And all th’ eternal powers in battle met, High o’er the rest, with vast gigantic strides, The god-like leaders, on th’ embattled plain, Came towering, breathing forth revenge and fate: Nor less terrific joined the inferior hosts Of angel-warriors, when encountering hills Tore the rent concave――flashing with the blaze Of fiery arms, and lightnings, not of Jove; All heaven resounded, and the astonish’d deep Of chaos bellow’d with the monstrous roar.

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In 1880 the Editor of The World offered two prizes for the best poems in the style of Milton’s Paradise Lost, Book II., on “The Opening of Parliament.” The following were the successful compositions:――

FIRST PRIZE.

Thus pondering how they best might frame reply, Unto their Sovereign’s speech, mute and perplexed Sat all the Peers, awaiting who appeared To second, or oppose, or undertake The perilous attempt, till Onslow, raised Alike by merit and the Premier’s choice To that bad eminence, in glib-set speech Began: “Since silent all, great powers, ye wait Counsel and guidance, I myself have framed A loyal Address of dutiful assent, Declaring confidence in this our State And those whose prudence guides it,――fit reply!” He spoke, and from the other side uprose Granville, in act most graceful and humane Of all who fell from office, breathing forth Hatred implacable, and straight denounced Revenge, and dissolution dangerous To less than Peers. Louder applause was heard As Granville ended, and his sentence pleased, Counselling revolt, which, when the Premier saw, Lord Beaconsfield, than whom of all the powers, Save the Lord Chancellor, none higher sat, With grave aspect he rose. High on his front The curl of Vivian clung, though thinned with years, Majestic still in ruin; and with knee Somewhat advanced, as if perchance to show Its mystic circlet, thus imperious spoke: “Peers of the Empire, still ye look to me, Your chief, for still to me the popular vote Inclines, here to continue, and build up here A growing Empire, so with Freedom joined; Receive my words, nor heed inferior tongues, False to their Sovereign and to our State, Counselling ignoble ease and peaceful sloth, Not peace. Well have ye judged of old, and still Ye shall judge well, discerning to avoid, By me advised, shameful dismemberment Of this great realm.” He ceased, and straight the powers Their session ended, voted the Address, Momentous issue of prolonged debate.

THE BABY. (Mr. John Foote, Kensington.)

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SECOND PRIZE.

High on a throne of Royal state which well Beseemed the rule of Britain, and of Ind, In sable vested, save for lustrous star And circlet bright of gleaming gem and gold, Victoria proudly sat by lineage raised To that fair eminence, and by desert Thus high enthroned in her people’s hearts. Meanwhile the Black-Rod usher by command Acquaints the Commons, who, their summons called From Government and Opposition ranks, Came trooping to the bar, and thronged the floor. Behold a wonder! They, who in their place Were pompous in their port as any peer, Now fight and jostle for a standing-room; Their self-importance breathless and collapsed As Æsop’s fabled frog. But far above, And at their own convenience, like their wont, The noble lords――dukes, earls, and smaller fry―― In otium cum dignitate sat, Quaint demi-gods, in crimson robes and hats Shiny and tall. After short silence then, The ms. tendered, Cairns the Royal thoughts And Beaconsfield’s concoctions thus disclosed: ‘My Lords and Gentlemen, once more well met, Or classically, “Here we are again!” The firmest friendship knits us to all Powers (Save tiffs with holy Russia and the Turk, Which every week or so must needs occur). Triumphant o’er the Afghans are our arms; For since no downfall in its grip can hold All-conquering England, though repulsed awhile, I hold it victory. Despite our loss In Zululand, and Chelmsford’s blundering, Imperium et Libertas will appear More glorious to the Jingoes than no war, With what beside in Parliament or field Hath been involved in failure. To this, then, Our policy of old we now return―― How best we can contrive, by force or guile, To filch our neighbours’ lands, and keep our own.’

BRIAN BORU. (Mr. H. Hamilton, Holloway.)

The World, February 18, 1880.

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“PRAE EXISTENCE, a Poem in imitation of Milton.” London: Printed for John Clark, at the Bible and Crown in the Old Change, near St. Paul’s, 1714. This work was published anonymously, but it had a long Publisher’s Preface, signed J.B., under which initials it may be traced in the catalogue of the British Museum Library (Press Mark 11,631, b.b.b. 39). The Preface states that the structure of the Poem is founded on the opinion “That all human souls had an existence antecedent to the Mosaic Creation,” and is intended as an account of the events that occurred in the interval between the battle of Michael and Lucifer, and the creation of the World.

In Book I. Paradise Lost, Milton thus alludes to Lucifer’s discomfiture:――

“Nine times the space that measures Day and Night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew, Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf,”

and the Author of “Prae Existence” commences his poem with the Archangels sounding a retreat from the pursuit of the Rebel Angels condemned to Hell, and the closing of Hell Gates.

With such a text it may be easily imagined that the Poem is not of a very light or cheerful description. It opens thus ominously:――

Now had th’ Archangel Trumpet, raised sublime Above the walls of Heav’n, begun to sound; All Æther took the Blast, and Hell beneath Spoke with Celestial Noise; th’ Almighty Host Hot with pursuit, and reaking with the Blood Of guilty Cherubs smear’d in sulphurous Dust, Pause at the known command of sounding Gold; And first they close the wide Tartarian Gates, Th’ impenetrable Folds on Brazen Hinge Rowl creaking horrible; the Din beneath O’ercomes the Roar of Flames, and deafens Hell.

* * * * *

The remainder of the Poem is too heavy to be quoted, but the curious in such matters may easily refer to it in the British Museum Library.

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In Isaac D’Israeli’s Curiosities of Literature there is a chapter entitled “Critical Sagacity and Happy Conjecture;” or, Bentley’s Milton. Dr. Bentley had, by his injudicious corrections and prosaic interpolations, much disfigured his edition of Paradise Lost, and D’Israeli, in his article exposes Dr. Bentley’s errors and want of taste.

“――――BENTLEY, long to wrangling schools confined, And but by books acquainted with mankind―― To MILTON lending sense, to HORACE wit, He makes them write, what never poet writ.”

“SALMAGUNDI: a miscellaneous combination of original Poetry; consisting of Illusions of Fancy, Amatory, Elegiac, Lyrical, Epigrammatical, and other Palateable Ingredients. Third Edition, London. E. Hodson, Bell Yard, Temple Bar, 1793.” This volume was written by the Rev. George Huddersford, M.A., Vicar of Loxley, Warwickshire, who died November 10, 1809. It contains the two following poems in imitation of L’Allegro, and Il Penseroso.

WHITSUNTIDE.

Written at Winchester College on the immediate approach of the Holidays.

Hence, Thou Fur-clad Winter, fly; Sire of shivering Poverty! Who, as thou creep’st with chilblains lame To the crowded charcoal flame, With chattering teeth and ague cold, Scarce thy shaking sides canst hold While thou draw’st the deep cough out: God of Football’s noisy rout, Tumult loud and boist’rous play, The dangerous slide, the snow-ball fray.

But come, thou genial Son of Spring, WHITSUNTIDE! and with thee bring Cricket, nimble boy and light, In slippers red and drawers white, Who o’er the nicely-measur’d land Ranges around his comely band, Alert to intercept each blow, Each motion of the wary Foe.

Or patient take thy quiet stand, The angle trembling in thy hand, And mark, with penetrative eye, Kissing the wave the frequent fly, Where the trout with eager spring Forms the many-circled ring, And, leaping from the silver tide, Turns to the sun his speckled side.

Or lead where Health or Naiad fair With rosy cheek and dripping hair, From the sultry noon-tide beam, Dives in Itchin’s crystal stream.

Thy votaries, ranged in order due, To-morrow’s wish’d-for dawn shall view, Greeting the radiant Star of Light With Matin Hymn and early kite: E’en now, these hallow’d haunts among, To thee we raise the choral song[50] And swell with echoing minstrelsy The strain of joy and liberty.

If pleasures such as these await Thy genial reign, with heart elate For Thee I throw my gown aside, And hail thy coming. WHITSUNTIDE.

――――――――

CHRISTMAS.

Hence, Summer, indolently laid To sleep beneath the cooling shade! Panting quick with sultry heat, Thirst and faint Fatigue retreat!

Come, CHRISTMAS, father Thou of Mirth, Patron of the festive hearth, Around whose social ev’ning flame The jovial song, the winter game, The chase renewed in merry tale, The season’s carols never fail. Who, tho’ winter chill the skies Canst catch the glow of exercise, Following swift the football’s course; Or with unresisted force, Where Frost arrests the harden’d tide, Shooting along the rapid slide.

Who, ere the misty, morn is grey, To some high covert hark’st away; While Sport, on lofty courser borne, In concert winds his echoing horn With the deeply thund’ring hounds, Whose clangour wild, and joyful sounds. While echo swells the doubting cry, Shake the woods with harmony. How does my eager bosom glow To give the well-known TALLY-HO! Or show, with cap inverted, where Stole away the cautious hare!

Or if the blast of Winter keen Spangles o’er the silvery green, Booted high thou lov’st to tread Marking through the sedgy mead, Where the creeping moor-hen lies, Or snipes with sudden twittering rise. Or joy’st the early walk to take Where, through the pheasant-haunted brake, Oft as the well-aim’d gun resounds, The eager dashing spaniel bounds.

For thee of Buck my breeches tight, Clanging whip and rowels bright, The hunter’s cap my brows to guard, And suit of sportive green’s prepar’d: For since these delights are thine, CHRISTMAS with thy bands I join.

――――:o:――――

In 1776 another parody on Milton’s L’Allegro was published, entitled “The Garrulous Man,” a poem addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Bath; but this the Editor has not succeeded in finding.

――――:o:――――

L’ALLEGRO; OR FUN, A PARODY.

Off, blubbering Melancholy! Of the blue devils and book-learning born, In dusty schools forlorn; Amongst black-gowns, square caps, and books unjolly, Hunt out some college cell, Where muzzing quizzes mutter monkish schemes, And the old proctor dreams; There, in thy smutty walls, o’errun with dock, As ragged as thy smock, With rusty, fusty fellows ever dwell. But come, thou baggage fat and free, By gentles called Festivity, And by us rolling kiddies, Fun, Whom Mother Shipton, one by one, With two Wapping wenches more, To skipping Harlequino bore: Or whether, as some deeper say, Jack Pudding on a holiday Along with Jenny Diver romping. As he met her once a pumping.

* * * * *

Hip! here, jade, and bring with thee Jokes and sniggering jollity, Christmas gambols, waggish tricks, Winks, wry faces, licks and kicks, Such as fall from Moggy’s, knuckles, And love to live about her buckles; Game, that hobbling watchmen boxes, And Horse-laugh hugging both his doxies; Come, and kick it as you go, On the stumping hornpipe-toe: And in thy right hand haul with thee The Mountain brim French liberty. And if I give puffing due, Fun, admit me of thy crew, To pig with her, and pig with thee, In everlasting frolicks free: To hear the sweep begin his beat, And squalling startle the dull street, From his watch-box in the alley Till the watch at six doth sally; Then to go, in spite of sleep, And at the window cry, “Sweep! sweep!” Through the street-door, or the area, Or, in the country, through the dairy; While the dustman, with his din, Bawls and rings to be let in, And at the fore, or the back-door, Slowly plods his jades before. Oft hearing the sow-gelder’s horn Harshly rouse the snoring morn, From the side of a large square, Through the long street grunting far. Sometimes walking I’ll be seen By Tower-hill, or Moorfields green, Right against Old Bedlam-gate, Where the mock king begins his state, Crown’d with straw, and rob’d with rags, Cover’d o’er with jags and tags, While the keeper near at hand Bullies those who leave their stand; And milk-maid’s screams go through your ears, And grinders sharpen rusty sheers, And every crier squalls his cry Under each window he goes by.

Straight mine eye hath caught new gambols, While round and round this town it rambles; Sloppy streets and foggy day, Where the blundering folks do stray! Pavements, on whose slippery flags Swearing coach-men drive their nags; Barbers jostled ’gainst your side, Narrow streets, and gutters wide.

Grub-street garrets now it sees, To the muse open and the breeze, Where perhaps some scribbler hungers, The hack of neighbouring newsmongers, Hard by, a tinker’s furnace smokes, From betwixt two pastry-cooks, Where dingy Dick and Peggy, met, Are at their scurvy dinner set, Of cow-heel, and such cellar messes, Which the splay-foot Rachael dresses; And then in haste the shop she leaves, And with the boy the bellows heaves; Or if ’tis late, and shop is shut, Scrubs at the pump her face from smut, Sometimes, all for sights agog, To t’other end of the town I jog. When St. James’s bells ring round, And the royal fiddles sound, And young and old dance down the tune, In honour of the forth of June; Till candles fail and eyes are sore, Then home we hie to talk it o’er, With stories told of many a treat, How Lady Swab the sweetmeats eat; She was pinch’d and something worse, And she was fobb’d and lost her purse, Tell how the drudging Weltjee sweat, To bake his custards duly set, When in one night, ere clock went seven, His ’prentice-lad had robb’d the oven Of more than twenty hands had put in; Then lies him down, a little glutton, Stretch’d lumbering ’fore the fire, they tell ye, And bakes the custards in his belly; Then crop-sick down the stairs he flings Before his master’s bell yet rings, Thus done the tales, to bed they creep By hoofs and wheels soon lull’d to sleep.

But the city takes me then, And the hums of busy men, Where throngs of train-band captains bold In time of peace fierce meetings hold, With stores of stock-jobbers, whose lies Work change of stocks and bankruptcies; Where bulls and bears alike contend To get the cash they dare not spend. Then let aldermen appear, In scarlet robes, with chandelier, And city feasts and gluttony, With balls upon the lord mayor’s day; Sights that young ’prentices remember, Sleeping or waking, all November.

Then to the play-houses anon, If Quick or Bannister be one; Or drollest Parsons, child of Drury, Bawls out his damns with comic fury, And ever, against hum-drum cares, Sing me some of Dibdin’s airs, Married to his own queer wit, Such as my shaking sides may split, In notes, with many a jolly bout, Near Beaufort Buildings oft roar’d out, With Wagging curls and smirk so cunning, His rig on many a booby running, Exposing all the ways and phizzes Of “wags, and oddities and quizzes,” That Shuter’s self might heave his head From drunken snoozes, on a bed Of pot-house benches sprawl’d, and hear Such laughing songs as won the ear Of all the town, his slip to cover, Whene’er he met ’em half-seas over.

Freaks like these if thou canst give, Fun, with thee I wish to live. ANONYMOUS. ――――:o:――――

THE HARE HUNTER.

A Burlesque imitation of various parts of Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso.

Lo I, who erst, at break of day, To Nelston Wiggs[51] betook my way, Alarming all the country round With barbarous shout and yelping hound; And many a fox in vain pursued To Bardon Hill[51] or Button Wood; And oft returned in evening dark With empty hands from Horsely Park;[51] And thought myself a clever lad, While all the neighbours thought me mad; Now condescend with nicest care To hunt the hedge-row for a hare. Hence, Fox-hunting! thou fiend forlorn, Of Uproar wild and Tumult born: No more expect me on the hill, Obedient to thy summons shrill, Where late with joy I saw thee stand, The whip new corded in thine hand, In boots thy legs entrenched strong, Thy heels well arm’d with rowels long, The cap close fitted to thy head, The blue plush coat, the waistcoat red; Thy person trim, succinct, and light Breechee’d high in buckskin tight; Mounted on a courser fleet, With ardent eyes and pawing feet; Hence, with thy tall tail-curling hound, Of tongue so shrill and ears so round.

No more I listen to the noise Of “wind him, rogues,” and “to him boys,” The “touch,” the “drag,” and “tallihoe,” And “gone away,” and “there they go;” And how we earth’d him at Crick Chase, Or lost him at some cursed place; From all such ills that did attend us, Henceforth, good Jupiter, defend us!

But come, thou genius of “Loo Whoore,” Sober, steadfast, and demure, Clad in a coat of clumsy size, Of double drab or knotted frieze, O’er which is drawn the warm surtout With flourish’d girdle bound about; Thy vacant forehead broad and fat, Shadow’d beneath the round-cropp’d hat. Sweet power of Thistle-whipping, hail! Whom in a solitary vale To prone-eyed Dulness long of yore The moping nymph Tantarra bore. Come, but keep your wonted state On a horse of sluggish gait; Your looks commencing with the ground, Where the close-crouching hare is found; And as across the lands you creep, Forget yourself and fall asleep Till the dull steed shall break your nap, Stumbling through the accustom’d gap. And first the waddling beagle bring, That looks as just escaped the string, With sneaking tail and heavy head, Such as by neighbour Dash are bred; And join sharp Cold with Ache severe, And Patience, that can bear to hear The pack with melancholy tone Around the scented hillock moan, And with such discord as they keep, Tempt pitying travellers to weep.

Me, Genius, shalt thou often find On some hill side beneath the wind, On fallows rough or stubbles dry, Where the lone leveret loves to lie, While such mean merriment invites, Doing thy sadly-pleasing rites. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I see the fat pack puzzling round, Where the game went long before, Sounding sad with sullen roar; With slow-paced heed, and tedious cunning, Through all her artful mazes running, Untwisting every knotty wile Both of the double and the foil; In notes with many a winding bout Of drowsy murmurings long-drawn out, Bewailing their dull master’s folly, Most pitiful, most melancholy, But chiefly let the Southern’s tongue Drag its deep dismal tone along, In bellowings loud, and utterance hoarse, Such as its mournful way may force Through all my hearing’s cavities, And bring the tears into my eyes.

But let my due sight never fail, Where beaten paths divide the vale, With anxious skill and cunning care, To prick the footsteps of the hare, While I cheer the beagle’s toil, With “hoo the way,” and “hark the foil!” And when at last old age and gout Prevent my longer going out, O may I from my easy chair The wonders of my youth declare, Extol at large myself and steed, And talk of hounds of my old breed, Till I become through neighbouring shires The oracle of country squires. These pleasures, Hare Hunting, impart, And I am thine with all my heart. MUNDY. Elegant Extracts from the British Poets, 1824.

――――:o:――――

FASHION.

A Paraphrase of L’Allegro.

Hence, loath’d vulgarity, Of Ignorance and native Dullness bred, In low unwholesome shed, ’Mongst thieves and drabs, and street sweeps, asking charity: Find some suburban haunt, Where the spruce ’prentice treats his flashy mate, And smoking cits debate: Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket ball, Giv’n at Freemason’s hall, With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt. But come, thou nymph of slender waist, Known early by the name of Taste. And now denominated Fashion, Whom erst, by no unlawful passion, Pleasure’s fair nymph, on Britain’s shore, To radiant ey’d Apollo bore: Or Hermes (so the grave dispute is) The frolic god of chemist beauties, Found Lady Someone in the dark As once they met at ―― ―― Park, There, on a couch of damask blue, And squabs, and cushions, damask too, Fill’d her with thee, thou white-arm’d fair, So delicate and de bon air. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Steed, and light hung Tilbury, Undiscoverable rouge, Polish’d boots; and neckcloth huge, (Such as might deck a Dandy’s cheek, And draw the gazers for a week.) Mackintosh’s racy phrase, And wit, that peerless Ward might praise. Come, and let your steps be bent With a lively measurement, And bring the proper airs and graces, That make their way in certain places: And, if I give thee honour due Fashion, enroll me with the few, With Spencer, Sidney Smith, and thee, In a select society: To ride when many a lady fair, in Her morning veil begins her airing, And with the nurse and children stow’d, Drives down the Park, or Chelsea Road: Then to stop in spite of sorrow, And through the window bid good morrow Of vis-a-vis, or barouchette, Or half-open landaulet: While little Burke, with lively din, Scatters his stock of trifles thin, And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate, Briskly bids his horses wait; Oft listening how the Catalani Rouses at night the applauding many, In some opera of Mozart, Winning the eye, the ear, the heart. Then in the round room not unseen,[52] Attending dames of noble mien, Right to the door in Market Lane, Where chairmen range their jostling train, And footmen stand with torch alight, In their thousand liveries dight, While the doorkeeper on the stairs, Bawls for the Marchionesses’ chairs, And young dragoons enjoy the crowd, And dowagers inveigh aloud, And lovers write a hasty scrawl, Upon the ticket of a shawl.

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, As the circling crowd it measures; Virgins old with tresses gray, That in corkscrew curls do stray; Ladies, on whose softer breast, Gallants receive a hope of rest; Little feet with sandals tied, Shallow heads and shoulders wide; Necks and throats of lovely form, Bosom’d high in tippet warm, Where some beauty spreads her snare, The envy of surrounding fair.

Hard by, the Op’ra being past, To some small supper let me haste, Where ladies, wits, and poets met, Are at their various banquet set, Of fifty little tempting messes, Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses: And there with satisfaction see The pullet and the early pea, Or, if the sultry dog-star reign, The melon, ice, and cool champagne. Sometimes, to a late delight Argyll advertisements invite, Where the wreathed waltz goes round, Or English tunes more briskly sound, To twice a hundred feet or more, Dancing on the chalky floor: And wise mama, well pleased to see Her daughter paired with high degree, Stays till the daylight glares amain: Then in the carriage home again, With stories told, of many a bow, And civil speech from so-and-so. She was asked to dance, she said, But scarcely down the middle led, Because his Lordship only thought, How soonest to find out a spot, Where, seated by her side, unheard, He whispered many a pretty word, Such as no poet could excel! Then, having paid his court so well, Most manifestly meaning marriage, He fetch’d the shawls and call’d the carriage, Handed her from the crowded door, And watched till she was seen no more.

Thus done the tales, the flutt’ring fair Go up to bed, and curl their hair. Country houses please me too, And the jocund Christmas crew, Where chiefs of adverse politics Awhile in social circle mix, And tenants come, whose country franchise Connects them with the higher branches, Since all the great alike contend For votes, on which they all depend. Let affability be there, With cordial hand and friendly air. And private play and glittering fête, To make the rustic gentry prate,―― Such joys as fill young ladies’ heads, Who judge from books of masquerades.

Then will I to St. Stephen’s stray, If aught be moved by Castlereagh, Or matchless Canning mean to roll, His thunders o’er the subject soul.

And sometimes, to divert my cares, Give me some flirt, with joyous airs, Married a girl, a widow now, Such as will hear each playful vow, Too young to lay upon the shelf: Meaning――as little as myself:―― Still speaking, singing, walking, running, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, With a good mien to testify Her converse with good company, That Chesterfield might lift his eyes From the dark Tartarus where he lies, Beholding in her air and gait, Graces that almost compensate The blunders of his awkward son And half the harm his book has done.

These delights if thou canst give, FASHION, with thee I wish to live.

Posthumous Parodies. (John Miller, London, 1814.)

――――:o:――――

ODE

By an Amateur, an ardent admirer of MILTON, On the Centennial Birthday of Burns.

I.

Hence, chroniclers of Time, Makers of almanacs and strange predictions, Held by the wise as fictions; Begone, and wallow in the river’s slime, To calculate the tides; Or be your bed in bedlamitic cell, Where moon-calves best may dwell, To note her phases and her quarters dark, That lovers well may mark, What silvery hour for meeting best provides, But here your art is wanted not, This day――the ne’er-to-be-forgot Makes an Era of its own; And the dark Cimmerian throne Of Erebus and Nox, no more Encumbers Lethe’s barren shore, In chains of silence to oppress The victims of forgetfulness.

* * * * *

III.

In centennial cycle we, With pomp, and feast, and revelry, Multitudinously meet, Natal day of Bard to greet, Fauns and Dryads, Sylph and Fairy, Hail this epoch centenary. See on yonder mountain top Caledonia plays Scotch-hop With swimming eye and mazy gait, (By “Mountain dew” inebriate) Summons every loyal chiel To reel the dance and dance the reel; While centuries come, and centuries go “On the light fantastic toe.”

* * * * *

XII.

Such our day!――from morning’s light Till what time the angular flight Of the bat suggests that we Zig-zag home as well as he, Thus the mazy path we’ll go Still on the fantastic toe, Though the lightness all hath fled From the foot into the head. After festal elevation, Each descends to’s proper station Where the locomotive’s snorting, And the careful guard escorting; Or, it may be, at the feasts’ end, Some seek busses to the West End,

Some with frowns and some with smiles, Debating how they’ll gang their miles, Ev’n as, through life, it doth prevail, That some do buss it,――some do rail.

These extracts are taken from a long poem contained in Rival Rhymes, in honour of Burns; collected and edited by Ben Trovato. Published by Routledge, Warnes and Routledge, London, in 1859. This little volume contains parodies of Father Prout; Thomas Campbell; Longfellow; Hood; Tennyson; Barry Cornwall; Macaulay; Pope, and Thackeray. It is now known that it was written by Samuel Lover, the novelist, it will, however, add little to his fame either as a poet, or a humourist.

――――:o:――――

RECREATION RHYMES.

By the Author of “The Idylls of the Rink.”

FOOTBALL. BY J * * N M * * * * N.

Hence, hateful idleness, Thou thing accursed, of parents dread begot, And with thy selfish lot Betake thee where my eyes shall see thee less; For, sprung from such a race, Ennui thy mother, and thy father Vice, Thou never couldst be nice. Begone, where I no more shall see thy face. Come, goddess of another sort, Yclep’d by men and mortals, Sport! Come, offspring of a noble pair. Thy mother Leisure, sweet and fair, And Health thy Father, stout and strong. Come, ’tis of thee I make my song.

First let me pray the tuneful Nine To aid me with a ray divine, To guide me as I sweep the string, And teach me rightly how to sing; For, sooth, no classic bard, I deem, Could ever find a nobler theme; Nay, garbed in language rich and terse, And married to immortal verse, With fairy figures richly dight, How can it fail to give delight?

It is a wintry holyday, When young and old come out to play; The air is crisp, the day is bright, In sooth it is a goodly sight. As to the trysting place they hie, Right merrily the time goes by, With sportive quip, and pungent pun, With hearty laugh, and joyous fun. Then, hasting to a spot remote, Each player doffs his outer coat, And shows himself in vesture trim, Which closely fits each lissome limb; Then to the ground speeds with a will, To prove his prowess and his skill. The rival chiefs, a worthy pair, Now toss the coin high in air, And he whom fortune doth befriend Makes choice of goal to guard and fend; The while his foe ’mid joyous cry First drives the aëry ball on high.

Now listen to the merry din, And see the much-loved sport begin. The ball swift travels through the air, Now here, now there, and everywhere, Now sailing on with lofty bound, Now creeping slowly o’er the ground. The players now, an eager crew, The well encasèd ball pursue, Rush on and kick it as they go, With the light but well-shod toe. Now see a youth fly o’er the ground, And deftly catch it on the bound; Tight in his grasp he holds his prize, To evade the foe as on he flies. Then loud is heard the welcome cry “A scrummage, to the rescue hie!” And, with a roar of wild delight, Rush all to “scrummage,” strangely hight. And now indeed a wondrous scene Is acted on the village green; For all who play, save three or four, Rush madly on, at least a score Of heads and shoulders quickly meet, And twice as many eager feet. Now many a toe meets many a shin And leaves its mark on manly skin, And elbows, seeking cosy cribs, Find lodgment in opposing ribs; And all seem to yon blue-eyed lass A seething, surging, kicking mass.

And now, while still they push and shout, The well-kicked ball creeps slowly out. A nimble-footed youth espies And after it like lightning flies, And, ere his foes see through the trick, Essays a deftly-aimèd kick. “Home,” cries the keeper of the goal, Too late from scrummage rush the shoal, The ball skims o’er the opposing hosts, And gently drops between the posts.

Now change they sides, and soon again The ball is speeding o’er the plain, While after it each eager wight Scampers in transports of delight. Until at length he respite seeks, With wearied limbs but rosy cheeks. His mud-bespattered garments shows How oft on Earth he’s laid him low; But still this brings him no remorce, He feels the hot blood through him course, And knows that in his much-loved game, He’s found both pleasure, health, and fame.

Pastime, September 7, 1883.

AN EPITAPH.

On the admirable Dramatic Poet, William Shakespeare.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honour’d bones, The labour of an age in pilèd stones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a starry pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What needs’t thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou, in our wonder and astonishment, Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavouring art, The easy numbers flow; and that each heart Hath, from the leaves of thy unvalued book, Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And, so sepulchred, in such pomp dost lie, That Kings, for such a tomb, would wish to die. JOHN MILTON.

――――――――

AN EPITAPH (CONSIDERABLY) AFTER MILTON.

On that admirable, but lately maligned Dramatic Poet, the divine WILLIAMS.

“What needs my SHAKSPEARE for his honoured bones,” The veneration of SMITH, BROWN, and JONES? Or that his hallowed genius should be hid From dunces by pedantic Form bestrid? “Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,” What matter if PONSARD asperse thy name? That is no wonder, no astonishment: All are not pedants on the Continent. For whilst Teutonic poetry and art Esteem thy numbers, and the German heart Prizes the leaves of thine unvalued book, What, if thou by a booby art mistook? Thou, a dull coxcomb of his rules bereaving, Hast stupified him by too much conceiving. Calling thee obsolete bonhomme!――the fly Has buzzed about thy glory――let him die.

This parody appeared in Punch, December 27, 1856, and another, very much resembling it appeared in the same paper in 1863:――

MR. MILTON MODERNISED.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honoured bones, The sovereigns of Brown, Robinson and Jones? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a Hepworth-Dixon pyramid? Dear son of memory――great heir of fame, Why all these little names tacked to thy name? Thou may’st feel wonder and astonishment At all this row about thy monument, While to the shame of our dramatic art, Thy plays of our stage banquet make no part. Methinks, t’were well, blushing, to bring to book, Praises so Empty, though so big they look, And with our stage ungraced of thy conceiving, Own ourselves arrant humbugs, self-deceiving; Meanwhile do thou in quiet Stratford lie, Heedless of all this buzzing of small fry.

――――:o:――――

A READING MAN.

“One whose mind is devoted to nothing else but the study of Mathematics; one who, though naturally, perhaps, of a peacable, quiet temper, and disposition, so congenial to study, yet whose highest ambition is to be accounted the greatest WRANGLER in the university!”

Hence, loathed MATHEMATICS! Of lecturer and blackest tutor born, In lecture-room forlorn, Mongst horrid quizzes, bloods, and bucks unholy; Find out some uncouth cell, Where pallid study spreads his midnight wings, And dismal ditties sings; There, mid’st unhallow’d souls, with sapless brain, Compose thy sober train, And in the mind of READING Quizzes dwell

From Gradus ad Cantabrigiam, by a Brace of Cantabs, London, John Hearne, 1824.

――――:o:――――

A SEASIDE SONNET. After Milton-Oysters.

How jaunty the jelly-fish frolic and roar, How wildly the winkles express their delight, Though ROBINSON CRUSOE would frown in affright. On the footprints, by ocean all foam fizzled o’er, Of an amber-shod maiden who looks to the Nore, And heeds not her havoc――for heaving in sight Is a barque, and on board her belovèd,――but “tight” As never was British belovèd before.’ Alas! for that maiden awaiting her mate―― She knew not the ways of the sons of the wave, When she bade him go ride at a rollicking rate O’er the billow that bounds; and she knows not her brave Hath struggled with “swipes” and sea sickness and fate, Till gone with his “grub” is the joy that she gave.

Judy, September 8, 1880.

JOHN DRYDEN’S EPIGRAM ON MILTON

Three Poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn: The First in loftiness of thought surpassed; The Next in majesty; in both the LAST. The force of Nature could no farther go: To make a third, she joined the former two.

――――:o:――――

The following parody is taken from “The Caricature History of the Four Georges,” p. 219, where a full account will be found of the characters referred to in it:

Three great wise men in the same era born, Britannia’s happy island did adorn. Henley in cure of souls displayed his skill, Rock shone in physic, and in both John Hill; The force of nature could no farther go, To make a third she join’d the other two.

“Orator” Henley, and Rock, a noted quack doctor, were well known men, Dr. John Hill was a surgeon, a botanist, an unprincipled satirical writer, an actor, and finally a dramatic author, in which latter character his want of success caused Garrick to remark:――

“For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is: His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.”

Hill was knighted through the favour of Lord Bute, and died in 1775.

――――:o:――――

On page 156, Parodies, the Shakespearian forgeries of W. H. Ireland were referred to, they gave rise to many bitter caricatures and satires. Amongst others appeared the following parody, by some ascribed to William Mason, by others to Steevens.

“Four forgers[53], born in one prolific age, Much critical acumen did engage: The first was soon by Doughty Douglas scar’d, Tho’ Johnson would have screen’d him had he dar’d. The next had all the cunning of a Scot, The third, invention, genius――nay, what not? Fraud now exhausted, only could dispense To her fourth Son their threefold impudence.”

It is said that Ireland was so enraged at this publication that he broke the shop windows where it was exposed for sale.

――――:o:――――

In the days of Daniel O’Connell beards were not usually worn, and in the House of Commons, Col. Sibthorp, M.P. for Lincoln, was the only member who wore one. O’Connell, wishing to retort to some attacks made on him by Colonel Sibthorp, Col. Verner, M.P. for Armagh County, and Col. Gore, M.P. for Sligo county, composed the following parody:――

“Three colonels in three distant counties born, Armagh, Sligo, and Lincoln did adorn; The first in direct bigotry surpass’d, The next in impudence, in both the last. The force of nature could no farther go, To beard the third she shaved the other two.”

This version is taken from “Notes and Queries” of February 24, 1883, but the Athenæum, in quoting the lines, said they referred to Cols. Verner, Percival, and Sibthorp, thus omitting Col. Gore; whilst another paper named three totally different constituencies:

“Three members, in three distant counties born, Cork, Clare, and Tipperary did adorn: The first in strength of impudence surpassed; The next in lying; and in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go―― To beard the third, she shaved the former two.”

――――:o:――――

A PEN-SIVE THOUGHT.

Three Pens for three essential virtues famed, The Pickwick, Owl, and Waverley were named, The first in flexibility surpassed, In ease the next, in elegance the last. These points, united with attractions new, Have yielded other boons, the Phæton and Hindoo.

Advertisement.

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THE MEMORIAL FUNDS. (Mr. Punch’s Contribution.)

HEMANS. HALLAM. HOGG.

Three H’s, in three different countries born, Hibernia, Albion, Caledon adorn. The first in gentlest Poesy surpassed, The next in Justice, Humour claims the last. Send tribute to the Name most dear to you, But, reader, don’t neglect the other two.

Punch, April 7, 1860.

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The Editor of Truth selected Dryden’s Epigram as the model for a parody competition, and the replies were published in that paper on March 27, 1884. They were very numerous, the following have been selected from amongst them, as being the best parodies, on the most interesting topics:――

Three brightest blessings of this thirsty race, (Whence sprung and when I don’t propose to trace); Pale brandy, potent spirit of the night, Brisk soda, welcome when the morn is bright; To make the third combine the other two, The force of Nature can no further go. SEXTON.

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Three wishes granted to a jolly tar, Who east, and west, and south had travelled far. First, “grog enough to float a fleet!” The next Was, “all the baccy in the world!” Perplext, Imagination could no further go; “More grog and baccy!” was the final throw. GUINEA PIG.

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Three Generals in three different counties born, England, Madras, Suakin did adorn. The first in science and success surpassed; The next in timely dash; in all the last The force of nature could no further go, To frame[54] the third she joined the other two. CAPTAIN ROCK.

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Athenian quidnuncs when they wished to fill Their ears with gossip hastened to Mars’ Hill; Whilst Romans (ever destitute of humour) Denounced it as the lying tongues of Rumour. Wiser than either, modern wit, forsooth, Sells it for sixpence, and proclaims it TRUTH. LONG LANE.

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Three coxcombs in three recent ages born, France, Cambria, and England did adorn; The first for cut and fit[55] was Fashion’s glass, The next in mould of form[56] none could surpass; Then Nature, travailing, with cunning tool, Joined Form and Fashion[57] in the third, a fool. OBSERVER.

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Three champion bats in distant counties born, Kent, Nottingham, and Gloucester did adorn; The first in strong defensive drives surpassed, The next in grand leg-hits, in both the last. Old England’s genius could no further go; Australia boasts the champion batsman now. HEGIRA.

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Three insects fell amid fair summer’s joy, England and other countries do annoy; The first is felt, alas! not seen nor heard; The next seen, heard, and felt; but oh! the third! Ferocious nature could no fiercer grow, Joined midge and gnat to make the mosquito. MORDECAI.

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Three nations’ emblems in one posy twined―― Shamrock and thistle with the rose combined! One humour hath, one shrewdness for her dower; The third with both endowed, plus wealth and power! E’en Nature’s self, will own herself outdone When (happy exploit!) all are blent in one! THE WHITE LILY.

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Three “savants” in this nineteenth century born Have racked our brains with ethics night and morn; One tunes his harp to sound in many ears;[58] The next knows all, yet knows not what he fears.[59] Exhausted nature felt her forces sink―― To make a third she found the “Missing Link.”[60] ROSBEG.

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Three young men in distant cities born, Did Paris, London, and New York adorn; The first, a beau, in manners far surpassed, The dandy next, in dress outdid the last; The force of nature could no further go, To make a Masher joined the other two. DEUX NIGAUDS.

――――:o:――――

POLITICAL.

Three party leaders――Gladstone, Stafford North- Cote, and for third the leader of the “fourth;” the first in majesty of speech surpassed, The next in courtesy, in nil the last. Exhausted nature could no further go, She’d spent her powers on the other two. MIGGLES.

――――:o:――――

Three members as three trusty Jingoes sworn, Eye, Bridport town, and Woodstock did adorn; The first in rabidness of talk surpassed, The next in idiocy, in both the last. The force of Madness could no further go―― To make a third she joined the other two. ARAMIS.

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Three leaders ’mong the Opposition stand, Two with a “dual control” do guide that band, The first, a haughty lord with fire doth speak, The next, less eloquent, is mild and meek. For long the Tories could no better show, But now the last[61] will oust the other two. ALFRED.

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Three Statesmen in our happy island dwell, S. N. and C.――their names I may not tell. The first a nobleman of high degree; The next a commoner; each chief would be. The force of folly could no higher go Than that the third should try to be it too. DRYASDUST.

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Three statesmen from three different hamlets sent, Eye, Woodstock, Bridport, fitly represent; The first excels in universal lore, The next in impudence, the last a bore. The force of nature nothing more could do, ’Twould have been merciful to make but two. NEDYRD.

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Three statesmen wish to lead the Tory crowd; The first’s a gartered Marquis, thundering loud, His temper fiery as the days in June; Then comes a courteous, mild, old pantaloon; The third’s too saucy, and too full of cheek. Name thy successor――shade of Dizzy speak! W. A. P.

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Three Statesmen with three different “fads,” were born, Two still our blood-stained Cabinet adorn; The first in felling trees and men surpassed, The next in frothy speech, Caucus the last. Britannia’s patience can no further go, For Will, and Jack, are “not a patch” on Joe! J. MCGRIGOR ALLAN.

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Three statesmen in the age now waning born, France, Germany, and England did adorn; The first in wit and eloquence surpassed, The next in statesmanship, in all the last; For Nature in her gifts had been so free, To make a third she had to join the three. H. MARSH GREEN.

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Three Statesmen, by three rival parties sent, North Devon, Cork, Midlothian, represent; The first on apathy his censure cast, The next on energy――on both the last. Now hot, now cold, in doubt Dame Nature ran, And mixed the two to form the Grand Old Man. BRUM ROGERS.

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Three Irishmen on England’s downfall bent, Cork, Monaghan, and Cavan represent; The first delights in treasonable word, The next in spitefulness, in both the third; Though first and second as big traitors figure, Nature has made the last and least a Biggar. INDICUS.

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Three statesmen now the Tory party head―― Salisbury and Stafford, Randolph, too, ’tis said. The first in weak verbosity surpassed, The next in nothing, in untruths the last. Nature was “stumped,” for join them as she can, Out of the three she’ll never make a man. ACTION FRONT.

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Three statesmen in one lucky cycle born, Bucks, Lothian, and Woodstock did adorn; The first in epigram and schemes surpassed, The next in home affairs, in both the last. The force of nature could no further go, To make a third she joined the other two. TIMON.

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Three members, at three different moments born, The British House of Commons now adorn; The first in “impudence” none can surpass, The next would rob us of a “friendly glass;” The third, to many known as “faithless Jo,” Is “Biggar” far than both the other two. GUELDER ROSE.

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Three leaders, in the nineteenth century born, The Tories of the present time adorn. For flouts and sneers Lord Salisbury’s not surpassed; But Stafford’s slow and cautious to the last. The force of nature could no further go―― To Churchill make she joined the other two. MERCURY MAKER.

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Three Tories in two neighbouring Chambers placed, Lords, Commons, and a “Four-in-hand” team graced; The first in fire of eloquence surpassed, The next in doggedness, in both the last;[62] But bigger bodies nature could not grow―― To make the third she dwarfed the other two. F. A. SW.

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Three parties did our Parliament adorn, Whigs, Parnellites, and Tories (bigots born!) The first verbose exuberance ne’er lack’d, The next, when noisy, by the third were sack’d; The force of nature could yet further go, And made a “Fourth,” frail, frivolous, and few. BEAUTIFUL SAM.

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SIR WILFRID LAWSON.

Three noodles in two distant countries born, Iberia and England did adorn; In one Quixote the Don――consummate ass! In t’other――Colonel Sibthorpe did surpass; The force of folly could no further go, To make a third, she join’d the other two. GRACE.

――――:o:――――

PITT. FOX. GLADSTONE.

Three famous statesmen by our England bred, In turn her senate’s van have ably led; The first in wealth of eloquence did shine, The next in lore, the third doth these combine; Last in succession, foremost in degree, The Premier of Prime Ministers is he. IVY GREEN.

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DRAMATIC.

IRVING, BANCROFT, AND TOOLE.

Three actors on three London stages play, Who, by their art, wile many hours away; The first in tragedy is unsurpassed; The next in comedy; in farce the last. Tho’ Nature works by neither line nor rule, Whene’er at play she needs must have a Toole. JACK.

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Three actors on three different stages known―― Toole, Sullivan, and Irving thus are shown. The first in comedy, his “forte” was cast; The next in tragedy; in both the last; And captious critics, here and o’er the main, Admire, condemn, then praise him up again. CRYSTAL PALACE.

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Three players in the lap of Genius born, France, Italy, and England each adorn, The first in brilliancy of style surpassed; The next in dignity――in power the last. Dramatic Art, when pressed to further go, To make an “Irving” joined the other two. SIVA.

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Three managers, the glory of our age, Delight the patrons of the British stage. High art to scenic glory Irving marries, Extravaganza finds her home with Harris. Whilst Wilson Barrett――enterprising man―― Combines them both, and gives us Claudian. LA NINA.

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Three lovely women grace the modern stage, A perfect face and form make one[63] the rage; And one,[64] depicting passions strong or sweet, Brings thousands breathless, spell bound to her feet. Nature, by stint, to mar perfection loth, Upon the last[65] has showered the charms of both.

Truth, March 27, 1884.

Matthew Arnold, (Born at Laleham, near Staines, December 24, 1822.)

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In 1879 the Editor of The World commenced a series of Prize Parody Competitions, the sixth of which had for its subject “Mr. Charles Warner in Drink,” and the poem chosen as the model was Matthew Arnold’s Sonnet on George Cruikshank’s picture, “The Bottle.”

The first and second prizes were awarded to V.A.C.A. and FESS-GULES, and two other parodies were also printed.

Matthew Arnold’s original sonnet is here given, followed by the parodies, which appeared in The World, August 20, 1879.

TO GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. On seeing, in the Country, his Picture of “The Bottle.”

Artist, whose hand, with horror winged hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf! and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born,

Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn―― Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude, Like comets on the heavenly solitude? Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,

Cold-bubbling springs, or caves! Not so! The soul Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says: ‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man May be by man effaced; man can control To pain, to death, the bent of his own days. Know thou the worst! So much, not more, he can.’ MATTHEW ARNOLD.

FIRST PRIZE.

Actor, whose horror-moving power hath been The wonder of the town this many a night―― A realistic prodigy, delight Of those who from the upper galleries lean, Eager to watch that dread delirium scene,―― Say, what exciting thing’s similitude Upon our startled stage will next intrude, And make us breathless? Dion’s fair Colleen, Half-drowning in the cave? Not so; the gods Now loudly clamour for some fiercer play More horrors! True, the drama’s noble plan May be by such defaced; but what’s the odds? Let pain and death be mimicked, if they pay: Degrade us more not even Zola can!

(V. AMCOTTS.) V.A.C.A.

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SECOND PRIZE.

Actor, whose art, with horror clothed, hath torn From rank Parisian life this leaf, and flung This portraiture of loathsome curse among Women and men in calmer Britain born,

Not guiltless of excess, yet not quite lorn Of decent instincts,――what shall calm us, say, When ghastly sights like these brood o’er our way? Shall Corneville’s hackneyed chimes, or jokes well worn

From Pinafore? Not so! Each reasoning soul Speaks for itself, and, fiercely shuddering, says, ‘Why nauseate us thus? The drama’s plan

May be to paint vice black; but, O, control Of pain and death these sickening displays! Can they do good? We know that harm they can.’ FESS-GULES. (GOYMOUR CUTHBERT., A.R.I.B.A.)

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Artist in acting, who hast seized a part From the black dens of Paris for your own, Wherein the perfect work of drink is shown To eager lookers shivering at heart―― Some drunken, none too brutalised to start,―― Can subtlest skill excuse the hideous tale, And fine perception calm the inner wail, In breathless watching of victorious art And well-trained imitation? Nay, the soul Is wroth at last, and, strained too greatly, cries, ‘Record it not! Man that was made so fair Can sink below all apedom, till control Of self is lost, and soul and body dies; But mimicry of this we will not bear.’ NOCTURNE.

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Actor, whose art, like a fell grapnel, drags Down on the bottom of the stream of crime, Sinks and returns, producing every time Some shape deform of misery and rags, Steeped in pollution, overgrown with flags, Weeds of debauchery,――let a drunkard’s cries Grate on our ears no longer! Must our eyes Gaze on his death pang? Hast no other gags To move thy hearers’ laughter but his speech? Stirs else no toothpick in their languid lips? Else will no crutch be lifted to applaud? Have they such souls no milder sight can teach, Save glorious manhood’s absolute eclipse? How foul is vice, how much to be abhorred! CARAWAY.

TRACY TURNERELLI’S GOLDEN WREATH.

On page 188, Parodies, a history was given of the wreath which was offered to Lord Beaconsfield by Mr. Tracy Turnerelli, and some parodies of Shakespeare, and of Ben Jonson, descriptive of the circumstances which induced Lord Beaconsfield to refuse the offer.

The Editor of The World selected the topic for a parody competition, entitled “Mr. Tracy Turnerelli in the Provinces,” the model proposed for imitation being Mr. Matthew Arnold’s beautiful poem, “The Forsaken Merman,” and the compositions were limited to forty lines.

A short extract is given below from the original poem:――

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN.

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below! Now my brothers call from the day, Now the great winds shoreward blow, Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away! This way, this way!

Call her once before you go―― Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: ‘Margaret! Margaret!’ Children’s voices should be dear, (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; Children’s voices, wild with pain―― Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away; This way, this way! Mother dear, we cannot stay! The wild white horses foam and fret! Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down; Call no more! One last look at the white-wall’d town, And the little grey church on the windy shore; Then come down! She will not come though you call all day; Come away, come away!

* * * * *

But children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr’d with broom, And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch’d sands a gloom; Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side―― And then come back down. Singing: “There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.” MATTHEW ARNOLD.

The first and second prizes were awarded to the two following parodies, which appeared in The World, September 24, 1879:――

FIRST PRIZE.

REJECTED ADDRESSES, BY TRACY TURNERELLI.

Come, dear Dizzy, nor say me nay―― Come, ere I go distraught; Take the garland of golden bay, Take what the people’s pennies bought, Take what the goldsmith richly wrought. Must I carry the gift away Into the shires to make it pay? Dizzy dear, ah, why not say, This way, this way?

I call again with a conscience clear (’Tis no sin)―― Call aloud till the deaf might hear―― Benjamin! Benjamin! Flattering voices should be dear (One call more) to statesman’s ear; Flattering voices fired by zeal For the statesman’s weal. Benjamin! Benjamin!

Can it be true he means that nay? (One call more ere I go away.) Once he was poor as poor as could be, And he wore no Garter below his knee; He worked his way to the top of the tree, For the Earl is clever and scholarly. He swayed, like others, from side to side, And was apt at taking the turn of tide. Then came Berlin and the Jingoes’ King Wed ‘Peace with Honour,’ like gold the ring; And now the Prime Minister says me nay To my honeyed words and my wreath of bay.

Dizzy dear, why say me nay? (One call more.) He will not come, though I call all day―― Shut is the door. I go, I leave him, I call no more; I call no more, yet my heart is sore; The loved one rejects me―― How cruel is he! He leaves us for ever―― The wreath and T. T.

(MRS. WINSLOE.) OBSERVER.

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SECOND PRIZE.

TURNERELLI loq.

Come, my people, let us go hence, Bearing the wreath of gold; Back to the towns that gave sums immense, Back with a tale that must be told; Back with a wreath that mayn’t be sold, E’en to defray the vast expense Of raising fifty thousand pence. Come, my people, let us go hence. Away, away!

Call him once more by his name Pleadingly, By the name best known to fame―― Disraeli, Disraeli. That name surely should be dear To the commoner grown a peer―― Dizzy (call him once again)! Try to rouse some olden strain; Only once, and then away, We will not stay. Disraeli, do you quite forget The people’s crown for the coronet? Away, away!

Golden leaves, that golden turn When autumn’s glories begin to burn, Will turn dull brown and fade away. But the wreath that in my hands I hold Was copper first, and turned to gold, And shall be gold for aye. People dear, is it but three years Since he went to join the Peers? Once he sat where I would be, Where still meets the august confraternity Of the Commons in conclave free; But his dreams were ever of gilded halls, And he sighed for a crown with eight golden balls, Though his race mostly hang o’er their doors but three.

(MISS M. C. KILBURN.) VRITRA.

――――:o:――――

THE WREATH.

(The figure of the wreath lies before us, as we write, in all its fair outlines. The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle are blended in it in sign of the nationalities of the donors. The circle of the wreath is of laurel leaves.)

The Times, June 28, 1879.

O Tracy, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of some other tree! Dust from a dusty Olive’s sprays Has dimmed the lustre of those days. I would my laurels were forgot―― O Turnerelli, twine them not!

The thistle, shamrock――leave me those; There’s sense in them――and, yes, the rose; ’Twill symbolise――its thorns at least―― Our future pathway in the East; The shamrock, too, recals to thought The “false Gibraltar” we have bought; And I would spare the thistle’s loss To those who cheered at Charing Cross,―― These I can stand, but laurel, no; The laurel’s hardly apropos; So Tracy, if that wreath’s for me, Pray twine it of some other tree!

The World, July 2, 1879.

FURTHER PARODIES OF William Shakespeare.

――――:o:――――

MACBETH.

M. ALEXIS SOYER’S SOUP FOR THE POOR.

Since the ingenious gastronomic regenerator of the Reform Club issued his receipt for his cheap soup, every man has become his own cook, in his anxiety to produce a specimen of the popular potage. Discussions, also, have arisen upon the cost, as stated by the inventor, and opinions of every kind have been launched at it, principally, however, by those who expected to make mock turtle at three-half-pence a quart, out of nothing, and were disappointed therein. Its manufacture has suggested the following scene:――

SCENE.――The Kitchen of the Reform Club. In the middle a Copper boiling.

Enter M. SOYER and two Cooks.

Soyer.――Thrice the Palace clock hath chim’d.

2nd Cook.――Thrice: and members all have dined.

3rd Cook.――Ireland cries: ’tis time――’tis time!

Soyer.――Round about the copper go, In the cheap ingredients throw. Dripping that in gallipot Days and nights has been forgot; Boneless beef in square bits cut, In two-gallon saucepan put.

All.――Don’t mind trouble, were it double, Stir the copper till it bubble.

Soy.――Fifteen leaves of celery top; In with turnip peelings pop. Green of two leeks on them hurl; Half a pound of barley pearl; Common flour next half a pound, In eight quarts of water drown’d. Whitest salt and sugar brown; That will make the soup go down, Then a penny charge for fuel. And for SIXPENCE make the gruel.

All.――At a trifling cost of trouble, You may make the copper bubble.

Soy.――Give it to the poor as food And ’twill be found cheap and good.

AIR――M. SOYER. From “La Sonnambula.”

Still so gently onions peeling, The smell will bring out the feeling, Spite of all their sneers revealing, That the beef――that the beef is wholesome still.

Though mock turtle soup may charm thee, And mulligatawny warm thee, Sure my soup will never harm thee: If it feed not――if it feed not――it will fill.

2nd Cook.――By the licking of my thumbs, Something weighty this way comes. Open locks, whoever knocks.

Enter John Bull.

John.――How now you knowing gastronomic wags, What is’t you brew?

All.――A soup without a name.

John.――I conjure you by that which you profess (Howe’er you came to know it), answer me. Though you tie up the winds in pudding bags, And into soufflées whip the yesty waves―― Compound and swallow all creation up―― Even till repletion sicken, answer me To what I ask you.

Soy.―― Parlez.

2_nd Cook._―― Ask.

3_rd Cook._―― Cut on.

Soy.――Say would’st thou rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our platters?

John.―― Let me see the carte.

Thunder.[66] The Apparition of a Boar’s Head rises.

App.――John Bull! John Bull! beware an Irish stew! Corn riots dread! dismiss me. That will do. [Descends.

John.――Thanks for the caution. Much obliged I feel. The corn-laws altogether I’ll repeal.

_Thunder. The Apparition of a Turkey, trussed, with a carrot in its hand, rises._

John.―― What’s this, That, like the scutcheon of the Prussian King, Holds in its claw a vegetable sceptre And chain of sausage-meat?

All.――Hish! hold your row.

App.――Make lots of metal, John, and take no care Who spends, who wastes, or who conspires to share. John Bull shall never bankrupt be, until Great Hornsey Wood shall come to Primrose Hill. [Descends.

John.――Had I three mouths I’d eat thee. It can’t be. Had it been Alderman Wood and Rowland Hill, They might have met; but trees can’t cut their sticks, Nor Chalk Farm walk its chalk from Primrose Hill. Yet, tell me one thing more. Shall famine ever Reign in this kingdom.

Soy.―― Show!

2_nd Cook._―― Show!!

3_rd Cook._―― Show!!!

_Eight Cooks appear. The two last being Captain Cook and Mr. T. P. Cooke._

Soy.――Whilst these great Cooks――the present and the past, Who, although many, will not spoil the broth―― Vatel, who died for fish that came too late; Carême, who cooked Napoleon’s goose; and Ude Whom, if you’d known you’d have respected much. Facetious Mrs. Glass, who recommends That you should catch your hare ere you do cook it. And Francatelli; who hath done a book As well as I; and Doctor Kitchiner, Oracular professor of his art. And Captain Cook, who found out foreign roots, (Though not by nature, yet a Cook by name). And T. P. Cooke, who says “Avast! belay!” Whilst in the sailor’s locker there’s a shot No swab shall starve whilst these great cooks exist (Or others like them) Famine ne’er shall reign.

[They disappear.

John.――Where are they? Gone! No matter; I’m at rest, Though cat’racts may destroy potatoes’ eyes―― Though years may come and bring no ears of corn―― Though meat may rise as high as Green’s balloon―― Still, whilst our brave cooks can make all ends meat, No famine e’er shall harm us.

Chorus from “Macbeth,” “We Fry by Night.” The Man in the Moon, Vol I.

Why, what the deuce is that before my nose? It’s like a dagger now I see it close; And, rat it too, the handle turn’d this way! But come, I’ll have a grip, cost what it may. By Jove, I’ve missed it! yet I see it still, It’s cursed odd――but find it out I will. “Thou fearful, fatal vision, tell me why, “You thus elude me――is it ‘all my eye?’ “Or art thou coin’d in this thick skull of mine, “A phantom from the fumes of heat and wine?” Death, fire, and furies! why I see thee here In form as plain and palpable, I swear, As this I’m drawing;――on thy blade and dudgeon Are gouts of blood;――but, mark me! I’m no gudgeon! It’s all a lie!――I’ll not be humbugg’d thus,―― ’Tis this curs’d business puts me in a fuss!

The Gownsman, Cambridge, 1830.

SHAKESPEARE’S GHOST ON THE NEW APOCALYPSE.

THE THREE WITCHES (as represented by three eminent dignitaries.)

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