Scene II

Scene II

Round about the office go, In the poisonous savours throw! Anecdote of rankest taste, Far too saleable to waste, Sweltered venom, creeping got, Boil those first i’ the T-mps-n pot! Double, double, stench and trouble, Pot boil, and poison bubble!

Fragment of some juicy lie, Stew and flourish by and by; Dash of philanthropic twist, Tongue of sentimentalist, Breath of skunk and adder’s sting, Feathers of the Church’s wing, Winkings of the powers that be, Palate of the debauchee, For a chance of deadly trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Gushings of hysteric craze, Prayers of saints of latter days, Latest rags of virgin veil, Little coins of blackest mail, War-cry of blaspheming throats, Politician’s bid for votes, Army stock and rubble stones, Christy banjo, Christyan bones, Platform ranter’s purchased shriek, Blushes robbed from woman’s cheek, Blasted charm of household joys, Ruined souls of girls and boys, Birthright of mind-poisoned babe To the profit of a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab. Add the shield of State paternal For the ingredients of our journal!

Double, double, stench and trouble, Pot boil, and poison bubble!

The World, August 26, 1885.

The agitation to which this Parody calls attention may have been initiated with all sincerity and purity of motives, but it has directly encouraged the hawking about of some of the most abominable publications which have ever yet been publicly exposed for sale.

To protect “fallen” women is, no doubt, a most laudable and philanthropic object, but it should be possible to do this without either annoying other members of the community, or outraging public decency. Some of the best streets of London were recently rendered impassable to modest women by the foul-mouthed ruffians who exposed these filthy publications for sale, and touted their wares in language more vile and repulsive than even the publications they disposed of dared to venture on.

――――:o:――――

“ALL THE WORLD’S A STAGE.”

On the 27 August, 1885, Truth contained no less than twenty parodies of the well known speech commencing――“all the World’s a Stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

The following are the most interesting, the one signed ORCHIS, (by Mr. T. B. Doveton,) being, on the whole, a closer parody than any of the others:――

DINNER-PARTIES.

――――Dinner is a stage With knives and forks the company are players; Courses have exits and swift entrances; And each guest, in his time, plays many parts, His acts being seven epochs. At first the soup Steaming and seething in the grand tureen, Then comes the whiting tasty, or the salmon With shining silver scales, sleeping serene Upon the lordly dish; and then the venison, Done to a turn, and worthy of a ballad, As any lady’s eyebrow. Then the pasties Full of rich fruits, and not too much of lard, Jellies delicious, wholesome and quickly eaten, Melting――a great desideratum―― Even in the diner’s mouth――and then the stilton In fair round form, and with a napkin bound, With rind full thick, and taste extremely strong, Full of strange mites, and microscopic things; So each guest plays his part. The sixth course shifts Into the rare luxurious dessert, With sherry on this side, and port on that; A vintage good, well saved, a world too old To be much drunk; the host’s loud manly voice Turning at length quite husky, cherished pipes And weeds with coffee come. Last scene of all That ends this dinner’s faithful history, Is simple maundering and sheer oblivion, Sans sense, sans eyes, sans speech, sans every thing. ORCHIS.

――――――――

(Jack soliloquizes.) All go off alike, And all the wines and dishes seldom alter; They have their exits and their entrances, And each guest in his turn tastes many things, His share being seven courses. At first the turtle, Seething with richness in the bright tureen; And then the princely turbot, with the lemon And shrimp or oyster sauce, making it glide Most palatably down; and then the entrées, Smelling divinely in their shallow basins Made of the shining metal; then a turkey, Full of forcemeats and roasted to a turn, Swimming in gravy garnished thick with sausage, Raising the tide of expectation Even in the bishop’s mouth; and then the pudding In grand round belly, and with holly crown’d; With eyes intent we watch each slice that’s cut, Full of good things and spicy substances; And so we take a part. The sixth course drifts Into the plain and usual dessert, With walnuts ’neath one’s nose, and port each side; Our evening clothes were made on purpose wide To hold such stuff. And now some manly voice, Turning towards politics and meerschaum-pipes, Makes ladies leave the room. Last course of all That ends this dinner-party history Is coffee, cognac, weeds, and utter bliss, Sans flirts, sans prudes, sans wife, sans womankind. CRYSTAL PALACE.

――――――――

――――All the world’s away, And all the men and women on the tramp; They have their tourist tickets and bank credits, And each man grumbling with his bullion parts To keep his household moving. First, the infant Squalling and struggling in the nurse’s arms, And then the schoolboy with his rod and basket, Changing from place to place, at large on bail Most willingly from school. And then the matron Scolding like a fishwife, with a woful look Upon the piles of baggage; then the cabby, Full of strange oaths standing on guard, Daring the porters, sudden and quick in quarrel, Clamouring for double his remuneration Even in the tariff’s face; and then the bobby, In regulation tunic strapped and belted, With eyes severe and an imperial strut, Quoting the law, refers to modern instances, And so he plays his part. Then the “gov’nor,” drest In shooting jacket and check pantaloons, With spectacles on nose, jeered at, defied, Elbowed and buffeted on every side, On a trunk sinking, lifts his voice no more, Wipes his moist brow, and, as he fills his pipe, Whistles despairingly. Last scene of all That ends poor paterfamilias’s history, Is the home-coming, and more chivying (Sans doute) en route――ennuied, wrong everything. PRIMA DONNA.

――――――――

――――Parliament’s a stage, And honourable members merely players; They have their prompters, cues, and call-boys too, And some men while they sit play many parts, Their acts being seven stages. At first the novice, Trembling and blushing while he’s introduced, And then the grumbling sportsman leaving moors Or salmon-streams behind, creeping like snail Unwillingly to vote. Then the enthusiast, Spouting like sperm-whale, with a wistful eye Fixed on his leader’s hat. Then a debater, Full of false facts and smart in repartee, Careless of courtesy, rash and quick in general. Seeking the bubble reputation By an unbridled tongue. And then the Minister, In pleasant sinecure, with good salary lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and feeble platitudes; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into a sleek and useless peer o’ the realm, With coronet on brow and ermine robes. His earlier wit, though dulled, a world to bright For his new sphere, and his once manly voice Turning again towards childish accents, drones And falters in his words. Last scene of all That ends the strange eventful history Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans power, sans fame, sans friends, sans everything. BART.

――――――――

――――All Parliament’s a stage, The Lords mere supers, and the Commons players, Coming and going on and off the scenes; And each one plays a different character In seven phases. First the canvasser, Bowing and scraping, free with purse and alms; Then the young candidate, with laboured speech And blushing face, weak-kneed and pale, Creeps to the platform. Then the strong member, Like lover with his mistress, wins the mob With honied words. Then the great orator, Full of unmeaning phrases, hard to beard, Zealous in argument, fierce in retort, Seeking a wordy reputation E’en in high councils. Then the Minister, Sleek with good living, with rich income primed, Austere with knitted brow, and courtly gard, Full wise in laws and ancient precedents, And so displays high art. The sixth phase shifts Into the scarlet-robed and gartered Peer, A spectacle in pose, touched with the pride Of titled state from all the world to hide His youthful pranks; his late commanding voice, Toned down to softest accents, mildly speaks In gentle pleadings. The last phase of all Is the poor part of intellect decayed In second childhood of extreme old age; Sad sight! sad hearing; sad the end of all! OLD LOG.

――――――――

――――All the night’s a stage, And all the singers on it merely cats; They have their solos and their choruses, And one cat in the night sings many tunes, Her songs being seven tortures. At first a purring, Mewing and scratching at the kitchen door, Then a whining scuffle with a neighbour’s tom About an ancient bone, bleached in the mud, Each claiming shares: and then the love duet, Burning with passion, rising to my window, In hideous cadences; then the war song Betwixt two rivals to Miss Muffet’s favour Starts up, eloquent with hisses and mad Careering up and down the area stairs Even to my very door; and then the tabby, In sleek fat form, with good grey coat of fur, With twinkling eyes and well-trimmed whiskers, Lifts her voice in wild, untuneful melody, And so she sings her part. The sixth song falls To the lean and half-starved tortoiseshell, All scratched on nose and wounded side, Her youthful freshness faded years too soon, And gone for aye, but her strong feline voice, With hideous likeness to infantile howls, Still screeches in the night. Last scene of all That ends this awful, maddening night, Is one last howl――then day breaks in upon us, Sans sleep, sans rest, sans peace, sans breakfast. ZENAS DYKES.

――――――――

――――All the day’s a plague, And all the people merely peace-disturbers, They have their exits and their entrances, And each one plays his own discordant part Till the brain madly rages. At first the sweep, Screeching and shouting loud his wild alarm; Then that morning nuisance, with his basket And tinkling muffin-bell, shouting “all ’ot” When all his store is cool. And then the beggar, Singing, like saw-mill, a hymn or a tender ballad Smugly, yet winking his eyebrow. Then the “Army,” Causing wild oaths as, clad in monstrous garb, With drum and cornet, gaily they preach or quarrel, Seizing the soldier’s designation, But facing no cannon’s mouth, And then th’ Italian, His poor pinched belly seldom with square-meal lined, With coal-black eye and hair that should be cut. And organ belching nigger melodies. And so he plays his part. The next plague springs From German deep trombone and wild bassoon, From flute, from clarionet, and ophecleide, Teutonic youths, ill-taught, with English airs Playing strange pranks, who, from the lowest bass Alike even to the highest treble, yield Most irritating sounds. Till last of all, To close the days tormenting history. The prayer for death, and sweet oblivion Of sweeps, of bands, of Booth, of everything. NOMAD. ――――――――

――――All the world’s a stable, And all its denizens are merely horses; They have their hardships and their pleasures, And one horse in his time sees many changes, His life being seven ages, At first, the foal, Frisking and skipping in the breeder’s yard; Then the “whinnying” colt, with curb and rein, And smack of whip, pacing, like schoolboy, Unwillingly in trammels. And then the racer, Flying like lightning for the cup or plate Given by the Jockey Club. Then the hunter, Full of high keep, and coat as sleek as silk, Perfect in shape, and proud of pedigree, Gaining a wide-spread reputation For being “in at the death.” And then to mailcoach, In splendid show indignantly is harness’d, By critics scanned at formal “meet”; then urg’d To th’ instant point of modern expedition; And so he runs his stage. “Sold up,” he shifts Into the shafts of jaunty hansom cab, With fare inside, and driver perch’d aloft; His early vigour gone, a shower of blows Are rain’d on his shrunk back; his wind is bad And he has turned a “piper” and oftimes Loudly whistles in his sound. The next phase ends His cruel and unpitied destiny; To Knacker’s yard for slaughter he is led, Sans eyes, sans hoofs, mere carcase――fit for dogs. EAST ANGLIA.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a field, And all the men and women cricket-players, They have their innings and their fielding out, And one man in his time plays many games, His life being seven matches. First, the infant, Mowing and poking at his nurse’s slows; And then the school-boy, boundless in ambition, But green in judging lengths, slogging like fun, And bowled by yorkers; then the undergrad, Smoking strange weeds, and blazer’d like the Turk, Heedless of honours, puppet of every fancy, Seeking a college reputation Even in the schools despite; and then the lover, Shying like Frenchman, with a woeful habit, Of dropping all his catches; then the husband, With waist expanding, to short runs inclined, With eyes correct, and coat of formal cut, Full of old joys, and new incumbrances, And so he meets his match. The sixth is played By the stiff pater with his growing lads, With spectacles on nose, and bat in hand; They trundle at the stumps a world too fast For his sore shins; yet his big, manly heart, Turning again toward youthful pleasure, glows And revels at each ball. Last match of all, Which ends the sturdy cricketer’s career, Is played in his arm-chair at second hand, Sans bat, sans ball, sans stumps, sans everything. TUB.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a feast, And all the men and women merely gourmands; Few have their chef, they mostly pot-luck share, But all guests in their turn try many plats, The courses being seven, At first the Soup, Unsatisfactory, greasy, and cold; Then Fish, whose shining face is seen too long, Proclaims his advent ere he comes in sight. Entrèes as twins appear; you choose of one, To wish your choice had fallen on the other. Mutton disguised with mint to pass for lamb, Taking his dubious imposture Into our plates, but not beyond our palates, A bird comes next――a bird that crowed too long; Crestfallen warrior, done to death and tough; And so we sit and eat, while cheap champagne Goes round with tedious jokes, both flat and stale. At length the scene is changed――the Sweets appear; Misshapen, quiv’ring jellies, doughy tarts, The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far. (Pale cream accompanies, whose “turn” is come,) Dessert――a prematurely-shrivelled pine, Tom from its tropic soil in early youth; Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust. The end of this unpalatable dinner Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so Our last hope flies, our time is come. We go With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied. CHUM-CHUM.

――――――――

――――A State Church is a stage, Its well-paid priests and bishops often players; They have their stipends and emoluments, And each man, if he plays his part with skill, May gain preferment. At first the student, Reading or larking at his Alma Mater; And then the genteel curate, with chasuble, And early morning prayers, with Oxford twang, Invincible at croquet. Then the incumbent, Preaching like furnace, with a shilling pamphlet, On some new-fashioned high-go. Then the rector, Full of strange whims, robed like a queer old barb, Sudden and quick to seize the next preferment, Seeking the bubble reputation E’en in a canon’s stall. And then the bishop, In fair lawn sleeves and with a purse well lined; His youthful friends now get the formal cut, Full of anxiety to keep things pleasant; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the grand and courtly Archbishop; A spectacle he grows of pride and pomp, And thinks the Church well saved, and world beside, By his tall talk; with namby-pamby voice, Pointing again to Becket and to Laud, Like whom he would be found. Last scene of all That best will cure this curious history, Is Disestablishment and Disendowment, Sans worldly power, sans many an evil thing. A. MEERAM.

――――――――

――――All the land’s a booth, And all the men and women merely voters, They have their franchise and their ballot-box, And one man in his time gives many votes. He votes for seven parties. The first, a Whig, Frightened and cautious in the Liberal ranks; And then the so-called Liberal, with his promises, And sheep-like party-gait, creeping like snail Towards long-sought reform. Then the Home Ruler Roaring for freedom, with a piteous tale Told of his country’s misery. Then a Radical Full of reform and moving with the time, Scenting abuses, sudden and quick to right ’em, Seeking the people’s happiness Even at the lordling’s cost. And then the Independent With smooth-tongued speech, and pocket well lined, With views severe and stuck-up formal mien, Full of advice and smug hypocrisy. And so he serves his turn. The sixth vote’s given Unto the mighty Tory landowner, With a fine porty nose, and gout beside, His ancient views――grown old――an age too late For this sharp world; and his high handed mode Turn ’gainst him all but sycophants, who’ll pipe And whistle at his bid. Last vote of all, To end this string of partisans, is given To worthless “Turncoats,” mere title hunters, Sans pride, sans shame, sans soul, sans principle. W. VAL. ENGLISH.

――――――――

――――All the world’s insane, And all the men and women fools of fancy; They have their whims and monomanias, And each man in his life hath many moods, His lot being seven crazes. And first the infant, Squealing and squalling for the distant moon: And then the schoolboy, with his breaking voice And cheap cigar, acquiring other lore Than what is taught at school. And then the lover With Richmond dinners, “fizz,” and lobster salad, To win Aspasia’s favour. Then the soldier, Full of himself, and glorious on parade, Solemn and warlike in another’s quarrel, Seeking to gain a killing reputation E’en from the sex’s mouth. And then the justice, One of the great infallible unpaid, With books of law intact and leaves uncut, Gath’ring wise utt’rance from the whisp’ring clerk, And so displays his art. The sixth craze shifts Into the fogy of the Tory club, With well-dress’d jasey and with glass in eye, The march of progress spreading far too wide For his near views; or, haply, seen by choice In some snug hostelry with port and pipe, Where Tory talk abounds. Worst craze of all, That seems the strangest in its mystery, Is the ascetic zeal miscalled religion―― Saint This, Saint That, Saint T’other――Any one. B. H. D.

――――――――

――――All the world’s a ship, And all the men and women merely sailors; They have their exits and their entrances, And each one in his ship plays many parts, The number being seven stages. First, the cabin boy, Groaning and puking in the stewards’ arms; And then the midshipman, with his cutlass And shining, genial face, going, in doubt, Unwillingly on board. And then the boatswain, Swearing, by all that’s hot, he’ll use his rope’s end Upon some laggard’s shoulders. Then the lieutenant, Full of strange hopes and visions like the bard, Eager for honour, longing for war and quarrel, Seeking the bubble, merited advancement, E’en in an iron clad. And then the captain, In handsome uniform, with honour worn, With bright, clear eyes, and mouth that’s often shut, Full of old yarns and deeds that tell of duty. Then comes the proud and boastful admiral, With spectacle on nose and sword by side, His well-saved uniform a world to wide For his shrunk form, and his big, manly voice Turning again to peevish feebleness. And so he struts his part. Last stage of all, That ends this strange and restless history, Comes the ex-admiral, prey to oblivion, Sans fame, sans wealth, sans hope, sans everything. TIB.

――――――――

――――The world’s a fashion-plate, And all the men and women tailors’ dummies, Who note the march of time by changing clothes, A masher once, a man’s a masher always, No matter what his age is. At first a baby In a lace gown ogling his ancient nurse; And then the public schoolboy, with his collar Broad and snow-white, who gives his mind to ties, And has no love for school-books. Then the dandy Bored at eighteen, but hovering around The sacred lamp of burlesque. Then the guardsman, Thin-waisted, tall, and with well-waxed moustache, Driver of drags and tandems, quick at polo, Gaining a dreadful reputation, Nightly at crowded balls. Then the swell middle-aged, With fair white waistcoat of bow-window shape, With shiny boots and well trimmed close-cut beard, Full of himself, and tales of his own feats, And how he play’d his part. The sixth age shows The lean and shaky, wicked, gay old boy, With gold pin and cane, with hat worn on one side; His padded coat and tight strapped pantaloons Hide his shrunk form, and his swaggering tone Changed to a grumbling whine that everything Is worse than it once was. While the last scene Is tottered through by an old doting swell, Who herds with boys, and tries to cheat death with False teeth, false hair, false calves, false everything. ROUNDABOUT.

MEASURE FOR MEASURE.

A Parody of the speech of Claudio in the first scene of the third act, commencing:――

“Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become a kneaded clod.”

Aye, but to love, and not be loved again, To nurse a hopeless passion, and to pine, This body strong and healthy to become A walking mummy――and the once cheerful mind To feel keen torturing doubts, or to despair And moping sit in melancholy mood, To feel the gusts of love and wild desire, And know friends, fortune, person, all combine To blast our hopes――or to feel tortures keener still, To see a rival snatch away the prize; Heavens! ’tis too horrible――the keenest pangs That e’er the body felt, stone or rheumatic, Amputated limb, nay, even gout itself Is perfect ease compared with hopeless love.

From Poems by Edward Rushton. London――T. Ostell, 1806.

“AS YOU LIKE IT,” AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

The following Parody appeared in Gaiety. August 29, 1885, in reference to Miss Mary Anderson’s performance of the part of Rosalind, in the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, Stratford-on-Avon.

If your heart for joy hath pined, Go and seek out Rosalind. In W. S.’s town you’ll find Mary A. as Rosalind; In “tights” most gracefully designed Will appear fair Rosalind. Methinks a damsel to your mind Will be Mary’s Rosalind. We hope she will not be maligned When she playeth Rosalind, But that critics will be kind To that fair Yankee’s Rosalind.

YOUNG ENGLAND’S VERSION OF HAMLET’S SOLILOQUY.

To smoke, or not to smoke, that is the question: Whether a mild cigar assists digestion; Or, whether it begets a kind of quaintness, Which some would say was nothing but a faintness; To smoke――to drink and then to go to bed; To find a pillow for an aching head; To snore――perchance to dream! and half your senses scare With visionary demons or nightmare; To wake, in perspiration nicely dished, ’Tis a consummation hardly to be wished; For who would bear the kicks, cuffs, and abuse Of this base world, when he might cook his goose Upon his toasting fork? Or who would care For half the motley groups which at him stare, Some morning early, stuck before the bench, When soda-water would his fever quench, But that a little thing within doth call? Thus porter doth make rum ’uns of us all! And thus our resolution to keep sober Is drown’d and soon forgot in good October. But hush! my ’Phelia comes, the pretty dear! Oh! think of me love――when you fetch your beer. ANONYMOUS.

FURTHER PARODIES ON Bret Harte.

――――:o:――――

THAT GREENWICH M.P.

Which I wish to declare, And my story is sad, That for dealings unfair, And for ways that are bad, The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar―― Which the same is a terrible “Rad.”

’Twas an October day, But a week or two back, When the mob yelled “Hurray” On the heath that is Black, As they gazed from afar upon WILLIAM, And harked to his voluble clack.

Which this W. G., You will all understand, Is the Greenwich M.P., And his promise is bland; But then, over his sinister shoulder, He points with the thumb of his hand.

So free from all guile, From intent to deceive, He seem’d all the while, You could hardly believe How, when talking to people of Greenwich, He chuckled and laughed in his sleeve.

He was greatly concern’d For the Greenwichers’ weal, And he twisted and turn’d With his words like an eel―― Praised himself, and the Radical party; It little――himself a great deal.

Which is why I declare, And my feelings are sad, That for dealings unfair, And for ways that are bad, The Greenwich M.P. is peculiar―― Which that same is a stone that is glad.

Judy, November 22, 1871.

――――:o:――――

THE HEATHEN M.P.

Which I wish to remark, And my language is plain, That for words that are dark And for tricks that are vain The Heathen M.P. is peculiar, Which the same I would wish to explain.

Ben D―――― was his name, And I shall not deny That who went by the same Was exceedingly sly; But his smile it was pensive and child-like, As I often remarked to Bill-y;

It was April the third, And quite soft were the skies; Let it not be inferred That Ben D―――― was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William In a way too adroit to be wise.

Which we had a debate, And Ben D―――― took a part, After begging to state That it came from his heart; But he smiled as he stood by the table With a smile that was hollow and tart.

Now his speech it was stocked In a way that I grieve, (And my feelings were shocked As you cannot believe,) It was stuffed full of stories and crammers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the points that were made By that Heathen Ben D――――, And the fibs he essayed Were quite frightful to see, Till at last he came out with a crammar That was known to be such unto G――――.

G―――― looked to the skies, (Which was sad for to see,) And he rose up likewise, And said, “Darling Ben D――――, “This is false what you say about Russia!” And he went for that Heathen M.P.

In the scene that ensued William took a large part, For the way he’d been Jewed Had gone straight to his heart, Like the fibs that Ben D―――― had been telling In the speech that had come “from his heart.”

In which speech, which was long, He had twenty-four packs, Which was coming it strong As departing from facts; And they found in that speech, which was rant, What is frequent in speeches――that’s cant?

Which is why I remark, And my language is plain, That for words that are dark And for tricks that are vain The Heathen M.P. is peculiar, And the same I am free to maintain.

BENJAMIN D――――. HIS LITTLE DINNER, 1876.

――――:o:――――

THE POLITICAL HEATHEN CHINEE.

Ben Diz was his name, And it were vain to deny In respect of the same What the name might imply: For his nose had a hook that meant mischief, But the hook was a fool to his eye.

“Heads I win, tails you lose,” Was the “lie” of his game. Turks, Afghans, Zulus―― No matter who came―― It was “beggar my neighbour” all round, Which all neighbours got treatment the same.

Which he euchred the Turk―― For he played from a hand Of “reserves,” that did lurk Underneath his wristband; And an island he quietly nobbled, With a smile diplomatic and bland.

Bits of Beaconsfield, or a new Series of Disraeli’s Curiosities of Literature.

(Abel Heywood and Son, Manchester.)

――――:o:――――

ON CHANG, THE CHINESE GIANT.

Which I beg you won’t doubt, As you listen to me, A man longer drawn out You’re not likely to see Than this very remarkable giant, Which same was a heathen Chinee.

Mister CHANG was his name, All alive! O, alive! From Fychow he came In eighteen-sixty-five, On the shillings of sight-loving public For some time to gleefully thrive.

It was August, eighteen, That he first came to town, And by thousands was seen, And won highest renown; But so lofty was he, and so haughty, On all of his friends he looked down.

When invited to sup He’d not touch flesh of cows, And he turned his nose up At an English carouse, For he swallowed at dinner and breakfast But bird’s-nests and little bow-wows.

But he fretted and fumed As the shillings got few, And his features assumed A cerulean hue, And he looked like a piece of blue china Of a size that you don’t often view.

Judy, August 20, 1879.

――――:o:――――

ON BRET HARTE. (After “Jim”)

Say there, then, Some of you men Might read Bret Harte, Not p’raps all through But one or two, Just a part?

Try first that one Heathen Chinee, Then just for fun Take two or three More from his works―― Rhyme all in jerks Where frequently Strange language lurks.

Humbug? not much That ain’t his style, Rather a touch Of pathos, the while Sympathy true.

Take Bret Harte’s Jim, Sure you know him, Says “D――n your eyes,” Frequently tries In manner most strange Both a scamp to appear And an angel that sheer Has dropped from the skies.

Style? Some times Bret Harte Yes, that is he! Dickens in Camp―― Wan Lee the scamp, Stick in your brain Live there as plain As highest art.

You can’t say Good-bye Not if you try Eh? What’s that you say? You try to forget him When once you’ve met him. No? Yes! Ah well; There they will stay All thro’ life’s day And Never depart! Thanks to Bret Harte. J. W. G. W.

FURTHER PARODIES ON H. W. Longfellow.

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A CHRISTMAS PSALM OF LIFE.

Tell me not, thou soul that slumbers, Christmas is an empty dream; When these comic double numbers With the flash of humour gleam.

Life is earnest, life is real, In our Fleet Street and the Strand; Many an honest heart and leal Shall be moved by laughter’s wand.

“Sweet enjoyment and no damper”―― Motto fit for every grade, [If my friends send me a hamper, Let them mark it “Carriage paid.”]

Hearts which long with hope were beating Now shall flock to Drury Lane, There to give a friendly greeting To the clown and “pants” again.

So in other fields of glory Comes the genial feud and strife, Each man, be he Whig or Tory, Finding happiness in life.

Lives like SLOPER’S should remind us Life can still be made sublime, Scattering all the trash behind us. Pointing to a better time.

Sloper’s Christmas Number, 1884.

――――――――

A PSALM FOR THE TRADE.

Tell us not in doleful numbers Trade is done for evermore, That supply, demand outnumbers, And the drummer’s days are o’er.

Trade is real――trade is active, Better times again we’ll see; To remain stagnation’s captive, Is against all history.

Time is long――bill maturing Must be paid without delay; Such the only way insuring Better trade at early day.

Shun this reckless competition, Look beyond the moment’s gain, Learn that honest coalition Is far better in the main.

Stop this scheme of future dating, Ere it has become too late; Act at once and cease all prating―― Leave consignments to their fate.

Lives of others all remind us, If our dealing’s just and fair, That a better time will find us Getting all our honest share.

American Exchange.

――――――――

A PHASE OF LIFE. (The Yankee Merchant to his book-keeper.)

Tell me not in rows of numbers, Of his assets as they seem, That if I would loan 1,000 He could bridge the turbid stream.

Debts are real, debts are earnest, No transferring makes them less; “Dust” thou borrow, “dust” returnest Still as great thy sore distress.

Trust no more the men who owe me, Let the debts just due be paid; Act, act promptly in collecting, Ere the last faint hope shall fade.

Failures of great men remind us How they bought their goods on time, And departing left behind them For each dollar’s debt a dime.

Seeing which perhaps another Almost ready to collapse, Takes a lesson from his brother―― Leaves behind a few old traps.

Let us then be up and doing, With a cheek quite undismayed, Every debtor close pursuing Till his bills have all been paid.

American Paper.

――――――――

A PSALM OF LIFE. (As exhibited in Christmas Annuals.)

Tell me not, O Soul that slumbers, “Life is placid, Life is pale!” ’Tis not so in Christmas Numbers; There quite other views prevail.

Life is Foaming, Life is Frantic, Here the dagger, there the bowl; “Stick at nothing that’s romantic!” Says my Printer to my Soul.

Not to live as boys and girls would Is our men’s and maidens’ way; But to act as if in Earlswood You might find them any day.

Write of fire, and flood, and battle, Write of Earls that gaily sin, Write of Governesses――that’ll Bring the sweet subscribers in!

Lives of Great Highwaymen show it, How to make our tales sublime; Bother sense and grammar. Go it―― Give us something new in Crime

Crimes that ne’er, perchance, another, As he reached his volume’s end, Dreamed of――give us these my brother, Something fresh in guilt, my friend!

Let us then be up and raving, Rave of ghosts, and sin, and fate; These the gentle reader’s craving, And he does not like to wait!

Punch, January 10, 1885.

――――:o:――――

BEWARE!

I know a youth who can flirt and flatter, Take care! He loves with the ladies to gossip and chatter, Beware! Beware Trust him not He is fooling thee!

He has a voice of varying tone Take care! It echoes many beside thine own, Beware, &c.

He has a hand that is soft and white, Take care! It pressed another than thine last night, Beware, &c.

His letters are glowing with love I ween, Take care! One half that he writes he does not mean, Beware, &c.

He talks of truth and of deep devotion, Take care! Of loving truly he has no notion, Beware, &c.

Your heart he will gain with his dangerous wiles, Take care! Of his whispered words, of his sighs, of his smiles. Beware! Beware! Trust him not. He is fooling thee! ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

THE BARBER FIEND.

I know a barber who in town doth dwell―― Take care!―― He has a lot of things to sell For hair; forbear! Buy them not, Though he counsel thee.

For he will charge thee four-and-six (Take care!) For a bottle of wash, worth less than nix, Beware, beware! Of his pomade pot, ’Tis a fallacy.

And when thou goest to get a “crop,” Don’t swear, If he say thy hair is thin atop, Somewhere, somewhere; Believe him not, He is fright’ning thee.

And if to take thee by thy nose He dare, Whilst sitting, in ungraceful pose, On chair, on chair; Resent it not, He is shaving thee.

And he has dyes of every hue; Take care Lest russet locks be turned to blue, Or fair, or fair―― To some hue not Such as pleases thee.

He has bear’s grease in pots for thee (A snare). If on thy face no whiskers be, Don’t care, don’t care; Hog’s lard will not Make a man of thee.

Judy, November 22, 1871.

――――:o:――――

FEMALE COMMERCIAL “TRAVELLERS.”

I know a maiden with a bag, Take care! She carries samples in a drag, Beware! beware! O Draper fond, She is fooling thee!

She has the true “Commercial” style, Take care! To which she addeth woman’s guile, Beware! beware! O Grocer goose, She is plucking thee!

And she has quite a flood of talk, Take care! She sells as cheese what’s only chalk, Beware! beware! O Dealer daft, She’s deceiving thee!

Her eyes are really wondrous black, Take care! They make a shiver run down your back, Beware! beware! O Shopman soft, She is ogling thee!

She sells you a silk of “perfect wear,” Take care! At it your customers will swear, Beware! beware! Trust her not, This Travelling She!

Punch, February, 1885.

――――:o:――――

SONG OF THE OYSTER LAND.

By a Longing Fellow.

“Oysters are abnormally dear in the New York market.” Daily News.

Into the Oyster Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Our hopes from the New World now pale and wither, There is no joy in Cheapside and the Strand. Who’ll lead us with a friendly hand, Thither, oh thither, Into the Oyster Land?

Into the Oyster Land! To you, ye nameless regions Of Native worth. Delicious daily visions Of some Ostrealia, beautiful and bland. Where at the bar a man might stand, Gulping cheap bivalve beauties Down, in the Oyster Land.

O Land! O Land! No longer hopeful joy stirs Within my bosom. Rubbish, tinned and potted, Mocks one, by no bright herald now doth stand, To lead us, with a liberal hand, Into the land of the cheap good Oysters, Into the Oyster Land!

Punch, October 21, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE BUBBLE AND THE BULLET.

(A sweet thing in Morals, not even remotely suggested by Longfellow’s “Arrow and Song.”)

I blew a bubble into the air, And bright and high it floated there; Till all who gazed both near and far, Declared the bubble was a star.

I shot a bullet into the air, Worth twenty bubbles bright and fair; But the bullet’s flight was all in vain, It only fell to the earth again.

Learn hence, in catching the public eye―― Bullets are difficult things to fly; So bubble on bubble upward send And keep your lead for the heart of a friend! WILLIAM SAWYER.

――――:o:――――

THE ROMAN PRELATE.

(From a Mediæval Legend.) After Longfellow’s Norman Baron.

In his chamber grand and fitting, Was the Roman Prelate sitting, By his side St. Philip Neri Stood, the window looking thro’ When a strange, unpleasant feeling, O’er the Cardinal came stealing While, as if by wand of fairy, All things alter’d to his view.

Vanished street, and dome, and steeple, Vanished crowds of priests and people, Lo, instead, a place of torture (Which politeness would not name), There he saw the souls tormented, Suffer all the pangs invented By the old Arch-fiendish Scorcher, He whose element is flame.

Writhing in and out among them, Snakes and demons bit and stung them, Never ceased, the victims, therefore, Ne’er from anguish could be free, In their midst a seat most splendid, Seem’d for some great Prince intended, Asked the Prelate――“What’s that chair for?” Quoth St. Philip――“’tis for thee.”

Then the Cardinal, in terror, Thought upon his life of error, Ask’d the Saint on what condition Heaven his soul would deign to spare, “’Tis, relinquish worldly pleasure, Love of sway and greed of treasure, Banish envy and ambition, Satan else will seat you there!”

Then the Cardinal repenting, Soon the holy Saint, relenting, Gave him pardon, warning, blessing, Preaching, too, (without a text), Vanish’d then the Prelate’s panic, Vanish’d then that scene Satanic, Never more his soul distressing In this world――or in the next! WALTER PARKE.

The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, June 25, 1878.

――――:o:――――

THE CITY BLACKLEG.

Under the railway arch there see, The villain Smith he stands; That Smith a puny man is he, With small and skinny hands; And the muscles of his bony arms Are like elastic bands.

His hair you see’s by no means long, His face is lean and wan; His brow ne’er yet was wet with sweat, He lives as best he can; To owe he holds is no disgrace, For he owes to ev’ry man.

He tries to tempt that countryman (Flinging a pair o’ dice), But having fleeced him once before, Upon his back he lies; And with his skinny hand he wipes A pair of blackened eyes.

Swindling――skedaddling――borrowing Onward through life he goes; No morning sees him taken in, No evening sees him lose; Somebody tempted, some one “done,” Earns him a night’s repose.

Judy, September 4, 1867.

――――――――

NUDITY.

(Set to the Tune of an Old Ditty.)

[“A British Matron” addressed an indignant letter to the Times, anent the nudities which are now exhibited at our annual picture shows.]

Before a study of the nude The British Matron stands, A vivid blush is on her cheek, She raises both her hands, And for that hussy all undraped A petticoat demands.

Her air is shocked, her face is long, Her mission is to ban; Her brow is set in lines of fret, As may be seen by man, And oft while gazing she exclaims, “I wonder painters can!”

Sneak in, sneak out, brush-wielding wights, Tread softly and talk low, Take note of Mrs. Grundy’s scowl, Observe her wrathful glow; She don’t approve of frockless daubs And that she’d have you know!

The Matron’s wishing even now She’d never sought your door, Since here are pictures on the line, Some ten, if not a score, That make her almost long to sink Unnoticed through the floor.

Crimson, indignant, horrified, On through the room she goes; Each glance to left augments her pain, Each glance to right but shows Some one who’s classic, some one stripped Of decency and clo’es!

Thanks, thanks to thee, our British M., For the lesson thou hast taught. Not to these Academic halls Must nudities be brought; In France the artist comes it strong, But here he “didn’t ought.”

Funny Folks, June 6, 1885.

――――:o:――――

FLOWERS.

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers so blue and golden, Stars that in earth’s firmament do shine. * * * * * LONGFELLOW

――――:o:――――

FLOWERS (OF ROTTEN-ROW).

Spake full well in language most descriptive, One who walked by the Serpentine, When he called these ladies fair, deceptive, Beauties lost in crinoline.

Monstrous are those petticoats inflated, Altering the syrens’ figures quite, While the swells who unto them are mated Are eclipsed from the beholders’ sight.

Wondrous fashions, manifold as wondrous, Modern genius cuts its cloth into, From the head-dress to the sandals under us, From the “tile” unto the walking shoe.

And the costume-connoisseur, observant, Sees alike in male or female dress, More than is by wearer, him or her, meant. More of folly――but of beauty less:

Gorgeous neck-ties, glistening in the sunlight, Hats e’en whiter than their wearer’s hands, “All round” collars made to screw the neck tight, Coats “high-church”-like, and suggesting “bands.”

Trousers in such “knee-plush-ultra” fashion, Wide above and at the ancles tight, As would put the ghost of Stultz into a passion,―― Thus ye see the swell in all his might!

“Hiawatha’s” author tells us in his verses, Men and flowers are very much alike, But methinks――although his language trim and terse is, Hyde-park flowers the simile won’t strike.

Solomon, we know, in all his glory, Couldn’t to the lily’s dress compare; Shall then moderns, less than him in story, Likened be unto the flow’rets fair?

Nay――to Solomon we’ll give the credit (This we hope his tailor gave him too,) And believe, although no Rabbi said it, He ne’er clothed himself as modern Britons do:

For if like theirs had been his usual covering, We cannot help remarking, by-the-bye, That old Israel’s far-renowned sovereign, Little wiser was, dear sir, than you and I. C.O. Tait’s Magazine, 1858.

――――:o:――――

OUR SERENADERS.

[“The plaintiff,” Mr. Justice MATHEW decided, in an action brought by a literary man to prevent a noise on a neighbour’s premises, “contended for a condition of felicity which could never be obtained in London.”――Daily Paper.]

I lay in my bed at midnight, As the dogs were barking the hour, And I hurled at their heads, of language A maledictory shower!

I heard their pestilent voices In the garden under me, Like a chorus of demons yelling In hideous symphony.

Most gladly would I have strangled The Judge who lately said The Londoner never must hope for Repose in his little bed.

How often, oh how often, In the nights that have gone by, I have tossed on my pillow and wondered Why cats seem never to die!

How often, oh how often, I have wished that some tempest drear Would bear away in its bosom, My neighbour’s Chanticleer!

And when his protest uplifteth The mongrel over the way, I look about for my pistol, And long for the dawn of day.

And that terrible little Terrier―― Why cannot its mistress see That it has no right to prowl at night And bark at the moon and me?

When I think that this latest decision Of the case-encumbered Judge Will help my neighbours to beard me, And to dub my threats as “fudge,”――

I seem to see a procession Of ills which must spring from it―― The young man goaded to madness, And the old going off in a fit.

And for ever and for ever, As long as those Dogs delight To bark, and the Cats to bellow, And murder sleep in the night.

The Judge and his latest decision. And his cold remarks will show That he hears no “meowing” above him, And no “bow-wowing” below.

Punch, February 7, 1885.

There was also a parody on the same original in The Sporting Times, May 2, 1885, but it was too coarse and slangy to bear quoting.

――――:o:――――

DIVITIOR.

The shades of evening deepened fast, As, bank-ward, through the City passed A man, who in his pocket bore, His bank-book, strangely titled o’er―― Divitior!

His brow was wrinkled; keen his eye Flashed on each jostling passer-by, And still the strange mysterious word From his scarce-conscious lips were heard―― Divitior!

In humble homes he saw the light Of happy faces, warm and bright. Above, Ambition’s cold heights shone; He cried, his eye on these alone,―― Divitior!

“Tempt not a path,” the preacher said, “Which none who loves his life may tread; The snares and chasms are deep and wide;” But, confident, he loud replied―― Divitior!

“Stay,” said Content, “Oh stay, and rest, Thy anxious head upon this breast:” A tear one moment dimmed his eye, But still he answered, with a sigh―― Divitior!

“Beware th’ alluring path of greed, There’s danger in thy headlong speed;” This was a brother’s parting word―― He cried, the warning scarcely heard―― Divitior!

One morning, as the gossips tell, While neighbours, woke by matin bell, Were syllabling their morning prayer, A voice shrieked through the startled air―― Divitior!

Exhausted, over-wrought, at last His spirit from its tent had passed; Still grasping in his hand of ice, His bank-book, with the strange device―― Divitior!

There, in the twilight, cold and gray, The Mammon Martyr lifeless lay; And from beneath a voice was heard, Muttering in scorn the mocking word―― Divitior!

Tait’s Magazine, 1858. S.W.F.

――――――――

NETTLE-RASH.

(From St. Bartholomew’s.)

The shades of night were falling fast, As through the Doctor’s office passed, A Boy, who bore upon his face The symptoms and decided trace Of nettle-rash.

“You’d better go,” the matron said, “And rest your head upon your bed;” A tear stood in her bright blue eye, As he did question, have then I―― Got nettle-rash?

You’ll take two pills, the doctor said, And mind you cover up your head―― I’ll see he does, the nurse replies, I hope you’ll cure me, sir, he cries, Of nettle-rash.

There, in the gas light, far from gay, Spotted, but beautiful, he lay, And from the boys both near and far The question fell, like a falling star―― HOW’S NETTLE-RASH?

ANONYMOUS.

――――――――

YOUNG LAMBS TO SELL.

The Lamplighters were scudding fast, As thro’ some half-blind alleys passed, A man who bore thro’ muddy way―― A Tray with a most strange display, “Young lambs to sell.”

His face was seamed, his bleary eye, Told tales of tankards, oft drained dry; The words were partly said and sung Which fell from his outlandish tongue―― “Young Lambs to sell.”

The Landlord cried, you’d better stay; The rain will wash your wares away, The wind will blow them up sky high, But loud and shrill he still did cry―― “Young Lambs to sell!”

“Oh, stay and drink” the Toper cried; “They’ll chalk me up a can inside.” His ferret eye a twinkle gave, But constantly he tipped the stave―― “Young Lambs to sell.”

“Beware the Peeler’s truncheon thick, Nor sleep on kiln of baking brick; You are a fool that won’t take treat.” A voice replied far up the street “Young Lambs to sell.”

D4. upon his nightly round, The Merchant in a corner found; Upon his tin legged flock he lay, His open mouth still seemed to say, “Young Lambs to sell.”

There, in the bull’s-eyes shining round, Dead-drunk and muddled was he found; And soon the lockups grim inside Contained the leary one who cried “Young Lambs to sell.”

From The Free-Lance, Manchester.

――――――――

U-PI-DEE.

The shades of night were coming down fast, U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day, When through a Roman village pass’d U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day. A youth who’d had champagne in ice They’d marked him with this strange device, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

His hat was bad his eyes were black A short tail’d coat adorned his back, And like a cracked Pianner rung The accents of this unknown tongue:―― U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Try not the pass the old man said Does your mother know you’re not in bed? He took the old man by the nose, And said one word which I suppose Was: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

“O stay!” the maiden cried, said she U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day. We’re all just a going to sit down to tea U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day. A wink was in the bright blue eye, As he said with a hiccough or a sigh, Oh, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Remove the flags if you fall pat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day, I say young man I’ll have your hat U-pi-Dee, U-pi-Day, This was a cabman’s last good night, When a voice from somewhere out of sight Said, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Now you want a moral to my song, To know what is right and what is wrong, Don’t get champagne upon the brain, Or else instead of speaking plain, You’ll say: U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

Night passed, and in the morning gray, He was found fast asleep by Policeman A, He asked his name, he turned him round In the pocket of his coat a card was found; It was U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

About a quarter past six the next forenoon, A man accidentally getting up soon, Heard utter’d above mid snow and ice, This remarkable song in a very weak voice, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

He’s dead, defunct, without any doubt The lamp of his life is entirely out, In the snow and the ice he now is laying, So it aint any use any more to be saying, U-pi-Dee-I-Day, U-pi-Dee-I-Day.

This old fashioned comic song, written by F. C. Burnand, was sung in the Burlo-Drama of Julius Cnaeser at the Royalty Theatre. The chorus has here been somewhat abbreviated, as its wit was not in proportion to its length. A parody, having a similar refrain, appeared in Volume 1, Parodies, page 101.

――――――――

A CHRISTMAS PANTOMIME.

“The shades of night were falling fast,” As through the streets of London passed, A youth who trudged through snow and ice, Stamped on his heart the fond device, Loved Arabella!

His coat was rough, his hat was sleek, The frost had nipped both nose and cheek; But as he walked he softly sung, Those words so often on his tongue, Loved Arabella!

To Camden Town try not the way, The snow has fallen thick to-day: This was a comrade’s last good-bye, But bold he said “For her I’ll try,” Loved Arabella!

“Oh! buy my chestnuts baked and warm,” A damsel cried, then touched his arm; A longing look was in his eye, But still he answered with a sigh, Loved Arabella!

About the pantomime he’d read, Of fays and sprites, so onward sped; For to these scenes of festive light He’d vowed to lead his lady bright, Loved Arabella!

The villa reached he saw the light Of chandelier and firelight bright, While on the blind he traced a shade Like that of his long worshipped maid, Loved Arabella!

E’en as he gazed, beside her came A hated rival, “Jones” by name: One she had sworn no more to meet, Nor even bow to in the street, False Arabella!

Above her head he held a spray―― A sacred plant, ’twas once, they say, Then under this protection base, He bent and kissed her blushing face, False Arabella!

The outside lover shook his fist, To choke his rival much he wished, For acting such a traitor’s part, And stealing thus his fair one’s heart, False Arabella!

A moment later he was there, Glaring at the detected pair; With words of anger sharp, but few, He bade the maid a last adieu, False Arabella!

Then on he went, for well he knew That maxim old, and yet so true―― “There’s always good fish in the sea,” And therefore maids more true than she, False Arabella!

London Society, Christmas Number, 1867.

――――――――

YE POOR MAHDI!

The shades of night were falling fast As Mahdi through El Obeid past; He said good-bye to all his wives, Which caused a thousand stifling cries―― Ye poor Mahdi!

His brow was sad; his blessed eyes Were gazing steadfast on the skies; And from a weak consumptive chest; There came a voice of piteousness―― “Ye poor Mahdi!”

In Cairo’s Hall he saw the light; Of Gladstone laws, as dark as night, And in the merchants’ faces gazed, And saw that they too Gladstone praised, Ye poor Mahdi!

“Try not this scheme,” good Randy said; “A scimitar hangs o’er thy head, For England hates thee, she’s so proud;” But a voice answered, “I’m quite cowed,” Ye poor Mahdi!

“Stay,” cried an angry Custom’s Clerk, “You pay £5 to leave this barque; And if you don’t, why we shall paste On H.M.S. right round your waist”―― Ye poor Mahdi!

Beware, ye girls of Kensington, Beware that man called “Number One.” Thus warned our friend left Charing Cross With nearly all his money lost. Ye poor Mahdi!

At early dawn as servant maids Were nodding to their soldier slaves. A voice ran through the Castle shrill “Where’s Dr. Gull? I am so ill.” Ye poor Mahdi!

An Eastern, in a lumber room Was found reclining on a stool, He raised to Heaven his bony hands And said, “Why crossed I desert sands?” Ye poor Mahdi!

There dead and cold the Mahdi lay The servants round cried “Lack-a-day.” And then in coffin strong and fast They placed this son of desert vast. Ye poor Mahdi!

From The Mahdi’s Diary, 1884.

――――――――

THE PURSE-SUIT.

[The Echo in a recent article pictures Mr. Maskelyne starting off in search of Mr. Irving Bishop to recover the ten thousand pounds awarded him by the Jury in the libel suit.]

Air――“Excelsior.”

The mail train blew its final blast, When, dashing frantically past The barrier, rushed a breathless man, Who muttered ever as he ran―― “Ten thousand pounds!”

His cheek was flushed, his eyeballs seemed To burn like fire, so bright they gleamed; And as all watched him disappear, The echo of a voice rang clear―― “Ten thousand pounds!”

All Europe soon he searched――in vain He climbed each mountain, scoured each plain, Alas! he found not him he sought, And vocal grew the luring thought―― “Ten thousand pounds!”

“Off to the east I’ll go,” he cried: “I’ll roam the deserts far and wide, I’ll Search the Sphynx, the rivers swim, To get my damages from him―― “Ten thousand pounds!”

One day the Mahdi’s army saw A man armed with a writ of law, And as in terror wild they fled, They heard the mystic words he said―― “Ten thousand pounds!”

Tradition doubtless will declare He’s been seen here, there, everywhere; And unborn savages will speak Of him who ceases not to seek―― Ten thousand pounds.

Funny Folks, January 31, 1885.

THE GREAT DEMONSTRATION.

Should you ask me why this hubbub, Why this motley-garbed procession, Filled with parties somewhat blatant, Bearing sundry gaudy banners―― Like to banners borne by “supers”―― Why these strains of weird-like music Fill the air on Easter Monday?―― I should answer, I should tell you, “Tis the partisans of Orton―― (Orton, that much-suffering martyr), Headed by their chief, Kenealee, Better known as Doctor “Dewdrops”―― He who represents the people In the senate of St. Stephen. Often has he swayed his “gingham” When orating from the platform. Oh, the wicked judges fear him, And the Press with terror trembles When he mightily denounces Sundry falsehoods journalistic!

See, they stay at Nelson’s column Waiting for the great contingent: Followers of Magna Charta From the Eastern plains of Shoreditch, From the Western Seven dials, From the Southwark Southern suburb, From the Northern wilds of Hoxton! Yea, assembled in their thousands (Well, we’ll say about two thousand), Enter they the gates of Hyde-park, And Kenealee, from his chariot, Speaks to them in silvery accents. Lo! they make a conflagration With an execrated journal, And the crowd, dispersing slowly, Seek the publics close adjacent, There to quaff their pots of porter―― Porter, their belovèd liquor; There to puff their shag-tobacco, And, amid the fumes ascending, They will prate of him in Dartmoor. When the time shall come for quitting, They’ll depart with gait unsteady, Shouting in their native jargon, “We the people har of Hingland!”

Fun, April 26, 1876.

――――――――

PAHTAHQUAHONG.

A Lyric after Longfellow.

(The Rev. Henry Pahtaquahong Chase, Hereditary Chief of the Ojibway Indians has arrived in England. Vide Press.)

Should you ask me whence this Chieftain?―― Whence this Henry Pahtahquahong?―― I should answer, I should tell you―― From the realms of lake and forest, Where the mighty Saskatchàwan And the Kaministaquoiah Drain the happy hunting valleys; Where the Mas-ka-gaws and Saulteaux, Surcees, Pay-gans, Bloods, and Blackfeet, Ottoes, Dog-ribs, Crees, and Beavers, Hunt the Wapiti and Musquash; From the lakes of Manitoba, Winnipeg and Winnipags, Pickcògasi and Pàquash, Dòobiaunt, Wéenìsk, Wheldyàhad, From the shores of Athabasca, From the Land of the Ojibways.

Should you ask me what he looks like―― Wears he feathers and mocassins, Belt of wampum, coat of war-paint, Wields he tomahawk and scalp-knife, Musket quaint or modern rifle, Like to sitting Bull or Big Snake, Chingachgook, or Outalassi, Leather stocking’d Natty Bumppo, Hiawatha, Paw-puk-kewis, Shaw-wa-nos-soway, whose rival Muck-e-tock-e-now (Black Eagle) Died thro’ wooing sweet Awh-mid-way Beautiful as Minnehàha?―― I should answer. I should tell you―― Pahtahquahong Chase, the chieftain, Wears no feathers nor mocassins, Wields no tomahawk nor scalper, But a black suit and white choker, On his head a silk broad brimmer, In his hand a stick for walking, He has turn’d him from the war-path, He has buried deep the hatchet, Gives us sermons ’stead of war-whoops, And the Pale-face is his brother; Welcome then, O Pahtahquahong From the realms of Lake and forest, From the happy hunting valleys, From the land of the Ojibways. WALTER PARKE, The Bath and Cheltenham Gazette, March 30, 1881.

――――――――

THE SONG OF CETEWAYO.

(WITH APOLOGIES TO THE NOBLE HIAWATHA.)

FAR across the big-sea-water―― Which is sometimes termed the ocean―― To the lodges of the pale-face Comes the gentle Cetewayo. (Lady Florence trisyllabic Makes the name of her odd hero; But, to suit this bards convenience, And his transatlantic measure, Pray let him say “Cet-e-wayo.”) If you ask me “Why ‘the gentle?’” I shall answer, I shall tell you, I shall pity you and tell you, ’Tis because he is a savage, Who by force compelled his people To become a tribe of cut-throats. Furthermore, because our brothers He has slaughtered by the hundred. Now, however, being captive, Very small and mild he singeth―― Talks no more his spears of washing In our blood, or eating us up. That is why we call him “gentle,” And a lot of names as pretty, (“We” are Lady Florence Dixie, And Natal’s least Christian Bishop, Arithmetical Colenso; Also aqueous Sir Wilfred, And a varied mob of other Dames hysteric of both sexes.) So we bring him o’er the ocean―― Otherwise the big-sea-water―― Feed him up like any porker; Lodge him, and the British uni Form encourage him to scoff at.

* * * * *

Soon as a “distinguished stranger,” He will gaze down on the Commons―― Gaze upon his friends and patrons―― While beside him Shepstone Junior, Meekly nameth each one thusly, In a sort of Zulu-English; Yonder sits the aged chieftain, Gran-dole-man-o, whom the To-rees―― Wicked race, who love their country!―― Liken to the eel that wriggleth. Near him bideth Dil-ki-kilkee, Speaker of the thing which is not, With the mighty Ver-no-narker, Like some would-be dignified hip―― Popotamus by your rivers, Far away see Carlisle’s Willfee―― Pal o’-yours, my Cetewayo, Who’s so very fond of water That he puts it in his speeches, Till he drowns all his ideas, And his hearers think he has none.”

* * * * *

Thus, methinks, will Shepstone Junior Prattle to the “dusky Monarch” As he gazeth on the Commons, Or in greasy state “does” London, But if any one should ask me Why we’ve brought this big “He nigger” All across the big-sea-water―― This sounds better far than “ocean”―― Why we’ve coddled him and dressed him In a garb that once was glorious, I should answer, I should tell him, I should shake my head and tell him, That I’ve not the least idea, And I fancy no one else has! G. G. Evening News, Aug. 4, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE PRINTERS’ HIAWATHA.

Should you ask us why this dunning, Why all these complaints and murmurs, Murmurs hard about delinquents, Who have read the paper weekly, Read what they have never paid for, Read with pleasure and with profit, Read the church affairs and prospects, Read the news, both home and foreign, Full of wisdom and instruction; Read the table of the markets, Carefully corrected weekly―― Should you ask why all this dunning:

From the printer, from the mailer, From the kind old paper-maker, From the landlord, from the devil, From the man who taxes letters With the stamp of Uncle Samuel―― Uncle Sam the rowdies call him―― From them all there comes a message, Message kind, but firmly spoken: “Please to pay the bill you owe me.”

Sad it is to hear the message, When the funds are all exhausted When the last greenback has left us When the nickles all have vanished,

Gone to pay the toiling printer, Gone to pay the paper-maker, Gone to pay the landlord’s tribute, Gone to pay the clerk and devil, Gone to pay the faithful mailer, Gone to pay old Uncle Samuel―― Uncle Sam, the rowdies call him―― Gone to pay for beef and Bridget, Gone to pay the faithful parson.

Sad it is to turn our ledger, Turn the leaves of this old ledger, Turn and see what sums are due us, Due for volumes long since ended, Due for years of pleasant reading, Due for years of anxious labour, Due despite of patient waiting, Due despite of constant dunning, Due in sums from two to twenty.

Would you lift a burden from us? Would you drive a spectre from you? Would you have a pleasant slumber? Would you have a quiet conscience? Would you read a paper paid for? Send us money! Send us money! Send us money! Send us money! Send the money that you owe us.

Printers’ Circular.

Another amusing Parody of Hiawatha was published in The Bill of the Play for July 11, 1870. It was entitled “La Belle Sauvage” and gave a summary of the burlesque history of the Princess Pocahontas then being performed at the St. James’s Theatre. It is, unfortunately, out of date now, and much too long to be given here.

FURTHER PARODIES OF Thomas Hood.

――――:o:――――

THE OVERSEER’S LAMENT (in Australia.)

(Adapted from Hood’s “Song of the Shirt,” to the circumstances of an Overseer in the service of “Long Clarke,” a wealthy squatter in Victoria.)

With breeches thread-bare and worn. With jumper running to seed, An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut, Smoking his favourite weed. Puff! Puff! Puff! “Oh! When shall I rise from this state?” And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, He sang the song of his fate.

“Ride! Ride! Ride! While the cock is crowing aloof! And ride, ride, ride Till the stars shine through the roof! It’s oh, to be a super Along with some Western swell, Where man has never a stiver to save, But sometimes gets a spell.

“Ride! Ride! Ride! Till my boots are rusty and worn! And ride, ride, ride! Till my breeches are tattered and torn; Plain, and gully, and range, Range, and gully, and plain, Till over the saddle I fall asleep, To waken and ride again.

Oh! Squatters with beautiful runs! Oh! Squatters with fattening plains Not feet alone are you wearing out, But you’re sowing rheumatic pains! Twitch! Twitch! Twitch! I feel it in all my bones, Sowing at once with a double stitch, Colonial experience and groans.

“But why do I talk of rheumatics? That phantom of aching bone; I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own―― It seems so like my own, Because of the spills I reap.[67] Oh! that runs should be so dear, And overseers so cheap!

Ride! Ride! Ride! My labour never flags: And what are its wages? Forty a year, And these two wretched nags, This mutton chop, and this damper queer―― A stretcher, a ’possum rug, And so wretched all that the traveller here But seldom shows his mug!

“Count! Count! Count! The thousands of every flock, Count, count, count! Till I’ve counted my master’s stock; Ewes, and wethers, and lambs, Lambs, and wethers, and ewes, Till the eyes are dazzled, the hurdles smashed, And my shins are all in a bruise.

Snip! Snip! Snip! When the shearing season’s come, And snip, snip, snip! But never a keg of rum! Curse, and squabble, and row, Row, and squabble, and curse, Till my eyes are blackened, my ‘claret’ drawn, As well as my private purse.

“Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the Royal Hotel in town; A prime manilla in my mouth, Whilst I knock my earnings down! Oh! but for one short month, To spree as I used to spree, Before I knew the super’s berth, In the days when I was free!

“Oh! but for one short week!’ A respite, however brief! No blessed leisure for love or lush, But only time for grief! A little drinking would ease my mind, But in its secret lurk The grog must stop, for every drop, Would hinder station work!”

With breeches threadbare and worn, With jumper running to seed, An overseer sat in a stringy-bark hut, Smoking his favourite weed. Puff! Puff! Puff! Oh, when shall I rise from this state? And still with a tone like a heart-broken lark―― Would that its wail would reach Long Clarke―― He sang the song of his fate. MARK PRINGLE STODDART. Canterbury Rhymes. Christ Church, New Zealand, January, 1853,

――――:o:――――

THE SONG OF THE DIRT.

Suggested by Dr. Letheby’s Report on the Sanitary State of the City.

“Your attention has been drawn to this pestilential source of disease, and to the consequence of heaping human beings into contracted localities;[68] and I again revert to it because of its great importance, not merely that it perpetuates fever and the allied disorders, but because there stalks side by side with this pestilence a yet deadlier presence, blighting the moral existence of a rising population, rendering their hearts hopeless, their acts ruffianly, and scattering, while society averts her eye, the retributive seeds of increase for crime, turbulence and disorder.”――See Report of Dr. Letheby, Medical Officer of Health.

――――――――

In a room up a squalid court, Where “tramps” sleep three in a bed, Where the baby sleeps by the sick man’s side, And the dying beside the dead; Rich! Rich! Rich! Your feelings perhaps may be hurt, That a woman there, to a dolorous pitch, Should sing this “Song of the Dirt.”

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! From basement up to roof, And dirt, dirt, dirt, Where sickness stands never aloof. It’s oh! to dwell and toil With the heathen Esquimaux, To batten on filth and oil, If Christians should live on so!

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! On ceiling wainscot and floor, And dirt, dirt, dirt On sidepost, lintel and door. Stench, and fever, and death, Where huddle the young and old, Where the beggars brat is rocked to sleep By the side of the corpse just cold![69]

“Oh! men with thousands a year, Oh! men with mothers and wives, Oh! read that report, and think of our sort, Oh! think of our bestial lives. Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! Can such as we grow good, When filth is around us, night and morn, In sleep, work, drink and food?

“But why do I talk of dirt, Where nothing else is known? I hardly know the foul thing’s form, It seems so like my own. It seems so like my own―― While three in a bed we sleep, Till filth doth grow to the poor man dear, While water and soap are cheap.

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! We cannot sleep on the flags, So together we herd in our fetid dens, And fever nurse in our rags,―― Small-pox, fever, and cough, Where the slimy vapour doth reek, Where children are born near the livid corpse, That cholera killed last week?

Dirt! Dirt! Dirt! In the cold December night, And dirt, dirt, dirt When summer days are bright, When God’s blessèd winds do blow, Like a message from bygone years, From the broad green fields at home, Till I wash my face with tears!

“Oh, for one breath of air, Away from this sick’ning smell, Where the only flowers we ever see, Are the flowers we cannot sell, Which we hawked in the street all day, Till hunger our cheeks doth blench, And we bring ’em home to wither and die, And fragrance fades into stench!”

Tait’s Magazine, 1858.

Although both the above Report, and the Parody were written many years ago, they are quite as applicable to the condition of the poor in most of our large Cities now, as they were then.

――――:o:――――

THE SONG OF THE STUDENT.

With body weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A young man sat, and a longing glance Was thrown on his lowly bed. Grind, grind, grind, Till your head is like to break; Work through the livelong night, For your honour is at stake.

Grind, grind, grind, Till the brain begins to swim; Grind, grind, grind, Till the eyes are heavy and dim. Homer, Virgil, Euclid, With numerous others, I ween, Till over my lessons I fall asleep And get them all in a dream.

O Dominies, why do you give, Such lessons for students to get? ’Tis wearing out their precious lives By keeping them up so late. Grind, grind, grind, Throughout the livelong night; This harassing cannot be borne, For it passes human might.

* * * * *

Grind――grind――grind, In the dull December light; Grind――grind――grind, And work with all my might! But oh! if, while I work, The seeds of death are sown, What profit will it be If honor’s all my own?

* * * * *

Oh! but for one short hour To close my weary eyes, But visions cross my mind Of losing every prize. A little sleep would ease my limbs And cool my aching head; But I must not think of ease or rest When stretched upon my bed.

With body weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A young man sat, and a longing glance Was thrown on his lowly bed. Grind――grind――grind, Till your head is like to break; Work throughout the live-long night, For your honor is at stake. FIN. Aberdeen University Magazine, June, 1854.

(This little Work is now exceedingly scarce.)

――――――――

THE SONG OF EXAMS.

With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill, A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill―― Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams, And still, in a croak no crow could match, he sang this “Song of Exams”:――

“Work! work! work! while the cock is crowing aloof, And work! work! work! while the cats serenade on the roof; It’s oh! to be a slave with the most unspeakable Turk, Who neither professors nor colleges has, if this is Christian work.

“Work! work! work! till the head begins to swim; And work! work! work! till the eyes are heavy and dim―― Mathematics, and logic, and phil., philosophy, logic and math., Till with props. and deductions the brain is crammed, and no sensibility hath.

“Oh! Profs., with well-lined nests!――oh! Profs., with incomes good! The solutions of your questions stiff are solutions of brains and blood―― Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams, Writing at once, with our heart’s best blood, death warrants as well as exams.

“But why do I talk of death? that phantom of grisly bone; I hardly fear its terrible shape, it seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, because of the way I sweat, And oh! this session of endless toil is not nearly ended yet.

Work! work! work! my labour never flags; And what’s it all for? a mortar board, a gown to be torn in rags; This shattered health, a head growing bald prematurely, at end of my name To write M.A., for one brief day, in the papers to win some fame.

“Work! work! work! from weary chime to chime, And work! work! work! as prisoners work for crime―― Philosophy, logic, and math., mathematics, and logic, and phil., Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, and I have to take a pill.

“Work! work! work! in the dull December light; And work! work! work! when the weather is warm and bright; While underneath my window “caller haddies!” the fishwives screech, And, of course, no boots are handy, and the coals are out of reach.

“Oh! but to breathe the breath of a glass of barley bree, With my heels upon the mantel-piece where no such heels should be; For only one short hour to feel as I used to feel Before I knew of the awful fag of climbing the Spital hill.

“Oh! but for one short hour, a respite however brief, Just leisure enough to get a nip, and a smoke of the fragrant leaf; A little strong language would ease my heart. A little enough, I think, To oblige the recording scribe below to get a fresh bottle of ink.”

With eyelids heavy and red, with fingers inky and chill, A student sat in his lodgings alone, plying his weary quill―― Scratch! scratch! scratch! ’mid translations, and cribs, and crams; And still in a croak no crow could match (Would that the ear of some Prof. it could catch!) He sang this “Song of Exams.”

From Alma Mater, Aberdeen University Magazine, February 4, 1885.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE DRINK.

A long poem, with the above title, was written by an Irish lady and was widely circulated by the Temperance Societies (Banner Leaflets, No. 6), especially in Ireland. The two following verses (which are the best), will show the general style:――

With a voice that was hoarse and low, Then shrill as the night wind’s shriek, A woman, weary with want and woe, Wan, and worn, and weak, A woman sang this song: Oh, that into men’s hearts it would sink This song of anguish, and ruin and wrong, She sang this song of the Drink.

“Gin, and brandy, and rum, Rum, and brandy, and gin, Till the eyes are blind, and the tongue is dumb, And the heart is rotten within. O men, with souls to be saved, O men, drawing living breath, It is not liquor you’re pouring out, But misery, ruin, and death.”

* * * * *

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE WHEEL.

A man in a factory far away Is polishing burnished steel, And still, as he works the live-long day, He sings the song of the wheel.

Oh, I make them smooth and I make them bright, And many the miles they run, As they skim along in the dusky night Or onward fly in the morning light, Ere the day is yet begun.

Much joy there is with lightning speed To traverse the gleaming snow, Or over the waters a race to lead, But the joy of a ride on the silent steed The wheelman alone may know.

* * * * *

And still in the factory far away, The man is polishing steel, And still throughout the live-long day, He sings the song of the wheel.

Springfield Gazette.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE SPONGE.

[A distinguished professor of New South Wales has discovered that sponges have nerves. Considering, therefore, the importance of nerves, it becomes a question how far we are justified in subjecting sponges to their present treatment.――Daily Paper.]

With system weary and rack’d, With nerves all shattered and sore, A sponge lay full of petroleum soap, Wishing existence o’er! Soap, soap, soap, With every squeeze and plunge! And still with a voice half drowned and faint It sang the song of the sponge.

O you who “tub” each day! O men, and sisters, and wives! They are not sponges you’re squeezing up, But fellow creatures’ lives! Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, With each agonising plunge! Squeezing at once, with cruel hand, A nerve as well as a sponge!

* * * * *

O but to feel the wash Of the free, wild wave again! With the glorious sea above my head, And no hand to give me pain! O but for one short hour Of that glad old life of mine! Before I knew the woe of soap, And its horrors alkaline!

* * * * *

With system weary and rack’d, With nerves all shattered and sore, A sponge lay full of petroleum soap, Wishing existence o’er! Soap, soap, soap, With every squeeze and plunge! And still with a voice half drowned and faint―― Would bathers could only hear its plaint!―― It sang the song of the sponge.

January, 1885.

――――:o:――――

TO AN UTTER STRANGER, WITH WHOM THE BARD HAD BUMPED HEADS AT A CORNER.

Our heads have met, and, if thine smarts Like mine, you hope they won’t again. Friends who saw the painful scene Laughed till laughter grew a pain. I only know we bumped them once, I only know we looked insane: Our heads have met (mine seemed in parts).―― I hope they’ll never meet again.

Then we fell, but lent a hand To raise each other from the wet. My head’s alter’d form above Prevents my hat from fitting yet. Friends no doubt we seemed to be, And pardon begged in phrases set: Our heads have clashed, and still mine smarts,―― I would our heads had never met.

――――:o:――――

REMINISCENCES OF A “GRINDER.”

I remember, I remember, The garret where I GROUND, While slowly on the wheels of time The circling hours went round, As rendering Tully’s florid page, Or Virgil’s polished lay, I lengthened out the weary night To meet the weary day.

I remember, I remember, How hard I strove to SHINE, But always some superior LIGHT Arose eclipsing mine; Another gave a better PHRASE, Or fairly struck me dumb, By showing I’d erred in mood and tense, With QUALIS, QUIS or QUUM!

I remember, I remember, Those versions, three per week, Which I did strive, as few have striven, To write in Attic Greek; Yet oft the Doctor by mistake, Though never by design, Gave better marks to idle rogues, Who copied theirs from mine.

I remember, I remember, The X.’s and the Y.’s O’er which I frequent toiled in vain, Till slumber sealed my eyes; The pentagons, the polygons, The spheroids and the planes, The conjugates and ordinates, Which nightly vexed my brains.

I remember, I remember, Linnæus and Jussieu!―― I own I never learnt their lists, And never mean to do; But still, my College chums would hint That my unhonoured name Might yet be known to naturalists, And rival theirs in fame.

I remember, I remember, My castles in the air; The honours, wealth, and fame, I dreamt Would recompense my care―― “O, these,” thought I, “will flow on me In one continued stream;” But time has ope’d my eyes to see The folly of my dream.

Aberdeen University Magazine, April, 1854.

――――:o:――――

THE AGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate Laid on the shelf; Loveless――without a mate, All by herself. Speak not too tenderly, Kiss her with care, For awfully vain is she Now, as once fair.

Gaze on her lineaments! Fingers like filaments! Poor hopeless creature, Stamped on each feature Is grief and despair. Look at her there, Braiding her hair―― How she caresses The fast thinning tresses, Dreaming that some still consider her fair.

Was she a beauty once? Yet could not ensnare Never a stupid dunce Into her lair! Had she no sweetheart? Had she no lover? Had she no dearer one Still than all other; Nearer and dearer one, Coming to bother?

Yes, by the dozens She counted her cousins, Once a young milliner, With as much sin in her As milliners now possess; Equally fond of dress―― Craving for show,

Throwing her kisses And smiling――the sinner―― At all the young coxcombs Going to dinner. Now, never a smile Gets she all the lone while Where’er she may go. Alas! for the scarcity Of masculine pity? Oh! ’tis most pitiful Near a whole cityful Beau she had none Sing we her requiem, Never a man to come Now to console Her desolate soul. Hope is all gone!

The Owlet, 1868.

――――:o:――――

1885.

Old Year, unfortunate, Fatal in trust; To many disconsolate, Fatally bust.

Ope the Bank carefully, Ope, if you dare, People’s deposits Are very scarce there. Think of it tearfully, Think of it fearfully. No watch this Christmas? Last year, I declare, A watch I could wear; But now it is naught, It is gone, It is bought; It is hung at my uncle’s With gems and carbuncles. For the Savings Bank bust, Wherein was my trust, And it scattered my fortune And brought me to crusts.

Turn the key carefully, Swing back the door. See the securities Lie on the floor.

At least that’s where they should be, And that’s where they would be, If―― The chief’s speculations had turned out all right, And the chief’s peculations had ne’er come to light, Why―― The bonds would lie there on the floor, But―― They lie there no more!

Old year!――eventuate! Fatal in trust, To many unfortunate Fatally bust.

Detroit Free Press.

――――:o:――――

A few other parodies of Hood’s Poems may be enumerated, which are not of sufficient interest to be reprinted. “The Age” for June 6, 1885, contained a poem, called, “The Song of the Streets,” deploring the noises of London. In the Manchester “Free Lance” there was a parody (of purely local interest) of “I remember, I remember,” entitled “Manchester Musings;” and a Manchester clothier, named Whitham, advertises his goods in a handbill containing a very fair parody of “The Bridge of Sighs.” In The Saturday Review of August 29, 1885, there was a political poem, “A Case of Conscience,” modelled upon “The Dream of Eugene Aram.”

FURTHER PARODIES OF THE POEMS OF Alfred, Lord Tennyson, POET LAUREATE.

――――:o:――――

[Illustration: A]lthough several numbers of Parodies have already been devoted to this Author, there still remain many excellent burlesques of his writings, which, for the sake of the completeness of this collection, must be quoted. The popularity of Tennyson’s poems is in nothing more manifest than in the number of Parodies, and imitations, they give rise to, and the numerous collectors of Tennysoniana will no doubt be grateful for having these harmless, playful skits preserved from oblivion. The order observed in the following Parodies is that adopted in recent editions of the Poet Laureate’s works.

――――:o:――――

MARIANA.

――――――――

MARIANA ON THE SECOND FLOOR, WAITING FOR HER LODGERS.

(Another subject for the Pre-Raphaelites.)

With polish bright the coffee pots Were newly cleaned up, one and all, And hooks and pegs were screwed in lots, To hold the hats in the entrance hall. The drugget was still clean and strange, Unhampered was the Bramah latch And unconsumed the congreve match Beside the new-set kitchen range. She only said, “The Season’s dreary, I thought there would be some.” She said, “I am aweary, aweary, When will the great rush come?”

Upon the middle of the night Waking she heard the cabs below; Some gents sang out before ’twas light―― From Smithfield Bars the oxen’s low Came to her in a fit of gloom, In sleep she dreamt of beds forlorn, Till carts and busses woke the morn About the lonely furnished room. She only said, “It’s very dreary, I thought there would be some.” She said, “I am aweary, aweary, And yet no lodgers come!”

About a stone’s throw from the wall, A man with blackened features swept, And round him, large and small, Ill-manner’d boys for mischief crept. Hard by an organ’s dismal moan Play’d worn-out tunes of nigger airs, And mock’d with “Sich a gittin’ up stairs;” Yet no one came to mount her own. She only said, “It’s very dreary, I thought there would be some.” She said, “I am aweary, aweary, And yet no lodgers come.”

All day within those lonely walls, The maid kept clean to let folks in; The lilac blew i’ the grate; the squalls Of coop’d up children did begin; Yet no one came a room to seek, No strangers waited at the door, No lodgers viewed the second floor, No people asked, “How much a week?” She only said, “It’s very dreary, They do not come,” she said. She said, “I am aweary, aweary, And cannot let a bed.”

The men who came to mend the roof, The tax collector, and the sound Which to the weary maid aloof The pot-boy made, did all confound Her sense, but most she loathed the hour When all the last up-trains were in Without the lodgers, and the din Of wheels began to lose its power. Then said she, “This is very dreary, They will not come,” she said, She said, “I am aweary, aweary, Why won’t they hire my bed?”

The Month, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH, 1851.

――――――――

MARY ANNE; OR, THE LAW OF DIVORCE. BY ALFRED TENNISBALL.

[If the poor had more justice, they would need less charity.――Jeremy Bentham.]

The cats were mewing in the street, With many a mew of love’s delight; Policeman X’s heavy feet Returning marked old Time’s dull flight, While, as the laggard hours wore on, In nightcap, in her wretched room Waiting until her husband come, Sat Mary Anne in tears alone. She only said: “I’m very weary, He cometh not,” she said; She said――“And if he cometh beery, He’s sure to punch my head!

Her tears fell all that bitter even, As sighing she sat there alone, She ’gan to weep at half-past seven, And she was weeping there at one. After the flitting of the bats, She gazed adown the dreary street, But nought her aching sight did meet, Save one policeman and two cats. She only said, “My life is dreary, He cometh not,” she said; She said, “And if he cometh beery, He’s sure to punch my head!”

About the middle of the night, She heard a key clink in the latch, She went to take her spouse a light. He cursed her first, and then the match. A wretched life――no hope of change―― Even in her sleep she is forlorn, In tears at night, in tears at morn Like her within the “moated grange,” She only said――“Dear John, I’m weary. You break my heart,” she said―― He hiccuped forth――“Best not come near me, Or I shall break your head!”

About a mile from that sad home Our river’s sluggish waters creep; She sought that bridge where wretches come, To woo oblivion dark and deep, Maddened by patient love’s despite, With haggard cheek with salt tears wet, She stood upon the parapet, And glared a last glance on the night. Once more she said――“My life is dreary, Oh! aching heart and restless head, Love long has lost all power to cheer me, But soon I shall be dead!”

A downward plunge――one stifled scream,―― No more she’ll watch, and weep, and sigh, She sank beneath the gurgling stream, Whose murmers were her lullaby! Oh! think awhile on lives like these: Why should the rich alone divorce? Why drive the poor from bad to worse, Because of Doctors’ Commons fees? For many a Mary Anne’s aweary, Oh! widowed wife――oh! lonely bed; And many a husband reels home beery, To punch his poor wife’s head!

Yet these must live in hate together, Because they’re poor――they can’t afford To snap their galling, golden tether; While you, my lady, and my lord, As neatly as you can your clothes, Can change your names by process easy, Ye pay your fees――and, an it please ye, Adieu for aye to taunts and blows. The poor wife only sighs: “I’m weary, He cometh not to bed;―― Death only can divorce me dreary, Oh! would that I were dead!”

Tait’s Magazine, 1858.

――――:o:――――

THE OWL.

――――――――

THE OWL’D YARN.

When the cats were home, and light was come, And dew was cold upon the ground, Outside a door, with stop bell dumb, A whirring wheel has stopped its round. A whirring wheel has stopped its round. Alone and warming, by rubbing, his hands, A “night-riding wheelist” shivering stands.

In vain he tries to “click the latch,” To move the door that bars his way; A lecture from his dad he’ll catch; “We rode all night” has had its day! “We rode all night” has had its day! While he knows that the tale has too often been told, He stands there still trying and shivering with cold. R. P. HIND, “Harberton,” Torquay. Wheeling Annual, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE BALLAD OF “ORIANA.”

――――――――

YULE-TIDE.

Sit we in the ancient hall, Oh, my gracious! Listening to the nor’ wind’s squall, Oh, my gracious! Thrice our empty flagons fall, Ten good wassail bowls withal, Oh, my gracious! The hours wax long, and then grow small, Oh, my gracious!

The hours were long that had been short, Oh, my gracious! When like babes our homes we sought, Oh, my gracious! Was I led by rage or sport. To offer fight for level quart? Oh, my gracious! Know I not but that I fought, Oh, my gracious!

’Neath the gas-light’s feeble flutter, Oh, my gracious! Like a roll of helpless butter, Oh, my gracious! Lay I in the filthy gutter, Till my kinsmen on a shutter, Oh, my gracious! Raised me in prostration utter, Oh, my gracious!

They with solemn step and slow, Oh, my gracious! To my habitation go, Oh, my gracious! Did my bosom’s partner show Pity in my abject woe? Oh, my gracious! Or commiserate me?――no! Oh, my gracious!

The Hornet, January 3, 1872.

――――――――

THE BALLAD OF HOARY ANNA.

“Mr. Newdigate stated that having recently been on an expedition of inquiry into the conventual and monastic institutions of America, he did not mind singing a negro minstrel ballad, which was softly warbled in his ears one evening by a coloured nun:――”

Ah, yes, I ’members what you say, Hoary Anna. I often tinks about dat day, Hoary Anna, Which robbed me of a lubbin’ wife An’ changed de current ob my life, Hoary Anna, An’ cut me up wuss den a knife, Hoary Anna.

You used to lub me ’ears ago, Hoary Anna. Dat’s when I ’gun to dig an’ hoe, Hoary Anna. Dem eyes wuz ’tractive speres to men; You wuz a lubly nigger den, Hoary Anna. I wish dem times wuz here agen, Hoary Anna.

We used to meet us in de dusk, Hoary Anna, When Massa slep’ upon his busk, Hoary Anna. Dat mouf wuz roses ob de glen; Lord bless dose ’ours dis nigger spen’, Hoary Anna. I wish Gem cheeks wuz dat agen, Hoary Anna.

I stoled out by de stars pale light, Hoary Anna. De boss wuz fast asleep dat night, Hoary Anna. I clustered top de water tub, An’ whispered o’er de wall my lub, Hoary Anna, With nuffin’ but de stars above, Hoary Anna.

Dis heart kep’ tickin’ loud and fast. Hoary Anna. Dis nigger wuz in lub at last, Hoary Anna. Dis soul wuz bustin’ wid my bliss, You must hev’ seed dem sighs I guess, Hoary Anna. Dat Cupid’s darts warn’t made to miss, Hoary Anna.

I ’voked dem stars, den ’voked de Lord, Hoary Anna. I ope’d dese lips to say de word, Hoary Anna; When――glanced dat cussed lid aside, An’ dropped your lubbin’ Sam inside, Hoary Anna. Your Sam what woo’d you for his bride, Hoary Anna.

You sclutched me by dis curly pate, Hoary Anna. Dem curls wuz small, dat strenf’ wuz great, Hoary Anna. Dis wool most nobly stood de strain, I scrawled dat cussed tub agen, Hoary Anna, Dat duckin’ had not cured de pain, Hoary Anna.

Dat lid was fixed what warn’t secure, Hoary Anna. Dat dampin’ made me lub you more, Hoary Anna. It could not squench de fire wid’in It only bust it out agen, Hoary Anna. I’d ’gun dat race an’ meant to win! Hoary Anna.

You blushed at what I goed to do, Hoary Anna. Perked on dat lid I knelt anew, Hoary Anna. De boss just come a creepin’ sly, Then dropped your Sam one in de eye Hoary Anna. Dat cussed lid――an’ den――good bye! Hoary Anna.

I tried to scramble up de top, Hoary Anna. De boss he said. “I guess you’ll stop,” Hoary Anna. He bobbed me down, den bobbed agen, Jes’ let me out as life wuz spen’, Hoary Anna. You wuz a lubly nigger den! Hoary Anna.

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

――――――――

IDADÆCA.

Coals are again announced to rise, Idadæca: I cannot half believe my eyes, Idadæca. Here, as I grope, and freeze, and hark The listless curs ayont me bark, Idadæca, At the great moon that gilds the dark, Idadæca!

Ah, when will these things have an end, Idadæca? I call to thee, as to a friend, Idadæca. Already prices range so high, I cannot with my income, buy, Idadæca, Food, light, or fuel; no, not I, Idadæca.

So in the dark I starve and freeze, Idadæca: I hear the knocking of my knees, Idadæca: There is none other help for me, Nor will there ever likely be, Idadæca, Except I find that help in thee, Idadæca.

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Idadæca: How I wonder what you are, Idadæca: On ledge, on wall, on window frame, In spots unknown, in haunts of fame, Idadæca, I see huge placards with your name, Idadæca.

Oh, say whatever can you be, Idadæca? The Governor-general of Fiji, Idadæca? Some horse’s name, some favourite foal, Or, may be, (peace, my panting soul), Idadæca, Some good cheap substitute for coal, Idadæca?

Some new-style “dolman” for the spring, Idadæca? Another “Idyl of the King,” Idadæca? Some highly-recommended tea? Or, (hence, ye frisky fancies, flee,) Idadæca, Another Ouida novelty, Idadæca?

Alas, I cannot make thee out, Idadæca! My mind is clouded with a doubt, Idadæca: But Time, which raises bards to fame, (And murder,) I suppose the same, Idadæca, Will solve the mystery of thy name, IDADÆCA. SAMUEL K. COWAN. Kottabos. Hilary Term, 1881. Dublin, William McGee, 18, Nassau Street.

――――:o:――――

RANDY PANDY.

(As sung by Sir Stafford Northcote.)

My heart is wasted with my woe, Randy Pandy; There is no rest for me below, Randy Pandy: I went my way and still would go, For slow and sure, and sure and slow, Randy Pandy, That is the only way I know; Randy Pandy.

There came a wise man from the East, Randy Pandy; Most wise of men, as you are least, Randy Pandy: We made him leader, lord, high-priest, And did his bidding till it ceased, Randy Pandy: The tribe of Benjamin increased Randy Pandy.

He passed away, we know not where, Randy Pandy; And named me for his lawful heir, Randy Pandy: But Salisbury said, “We’ll share and share;” He took his pick, and called it fair; Randy Pandy―― He knew he had no business there―― Randy Pandy.

* * * * *

I cannot stand your mad displays, Randy Pandy; I cannot bear your wilful ways, Randy Pandy: They trouble all my nights and days, They shatter all the hopes I raise, Randy Pandy―― Why will you set the world ablaze, Randy Pandy?

If feud there be you make it sore, Randy Pandy; If peace, you leave it peace no more, Randy Pandy: Where lay a sleeping foe before, You wake him up to hear him roar, Randy Pandy: You make me swear who never swore, Randy Pandy.

And when the Grand Old Man begins, Randy Pandy, To lay about our heads and shins, Randy Pandy; You make a joke of all your sins, Forgetting he may laugh who wins, Randy Pandy: You think the moment meet for grins, Randy Pandy.

Would I were safe where Salisbury sits, Randy Pandy! And he were here to deal his hits, Randy Pandy! So might I calm my troubled wits, So might he smash you all to bits, Randy Pandy! Come, happy fate that best befits Randy Pandy!

――――:o:――――

This Poem is an extract from “THE BANQUET, a Political Satire,” an anonymous work published by William Blackwood and Sons, early in 1885, when the Conservatives were in opposition.[70] “The Banquet” also contains excellent parodies of Tennyson’s “The Brook,” “The Lotus Eaters,” “The Two Voices,” “Locksley Hall,” “The Merman,” “The May Queen,” as well as of a few of Swinburne’s poems. These parodies are put into the mouths of the political guests, of all parties, supposed to be assembled at a grand Banquet given by the new Lord Mayor, when

“The last long day of Bumbledom had ceased, And all the myriad miles of street and square That form this busy London where we live Became one city: all whose myriad hordes Flocked to the polls, and of their fittest men Chose a great Council Metropolitan, To whom the law gave charge to rule and keep This vast imperial London.”

Amongst the guests was Mr. Warton, M.P., who, after priming his wits with snuff, sang:――

Block, block, block; Whatever the bills may be: Of all the blockheads alive or dead There’s none to compare with me.

O well for the bore and his bill, That he makes his speech while he may! O well for the man with a fad, That he says his little say!

For the stately bills are read, And they sweep along with a will, Till they feel the touch of a brandished hand, And the voice of their movers is still.

Block, block, block: O the havoc is fine to see! For the cool repose of a true block-head You must always come back to me.

――――:o:――――

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

――――――――

MISS MATILDA JOHNSON JONES.

Miss Matilda Johnson Jones, You and I at length must part; There are things call’d paving-stones, You have got one for a heart. When you hear the roaring sea Making wild and wond’rous moans, You may sit and think of me, False Matilda Johnson Jones.

Young Matilda Johnson Jones, Pride has made you what you are; Though I think my lineage owns Better men than your papa! On the field of Waterloo My sire and grandsire left their bones; But what is that to me or you? Ask your heart, Matilda Jones.

Well I know you, Johnson Jones, You at times are very sad; And your broken spirit groans Over what it might have had. ’Tis in vain――your fickle soul My much nobler soul disowns; You have taught me to control E’en myself, young ’Tilda Jones.

Oh! Matilda Johnson Jones, What is all this wayward life? Tears and laughter, gifts and loans, Joy and sorrow, peace and strife. If I could have shared with thee Either cottages or thrones, Both had been the same to me; But ’tis past, light-minded Jones.

Young coquettish Johnson Jones, If beloved you still would be, Go to one a heart that owns, You have stolen mine from me. Give it back,――ha! ha! ’tis here, But ’tis hardened into bones; Feeling’s dead, and so is fear, Kind Matilda Johnson Jones. GILBERT ABBOTT à BECKETT. George Cruikshank’s Table Book. 1845.

――――:o:――――

THE MERMAN.

――――――――

THE MER(RY)MAN.

Who would be A Premier bold, Standing alone, Shining alone, For the world to see, In purple and gold, Close to the Throne?

I would be a Premier bold, I would play the potentate all the day; I would chuckle and crow with a voice of might; But all in the dark I would flirt and play With the caucuses in and out of the towns, And the sly little conclaves, out of sight, That manage the polls and marshal the clowns. All the caucuses, great and free, Would loyally take their cue from me, Steadily, steadily; Then I would blaze away, away, And the Tories would yield and the Whigs say “Yea,” Readily, readily.

* * * * *

The Banquet, W. Blackwood & Sons, 1885.

――――:o:――――

THE MAY QUEEN.

――――――――

Song: THE LORD MAYOR.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear, To-morrow’ill be the happiest day that I have had this year; That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

There’s nine-and-twenty Aldermen, and Sheriffs too galore, There’s Common Councilmen as well, you reckon by the score; But none will be so grand as me of all the lot, I swear, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

O sweet is the first fur-edged gown that councilmen put on! And sweeter is the scarlet robe that aldermen may don; But what is there in all the land for sweetness can approach To putting on the Lord Mayor’s chain, and riding in his coach?

Seven bands will go with me to-morrow all the way, And cavalry will me surround in all their grand array; Whilst men-in-armour caracole and trumpets loudly blare, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

I lay awake the other night and thought of what was nigh, And my new flunkeys’ liveries I saw in my mind’s eye; The menu of my banquet, too, was present in my mind, And up the terrace came a smell of turtle on the wind.

I thought it must be fancy, and I listen’d in my bed, And then I fancied some one spoke, I know not what was said; But my mouth watered, and delight took hold of all my mind, And up the terrace came again the turtle on the wind.

“What can it mean?” said I; “in truth the odour’s very fine,” And if it comes three times, thought I, I’ll take it for a sign. And sure enough it came again, though closed my window bars; Then seemed to change to venison till my bedroom smelt like Carr’s.

From that I judge the banquet will be good to-morrow night; I’ve called at Ring and Brymer’s, and I’ve seen a glorious sight! They’ve never known, or so they say, their turtles run so fat; And I consider that the sign I smelt referred to that!

So you must wake and call me early, call me early, Betsy dear, To-morrow’ill be the jolliest day that I have had this year; That I have had this year, Betsy, the jolliest, I declare, For I’m to be new Lord Mayor, Betsy, I’m to be new Lord Mayor!

From Finis.

――――――――

CALL ME EARLY, MOTHER DEAR.

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow will be the happiest day of all the glad new year, To-morrow will be the happiest, the maddest, merriest day, For I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May.

I must wear my new kid slippers and my charming muslin dress, And every one who sees me will admire my loveliness; They’ll weave a garland fair for me, they’ll weave a garland gay, And I will be crowned the Queen, mother, crowned the Queen of the May.

Prepare the mustard plasters, mother, a mustard bath likewise, For chill the wind blows though the sun is shining in the skies, And in this dress so very thin, no shawl around me rolled, I know that while the sport goes on I’ll catch my death of cold.

My new kid slippers, too, are thin, although they look so sweet, And dancing on the dewy grass, I know will wet my feet; But I’m to be Queen of the May, mother, I’m to be Queen of the May, So make the mustard plasters hot to fight Pneumon-i-a.

――――――――

RUSSIA TO ENGLAND.

You must wake to catch me early, very early, brother, dear, The day you do will be the longest of all the circling year, Of all the circling year, brother, if you my plans would baulk, For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

There’s many a shrewd countree, they say, but none so shrewd as I, There’s Germany and England, there’s France and Italy, But none so shrewd as Holy Russia, from Caucasus to Cork, So I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

You sleep so sound and safe, brother, I hope you’ll never wake, As in the Eastern Empires my day begins to break, But I must gather countries, peoples, over Asia stalk, For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk

As I move to the southward, what think ye that I see, But Herat, leading to the lands that must belong to me? It knows my hungry look, brother, I watch it like a hawk, But I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

It knows I am no ghost, brother, although my Tzar is white, And I move to it slowly creeping, like the morning light, They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not how they talk For I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk, brother, I’m to be Cock o’ the Walk.

Choice Chips, May, 1885.

A long, but not very amusing, political parody of “The May Queen” appeared in The Morning Advertiser, February 21, 1885, entitled “At the Play.”

――――:o:――――

A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN.

――――――――

In 1848 a small volume was published by T. C. Newby, of Mortimer Street, London, entitled “A Vision of Great Men, with other Poems,” by Caroline de Crespigny.

“A Vision of Great Men” was addressed to the author of “A Dream of Fair Women,” and was written in imitation, but not as a parody, of that poem; of the “Great Men” alluded to, the principal were Columbus, and Napoleon the first. The poem consisted of seventy-four verses.

――――――――

A DREAM OF FAIR DRINKING.

* * * * *

At last methought me I had wandered near Wines in the wood; Old Tom and mountain dew Shone in pale splendour, cheap, and yet so dear As one to love them grew!

I paused upon the threshold, all apart, As some stray bird upon an ocean drift, Unstirred by any wave, save when my heart Yearned for its morning “lift.”

And from within me a strange undertone Thrilled thro’ my bosom with a wish for wine,―― “Pass freely!――these in wood may be thine own, Dry, sweet or superfine!”

I looked――and saw a lady within call, Brow bound with golden ringlets standing there; And women, if they draw man’s wine at all, Draw it extremely fair!

Her loveliness, her figure, and her eyes Froze my quick speech: she, turning round her head, Smiled, saying, “Sherry wine’s about your size!” And all my doubting fled.

* * * * *

I drank myself to sleep;――and so I lay Prone on the bosom of the Strand for hours, Till life stirred briskly, and, at early day, I wakened――before FLOWERS.

Judy, May 5, 1880.

A long, and very dull, parody of the same original, entitled “A Dream of Unfair Trade,” appeared in Punch, January 10, 1885.

――――:o:――――

ULYSSES.

――――――――

In a prize competition in The World, for a poem on “The Czar of Russia,” on the model of Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” the following was selected for the

FIRST PRIZE.

It little profits that with boundless powers, Divine and human, I extend my sway, From Finland southwards to the Chersonese; Or that mine armies eastwards (like the tide O’er low-laid littorals) flood all the steppes From Caucasus to Khiva, till no khan But dreads, and hopes, and dreams, and thinks of me. How fruitless are my efforts! I have given Unasked, with hand unstinting. I have risked Defection of my nobles, that my poor Might rise and bless me. But unshamed they crave For ever more concessions, till I see That license ranks as liberty, and law And order seem but forms of tyranny. I cannot journey but a hundred knives Attempt my life; I cannot sleep or eat Within my very palace but the floors Rise to assault me, and the walls resound With treacherous murder’s dread artillery. This is my son, a true bred Romanoff, To whom I leave my labours and my crown: His years are fewer; and the sapling grows The stronger for the bondage, whose restraint Would kill the tree. It may be that mine age Has made me too unbending, that my thoughts. For ever travelling in the same sad course, Have worn themselves such grooves within my brain As ceaseless care has graved upon my brow, And cannot change their channels. Ye, my friends, Who love me for my virtues, or in spite Of vices,-who with me have borne the brunt Of turbulent sedition, and the blows Of faithless friends and open enemies,―― If life be grudged us for the few short years That yet remain, away, and let us seek Some deed of noble note, and let our foes Feel that our souls are yet alive in us, Invincible in courage, strong in will, To fight, to win, or, winning not, to die. APIS MATINA. The World, March 17, 1880.

――――:o:――――

LOCKSLEY HALL.

――――――――

LAY OF BOXING NIGHT.

ATTRIBUTED TO ALFRED TENNYSON

(But not believed to be his).

Proudly stalking o’er the pavement, as the clock is striking one, Go the nine good men and valiant, who the glorious deed have done;

And they laugh with all their vigour, till the narrow courts resound, The policeman hears the tumult, and he turns his lanthorn round.

And their course they still continue, and their laughter is not o’er, Till they all come to a standstill at lion-knocker’d door.

There they thump with noise so mighty, that they make the neighbours wake, Till a dull-eyed damsel opens, who appears but half awake.

Then a lighted room they enter, where great works of art are found, Color’d prints of Esmeralda, and of Elssler hang around.

Plaster statuettes, by Danton, stand the chimney-piece along, From a hook above the wainscot hangs a cornet-à-piston.

And――a better sight than any――there a table, too, was placed, With a mass of native oysters, and a can of porter grac’d.

Oh! so prime appeared the oysters, that they charm’d the eyes of all, For the fat part was so milk-white, and the beard so very small!

But how vain is earthly beauty――lovely things must pass away, For the oysters soon are swallowed, and the girl takes off the tray.

Yet new pleasures follow old ones; thus the damsel reappears, And a Jug of boiling water with her dingy fingers bears.

Then a brace of labell’d bottles were upon the table seen, One glowed deep with noble brandy, one was pale with humble gin;

When they all had “mixed” at pleasure, proudly rising o’er the rest, Stood the chieftain of the party, and his comrades thus address’d:

“We may well be proud, my brethren, we a noble deed have done; ’Tis the virtue that delights me, to say nothing of the fun.

“Against private friends and clacquers, we have fought the cause of right, We have dar’d to damn a pantomime upon a boxing night.

“’Twas a horrid ‘Introduction,’ as you all, my brethren, know, And the pantomimic business only made the thing more slow.

“All the tricks were void of humour; all the songs were sorry rhyme, Sum up all, we never witness’d such a wretched pantomime.

“Though the audience bore it calmly, yet they knew as well as we, That so dreadful a concoction they had never met to see.

“But they dar’d not speak their minds out――they believed it was a crime, A most horrid profanation to condemn a pantomime.

“Five-act plays without a scruple they have driven from the stage, They have whizzed off tragic actors in a hurricane of rage;

“On burlesque and one-act farces they could fell destruction bring, But a pantomime, my brethren――it was quite another thing.

“Ay, at harlequin they trembled――it was we and only we That from bonds of superstition could the British public free;

“We have rent apart the fetters, that were forged by ancient time, Yes, my friends, upon a boxing night, we damned a pantomime.

“We stuck firmly to our purpose, when the clown said ‘Here we are!’ We with laughter did not greet him, but we rais’d the shout of war.

“When the manager came forward, and some mercy bade us show, We subdued all softer feelings, and we sternly answered ‘No!’

“When the clown had sung ‘Hot Codlins’ we prevented an encore, And we ceased not opposition till the pantomime was o’er.

“Then at last the public join’d us――on our side was ev’ry voice, And the wretched thing died hardly in a hurricane of noise.

“I am sure successive ages will our mem’ries ne’er efface, We shall live on future hist’ry, and give lustre to our race,

“And our sons shall say, a cent’ry hence――or perhaps a longer time, ‘Gallant spirits were our fathers, for they damn’d a pantomime.’”

From The Man in the Moon.――1847.

――――――――

LINCOLN’S INN.

Comrades, leave me here a minute, for it is not five o’clock, Leave me here, and when you want me, you will find me at the Cock.

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the smoke-cowls spin, Dreary gleam the dirty windows, never cleaned in Lincoln’s Inn.

Lincoln’s Inn that from its chambers overlooks a grimy square, With some blackened stubby bushes, killed by smoke and want of air.

Many a morning from my office, have I heard the dirty boys, Shouting “Paper” down the area, in the full delight of noise;

Many a night I’ve watched the gas-light――all around a dazzling host, Gleaming like a lot of glow-worms, stuck by bird-lime on a post.

In the Spring a lighter paletot is by Messrs. Nicoll made; In the Spring a young man’s neck is in a brighter tie arrayed;

In the Spring the Opera opens, and an order may be got; In the Spring the oysters finish, as the weather gets too hot.

Then I saw her dress was smarter than the other Cranbourne girls, And her eyes gleamed softly on me, shaded by her glossy curls,

And I said, “Dear Amy Johnson, wilt thou my own sweetheart be? For, my pretty bonnet builder, I am much in love with thee!”

Love toss’d off the glass of time, as though it had been only gin, Love dwelt in those dreary chambers three pairs up in Lincoln’s Inn.

When my master had departed, and I felt unwatched and free, Would my Amy come to see me, and assist in making tea.

Many a Sunday by the railway did we go to Hampton Court, When the chestnuts were in blossom, and the days were not so short;

Many a Sunday on the water, made we inexpensive trips, Talking then was not the only use to which we put our lips.

Oh! my Amy, Amy, Amy! Oh! my Amy, mine no more! Oh! the dreary, dreary Sundays; Bushy has become a bore.

Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me thus to drop To a man with lots of money, but who keeps a retail shop?

Yet it shall be! thou shalt lower still, in spite of all his pelf, Till from sad reverses you may have to sweep it out yourself.

As the gent is, so the lady; thou art mated to a snob, And he’ll sink thee to his level, in a cheap Excursion mob.

He will treat thee, when he wearies on thy jaded face to look, Something better than his strop, but more as if thou wert his cook.

What is this? His speech is hazy――think not he has had too much. Go to him――it is thy duty――you re his wife――behave as such.

He will answer to the purpose――perhaps he’ll murmur “It’s all right;” Better thou wert dead before me, though I gave thee arsenic white!

(The rest of the MSS. is so blotted with tears as to be illegible.)

From The Month, by ALBERT SMITH and JOHN LEECH. August, 1851.

――――――――

ST. STEPHEN’S REVISITED.

Comrades, leave me here a little, I have thoughts you cannot know; Leave me, gentle ghosts, to ponder on the days of long ago.

’Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the brawlers brawl, Dreary bores about St. Stephen’s vying for the Speaker’s call.

Many a night from yonder benches, when I longed to be in bed, Saw I not the great Orion, but the Grand Old Man instead.

Saw I not the starry Pleiads, but the meteor stars that fade, Flashing for their little moment, passing into outer shade.

Here about the floor I waited, when I knew my youth sublime, Waited for the time to ripen, for the very nick of time――

Then I dipped into the future, far as one keen eye could see, Saw the Vision of an earldom, and the garter round my knee.

In the spring the little chicken only just has left the shell, In the spring that little chicken thinks himself a precious swell.

In the spring a boy’s ambition leaps at once to summer heat, In the spring a young man’s fancy very seldom plays the cheat.

Then my cheeks were white and waxen, thoughtful too for one so young, Black on brows of snowy marble then my silken ringlets hung.

Yet on pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a light, When I met the jeers that mocked me, with a spoken scorn outright――

Saying from a height prophetic, “You shall hear me by and by,” Saying, to the stoutest champion, “We shall meet at Philippi.”

Many a morning saw me famous, many a night more famous still, Great to lead the grateful Tory, bold to bend him to my will.

* * * * *

O St. Stephen’s, false and fickle! O St. Stephen’s, mine no more! O the weary, dreary benches! O the aching, quaking floor!

Is it proper not to scold thee? having known me――to decline On this spurious Gentile Joseph, in the screw and Caucus line?

* * * * *

These lines, descriptive of the career of Lord Beaconsfield, are extracted from a clever parody in The Banquet. (W. Blackwood and Sons.) 1885.

――――――――

“The Grinder,” an examination parody of “Locksley Hall,” appeared in Number 1 of The Aberdeen High School Magazine, March, 1885.

In a work entitled “Travels by Umbra,” published in Edinburgh in 1865, there was also a parody of “Locksley Hall” consisting of 34 lines, entitled Digwell’s Lament.

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GODIVA.

――――――――

WHITTINGTON.

BY ALFRED TENNISBALL.

(N.B.――No connexion with “I waited for the Train at Coventry,” &c.)

I waited for the boat at Hungerford; I hung with snobs and swells upon the bridge, To watch the muddy water; there I shaped The City’s ancient legend into this:――

* * * * *

Not only we of Eighteen Fifty-seven, Smart men that, swift as streak of lightning greased, Make and spend “tin”――not only we that prate Of progress, learning, and “Excelsior,” Have loved ourselves full well and turned up trumps At life’s great game of whist――but surely he “Did more, and underwent, and overcame,”―― The wight of some few hundred summers back, Whittington, ’prentice erst to some dull cit, Some wheezy councilman――who worked him hard, And gave him the allowance monkeys have, More kicks than half-pence――and, when asked for more, Showed him the street, and kicked him into it With turned-up toe, saying “Begone and starve!” He sought relief in vain, for in those days Were no “relieving officers”――his thoughts Turned to his childhood’s home, far, far away, Embowered in tufted trees where cooed the dove, Where sang a chorus sweet of jenny-wrens, Tom-tits, and gay cock-sparrows――and he said, “It must be so――farewel, ambitious dreams,” (“Farewel,” he would have said, “to all my greatness,” But he had never gentle Shakespeare read, Nor seen the play of England’s bluff King Hal Performed at the Princess’s). “So, farewell―― Clown was I born, and to clod-hopping life I must return”――and then he ’gan to snivel, And wipe his nose upon his jerkin’s cuff; (For his were days when Manchester was not, And dear were pocket handkerchiefs). Then this poor boy wound slow his mournful way Towards Highgate’s hill――and up the steep ascent Toiled wearily――yet deem not him alone, For at his heels there walked a faithful friend, A gentle quadruped――a fond Grimalkin Who purred between her master’s weary legs, Till he looked down and saw her at his feet, And wept at such four-footed sympathy. So with their honest backs to London town These twain toiled valiantly up Highgate hill. They sat them down at last――for Whittington Was very hungry――and on bread and cheese In equitable portions dined they then. But up he starts――and lo! what is’t he hears Clanged with great shock of sound from distant bells Of Bow in Cheapside? Say they rightly thus? “Return! return! great Whittington return! Thou shalt of London’s City be Lord Mayor!” Such were the words――or hope was much mistaken―― Such were the words. Backward again they hied, He, and his cat, the solace of his sorrows, As partner of his joys――but, if she thought That such a Co. could long exist, methinks The poor Grimalkin then was slightly “sold.” But I am speaking rather in the tense Hight Paulo post-futurum. To my theme: Backward he hied――re-entered London town, Obtained employment as a quill-driver, A very drudge for three long bitter years; But still the cat sat ’neath his stool by day And slept upon his truckle-bed at night. Now Whittington’s employer was a merchant, Who sent forth ships to trade beyond the seas One of his captains saw――admired the cat, And with her sailed to China, land of dirt, Rice, lorchas, pigtails, ivory deftly carved, And ladies with short toes bent backward. Soon Made he acquaintance with the Emperor, The brother of the Sun and Moon, celestial “swell, First cousin to the Stars; for in those days Men craved not introduction――Bowring then Had not been sent out as Ambassador, Nor Seymour to bombard their tin-pot towns. Now it so happened that this Emperor’s Imperial snuggery was overrun With mice who stole the delicate tit-bits From off the table of the Stars’ first cousin, And cats till then in China were unknown, And Whittington’s Grimalkin had three kittens, And so the Brother of the Sun and Moon Purchased the cat of Whittington for a sum Which would content me for my lease of life, Invested snugly in the Three-per-Cents. The Captain homeward sailed to England’s shore, And paid his sum to Whittington――so he Became a sucking Crœsus――bought and sold, And “rigged the market” like our “bulls” and “bears,” Became a man whose name across a bill Drew ready cash――then Sheriff――then Lord Mayor, And built himself an everlasting name: And of his acts if more ye wish to learn, Are they not written in the picture books Of Messrs. Darton upon Holborn hill! As for his cat――I’ve little more to tell. Save that she lived and multiplied her species For the great Brother of the Son and Moon; And her descendants, worthy of their dam, E’en now are mewing loud in great Canton, Unless that stout Drawcansir, Chinese Yeh, Hath poisoned the poor innocents because Their ancestress was British! C.O. Tait’s Magazine, 1858

――――:o:――――

THE EAGLE

FRAGMENT.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. TENNYSON.

――――――――

A PARODY.

The cup with trembling hands he grasps, Close to his thirsty lips he clasps, Ringed with its pewter rim-he grasps.

The Eddying floor beneath him crawls, He clutches at the flying walls, Then like a lump of lead he falls. E. B. IWAN-MULLER.

(Author of “Break, break, break” given on page 14, Vol. I., Parodies, and of “Rise up, cold reverend, to a see,” given on page 30, Vol. I., Parodies.)

――――:o:――――

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

――――――――

SLEEP! SLEEP! SLEEP!

Sleep! sleep! sleep! My babe, I speak to thee; And, oh, could I put on paper The thoughts that occur to me!

Oh, well for my dear little boy, Who shouts in the garden all day! Oh, well for my little girls, Who sing to their brother at play!

But the baby still screams on, Let his mother do what she will; And it’s oh, could I get him to understand! And O that his voice would be still!

Sleep! sleep! sleep! My babe I speak to thee; The quiet peace of a bachelor’s bed Will never come back to me.

The Mocking Bird and other Poems, by Frederick Field. J. Van Voorst, London, 1868.

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THE LOST JOKE.

Good! good! good! Was the joke I heard last night, And I would that my tongue could utter The words of that joke aright.

O, well for good memory’s aid That it passes old tales in review, O, well for the ready wit That can palm a stale joke as a new!

And that cheerful yarn is gone, And the words I remember not, But O, for a guide to that vanished tale, And a clue to that joke forgot!

Good! good! good! Is the story whatever it be, But the comic point from my memory fled, Will never come back to me.

Judy, December 10, 1879.

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A NEW IRISH MELODY. (As Sung by the Premier.)

Talk, talk, talk, In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”! And I would I might utter the language That sometimes occurs to me!

O well for Lord B. that he sits As a Peri among the Peers! O well for the Radical “Reds,” With their “warnings,” and worry, and jeers!

And the stately Whigs go on Demanding a moderate Bill. But O for a prison for PARNELL and DILLON, That the Land-Leaguers’ voice may be still!

Talk, talk, talk, In thy cold calm tones, O “P.”! But the tender grace of your style just now Shall never bamboozle me!

Punch January 22, 1881

――――――――

Wake! wake! wake! In thy Northern land so free, And our eloquent leader utters A protest for you and me.

Oh, well for Midlothian’s sons That they shout with him in the fray, Oh, well for our British lads, For we know he will gain us the day.

And the Franchise war goes on, Though the Lords would have us be still; But, O, for our triumph, thou Grand Old Man, When the people have their bill

Wake! wake! wake! To the war-cry of “Liberty!” And slav’ry’s old despotic days Shall never return to thee. RICHARD H. W. YEABSLEY.

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WARM WEATHER.

Thirst, thirst, thirst! As I sit all day by the sea; And I would that the weather were colder, For it’s much too warm for me. And “Brandy and water” is “raw,” And “Brandy and soda” is “sloppy;” And its oh for five dozen of “natives” or more, And a “magnum” of “fizz” that is froppy.

Ice, Ice, Ice! For the milk, the butter, and cream! And I would I might sit “for never” In comparative shade and dream. But the stately Eds. go on. Should they not get their copy in time; But hang it! the Mercury’s 99º, Which is even too hot to rhyme.

Judy, September 21, 1881.

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A REMINISCENCE OF REDCAR.

Broke, broke, broke, By thy pitiless shores, O sea; And I grieve that my tongue should utter The groans that arise in me.

Oh well for the hunter’s soul, Had he stopped at home that day, Oh well had he taken some lovelorn lass And spooned in his boat on the bay.

For the favourites all go down, And I haven’t the price of a gill; And it’s oh for the touch of that vanished gold, And the tick of a watch that is still.

Broke, broke, broke, By thy damnable crags O sea! And the tender faith of the Hebrew race Once more must be tempted by me.

The Sporting Times.

――――――――

WHO BREAKS PAYS.

Break, break, break, My china and glass. Oh she Wouldn’t like to hear me utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the lodging-house cat That at present it’s out of the way; O well for the plump page-boy That he didn’t take down that tray.

And the breakages go down To their haven in the dust-bin; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a rivet knocked in;

Break, break, break, At the foot of the stairs. Oh she! Can’t expect that the whole of her wages Will be paid this month by me.

The Age, June 27, 1885.

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APRIL LOVE. By a young Tory, after Tennyson. [Lord Randolph Churchill was expected back from India in April, 1885.]

Gladstone hath us in his net. Dizzy’s gone――can we forget? Many sessions rise and set, Many a chance the years beget, Northcote muffs ’em all, you bet. Even so.

Fruitlessly we jar and fret, Dizzy is a vain regret, E’en Hicks-Beach is in a pet. Censure votes fall idle yet, Where is Randolph? We forget? Ah, no! no!!!

Funny Folks, 1885.

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THE BROOK.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

With many a prank my “ma” may fret―― She wants me to be steady; But all her counsels I forget―― For fun I’m ever ready.

I go to many a rout and ball, And “star” it all the season; I stay at many a country Hall, And plot fresh plans of treason.

I ride my bay mare in the “Row,” I go to fêtes and races; To croquet parties too I go, Sought out midst all “the graces.”

I make men prisoners evermore By giving them my roses; I get love-letters by the score, And baskets full of posies.

I toss my head and arch my neck, And they are plunged in sadness; I smile and with my finger beck, And they are filled with gladness.

The strings are many to my bow; My followers fail me never; For men may come and men may go, But I flirt on for ever!

Judy, September 4, 1867.

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THE MONT CENIS TRAIN.[71] (In the line of the Laureate.) [Written 1868.]

O train, he says, O trundling train, says Edmund in his rhyme, How go you? and the train, why not? replies――

I leave the station, make a raid With sudden upward sally Upon the height――no lady’s maid, To bicker with a valley.

Up thirty hills I mount amain, Or slip between the ridges, And sometimes find the hills made plain, Like David’s Psalm by Bridges.[72]

Again the flat I seek below (No reference to you, Sir), And so men come, and so men go, From San Michel to Susa.

I clatter o’er the stony way, A natural base of boulders, I raise the dust――what better trait In railway for shareholders?

With many a curve aloft I toil, I rush o’er stream and runnel; And many a fairy foreland spoil With corrugated tunnel.

I clatter, clatter to and fro Over Mont Cenis gaily, And men may come, and men may go, Vide time tables, daily.

Though tired my wheels, I never tire, I carry young swells gay-geared: And here and there a lusty sire, And here and there a grey-beard.

And here and there fair maidens take Upon me as I travel, Who many a gazer’s heart-peace break With chignon’s golden ravel.

I bear them all along. Who knows Of more gallant endeavour? When WOMAN comes and WOMAN goes, I’d fain go on for ever!

I steal through clouds to glacier’s height, In metres out do rhymers; And have the deadly peaks in sight, Which grew for Alpine climbers.

I slip, I slide as I come down, My fit of peak being ended, Then glide into the little town To which my course has tended.

I murmur under moon and stars. And under provocation; I rail against the rail là bas, The Gallic excavation,

Well, should that oust me, as I know They’re wishing, from Mont Cenis, All men may go to――Jericho, And Frenchmen may be――bènis. MRS. GUTCH.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE FLIRT.

“I come to wage a war on men, None can withstand my sally; With me no man, that I can ken, E’er dared to ‘shilly-shally.’

“Full thirty Harries have been mine, And twenty-seven Neddies; A hundred John’s, of Herberts nine, And quite three-score of Freddies.

“Though all the rest I do not know, In spite of my endeavour; Yet men may come, and men may go, But I’ll flirt on for ever!

“With many a slight I fellows fret, With many a smile I ‘draw’ them; And make them, ere I’ve done, regret Full sore I ever saw them.

“I chatter, chatter! dont I, though? And some my talk call clever; And men may come, and men may go, But I flirt on for ever!

“I run about, go in and out, Men’s hearts the while assailing; And some each week, I do not doubt, Think of me with bewailing.

“I’ve booked of foreigners a few, When I have chanced to travel; And left them in a pretty stew, My conduct to unravel.

“I draw all men along, I know, And that is my endeavour; And men may come, and men may go, But I flirt on for ever!

“I steel their hearts with subtile plots, Not one my game discovers; They give me sweet forget-me-nots, And think they are my lovers.

“I smirk, I smile, I glimpse, I glance, My moods are most ‘adaptive;’ I ne’er a valse or gallop dance, But what I make a captive.

“I murmur out on balconies, And ‘spoon’ upon staircases; I like to see men on their knees, I put up with embraces.

“And if they kiss me, well-a-day, The liberty I pocket; ’Twould be unkind to say him ‘Nay,’ Who’d given me a locket.

“So on I mean to go the same, Though some may call it folly; And long as I my charms can claim My hope is to be jolly.

“Let those who will do all they know From flirting me to sever―― Whilst men shall come, or men shall go, I will flirt on for ever!”

From Finis.

――――――――

THE CORN. (A Birmingham Ballad of the 14th Century.)

I come when boots are small and stern, And make a sudden sally, To mar the lordly strut, and turn The trips of every ballet.

Then fast and suddenly I grow With many a painful quiver, For men may cut and men may mow, But I grow on for ever.

I make men scream o’er stony ways, In screeching sharps and trebles, And make them swear in maddened rage, When slipping on the pebbles.

With many a twinge their soles I fret, Soles arched and soles built shallow, And many an imprecation get From lips with pain grown sallow.

I shatter comfort as I grow, The best of tempers shiver, For men may cut and men may mow, But I grow on for ever.

I wind about, and shoot and sprout, Keen anguish dire entailing, While here and there a swear and shout, Each precious unavailing.

And oft-times, too, I make them quake, As o’er loose stones I travel, And make them with emotion shake Upon the new-laid gravel.

I agonise them all, and go To make the strongest quiver, For men may cut and men may mow, But I grow on for ever.

I steal ’neath toes and in between, I slide where toe cap covers, I slink where p’raps a bunion’s been, But now no longer hovers.

I twinge, I throb, I shoot, I prance. When damp about is lying, I make my victims fairly dance, When rain about is flying.

And out I’ll neither come nor go, From feet I’m hard to sever, And they may cut and they may mow, But I grow on for ever.

From Ye Old Brum and ye New, by Jayhay. Houghton and Hammond, Birmingham, 1878.

――――――――

THE RIVER. A Steamboat Version.

I puff, and roar, and shriek, and blow, Along the crowded river, For men may scull, and men may row, But I steam on for ever.

Now crowd the towing-path along On foot and in the saddle, Of cads and swells a giddy throng, Yet still I onward paddle.

And up the stream I gaily go Upon the sunlit river. For men may scull, and men may row, But I steam on for ever.

And in and out I curve and glide, No other vessels fearing, And go full speed adown the tide, A reckless, wild course steering.

I fizz and clatter as I go Fast up and down the river, For men may scull and men may row, But I steam on for ever.

I turn astern, and back, and stop, With pant, and snort and clatter, As down mid-stream I gaily drop With rushing, dashing splatter.

I puff and roar, and shriek and blow Along the crowded river, For men may scull and men may row But I steam on for ever.

Judy, April 2, 1879.

――――――――

THE SONG OF THE STEAM LAUNCH

I steam from snug up river lairs, I make a sudden sally, And spread dismay among the “pairs,” Which by the rushes dally.

On tiny craft I love to dash (As swallow darts on midges): The women scream as down I crash, And swamp them by the bridges.

Ay, helter-skelter, on I go, Adown the crowded river, For tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever!

I drown with my shrill whistle’s scream The blackbird’s piping trebles; I churn up mud and foul the stream Above the tide-worn pebbles.

With many a wave the punts I fret, My wash engulphs them neatly; I many a dainty lady wet, And spoil her dress completely.

I clatter, splatter, as I go, A-muck upon the river, For tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever.

I twist about, dash in and out, T’annoy some merry party; And here and there receive a shout Of malediction hearty.

Yes! here and there the worm may turn, And curse me as I travel; But victims, as a rule, I learn, Are far too scared to cavil,

Or check me as along I go, Upon the crowded river, Where tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever.

I steal by lawns when all is dark, Glide close to reedy covers, And there cut down the tiny bark, That bears the heedless lovers.

I start, I dart, I screech, I blare, I belch forth coal-black vapours; I make the angry oarsmen swear To write to all the papers.

I murder quiet ’neath the stars; For any mischief willing; I cut away young yachtsmen’s spars; Treat anglers to a swilling.

The loveliest scenery I spoil, On beauty lay embargo; I reek with blacks and engine oil, I carry cads for cargo.

I swill, I kill, I hoot, I snort, A nuisance all declare me; A river demon I disport, Yet you’ve to grin and bear me!

Yes, on again I wildly go, To curse the crowded river; For tide may ebb and tide may flow, But I steam on for ever!

Truth, August 11, 1881.

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THE SHERBROOKE. (Not by Tennyson.)

I come from haunts of statesmen hard, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out a life-long bard En-thu-si-as-ti-cally.

My life has run o’er stony ways, I’ve seemed all sharps and trebles; But now I mean to wring the bays From critics hard as pebbles.

I on my Peer’s soft cushion fret, Because my life seems fallow, But ah! the “glowing Muse” shall yet Show me less sour and sallow.

I steal away from Whiggish plots To Poesy’s green covers, I try my hand at true-love knots, I sing for happy lovers.

I rhyme with HUDIBRAS’S dash (Who fancied me all iron?) With here a touch of CANNING’S flash, And there a tone of BYRON.

I sing Swiss glaciers, southern stars, Australian wildernesses, I sneer at old Colonial jars, And Antipodean messes.

I fancy my old foes will quake, As this new path I travel; I think my rhymes the bards will shake, And all the critics gravel.

Bravo, BOB LOWE! for do you know I think this dodge is clever, For Statesmen come and Statesmen go, But Bards live on for ever!

Punch, May 23, 1885.

Lord Sherbrooke, better known, perhaps, as Mr. Robert Lowe, had just produced a small volume of Poems, a piece of temerity on his part which is now quite forgotten and forgiven.

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A LAY OF LAWN TENNIS. (By a Lawn-Tennysonienne.)

With rackets poised against the foe, We scorn the shining river; Though other games may come and go, Lawn Tennis lives for ever.

We roam the verdant lawn about, Our skill seems unavailing; For, sometimes in and sometimes out, ’Gainst fortune we are railing.

We chatter in our eager ways, In merry girlish trebles; We rush for many a ball that strays Across the pathway pebbles.

We play upon the grassy plots, The “Court” the garden covers; We wear the blue forget-me-nots, Like TENNYSON’S young lovers.

We skip, we slide, with many a glance, As swift as eager swallows; And as the gay balls bound and dance, The ardent player follows.

We murmur when the stern net bars The ball, we shake our tresses; We’ve played beneath the moon and stars, As many a girl confesses.

And how to “screw” and “twist” we know, The “Service” to deliver: For other games may come and go, Lawn Tennis lives for ever.

Punch, August 8, 1885.

――――:o:――――

PARODIES OF SONGS IN “THE PRINCESS.”

――――――――

THE WORRIER AND HIS WIFE.

Home they brought her worrier, dead―― Dead as any mummy he―― So they thought, and so they said; But his helpmate――what said she?

“Dead? I only wish he was! He is only extra tight! Too much liquor is the cause Of my husbands senseless plight!

“Put him down――oh, anywhere!―― Not upon the sofa――no! Drop him on the carpet――there! Now I’ll thank you all to go!”

One by one they slowly went; Then she locked and barred the door, Then――above her worrier bent, Frowned and smiled and crossed the floor.

From a corner back she tripped, Knelt beside her helpless mate, And, with scissors, clipped and clipped, Till he had a hairless pate!

Then she rose and left him there―― Left him there, and went to bed―― Left him there without his hair, With his hair around him spread!

In her bed she lay and slept, On the floor he passed the night… In the house for weeks he kept―― Sober――hairless――such a fright!

Not in vain was he deprived Of his glossy locks, I trow: With new hair new strength arrived―― He’s a pledged abstainer now! C. JOHNS.

――――――――

LET ME LIE HERE. A Parody on “ASK ME NO MORE” in The Princess.

Let me lie here; the rain may rot the tree; The undiluted essence of the grape May set my plastic countenance agape; For O, how frail, when out upon the spree. Let me lie here!

Let me lie here: no dry old brewer’s sieve Had greater need of liquor than had I; Now like a boiling gooseberry floats mine eye, Let me lie here, for I would quite as lieve. Let me lie here!

Let me lie here: the secret is revealed; Though I could wend with thee I am not fain; Do not, policeman, take me home again, I dread my wife and would remain concealed, Let me lie here! JOHN COTTON.

[The above appeared in the Central Literary Magazine, Birmingham, 1878.]

――――――――

San Francisco Free Public Library, Jan. 20, 1885.

To Walter Hamilton, Esq.

Dear Sir,――I venture to interrupt you again with a transcript of a Tennyson Parody which you may not have seen. It can’t have the local flavour with you which it had when first printed, in the middle of General Butler’s political and oratorical campaign for the governorship of Massachusetts――not his successful one, but one of the others, about 1875. It first came out in the Springfield (Massachusetts) Republican newspaper.――Very truly yours,

(Signed) F. B. PERKINS.

BUGLE SONG. (After Tennyson――and Butler.)

The slander falls in different halls Where sounds the somewhat stale old story: With wrath he shakes, and fearless makes, Like the wild cataract, “leaps in glory.” Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying; Blow, Butler; answer people!――“Lying, lying, lying!”

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going From Truth,――as far as he from scar―― The doughty general’s reckless blowing! Blow, Butler! let us hear the working men replying―― Blow, Butler! answer, people!――“Lying, lying, lying!”

Your yarns, Ben, die in this State’s sky; They fail in hall, on bench, by river: The answers roll from poll to poll―― “He lies for ever and for ever.” Blow, Butler, blow! set your wild statements flying; Blow, Butler; answer, people!――“Lying, lying, lying!”

――――:o:――――

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

――――――――

THE LIGHT (BLUE) BRIGADE. (The University Boat Race.)

Half a length, half a length, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Thames Rowed the Eights, onward! “Go!” was the starter’s cry, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to win――or try; Into the valley of Thames Rowed the Eights, onward!

Steamers to right of them, Steamers to left of them, Steamers each side of them, Snorted and thundered! Cheered at by cad and swell, Boldly they rowed and well, Under Barnes Railway Bridge, On past the Ship Hotel, Rowed the Eights, onwards.

O but the sight was fair, Flashed the oar-blades in air, Trying the rowlocks there, Rowing to Mortlake, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the steamer smoke, Fiercely in front they broke; GRIFFITHS and MARSDEN; Strong was the Oxford stroke, Nobody blundered; Then they rowed back, but not As they rowed onward!

Steamers to right of them, Steamers to left of them, Steamers in front of them, Snorted and thundered; Cheered at by cad and swell, While horse and Cockney fell, They that had rowed so well, Came through Barnes Railway Bridge, Back from the Ship Hotel, All that was left in them Since they rowed onward!

When can their glory fade? O, the wild spurts they made! All the world wondered. Honour the spurts they made, Dark and Light Blue Brigade, Each worth a hundred!

Fun, April 27, 1867.

――――――――

THE GAS STOKERS’ STRIKE.

Dark were the streets and wet; Out went each radiant jet, While all that passed or met Questioned and wondered.

“Strike,” was the gasmen’s cry, Their’s not to reason why. Their’s to raise wages high, Pleasure and trade defy; Therefore the gasmen struck―― Struck by the hundred.

Darkness to right of them, Darkness to left of them, Darkness in front of them,―― Every one blundered.

Many an oath and yell On the fierce strikers fell; When to the gasworks came―― Came to work swift and well, Another Six Hundred.

Flashed all their elbows bare, Flashed all at once in air; Shovelling the Wallsend there, Filling retorts up, while Strike-men all wondered.

Plunging in flame and smoke, Bravely the coals they broke; Strong was their pickaxe stroke. Loudly the public voice Cheering them thundered. Then to their beef and beer Rushed the Six Hundred.

Strikemen to right of them, Strikemen to left of them, Strikemen behind them, Blasphemed and thundered.

Stormed at with drunken yell, Boldly they worked and well, Rushing through flame and smoke, O’er piles of coal and coke, Saving from darkness then, Millions of Englishmen. Gallant Six Hundred.

Honour the brave and bold, Labourers young and old; Long shall the tale be told, When by the gasmen “sold,” We were left undone.

By the flame wearily, In the smoke drearily, On they worked cheerily. Lighting up London. JOSEPH VEREY. The Hornet, December 11, 1872.

(Published when the stokers of several of the London Gas Works were out on strike.)

The same journal also published another Parody of the Charge of Balaklava, by the same author, on “Clapham Junction,” October 23, 1872.

――――――――

THE CHARGE OF THE “LIGHT” BRIGADE.

“What Ho! there, lights; lights!”

(Enter servants with a rush.) Old Play.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward; Till in valley of Lud, Pausing I pondered. “Forward the Light Brigade!” Charging my pipe, I said, Into the valley of Lud Rushed half-a-hundred.

“Forward the Light Brigade!” Was there a lad delayed, Not though the mudlarks knew Nought could be plundered. Their’s s not to reason why, Their’s but to make him buy, “Wax” is their sole reply; Into the valley of Lud Rushed the half hundred.

Cabmen to right of them, Cabmen to left of them, Cabmen in front of them, Holla’ed and thundered. Stormed at by “slop” and swell, Into the road pell-mell; Into the jaws of Death, Out of the paws of L, Wary policeman L, Rushed the half hundred.

Flashed all their ankles bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Tumbling in gutters there; Dodging the bobby, while All the world wondered. Bold in the matter o’ smoke, Right through the mob they broke, Mudlark and “crusher,” Reeled from their neighbour’s stroke Spattered and sundered; Ne’er till they’d served the “bloke” Turned the half hundred.

Cabmen to right of them, Cabmen to left of them, Bobbies behind them Followed and thundered.

But though policeman L On his proboscis fell, They knew the road so well Right thro’ the jaws of Death, Out of the claws of L All that was left of him, Slipped the half hundred.

Long thrive their simple trade, Whatever tax be made, May they escape any; Honour the Light Brigade! Honour the Charge they made! ’Twas but a ha’penny.

From The Rocking of the Lilies, and other Poems, by Charles T. Druery, (Clayton & Co., London), 1882.

――――:o:――――

RECITATION.――THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT KASSASSIN.

By a Life Guards’ Officer.

Half a league (more or less), Half a league onward; All in the moon’s pale light Rode the Six Hundred. “Forward!” cried Drury Lowe, “Goodness knows where you’ll go. I can’t see any foe.” Out into the pale moonlight Rode the Six Hundred!

“Forward, Cavalry Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Or, so to speak, afraid? No; not a man drew back In all the Six Hundred, Theirs not to make reply (That they knew was muti-ny), Theirs not to wonder why No enemy was nigh, Theirs not (just then) to die. Out into the pale moonlight Rode the Six Hundred!

Desert to right of them, Desert to left of them, Desert in front of them, Yet on they thundered; Whilst far above their head Bullets by dozens sped, Still not a trooper fled, Still not a man dropped dead, As into the desert wild Rode the Six Hundred!

“Forward, Cavalry Brigade!” So ’twas their leader said, When, as the moon shone bright, Came the dread foes in sight, As to the left and right, Blindly they blundered. None at the guns would stay, Wildly they ran away; Whilst to their great dismay, Up dashed, in proud array, All the Six Hundred!

Flashed then their sabres bare, Flashed as they turn’d in air, Halving Egyptians there, Slicing limbs off everywhere, Whilst “fellahs” wondered. Then, when of slaughter tired, They no more blood required, Copt or Egyptian, When they by valour fired, Plenty had sunder’d; Then they rode back again, All the Six Hundred!

Desert to right of them, Desert to left of them, Desert behind them, Yet on they thundered; Storm’d by no shot nor shell, Nor horse nor hero fell, Whilst those who’d sliced so well, Came from they knew not where, Back, whence they could not tell, Back to their camp they came, All the Six Hundred!

When can the glory fade Of this wild charge they made? Pish! what’s the Light Brigade, At which the world wondered? They didn’t all ride back After their wild attack; They lost one half, alack! Silly Six Hundred! Not so with our Brigade; They, when their charge they’d made, Rode back to their parade Still a Six Hundred!

“At this point of the programme the prompter announced that the Egyptian Honours would be distributed, on which there at once came such a rain of stars, crosses, medals, K.C.B.’s, &c., from the “flies,” that the gallant veterans on the stage were glad to put up their umbrellas to guard their skulls from fracture.”

Truth Christmas Number, 1882.

――――――――

The Porcupine (Liverpool) published a parody on July 11, 1885, entitled “The Charge of the Fire Brigade,” but it was of purely local interest, and destitute of humour, or any other literary merit.

――――:o:――――

A WELCOME TO ALEXANDRA.

――――――――

THE CHESTER CUP.

Frenchman’s mare from over the sea, “Stradella!” Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians are we, But all of us French in our welcome of thee, “Stradella!”

Welcome her myriads of horses so fleet, Welcome her thundering cheers of the street, Welcome her champagne, cooling and sweet,―― Scatter the bank-notes under her feet. Burst poor book-makers into sad tears, ’Tis victory, and the Frenchman’s cheers! Welcome her, welcome her, winnings of ours! Mather and Russell, don’t bustle there, Fluttering, sputtering, chattering so! Like rivulets let your gold-dust flow.

Pencils of gold in the suns’ rays flare Put down your marks and to wit aspire, We feel the breeze, but we do not care. Flash, ye ladies, in champagne’s fire, You shall have gloves, and by her desire, “Stradella!”

Frenchman’s mare, from over the way, If thou would’st go, yet thou must stay, Or such a bore you then would be! Oh, joy to the “gentry,” if you should win, No matter the “people” who lose their tin. Epsonians, Ascotians, Chesterians, we Goths, or Roodes, or whatever we be, We are all of us French in our welcome of thee, “Stradella!”

――――――――

P.S.――Frenchman’s mare from over the sea, “Stradella!” Since these ere lines I’d been and done, An English horse has been and won; And all my prophecy is void, For I forgot that “Asteroid.”

From Lays of the Turf, by Rose Grey. London, G. H. Nichols, 1863.

――――:o:――――

IN TENNYSONIAM.

“We have had the following Stanzas forwarded us, with the signature of “A****d T*nn***n.” Can they be from the Laureate? We have our doubts. And yet there is a wild, mystical, logical, sentimental, and general obscurity of expression throughout the lines which inclines us to think (from their internal evidence) that they could have proceeded from no other pen than the author of ‘In Memoriam.’”

We seek to know, and knowing seek; We seek, we know; and ev’ry sense Is trembling with the great Intense And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft, We know enough, and should no more: And yet we skim through Fancy’s lore And look to earth, and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom; I know it not, nor seek to know: I only see it swell and grow, And more than this would not presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill, And I, unchanged where all is change; It seems unreal; I own it strange, Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the oceans surging tide Raise quiring on its carol-tune; I watch the golden-sickled-moon, And clearer voices call beside.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie On red-ribbed sands where sea-weeds shone; O Moon! whose golden-sickles gone: O Voices all! like ye I die!

From “The Month,” by Albert Smith and John Leech. December, 1851.

――――:o:――――

THE BATTLE OF THE REVIEWS.

“The sonnet written by Mr. Tennyson as an introduction to the Nineteenth Century has excited universal attention and admiration. Some people, however, are understood to have complained that they cannot exactly penetrate the meaning which the poet wishes to convey. But this is entirely their own fault, as, if they had studied the whole history of the secession from the Contemporary, they would fully appreciate the charm, and the appropriateness of the Laureates’ verses.”

“For the benefit of these, Mr. Tennyson, with his customary kindness, has forwarded to us the following lines, which our readers will at once perceive to be an explanation of his sonnet, as clear as the latter is beautiful:”

Of old the murmurs of the Delphian shrine, The dry leaves fluttering in the Sibyl’s cave, The mystic lights that shone upon the gems Of Israel’s pontiff, and all prophecy Were for the few, not for the common herd. I, who have spoken to my co-mates stanch Foregather’d by our mast, have spoken words, ‘Here in this roaring moon of daffodil And crocus,’ which to them are clear as light, Though dark as night to them that stand without. Not dark to us, for we have trod the heights ‘Of hoar high-templed faith;’ and we do know, For we have traversed them with fearless keel, The ‘Seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt,’ And we may win a ‘golden harbour’ yet. But since we know well all that we do know, The cunning plannings of our busy brains, And e’en the meanings of the words we frame, Let it content all men that stand without That we do know exactly what we mean; Nor let them rashly for their private ends Construct interpretations of our speech. ANONYMOUS.

Tennyson’s “Prefatory Sonnet” in the first number of the “Nineteenth Century” commenced thus:――

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill Of others their old craft seaworthy still, Have chartered this; where, mindful of the past, Our true co-mates regather round the mast;

* * * * *

――――:o:――――

IDYLLS OF THE KING.

――――――――

A Parody of the Dedication.

IN MEMORIAM.――A COLLIE DOG.

“These to its Memory――since from all I hear It was a dog most dutiful and dear―― These simple lines, in which will p’rhaps be found Some lasting image of a faithful hound, I to its mourning mistress consecrate, Hoping therewith her sorrow to abate; Aye, hoping to console her for its fate, With mingled doubts and fears I dedicate These verses.

“And indeed it seems to me A most ideal kind of dog to be Which she has lost; not highly bred, indeed―― But who, with sense, cares aught for birth or breed? I, as a poet, such vain things despise, And hold them low as titles in my eyes; Enough to know the dog at heart was true To her that long as mistress fond it knew; So true, in sooth, that others oft it spurned, And with a savage snarl upon them turned When they, with dainty bribe or gentle pat, Would try to pass it, watchful on its mat.

“It loved her only, and with bounty kind She in its favour e’er was much inclined Since first she sadly called it to her side When its dear master, and her husband, died; And, gladly finding it come at her call, Put trust in it thenceforward, all in all.

* * * * *

“Yet would I bid that mistress to take cheer, Nor mourn too much that dog which was so dear. Nor o’er its empty collar still to weep, Nor its void kennel still unfilled to keep. For though ’mongst dogs about her she detects No one like ‘Laddie’ was, in all respects, Yet, as the ocean yields, without a doubt, Fish equal to the best ones taken out, So, too, ’mongst dogs that have not had their day May be as good as that one passed away; Quite as devoted, quite as strong and true, And possibly less rough and awkward, too.

“Let, then, the mistress of this much-mourned pet, If she another collie still would get, Learn that amongst the dogs that crowd around Another ‘Laddie’ may with ease be found. Which if not quite so roughly fond, indeed, May points as good combine with better breed.”

Truth, February 14, 1884.

(In allusion to the Queen’s Servant, the late John Brown).

――――:o:――――

VIVIEN’S SONG.

――――――――

A LITTLE.

A little rift within the lute And discord mars the pleasing strain; A little tightness in the boot Excuses epithets profane.

A little tip, a little bet, A little silver from the till; He does his little sentence yet, And little likes the prison mill.

Dry as a little bit of chalk, In a small pub they share a quart; A little stagger in their walk Shows they topped up with something short.

A little more, perhaps, than he meant ――Men sometimes speak a bit too fast―― One little word――she gives consent; Her little fish is hooked at last. R.H.B.

The Sporting Times, June 27, 1885.

――――――――

GUINEVERE.

No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O, let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now. TENNYSON.

――――――――

TOO SOON.

SCENE――The Pit door of the Lyceum. TIME――Ten minutes before 7.30 on a winter’s evening.

O let us out, the heat stifles us sore, O pray open kindly behind us the door, Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.

“Too long,” groaned we, for that we do repent: Let us pass out, have mercy and relent, No, no, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.

Fate made us soft: this shoving is no joke, Our necks are nigh disjointed, our backs are nearly broke; Too soon, too soon, ye cannot get out yet.

With punches yon cowards on us poor wretches drop, Your cruel mates frown because the way we stop, You should not have called us names quite yet.

Ah! Parodies, we’ve heard you are so sweet: O let us out to hear “Amens” repeat His soft “Dryhilldics.” No, too soon, not yet.

The Tonbridgian. March, 1879. C. C. H.

――――:o:――――

LITTLE MISS MUFFET.

A Tennysonian Version of the Popular Nursery Rhyme.

IN STURDY ANGLO-SAXON.

Little Miss Muffet Sat on a tuffet, Eating of curds and whey; There came a great spider And sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away!

RESET AS AN ARTHURIAN IDYL.

Upon a tuffet of most soft and verdant moss, Beneath the spreading branches of an ancient oak, Miss Muffet sat, and upward gazed, To where a linnet perched and sung, And rocked him gently, to and fro. Soft blew the breeze And mildly swayed the bough; Loud sung the bird, And sweetly dreamed the maid; Dreamed brightly of the days to come―― The golden days, with her fair future blent―― When one――some wondrous stately knight―― Of our great Arthur’s “Table Round;” One, brave as Launcelot, and Spotless as the pure Sir Galahad, Should come, and coming, choose her For his love, and in her name, And for the sake of her fair eyes, Should do most knightly deeds. And as she dreamed and softly sighed, She pensively began to stir, With a tiny golden spoon, Within an antique dish upon her lap, Some snow-white milky curds; Soft were they, full of cream and rich, And floated in translucent whey; And as she stirred, she smiled, Then gently tasted them, And smiling, ate, nor sighed no more. Lo! as she ate――nor harbored thought of ill―― Near and nearer yet, there to her crept A monster great and terrible, With huge, misshapen body――leaden eyes―― Full many a long and hairy leg, And soft and stealthy footstep. Nearer still he came――Miss Muffet yet, All unwitting his dread neighbourhood, Did eat her curds and dream, Blithe, on the bough, the linnet sung―― All terrestrial natures, sleeping, wrapt In a most sweet tranquility. Closer still the spider drew, and―― Paused beside her――lifted up his head And gazed into her face. Miss Muffet then, her consciousness alive To his dread eyes upon her fixed, Turned and beheld him. Loud screamed she, frightened and amazed, And straightway sprung upon her feet: And, letting fall her dish and spoon, She――shrieking――turned and fled.

Free Press Flashes, 1881.

――――:o:――――

DESPAIR.

――――――――

NEVER SAY DIE.

A Dramatic Monologue.

The Minister of the Sect, which was abandoned by the man who did not drown himself, replies to the dramatic monologue on Despair which was published by that person in the “Nineteenth Century” for November, 1881.

So you’re minded to curse me, are you, for not having let you be, And for taking the trouble to pull you out when your wife was drowned in the sea? I’m inclined to think you are right――there was not much sense in it; But there was no time to think, the thing was done in a minute. You had not gone very far in: you had fainted where you were found; You’re the sort of fellow that likes to drown with his toe on the ground. However, you turn upon me and my creed with all sorts of abuse; As if any preaching of mine could possibly be of use To a man who refused to see what sort of a world he had got To live in and make the best of, whether he liked it or not. I am not sure what you mean: you seem to mean to say That believing in hell you were happy; but that one unfortunate day You found out you knew nothing about it, whereby the troubles of life Became at once too heavy to bear for yourself and your wife. That sounds silly; so perhaps you may mean that all is wrong all round―― My creed and the know-nothing books――and that truth is not to be found, That’s sillier still; for if so the know-nothing books are right, And you’re a mere spiritless cur, who can neither run nor fight―― Too great a coward to live, and too great a coward to die, Fit for nothing at all but just to sit down and cry. Not that you’re really unhappy. I don’t think you ever were. Give you a poet’s corner, and a pipe and an easy chair, And a woman or two to pet you, and you never gave way to despair, You might sell it at so much a line――but that’s quite another affair. Why in the midst of your whines it’s impossible not to see How anxious you are to show that you’re only attacking me, And that you’ve not a word to say against respectable people Who own no connection between my chapel and their church-steeple. You always contrive to hint, and almost seem to feel That your creed would have been much better if your Church had been more genteel. Why, man, we’re all in one boat, as every one can see, Bishops and priests and deacons, and poor little ranters like me. There’s hell in the Church of England, and hell in the Church of Rome: And in all other Christian Churches, abroad as well as at home. The part of my creed you dislike may be too stern for you. Many brave men believe it――aye, and enjoy life too. The know-nothing books may alarm you; but many a better man Knows he knows nothing, and says so, and lives the best life he can. If there is a future state, face its hopes and terrors gravely; The best path to it must be to bear life’s burdens bravely. And even if there is none, why should not you live like a man, Enjoying whatever you have as much and as long as you can. In the world in which we are living there’s plenty to do and to know, And there’s always something to hope for, till its time for us to go. Despair is the vilest of words, unfit to be said or thought, Whether there is a God and a future state or not. If you really are such a wretch that you’re quite unfit to live, And ask my advice I’ll give you the best that I have to give. Drown yourself by all means; I was wrong and you were right; I’ll not pull you out any more; but be sure you drown yourself quite.

The St. James’s Gazette. November, 1881.

――――:o:――――

HANDS ALL ROUND.

――――――――

TENNYSONIAN TORYISM DEVELOPED.

First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to Tories every guest; Next toast our leaders men of “light,” In whose effulgence we are blest! May carping Churchills ever live, And Cecils “flout and jeer” for aye; That man’s the best Conservative Who best obstructs vile Gladstone’s sway. Hands all round! God the Lib’rals’ hope confound! To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends, And the great name of Jingo round and round.

Drink health to lords of high degree, Who strive to thwart the land’s desire; May our opponent’s fail, while we Grow strong in borough and in shire, We fought wherever we could fight, We scrupled not to confiscate; We would be “great” by wrong or right: May England thus be ever “great.” Hands all round! God all Radicals confound! To the sham cause of “Greatness” drink, my friends, And the great name of Jingo round and round. JOHN PHELAN. The Weekly Dispatch, April 2, 1882.

――――:o:――――

THE FLEET.

――――――――

THE UNFITNESS OF THE MEAT.

――――――――

The Master to the Mistress, Loquitur.

You――you――if you have failed to comprehend A Briton’s dinner is his all in all, On you a husband’s anger will descend, If that cold mutton pall Upon his palate keen.

This meal the cheeriest――sacred hour of bliss! This one rare meal, the joy of every man; Poor Hubby, what would Life be, stripped of this? And what avail the lunch abstention plan, If Dinner brings the spleen?

You――you――who have the ordering of the meat, If you can only compass horrid grub. When husbands starve――the hansom trim and fleet Shall whirl them to the Club―― But then, you’ll call it mean! F. B. DOVETON. Eastbourne, 1885.

――――:o:――――

TO H.R.H. PRINCESS BEATRICE.

Two Suns of Love make day of human life, Which else with all its pains and griefs and deaths Were utter darkness――one, the Sun of dawn That brightens thro’ the Mother’s tender eyes, And warms the child’s awakening world――and one The later-rising Sun of spousal Love Which from her household orbit draws the child To move in other spheres. The Mother weeps At that white funeral of the single life, Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her tears Are half of pleasure, half of pain――the child Is happy――e’en in leaving her! but Thou, True daughter, whose all-faithful, filial eyes Have seen the loneliness of earthly thrones, Wilt neither quit the widow’d Crown, nor let This later light of Love have risen in vain, But moving thro’ the Mother’s home, between The two that love thee, lead a summer life, Sway’d by each Love, and swaying to each Love Like some conjectured planet in mid heaven Between two Suns, and drawing down from both The light and genial warmth of double day. TENNYSON.

――――――――

LATEST BY THE POET OF LOW-RATE.

Two Moons for thee, of honey and of strife; The one with all its love, and joy, and bliss, And ample income; one the honeymoon Which shines for thee in Trixey’s tender eyes, And warms thee to our English home:――and one The moonshine of a watchful Ma-in-law, Who in her household orbit keeps her child To pine for other spheres. The Mother smiles At that white feather in thy jaunty cap; Her maiden daughter’s marriage does not rob Her of her close associate; her daughter Is happy, never leaving her; but thou, New Son-in-law, her watchful woman’s eyes―― Which know the ways of young men sprung from thrones―― Will watch thee with a jealous look, and curb Thy freedom as befits one who is Queen―― So moving through the Mother’s home, between The two, thy life alternately will be Swayed by each one, swaying to this or that Like some erratic planet in mid air Between two Moons, and, trying to please both, The life you’ll lead will well be worth the pay.

The Weekly Echo, July 25, 1885.

――――――――

POEM ADDRESSED TO THE PRINCESS BEATRICE, NOT BY THE POET LAUREATE.

Two Sums of cash will fill a German purse, Which else with all its pockets and elastic band Were utter emptiness――one, the round Sum down Of £30,000, which brightens up the mother’s eyes, And warms the child’s awakening greed――and one The annual sum of just six thousand pounds Which keeps her husband, and which helps the child To move in other spheres. The mother smiles At that gay funeral of the people’s cash, Her maiden daughter’s marriage; and her thoughts Are half of pleasure, half of pain――the coin Is being spent――ev’n leaving her! But Thou, True daughter, whose all faithful filial eyes Have seen the costliness of earthly thrones Wilt neither quit thy new half-crowns, nor let Thy nice annuity have risen in vain, But moving through the Mother’s home, between Thy dividends and pension, lead an easy life, Sway’d by each Lump of cash, and swaying to each Lump Like some fat Pluralist in clover dwelling Between two Sums, and drawing down from both The light and genial warmth of double pay.

Modern Society, August 1, 1885.

――――――――

There was a Parody competition on these lines in The Weekly Dispatch, August 9, 1885, and the following Parodies were printed. The first, which gained the prize of Two Guineas was written by Mr. J. Phelan, of 4, Albion Terrace, Wisbech.

Two tones of love make woe of married life, Which, at its best, hath frets and jars enough For passive comfort――one, the voice of dole That frequent murmurs from the wife’s cold lips, And warns the spouse to meek assent――and one The keener-rising strain of mother’s plaint Which from obedience turns her daughter’s mind To undisguised revolt. The mother weeps At that black burial of the single life, Her hapless daughter’s marriage; and her tears Are half of sorrow, half of guile――the man Tormented, rids himself of her!, but thou, Poor bondsman, whose wealth-seeking, glamoured eyes Have caught the loveliness of palace-homes, Canst neither quit thy mother-in-law nor shun The scorn her princely kin to thee accord, But, moving in the mother’s shade, between Two fears that haunt thee, lead a tortured life, Bored by restraint, and maddened by contempt, Like luckless dweller ’neath Italian Alps, ’Tween ice and sun, and drawing down from both The chills and scorchings of a double clime.

――――――――

TO PRINCE HENRY OF BATTENBERG.

Two things, no doubt, make day of married life, Which else, with all its cares and births and deaths, Were utter mis’ry! One a loving wife, Who brightens all the home, whose tender eyes Beam o’er the household world――and one, The secondary one, of needful cash, Which from far Germany has drawn thee, child, To move in English spheres. What Prince would keep In the mean penury of single life When he could make a marriage such as yours, With half its pleasure, half its gain, the while Your slyness draws an annual six thou? True German, whose all-seeking eager eyes Have seen the pickings round an English throne, You’ll cotton to our widow’d Crown, I’ll bet! Nor play the “light o’ love” and spoil your game; But, walking round your mother-in-law, between The two that keep you, lead a stunning life. Play well your cards――good playing, too, ’twill prove; But don’t――rememb’ring both are more than seven―― Between two stools come tumbling down from both, And lose the genial game by doubtful play. LEONARD HARDING.

――――――――

TO MY SUNDAY SUIT.

Two tricks of trade make bearable my life, Which else, with all its hunger and its thirst, Were utter mis’ry――one, to buy on tick By throwing dust into the tradesmen’s eyes. And so secure my Sunday clothes――and one The later-rising hope of pawning them, Which from my household orbit draws the suit To go up uncle’s spout. The tradesman weeps Thinking of that white lie I gulled him with, His maiden, sad adventure, and his tears Are none of pleasure, all of pain. The clothes, All nappy as they left his shop――yes, thou Good broadcloth, my all useful Sunday suit, Whose presence cheers my earthly loneliness, Wilt neither quit my gloomy home nor let Those gleaming three brass balls have risen in vain, But, moving through the popping-shop, between The two that own thee, glad my fretful life, Swayed by each need, and swaying to each need, Like some new-fangled toy acquired in shares Between two boys, and drawing down from both Their warm and genial zeal in double play. EDWARD JOHNS.

TO THE NEW RADICAL MEMBERS.

Two sorts of grants make rich the royal train, Who else, with all their pomp and stars and glare, Were utter paupers――one, the grant for age That princes get when twenty-one they reach―― Or set up their establishments――and one (The later asked-for grant) when spousal love Quite oft the Household charges takes the child―― To let the parent save. The Commons shout At these extensions of the public tax. And vote them with a rapture――and the Peers, Amidst their pleasure, feel a pain that they Hold not the purse-strings national. But ye, True Radicals!――with earnest, rugged minds―― Knowing the shams and uselessness of thrones, Will neither vote the first-named grant, nor let The later bold demand be made again. But, rising in the Commons’ House, between The sides that fear thee, make a stern protest; Bribed by no place, nor fearful of the frown That scares those noble patriots who’re in heaven When smiles a Queen, or whensoe’er they feel The snug and genial warmth of feathered nests. GEORGE MALLINSON.

――――――――

TO LORD TENNYSON.

Two bridal loves make laugh of “You you’s” song, Which else, with all its gush and hollow praise, Were utter blankness――one, the German Prince Who settles ’neath his mother’s Castle roof, And claims her child’s unbounded wealth; and one―― The not surprising one――his lady-love, Who from her wedding bower drawls the lines―― And shows unto her friends. Her mother weeps At this vile twaddle from her great Laureate On Princess Trixie’s marriage; and her sighs Are half of pity, half contempt――the child Is muddled e’en at reading it! For thou O Alfred, whose erst faithful lyric pen Hath limn’d the loveliness of “The Princess,” Could’st ne’er forget whence came thy crown, nor let This little love-match pass without a strain; But, grovelling at the mother’s throne, between The two new lovers, act the toady’s part, Playing the fool, and playing unto fools, Like some contortioned jester of the Court Between two “spoons,” and drawing down from both A cold insipid smile on this glad day. JESSE H. WHEELER.

END OF VOLUME II.

Footnotes:

[1] Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

[2] Adrien Marx, purveyor of Court news to The Figaro.

[3] At the time the London, Chatham, and Dover stopped paying any dividends.

[4] A term of endearment sometimes applied to Earl Granville by his political opponents.

[5] Cockney rhyme for which the Premier-Poet’s present model EDGAR POE, is responsible.

[6] “Old Father Noah he built him an ark, And set it afloat in St. James’ Park,” &c.――Old Song.

[7] The name of one of Mr. POE’S Poems.

[8] It was announced that Mr. IRVING intended to make his first appearance in New York in his celebrated part of Mathias in “The Bells.”

[9] The Right Hon. George Otto Trevelyan, M.P., Author of a Biography of Lord Macaulay.

[10] A nick-name applied to the Right Hon. W. E. Forster, M.P., by the Home Rulers.

[11] The dragon-ship of the Norse mythology.

[12] The Fates and Furies.

[13] An imitation of “THE BELLS.”

[14] A Parody of “ULALUME.”

[15] A Parody of “ANNABEL LEE.”

[16] A Parody of “THE RAVEN.”

[17] A Parody of “THE CONQUEROR WORM.”

[18] “The Lay of the Lovelorn,” this was quoted on page 21, Part II. of Parodies.

[19] “The Heathen Pass-ee” from Light Green. This parody was given in full in Part IX. Parodies, page 135.

[20] Where and when did this Parody appear? The “Saturday Reviewer” omits this important information, whilst he tantalises his readers by saying that “the whole parody is so good that selection is difficult.” It should have appeared here in full had a proper reference been given to it. All the other Parodies alluded to in the article will be included in this collection under the authors to whom they refer.――ED. Parodies.

[21] In the Sandwich Isles it is death for a man’s mother-in-law to visit him without permission. Happy Sandwich Islanders.!!!

[22] This amiable and accomplished lady should remember the useful advice of Mr. Artemus Ward, “Never to prophecy unless you know.”

[23] Miss Jenny Lind first appeared at Covent Garden Theatre when it was under the management of Mr. Lumley――Alfred Bunn (the “Poet Bunn”) being then lessee of Drury Lane Theatre.

[24] (A celebrated cook of whom TOM MOORE makes frequent mention in his lighter poems.)

[25] Thumbscrews.

[26] “The drummer” an Americanism for Commercial Traveller.

[27] This is incorrect. Mr. Gladstone went to the Criterion Theatre the night before the tidings arrived of the fall of Khartoum.

[28] The St. Michael oranges come from one of the Azore Islands.

[29] YUM-YUM, believed to be Japanese Muse of Hypothetical Poetry, corresponding to “You, you.”

[30] Lauder.

[31] Macpherson.

[32] Chatterton.

[33] Sir Richard Mayne, then chief of the Metropolitan Police.

[34] It was recently announced that at one of the meetings of the Society Mr. Carr would read a paper on “Such Harmony is in Immortal Soules;” considering the stormy history of the Society, this announcement appeared so grotesque that even the grim and austere Daily News burst into satirical verse to celebrate the event:―― “The new Shakespeare Society “(From violence of language free, “And full of friends who all agree) “In grave debate will meet!”

[35] This was a skit on the late Prince Albert’s absurd design for a new head-gear for soldiers.

[36] Alluding to a well-known sonnet of the late Marquis:―― “O happy, happy, happy flea, If I were you or you were me, But since, alas, that cannot be, I must remain Lord Salisbury.”

[37] Drum.――“A drum, then, is an assembly of well-dressed persons of both sexes, most of whom play at cards, and the rest do nothing at all; while the mistress of the house performs the part of the landlady at an inn, and, like the landlady of an inn, prides herself in the number of her guests, though she doth not always, like her, get anything by it.”――Fielding, History of a Foundling, p. xvii;, ch. 6.

[38] The coercive measure for Ireland.

[39] OTHELLO (on this occasion only) by Mr. Henry Irving.

[40] Mrs. Bateman.

[41] Sub-Warden, Sub-Rectors, &c.

[42] The well-known Shakespearian commentators.

[43] Prince Bismarck.

[44] John Arthur Roebuck, M.P., for Sheffield.

[45] Lord Brougham.

[46] This is quite as true to fact as the Bird harmony of the original.

[47] Alluding to a disgraceful fight which took place in Rotten Row, between Lord Lonsdale and Sir George Chetwynd.

[48] LOUIS XVIII, who was replaced on the throne of his ancestors, after the deposition of Napoleon Buonaparte. But for the support of the Allied Powers, the French people would probably have soon deposed this indolent and bigoted representative of the Divine Right, who, at the instigation of the priests, had just landed them in an unjust war with Spain. He had for several years previously been suffering from the effects of his indolent habits, and his constant over eating, and over drinking, and he died in the following year, September 16, 1824.

[49] Celebrated Oxford Ale-houses.

[50] A Latin song called “Domum,” sung with instrumental accompaniment, on the day before the commencement of their Whitsuntide Vacation, by the scholars of Winchester College.

[51] Fox-covers.

[52] The ante-room at the Opera, where the audience assemble, and flirt, and catch cold, under the pretence of waiting for their carriages.

[53] Lauder, Macpherson, Chatterton, and W. H. Ireland.

[54] Wolseley and Roberts are small men; Graham is 6ft. 4in.

[55] Le Beau D’Orsay cut out his gilets.

[56] Beau Nash was M.C. at Bath.

[57] Beau Brummel it was who said to the Prince Regent, “George, ring the bell.”

[58] Tyndall, Phonologist.

[59] Huxley, Agnostic.

[60] Darwin, Ethnologist.

[61] Randolph Churchill.

[62] Lord R. Churchill.

[63] Mrs. Langtry.

[64] Miss Terry.

[65] Miss Mary Anderson.

[66] Stage direction. The thunder is produced by rolling a turnip in a fish kettle.

[67] Clark’s Horses were notorious buck-jumpers.

[68] “Of the many cases to which I have alluded there are some that have commanded my attention by reason of their unusual depravity,――cases in which three or four adults of both sexes, with many children were lodging in the same room, and often sleeping in the same bed. I have notes of three or four localities where 48 men, 73 women, and 69 children are living in 34 rooms. They are distributed as follows 2 men, 2 women, and 3 children in one room; 1 man, 2 women, and 3 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 2 children; 2 men, 3 women, and 1 child; 2 men, 1 woman, and 2 children; 1 man, 4 women, and 1 child; 1 man and 3 women; 2 men and 3 women; and so on.――Vide Report.

[69] “About a fortnight since, I visited the back room on the ground floor of No. 5. I found it occupied by 1 man, 2 women, and 2 children, and in it was the dead body of a poor girl who had died in childbirth a few days before. The body was stretched out on the bare floor without shroud or coffin.”――Ibid.

[70] Since this paragraph was in type I have received a copy of the second edition of The Banquet from the author, Mr. George Cotterell. Collectors of Tennysoniana should certainly “make a note” of this amusing little book. Ed. Parodies.

[71] On the Fell Railway which preceded the Mont Cenis Tunnel.

[72] Bridges, on the 119th Psalm.

Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged except as indicated below. Dialect was not changed. “The Splendid Shilling” is presented as an exact reprint; the long s (ſ) was retained in this poem.

Illustrations are mostly cherubs, flowers, leaves, masks, mythical animals, and the like, from simple to elaborate. Illustrated dropped capitals are indicated thus: [Illustration: B]ecause…

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, like this. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the end of the book. Two footnotes were not printed, page 229. All three anchors resolve to [51]. There are two anchors to footnote [42].

Obvious printing errors were corrected, such as backwards, upside down, partially or unprinted letters and punctuation, letters in reversed order, and punctuation marks used as letters. Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were added. Punctuation was standardized (commas changed to stops and vice versa; open and close quote marks, and spacing between words). Duplicate words at line endings or page breaks were removed.

In the section entitled “Pot-Pourri,” the original citations of the Poe poems were printed across the bottom of the two-column page; these were moved to follow immediately after the parody of each poem.

Spelling corrections:

qusto to gusto: with the greatest gusto Concience to Conscience: Conscience-driven accusations paens to paeans: chant paeans of soul music sublety to subtlety: subtlety of crime It to In: In its sinuous mystic vagrance, here be to here he: here he bolted in the door autum-tide to autumn-tide: to town this autumn-tide, caitift to caitiff: Here lives a caitiff decends to descends: JULIET descends from balcony spead to spread: My table’s spread with bread Œgypt’s to Ægypt’s: Than Ægypt’s tyrant is to it: that it quite bereaves Skakespeare to Shakespeare: and some parodies of Shakespeare spendid to splendid: In splendid show indignantly remorie to remorce: But still this brings him no remorce,

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